Bob Saget is a Hunk and Other Breaking News

Seriously though, what about this man is NOT sexy???

Last night at Gramercy Tavern my sister and I were sitting at the bar when she announced that Bob Saget had just walked in. I turned around expecting a big dork and was pleasantly surprised to see Bob "Sexy Ass" Saget walk in. "Damn, Danny Tanner's pretty hot," I said.

Maybe I had too many martinis, I don't know. My sister rebutted that, "You've always had really bad taste in guys," and reminded me that I used to have a crush on Jerry Seinfeld. True. True.

From here, we proceded to get smashed with some guy who was sitting alone at the bar. It turns out that he had this special police certificate thing in his car window (Car! In New York!). With it he could, and I shit you not, park in front of fire hydrens; park on the sidewalk and double-park in the middle of the street. We tried it out, parking in front of fire hydrens all over the city. It was almost as sexy as Bob Saget. Almost.

In other news, this week is restaurant week so I am indulging in as many restaurants as possible. Yesterday afternoon I went to DB Bistro Moderne and the place really did a number on my feelings. I must offer a disclaimer before I tell you how, though: I don't only eat out a lot during restaurant week, I eat out a lot period. Restaurant Week is simply my chance to try new places. If they're good, I'll continue going. If not, oh well, I'm only out $30. This said, I think that participating restaurants should take advantage of the promotion and put really great food on their menus. Yes, they might suffer a small loss, but doing so will cause people like me to return many a time and pay regular prices. They should consider their loss as part of their marketing budget or something. End disclaimer.

Anyway, at DB Bistro Moderne, I ordered the gnocchi. I love gnocchi. If a restaurant has great gnocchi, I'll be back every day (Ahem, Artisanal and Uva). However, DB Bistro Moderne used store-bought gnocchi. How do I know? Because I use it sometimes at home. It's only $2 or $3 per pouch, it has fake ridges carved into it (think of fake grilled chicken with the painted black "grill marks" on it), and it's just not good. I told my sister that I was offended and that they really underestimate the Restaurant Week crowd. For a minute, we were embarrassed for them and their microwaveable gnocchi. Then, we became mad. Very mad, like we were part of some nine-step program for unhappy Restaurant Week patrons. They thought we were street urchins! Uncultured, palette-less rag-a-muffins! Can you believe?

Okay fine--maybe we ARE street urchins and maybe we ARE rag-a-muffins, but damnit, we have some very lovely palettes and we're not afraid to use them...(unless it's on fake gnocchi, in which case we are certainly afraid to use them). End post.

Dave's Suntanned Picanha

I wasn’t as depressed as I thought I’d be this weekend, considering that Dave was basking on the beach in Hawaii and I was, well, not.

Dave earned a free trip for two to Hawaii, but I’ve taken off entirely way too many days from work to join him this time around. The catch was that he had to go on these specific dates. Otherwise, we would have postponed it.

When we were in Brazil, one of our friends from Rio was telling us a story about his exciting, new fat stomach (used to be in great shape but then drank way too much). He compared it to "Picanha"--one of the types of meat you get at Brazilian barbecues (you know the ones—the guys come around with long skewers and offer you an all-you-can-eat variety of meats). He says that to brown the Picanha better, it’s salted beforehand. So, whenever he goes to the beach, he dips into the ocean, salts his “Picanha” and tans his fat belly. Long story short, all I could think about was Dave and his lonely Picanha (he’s got a little stomach going himself) lounging on the beach all by themselves.

While I was busy feeling sorry for poor, impoverished Dave, his company sponsored a dinner at Pearl Harbor, where they ate on the U.S. Naval Battleship, "Mississippi." That's, like, totally a lot cooler than eating (or, rather, not eating) where I did...

I went to Mario Batali’s restaurant, Otto. I’ve been there a few times before and it’s great, inexpensive and continuously packed. I wasn’t surprised that there was an hour and fifteen minute wait, nor did I mind waiting. After all, there’s a full bar and apps. After two hours, however, I got pretty annoyed. The Skeeze went up to ask how long the wait would be and they waved him away without asking his name. “It’ll be soon.” Needless to say, we left.

Other than that, my weekend was spent working on a project I’ve been toying with for the past few months; debating on whether or not I want to move to Chicago (landing again on an affirmative “maybe,” although I’ll go even if I do love New York more than any other city in the world); dodging Paulo Coelho’s cousin’s stench; not working out and cooking dumplings.

Next weekend I’m going to see Dave. I've decided that I'll spend half my time there making him dumplings so that he can warm them up for lunch everyday and feed his tan Picanha while I’m not around to make him lunch. I’m totally his little housewife—2,000 miles removed.

My Kind of Restaurant

I can't get over how cool my Friday night restaurant is:

-No matter how often we go there, the bartender can't remember our order.
-We have to remind him every time that we need plates for our appetizers.
-In the bathroom, the "Dial" soap container contains dish soap.
-No matter what alcohol you order, it's five dollars.
-The head waitress has a mustache.
-Zagat's calls it "seedy."

