Life Regurgitated for your Chewing Pleasure

I'm back and boy have things changed.

2008-10-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

My landlord will wish she'd rigged her t.p. holder like this once I'm finished with her.
Hi all. Hopefully you've still got me on your blog readers because for a couple months now I've been really craving my blog.

Oh how I've missed puking my emotions all over the page for all to read. I love having a free forum to do nothing but vent and talk about myself. I just realized that the last time I wrote a real post here was in December of 2007, and I can't believe how fast the year has gone by. Cliché, I know, but a lot has changed. Where to start?

I think I mentioned I was starting a company. Yep, I've escaped the grips of my old boss and gone off on my own (well, with a partner). We started a pretty cool marketing firm and, knock on wood, it's doing pretty damn well. In fact, we're already upgrading our office space...partly because we need more space (there are five of us now), but mostly because our landlord is an insufferable bitch. (I just can't seem to get away from control freak women.) Anyhow, I've already started stealing toilet paper and paper towels from my current space to counteract the deposit I know they're going to steal from us. Tomorrow I'm taking the toilet bowl freshener and a sponge. So, take that.

My partner and I decided our new office needs to be gorgeous, and even more, it needs to have a "look." So we bought a white laquer bar, bar stools, a new couch, and some other really cool furniture. My favorite part, though, is our new wallpaper. Check out how well it compliments our new couch. Stunning, eh?

In other news, Dave and I finally split up. I didn't want to move there. He didn't want to move here. And then I met someone new. I've been with my new beau for almost a year now and life is fantastic. Dave and I still keep in touch and have a great deal of respect for each other, but that's about the extent of it. And yes, he's still in Chicago.

So, I think the defining moments responsible for my return to this lovely blog were a vacation in the south of France and an incident writing my blog at work. I don't know what it was about France--maybe just the fact that I was actually relaxing for the first time in a year--but I really felt the need to start updating again. Then, about a month ago as I was updating our work blog, I felt the compulsion to write about this blog and why it is so much more fun to write here. I know, I know; I'm trying to turn this into some type of romantic story when, really, it's just not that deep.

Anyway, I'll leave you with a clip from that blog post, which I credit with reuniting me with my loyal-as-a-dog blog. I have so much more to report but this is getting long. Stay tuned for updates on my mom's new boyfriend and psycho neighbor, the 10 reasons why I love the new Swiffer commercials, and my new obsession with Keith Olbermann. Until then, here's my shout-out to this blog from my other blog in a post about why I'd rather be here than there. Wow, so confusing. Anyway, more to come. I promise this time...

Despite our better wishes, writing about PR & Marketing isn’t half as interesting as talking about ourselves on our personal blogs. Don’t get me wrong, I could talk about my job all day and often I do. But when it comes to blogging, I’d rather talk about other things. For instance, of late I’ve been reminiscing about the days of yore when I used to talk about myself incessantly on my personal blog. Since I wrote anonymously, I could say anything I wanted to. People who know me know that there’s no filter between my mouth/brain, so this was quite a fantastic forum for me. I was completely candid and, by golly, people read what I wrote because they could relate to my experiences. Also, because I put it all out there, I had a loyal following that clung onto my every word. Boy, did I feel popular and wanted. No wonder I updated daily…instant gratification!

There are restrictions to writing on a corporate blog—even if your company is as cool as ours. If there weren’t, we’d probably write a whole lot more.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve had several instances of “Oh, I should blog about that,” followed by, “Oh, I don’t keep a personal blog anymore.” These were very important topics, too. You know, like the lack of good dirty martinis in Manhattan, my upcoming vacation, how well my mom’s doing at the farmer’s market, the new restaurants I’ve discovered, the odd stench that occasionally plagues the Franklin Street stop, the fact that The Today Show put “drys up” instead of “dries up” on their weather graphic this morning, and why I think that the British show Extras is the best thing since buttered bread.

I Can't Stand Sarah Palin

2008-10-18T19:06:00.001-07:00

In case anyone's still reading this and wondering what I'm thinking about Sarah Palin: she's a joke.