Meanwhile, Dave just landed in Hawaii and I couldn't go with him even though he had a free trip for two. I don't want to talk about it. Not right now, at least. I wanted to talk about it earlier but ConEd clipped a wire and our internet at work was off from 2:00 on. As if they really need any more bad press.

Soon.

I'm going to return to my regular schedule of writing here very soon. I just don’t want to do it at work and my internet has been down at home. However, this morning a miracle happened. Well, not really, but my internet went back up. Yayy. So much to tell (whether it’s interesting or not is another story). What the future will hold:opinions on Angelina Jolie (okay, probably not); details on the job search, a big but vague new project I’m working on, skipping out on a Hawaii trip, the fact that things at work are better and Dave, Dave, Dave! Be back very soon.

Having a Nervous Breakdown.

No big deal.

Be back soon with updates.

Whore Economics

As if...

The Skeeze and I tried a new place last night in Astoria. The bar/restaurant combo was still trying to figure out its identity. There were bronze Buddhas next to African drums with a Mexican menu; Euro music selected by an Indian D.J. while a Russian bartender manned the bar. Since moving to Astoria this is only the third restaurant I've tried. I'm looking for a closer alternative to my Cuban food on the Upper West Side, but I don't think it's going to happen. Next time, I'll make the trip.

I was desperate for a dirty sapphire martini. The bartender was a blonde Russian girl who was clearly new to the job; profession. I ordered my drink and she told me they didn't have olive juice. What kind of bar doesn't have olive juice? I ordered a bloody Mary instead, but I tend to like olive juice in those too, so I was ultimately annoyed. Sympathize with me here, okay? I work long, boring hours and all I wanted was a little olive juice.

There were about eight people in the bar, a fact that I noted to the Skeeze when commenting that the bartender should probably throw on a bra. It's 30 degrees outside--a temperature at which it is not okay to whore yourself out if you're not making any money. I could see if she were making $500 a night, but it was probably more like $65. Not worth it. (Yes, I'm an expert in whore economics). Same goes for a prostitute making $500 a night. She may as well be a stripper. And a stripper who is making $150 a night? May as well be a waitress... The level of whoredom should directly correlate with money made (that is, if you insist on being in the whorin' business). The Skeeze replied that she didn't get hired for her skills. Duh.

I moved onto a lamb quesadilla that I thought might save the night. Nope. It was hoof meat. Or maybe nose or earlobe meat. Whatever it was, it was cartilage. I don't really get into cartilage, especially lamb cartilage. Beef cartilage is okay, well, if you have to eat some form of cartilage.

Anyway, when the guy who was replacing the girl bartender came in, I asked if their lack of olive juice was a regular thing or just a temporary one. "We have olive juice," he said as he pulled it out. "Did you want a martini?"

"Well, did is the operative word here. I don't anymore."

Whatever, the Russian and her nipples needed to close us out, because her nipples were frigid and wanted to go home. We gave them a 20% tip, but warned her that the tip was for her boobies, not for her. I know that she, like a greedy madame, kept the tip for herself.

Am I on Crack? Let's Explore.

My boss is out of town. This makes me very happy. I must be a little too happy, though, because I've had one person accuse me of being on crack; another simply ask me if I was, in fact, on crack; and a final one comment "Oh Lord," in response to my over-excitement about a minor update to our website.

Maybe I am just usually a sourpuss and I'm actually being pleasant today, because asking someone how their day's going should not elicit the following:

Me: how is your day going?
The Skeeze: YOU ON CRACK?
Me: What? Why?
The Skeeze: Ha, ha. It's fine
The Skeeze: you just sound very mr rogers

Then there was our web designer:

Web Designer: Okay, refresh your screen
Me: A tear is falling from my eye. It's gorgeous
Me: So you can press the link or the image?
Web Designer: either or
Me: how beautiful!
Web Designer: oh lord
Me: hahaha. my friend called me "Mr Rogers" today
Web Designer: at least you're easy to please

Finally, there was my colleague who said she was ordering diet pills (because Britney Spears evidently used them successfully).

"What is ephedrine?" she asked.

I told her it was the stuff that makes you all shaky and that it decreases your appetite. I told her I loved ephedrine, but that it didn't look like there was any in the pills she was looking at.

She said she'd order them and try them. If they make her all shaky, she'll discontinue use.

I told her that if they do make her shaky, she can give them to me. "I love being all shaky!"

Her reply? "You're on Crack."

I swear; my boss being out of the office is the best drug on the market. I wish I could bottle it.

A List of Things That Used to Only Kind of Annoy Me, But Now Make Me Seethe With Anger

"Oh my Gawd - Your hair looks so good!"

Now that I’ve made the decision to leave this place (granted I get another job), everything that I ever slightly disliked about it is completely magnified to the point of loathing.

A list of things that used to only kind of annoy me, but now make me seethe with anger:

-The fact that everyone here (minus a small handful) is hired right after college.
Even though some have been here two or three years, the average age is still 23 years old.

-There are only two guys here.
I’ve always wanted to be one of those women who is really compassionate about other women, but I’m just not. There is way too much estrogen in this place and I can not stand it. Everybody is always either bitching about something (hell, that’s what blogs are for) or giving false compliments. In reality, “No, Tina—your hair does not look good today. I hate your outfit too.”

-The fake-nice, snobby chick.
She extends false-compliments in a forced syrupy voice. Some fake-nice people can actually pull the wool over your eyes. Not this one. She also acts as if it’s the end of the world if our boss is on the phone when she needs to talk to her. When this happens, she huffs, rolls her eyes and stomps out. Hi, you’re 23 years old and your dad still pays your rent and buys your clothes. It’s really not that bad.

-The position of my desk.
I sit right next to my boss’s office so I have to witness the fake-nice, snobby chick in all of her huffing glory. Daily.

-The chick that asks questions that I couldn’t possibly have an answer for.
When I say “I don’t know,” she just stands there and stares at my profile with her beady eyes until she can think of another annoying question. Only this time it’s pertinent to me: “Why do you travel so much?” Please leave my desk now. Thanks.

-The fact that my boss loves the chick that asks questions that I couldn't possibly have an answer for.

I don't get it.

-The fact that my boss hates me.

It would make my life a lot easier if she liked me.

-The intern.
My God, this is the stupidest girl I’ve ever met. When a food delivery guy comes to the door, for instance, instead of asking if anyone has an order, she sends him to the next office. Inevitably he comes back. All she had to do was read the name on the ticket. “Oh, I didn’t see it.”

-The fact that people take themselves way too seriously here.
A while back, there were a few of us sitting around at lunch. One girl asked me if Dave had said “I love you” yet. I said, “yeah, once during sex.” She got really offended. Either she doesn’t have sex or this mammalian activity just completely grosses her out. She hasn’t made eye contact with me since, probably out of fear that she’ll go to hell by association.

-My boss’s voice.
Nails on a chalkboard.

-The bathroom.
It smells so bad and we have to share it with these nasty chicks next door. Here is a list, in no particular order, of things they do to make the bathroom a less pleasant place: leave pubic hairs on the toilet seat; pee on the toilet seat; reek like body odor, which effectively makes the bathroom reek like body odor; not close the door on their way out so everyone who walks down the hallway can hear me tinkling; and looking in the mirror way too long. Sorry, honey, you don’t get any prettier by staring in it longer.

-My inability to blog when I please.
I’ve said it a million times. There are spies here. Hi guys.

Went to the Versace Mansion; Didn't Bring Camera; Had to Steal Pics Off the Internet

This is the outside patio area. A stage with a DJ was set up in the pool.

This is the first room you walk into.
Odd thing about that fountain in the middle: It appears as if streams of water
are falling down (as they ought to). However, the streams are just
plastic wires that look like water.

Anyway, somehow I ended up at the Versace mansion on Saturday night. Dave and I met up with my promoter friend at 510 Ocean. He and I both live in New York but were coincidentally in Miami at the same time. He used to promote in Miami so he has way more connections than my own none. We were supposed to go somewhere else after 510 Ocean but then he mentioned the Versace thing. Cool.

We walked over (me, I limped in my 4 inch stilletos) and it occurred to me that it was the same place that Gianni Versace was shot. Two and two together, all that. Now it's a nightclub--a private one, I think. There was some private party going on there, but my friend somehow managed to make a call that led to about 20 of us getting in. I imagine this was because we were with 15 underage models. That seems to be a good recipe for nightclub success. Matt Damon and his wife followed right behind us. Of course, I was starstruck. I am way too easily impressed by celebrities. Even better than celebrities, though, is free alcohol. Trump has a vodka out and it was hosting the party. The bar ran out of glasses when we got to it, so Dave found some cabinets and raided them. We were suddenly the most popular kids there. This was only momentary because Hillary Duff and her sister walked in. Then that Travis Barker guy and all his tattoos entered, followed by rumors of Kimberly Stewart. Dave and I were drunk so we started sending around text messages to our friends. Only, in our text messages, Adriana Lima and other cooler celebrities were there. Sorry, Kimberly. You bore me.

From there we proceded to get shitfaced off of our Trump Vodka (talk about brand name recognition, Donnie!) The promoter friend eventaully gathered up his herd of sheep and took us some place called Mint. It was a big smelly nightclub (a genre I can't stand) but the booze were free, so....

The only money we spent that night was on a taxi and some salads. As we ate our salads, we watched two paparazzis wait patiently for someone outside of Privé. They were passing the time by taking pictures of each other strutting down an invisible catwalk next to a parked Bulgatti. When Dave crossed the street to pay homage to the rare car, he neglected to ask the paparazzi who was inside. Completely useless, I say! We got home at 5 or 6 a.m. and didn't really make it out so much on New Year's Eve. Thank God. I hate New Year's Eve. I also hate resolutions.

Anyway, here's a picture of a Bulgatti that was not in front of Privé. I also stole this off of someone else's site due to lacking a camera. Had I had a camera with me I would have taken some pic of the celebs and sold them to US Weekly. Either them or the sad little paparazzis. Oh yeah, back to the car. The one we saw was all black. If Dave would have told me it was a new Mercedes edition, I would have easily bought it. Sigh.