Alive!

2008-03-04T06:38:00.001-08:00

Hi all,

I started my own business, which might explain why I've had absolutely no time to write. The new biz is a PR/marketing firm (whose name I can't smudge by mentioning it on this here blog). I know I always say that I'll write more, but it's true this time.

Until then,
G

P.S. Hi, new friend, Romius T. Nice to have you. I need some new readers. My old ones have left me. Rightfully. I've so not upheld my end of the bargain...

This is Totally Karma for the Jesus Thing...

2007-12-27T09:34:00.000-08:00

If you don't know what the Jesus thing is, see the below post.

I just wrote out this long recap for my friends, so I thought I'd share it here too. Mildly entertaining.

Last night:

Was having the best time - hanging out with this cool chick I met - we left the club we were at and went to have some wine at this cute little wine bar. Later we went to meet back up with everyone else and grab something to eat at a late night Mexican place. I was in line for about a half hour, finally going to order, when two girls started fighting and throwing each other on the floor. (Indianapolis is that kind of city...the people are relatively trashy).

Anyway, I don't know what got into me, but something clicked and I turned into this motherly-type figure who wanted to help the girls out. I pulled one girl away (there were guys/girls/cooks fighting at this point), and told her that she's wasting her time/it's not worth it. She was cool and appreciated it. Then I went to get another girl and tried to walk her out. Suddenly, some girl started punching me. I was so shocked/had no idea what was going on, so I just stood there, genuinely confused, asking her if she just punched me. I couldn't really feel it, but she was yelling at me for calling her something (???) and it was altogether confusing. I didn't fight back because like i said, i was so in shock, and I wouldn't fight anyway. Not worth it to me. Plus, I've never been punched, so it was just weird. (BTW, now I know what guys are referring to when they say "girl punches.")

The worst part is this, though: My blackberry must have flew out of my hand, because it was stolen by some guy in the restaurant. He called us on my friend's phone to brag that he had it. I had it turned off within 20 minutes, and the call to my friend was the only one he made, but now I have to go get a new bb. Really sucks because I just got that one in October.

Oddly enough, I felt like something bad was going to happen prior to going out, and thought that I probably shouldn't go. I should have trusted my instincts.

All in all, really bizarre. I can't believe people sometimes. And I can't believe I was in a position to get punched. My dad called me 'Mike Tyson' when I stumbled out of bed this morning. (The disconnect being that Mikey T. actually throws punches, unlike your's truly.)

What Not To Say Too Loud While in a Bar in the Midwest Two Days Prior to Christmas

2007-12-26T12:49:00.000-08:00

"I hate Jesus."

Doesn't go over so well... Even my friend, the ex-crack/meth addict, was offended. Guess he's kind of a big deal here.

When not ostracizing myself, I've been chiiilllliinnnn'. Made the below wall hanging with my sis. Still have to throw some resin on it, which is what makes it super duper fine.

It's blurry, but you get the idea.

Actually, I'm lying; I've been doing quite a bit of work, but nothing I can mention. I'm not doing anything that will be super entertaining when I can tell ya about it, but I still can't say anything about it...which makes it seem a lot more interesting than it really is. Following me? It's the V.I.P. room effect. Seems cool because it's mysterious.

I'm going to Miami with Dave on Friday and we're taking motorcycle riding classes. That's right, on Monday, I will be a licensed motorcyclist. Scary. Admittedly, I probably won't ride a lot/ever. I'll just pull my license out here and there to impress the fellas. (Although I tend to believe that men don't think girls who ride motorcycles are especially sexy).

For New Years Eve, we're heading to the Raleigh Hotel in Miami. My friend promotes there. Otherwise, we'd probably go out the night before and just do dinner/drinks on NYE. We're supposed to go out with my friend and her husband, but my friend just gave birth and is trying to figure out how to milk herself so that the baby doesn't get drunk (from drinking alcohol-infested breast milk). She says she doesn't think she can store enough milk to last until the next day, so she wants us to meet somewhere between Miami and West Palm. Ummm, no. I'm just not that good of a friend/person.

This post is boring. My cousin is hot. Feast your eyes:

He's not blood related, but you know... Kinda weird.

It's not that I don't want to write...

2007-12-21T16:29:00.000-08:00

...it's just that I can't. All the cool stuff going on is top-secret.

MY SISTER [AND I] IS [ARE] SO COOL...

2007-12-15T10:07:00.000-08:00

Back in the day when I had tons of free time and worked only part time bar jobs, I used to make mosaic and mixed media wall hangings/furniture. My sister started doing the same shortly after me and now she's pretty much doing it professionally (and way better than I ever did). Seeing as how she's one of those people who is just learning how to use email (Bonus: she uses it to send her boss naked pictures!) and the Internet (Bonus: She's a stalker who was more than pleasantly surprised with the power that is Google Maps!) -- she obviously didn't think to put up a website. I mean, why would she? It's not like anyone shops on the internet, right? Freak.

The Skeeze and I (err, mostly the Skeeze with my "artistic direction") have built a website for my sister's art. Truth be told; half the shit on there is mine (because I'm not one to not take credit any chance I can get), but my sister's trying to start up a business, so we'll call it hers. She's perfectly capable of recreating everything up there anyway. All of that said, check it out. There are some major grammatical errors and what not, but all of the copy is bullshit anyway. Buy something from her. Her email addy's in the contact. Order something today and she can probably get it to you in time for Christmas. Seriously. It's not like you've got something better planned. Tell her I sent ya...

AndreaGoing.com

I'm a Celebrity!

2007-12-06T15:11:00.000-08:00

My stomach is killing me and I'm lazy

2007-11-29T14:04:00.000-08:00

Hi. Anyone still there? Thought I'd drop by to tell ya my stomach effin' hurts; I'm on a conference call and this bitch is screaming in my ear; and I'm alive.

I have so much to report. Will do so shortly. Don't give up on me.

Bye.

P.S. Holy shit, her voice is so annoying.

Dentists agree:

Me: her voice is really loud/high-pitched
MyColleague: She sounds so confrontational and pissed. I’m a little scared

See.

Spanish Harlem | Harvard Grads | Giving Birth | Married Men

2007-10-29T17:49:00.000-07:00

My New Hood
I moved to 104th and Lexington. That's right; Spanish Harlem. And I love it.

Dave came to look at the place with me a few weeks ago, then called me the next day, on his way to the airport, to tell me he didn't feel comfortable with the neighborhood.

"But babe, who can think about rape and robbery and guns at a time like this? I mean, a one-bedroom plus office for $1,650? That's absolutely unheard of!"

Plus, I saw some business guys, wearing actual suits, walking down the street here. They've become part of my sales pitch for the area. That, and the fact that the deli across the street from me sells coffee, eggs and begetables. Conversations go like this:

"So, where's your new place?"
"104th and Lex."
"Oh, the barrio!"
"Yeah, there are business men there now."

Some other interchangeable elements in this pitch are:

-2 blocks from a good neighborhood.
-Great Mexican restaurant. (A Mexican girl I work with assured me that "even white people from Manhattan go there.")
-The guy who lived here before me was a Harvard Grad and, coincidentally, one of my firm's clients.*
-The neighborhood has character. (And cheese enchiladas with mole!)

My secret weapon is to tell people, excitedly, that, "I moved to the hood!" You know, really own it like Gwen Stefani owns her inherent dorkiness. "Golly, I'm just a big dork." I can't believe people buy this shit. Hers. Mine.

All in all, life is good right now. I see Dave in 11 days. My obscene workload will cease to exist after the 14th. I take two weeks off in December. My best friend Lauren just had a baby. My sister's supposed to go into labor tomorrow. Everybody's doing it, yo. But I don't have any desire to get knocked up right now. Writing a book has to be close enough to giving birth. On that note, I turn in my proposal to the agent in a few days (for real this time). The agent has introduced me to an editor at [big pub company] who he wants me to work with (now we just have to figure out how to break the news to her. Hmmm....). I dig that he has faith in me, though. I'm not sure why that is. Everything I've turned in to him has been pure shit. But I'll keep working on it as long as he's willing to read it. If all else fails, I'll move to Chicago to be with Dave. Not that being with Dave is a consolation prize...being in Chicago is. I love it here. I know, I know: Things you've heard a million times for $500?

Oh yeah, a married guy is trying to sleep with me. Long story, but I can summarize it nicely with this abridged email exchange from today:

Him: "You're all business today."
Me: "It's always been all business. You're a married man; I'm a taken chick. End of story."
Him: "Oh, I just meant that your email was very efficient."

I told some of my guy friends about this and their collective, immediate response was: "You must have been flirting with him."

But no! I mean, unless I was unknowingly speaking in double entendres (where, "Glad to be working with you again" = "I really want you to bend me over the couch and ram me."), this guy was coming up with it on his own. The funniest part about all of this, is that I think my boss overheard me saying I was going to dinner with him (this was before I realized he was trying to bed me). All of the sudden, she can't stop talking about this guy's family. Oh goodness, now I'm the office whore. Let's hope it doesn't affect my Christmas bonus now, k?

*The Harvard grad left piss and pubic hair all over the toilet, floor, bathtub, fridge.

The Skeeze is Engaged. My Thoughts on Marriage & Weddings

2007-10-18T23:33:00.000-07:00

The Skeeze has wanted to ask his girlfriend to marry him for a while now. He's been plotting his approach (ring hidden in book like a revolver in a Bible); the timing (October); the place (the only decent restaurant in Grenada, where she lives); all that. The Skeeze is going to be a family man.

I don't know what Skeeze's plans are for a wedding, but I can't stand the thought of the traditional ceremony. My reasons for not wanting to have a wedding might not be those typically responsible for making people detest the thought of marriage. I don't mind the commitment; I don't have "commitment issues" (I really hate when chicks say this, by the way. "I have commitment issues, bla." Please shut up. You're just insecure and afraid he's not interested in you. Chances are, you're right.) I don't mind being with one guy the rest of my life. The peen is the peen, ya know? And, I don't fear getting bored. Mostly because boredom is inevitable. I just want to find a cool person to get bored with (Oh, even more than I hate when people say they have commitment issues, I really hate when people say, "Well, just find someone who doesn't bore you." This is usually followed by, "find someone who's active," as if hiking and bike riding are going to cure eternal boredom. I mean, I love french fries with cheese, gravy and ranch smothered all over them, but if I ate them every day, I'd get sick of them. Same thing.)

[Note: I have to strategically place Dave's name in every post now. He skims these things for his name. If he doesn't see it, he doesn't read. Totally sounds like something I would do.]

All of that said, the reason why I don't want to get married is because I think the dresses are ugly and weddings are annoying. They take too long to plan. They stress people out. Your guests don't really want to be there. And, they're greedy affairs ("Look at me in my funny-lookin' dress." "Take pictures of me with the disposable camera I've put on the table in order to bypass hiring a professional photographer." "Buy me presents at this website." "Travel across the country, take days off work, get a hotel room AND pay $200 for a seafoam green satin dress that you're never going to wear again.") I have a new policy: I don't go to weddings. Please don't invite me. I don't want to be in your wedding party.

Of course, I've grandfathered Skeeze's wedding in. I'll be in attendance. I kind of have to; I'm his best man. If I ever have a wedding (and I won't), the Skeeze will be my maid of honor.

Enough about that, though. I'm in New Orleans right now. It's 3 am and for some reason I decided to make coffee. Even more, I drank it. Now I'm half delirious, half wired, sitting in my room listening to that Lipton/Actor's Studio guy talk about having sex with Barbara Walters on Conan. If there are any two people in the world who I don't want to imagine having sex, it's them. Together. I really need to get out more. [Dave]

[Why is it that hotel rooms don't automatically come with toothbrushes? This place has a "shoe mitt" but no toothbrush. Hmmm...]

I've never been here before and at first glance, this city is great. I can't wait to take it for a test run tomorrow. I'm a little ashamed that this is my first time here. [Dave bla, bla, bla] My new travel policy is US cities only. At least for this year. I keep traveling out of the country, hoping I'm going to have an amazing time, but no. I always run into some kind of roadblock. Language barriers. Transportation annoyances. The global trend of American hatred. The dollar's dwindling status. All of that. Maybe I'm doing it wrong.

When Dave and I were in Rio last year, we wondered why we traveled 10 hours to go to the beach (with bad food) when we could have just gone to Miami. Brazil's beautiful but San Diego and Laguna Beach have spots that put it to shame. You get the point. I might even be rationalizing about something. So complicated. Strategic Dave placement.

I'm so busy; Zadie Smith at The New Yorker Festival

2007-10-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

Some girl at my job quit and I'm the only one in the office who knows how to run her account. I'm not annoyed because I'm missing out on my particularly thrilling social life; I'm annoyed that I'm doing twice the work at the same pay.

All week I've been dying to write about how I went to see Zadie Smith read at The New Yorker Festival.

Obviously Dave fell asleep. Meanwhile, I was the sap tearing up in the third row. I would have probably been better off amongst 12-year olds at a Justin Timberlake concert. When Dave woke up, he looked over me and said, "Are you crying? Are you serious?" Then he started laughing at me. Zadie's my favorite author, so it was bound to happen.

She read from a novel she's working on. To be honest, I couldn't understand her British accent for a good three minutes. Then I adapted to it. She warned us that she wouldn't be reading anything funny and she didn't. Her work has matured and it's good, but how could it ever get any better than:

While he slipped in and out of consciousness, the position of the planets, the music of the spheres, the flap of a tiger moth's diaphanous wings in Central Africa, and a whole bunch of other stuff that Makes Shit Happen had decided it was second-chance time for Archie. -WHITE TEETH

I've always loved that sentence.

I hauled in all three of her novels--hardbacks--and had her sign them. Zadie was a bit pissed off at me when she saw the condition of her books (torn, chewed, a cover put on upside down...in other words, well read). I told her that my cousin's cats gnawed on them. She pressed me for answers, "I have a dog that doesn't even do that." I explained that these weren't normal cats. All of this was only seconds after she said that her Tampax was sticking to her ass. She was a classy broad. Plus, she dug my name. I was a bit confused by the fact that she said "ass" instead of "arse," though. Hearing an English person say arse is about as humorous as it gets.

In other news, I met with the author of Stopless yesterday and she was great. I'm also going to New Orleans next weekend (as in, not this weekend but the next) and I'm meeting with two authors there as well. I fell into these ones through work. I'll name names later and write more about Wanda Lee Robinson asap. If you haven't already read Stopless, you're missing out.

I'm finally turning in my proposal and six chapters after this weekend. Thank God. I'm so sick of looking at this crap.

Back soon with updates. Hopefully good ones.

I'm Obsessed With This Book: STOPLESS by Wanda Lee Robinson

2007-09-29T05:55:00.000-07:00

I'm not usually a memoir reader, but people keep on passing me their books and I keep on reading them. If you're the same way, consider this my passing a book onto you...

The author's story reminds me a lot of my mom's. I won't go into details because I don't want to embarrass my mom (who you don't know and who doesn't read this, so maybe it's not a big deal?). If you read the book you'll learn more about my mom. And I think learning about my mom should be a priority.

So, STOPLESS: A lot of hard drugs, making it in the underworld of seventies New York, stripping for a living, run-ins with celebrities like Andy Warhol and Mick Jagger, etc. Sounds like your normal run-of-the-mill case study, right? Right, but there's something great about this one. I read it right after I read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. If Wanda Lee Robinson had the same pull in the publishing business as Jeannette does, her book would be just as widely read. (Nothing against Jeannette; her book is excellent and she's a nice lady according to an email she accidentally sent to me instead of her editor one time).

Since I'm obsessive, I did some research on Wanda and found out that she's self-published and looking for an agent. Anyone out there? I want to take her under my wing and nurture her after reading this (even if she is twice my age). This is how I feel about my mom sometimes, too. My guess is that Wanda self-published because she didn't know how to go about it any other way. I'm making it my job to build her a cult following, starting right here!, and get her an agent/publisher.

I stole a mini synopsis from her website since I'm not a good book-summarizer. And I'm lazy:

From CBGB's to Billy's Topless, the book recounts days of a bygone New York City, punctuated by run-ins with Sid Vicious, Andy Warhol, Pia Zadora, Mick Jagger and Art Carney. In a city reeling from a serial killer nicknamed Son of Sam, Robinson recounts a seedy side of New York City that, while very much still alive, has since been Disney-fied with chain stores and franchise restaurants.

Cursed in the womb when her father beat her pregnant mother, Robinson becomes a target for her mother's hatred. Sexually abused by those she trusted—including her mother's boyfriends—and ultimately abandoned, a 16-year old Robinson runs away to New York City to fulfill her dreams of becoming an actress. After being fired from a corporate job, Robinson turns to cocktailing at a strip club to make ends meet—and is exposed to a dark side of drugs and sex.

When a run in with Bob Dylan cost Robinson her job, she starts stripping. Her tainted childhood, need for acceptance and addictive personality are no competition for the vices she encounters. She turns to crystal meth, valium and cocaine to deal with the pressures of stripping and memories of her painful childhood. What begins as casual drug use evolves into a full-blown addiction. In the end, Wanda is left with a lethal ultimatum: change or die. Despite the gravity of its content, Robinson manages to instill STOPLESS with humor and priceless insight.

So yeah, I definitely recommend it. The prologue is eerie but the first sentence of the first chapter is where it's at. And from there, it's all good stuff. You can buy it on Amazon.

I Fainted in The Middle of a Restaurant. Sympathy?

2007-09-25T14:51:00.000-07:00

Wink, Wink...
That’s pretty much the gist of the story. Here I am at OTTO waiting for my table, drinking no more than a glass of wine, blabbing on and on as I often do, and then all of the sudden I faint. The Skeeze caught me, which was to be expected because he’s one of those friends that’s, you know, always there when you fall. (That’s a saying, right? Because I’ve made it a goal to use more clichés.). That reminds me; I should put him as my emergency contact on those forms at work from now on.

Possible Reasons for me Passing Out (In order of Probability):

Overworked – seven days a week
Received Bad News that Day – I internalize everything so I guess this would make sense. The mental affecting the physical and so forth.
Pregnant – Could be, but doubt it. If so, I’ve decided I’m at the age where it wouldn’t be necessary to kill it.
Girl in Bathroom – See details below.

Prior to fainting, I went into the small little bathroom and got stared down by some chick. I’d asked her if she was waiting to use the restroom, and she gave me a look as if to say, “Obviously.” But you never know in that bathroom—she could have been waiting to use the sink.

From the time she went into the stall until the time she came out, these are the things that I figured she was thinking:

“Umm, why the hell else would I be standing here if not to use the bathroom?” (As discussed, to use the sink)
“This girl looks like shit. I can’t believe she’s out in public.”
“Nice shirt, is she pregnant? I wish I could get pregnant but I can’t. My poor uterus/ovaries.” (I don't know why I thought she might be thinking this, but it seemed to make sense at the time.)
“She should wear her hair down.”

After all of this, I decided that if she wanted to take it outside, I’d be down. Just say the word. Bitch.

When she came out, she looked at me again and said:

“I like your necklace. I just bought a similar one. Who’s the designer?”

“Avon, I think.”

“Oh, you should tell people you got it in France because this lady makes similar pendants.”

“What’s wrong with Avon?”

Now that I think about it, I’m pretty convinced she’s to blame for me having fainted. Either way, I've been on a massive sympathy campaign since. People feel very sorry for me. And why shouldn't they?

Hi, I'm Writing a book but where to start??

2007-09-21T06:44:00.001-07:00

"Writing is so relaxing I can do it on the beach with my eyes closed. Ahhh." Poser.
My friend is jumping into a new book project and is looking for motivation on how to actually get it underway. How do I concentrate? [speed]; should I join a book club? [no]; go to writing circles? [no], etc. I wrote her back with all of my advice. Some of it's practical, some of it is just a product of my bad attitude. I thought I'd share in case anyone who's reading this is writing and cared to hear my thoughts on it. Yes, I realize that my blog has turned into a self-help group for writers. Don't worry, though, realizing the problem is the first step. I'll be back to writing about poop and pee on toilet seats soon.

As you can imagine, I started off my email to her with a disclaimer:

I don't know if I'm any good at writing or if my novel will ever see the light of day, but I'm pretty certain that I can give good advice on how to write one. I'm like one of those people who sit in front of a football game yelling at a player for not catching the ball (as if I would have caught the ball). Or, yells at an ice skater for not adding a triple lutz into her routine. "You could've taken the gold, bitch..." So yeah, I can tell you how to win even if I'm not a great player myself. Some lame metaphor like that anyway. That said...

First off, you're at a good spot right now because it's hard to go straight into the writing process. You can't jump right in and start writing 10-12 hour days. It's impossible. At least it is for me. Everyone's different. I imagine that most people start off slow, especially when they're not sure where they're going with it. Maybe two hours a day--and even those two hours are full of distractions and a ton of self-doubt. Then they start getting the hang of it and seeing that the book has a common thread that ties it together.

At this point, you'll (yes, yes, I'm aware that I switched from the plural third person to the second person) start getting excited but there's still self-doubt (tons of it, as it turns out—and if you don't have self-doubt, then rest assured: your book sucks). Cocky writers write shitty books. I should know, I used to be one and everything I wrote was shitty. Once I was humbled, I was able to recognize the crap I was writing and improve upon it. You have to realize that you might have to rewrite your book quite a few times. I used to get so discouraged; now I just tell my sorry ass to stop sulking and keep going. It’s like I’m an army general AND a discouraged soldier. I get down, then I yell out myself to get up.

Anyway, getting to the advice part. This is all based on what works for me:

-Treat writing like a job. Casual writers = bloggers...which is fine, but novels and other long form projects are totally different beasts. When people say that they write for relaxation, I’m totally baffled. To me, writing is anything BUT relaxing. Apparently these people aren’t trying to bust out 300-400 pages of coherent material.

-Don't write at home. Too many distractions. Easy to give up. If you go to a cafe or bookstore that's somewhat far from your house, it's easier to not give up. I used to find it easiest to write at my house, but times have changed. I suggest finding that place that you really get work done, and continue to work there until you get sick of it. You know how they say that when you study for a test while you’re high that you should take the test high? It’s kind of the same thing. Environmental stimuli should remain consistent.

- Set a time goal for yourself.

-Don't give up because you're stressed (and if you're not stressed, there's something wrong with you).

-Make an outline of your various chapters. You probably won't stick to it, but at least it will give you something to go by.

-Turn into a hermit. You have to. Writing a book is a personal process and involves quite a bit of isolation. I interviewed at a magazine a million years ago and the editor there told me he wanted to write books, but he wasn't ready to go into hiding yet. He said that he liked talking to people, so now wasn't the time. I didn't really understand what he was talking about until I got into the process. I figured I could have it all: a life and writing. Turns out that this isn’t really true. The more I go out and drink and bla, bla, bla, the more clouded my mind is. I get distracted from my goal. Again, that's just me. Early to bed, early to rise and all that. Words to live by. Oh, but I do drink, even if it is under the covers with a flashlight. Keeps me sane.

-One of my personal favorite pieces of advice is: don't talk about your book a lot. There are a lot of different reasons people suggest not doing this. For one, the more you talk about it, the less you do it. People find so much satisfaction in getting positive feedback from others on the mere idea of their book that they never get to writing it. Also, when you talk about it, you put yourself in danger of listening to other peoples' advice on it. Everyone has to throw their two cents in. It's annoying. Especially when it's someone who has no idea what their talking about. Finally, there are so many writers in New York that it's almost cliche to talk about writing your book. People all but roll their eyes when you (well, not you you, but you in general) mention you're writing. It's a downer and doesn't add to the creative process. From my personal experiences, I've found that the most dedicated writers don't share their ideas as much as the more casual writers do. There are writers and then there are people who think that acting and dressing and talking like a writer, in fact, makes them a writer. Not so much.

-Attend readings, media panels, etc. This always motivates me for whatever reason. I like to surround myself with writers (so long as they resist speaking about their projects, we're good). I just like their general presence. I like to witness successful writers reading their work.

Anyway, writing will never fall into anyone's lap. It's a lot of work even for amazing writers. The fact that you have three agents interested in your book is good artificial motivation. It should get you started until you start building your own internal motivation (if that makes any sense).

Feel free to bug me any time. I think when you called last night I was promising the bartender that I could launch his modeling career for him. I do these things from time to time. That's why I really shouldn't go out.

My Paranoia

2007-09-20T06:01:00.000-07:00

I've always been a paranoid individual. When I studied psychology and neuroscience in school (because despite what my resume says, my major was neuroscience psychology and my minors were biology and Spanish)—I was not coincidentally fascinated by drugs' effects on the brain, especially cocaine causing paranoia and other schizophrenic-like symptoms. I used to come up with little theories about cocaine—a drug I’ve never touched in my life—and talk to professors about them whilst telling them that their experiments were in fact incorrect (“your study isn’t measuring alertness, it’s actually measuring anxiety”). Anyway, where I’m going with this…

When I first went to my psychiatrist to get Adderal, I prepared my little speech, came up with a back story about how I’d been on Ritalin all my life until college and then got off—now, I want to get on something again, etc. I added that I knew all about this stuff because I studied it in school and yes, I know it’s nothing more than legal speed and I'm okay with that, and bla. He told me that the side effects were weight loss and insomnia. I asked him if that was supposed to be a warning or a sales pitch, because I’ll take it! But, about my paranoia.

He prescribed me 10 mg extended release to start (this is nothing, by the way) and after taking it for two days, I was convinced that he'd actually given me a placebo. I called him back pretty immediately and made another appointment. At this second appointment I accused him of the placebo thing:

“You prescribed me a placebo, didn’t you? You wanted to see if I really needed it? You thought that if I called back and complained, then that meant I really needed it and it wasn’t all in my head?"

“Maybe you should be here discussing your paranoia instead of your ADHD."

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe. You should hear the stories I come up with when someone doesn’t respond to my emails."

“Yes, maybe you should make another appointment and tell me about those.”

"Ha. Ha.”

“….."

Another recent bout of paranoia involved my gym. I work out at a hotel gym where a friend of mine works. When you consider the price of joining a gym in Manhattan and divide it by the amount of times I actually work out in a month, I end up paying about $30 each time I want to run on the treadmill for 20 minutes. At the hotel gym, I look out the window over the city, use their towels, watch their tvs, steal their fruit and don’t pay a thing for it. Just my style. The hotel is so large that my friend says they’ll just assume I work there, if they question it at all, which is unlikely. Still, I’m always a bit paranoid about the situation when I go in. Last week I went in, scribbled my name and went to grab some water. I saw the girl look at the notepad, look at me and pick up the phone. I told the Skeeze that I had to get out of there. She's onto me. She's calling security. He told me I was a nut and that he was staying. “Okay, but I’m out of here.”

If the Gestapo came after me, after all, I didn’t want to throw my friend under the bus. I told the girl at the front that I wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be working out. She looked at me weird but didn’t seem to care. I texted the Skeeze, “Let me know what happened.” For a couple hours after that I called him incessantly, wanting to know if security came up. He didn’t answer. I was convinced he was in some little cell in the hotel under a bright light getting interrogated. What would he say? How would he say I got the gym card? Would he out my friend? Would they hold him overnight?

Finally, a few hours later (because the Skeeze didn’t realize how urgent my calls were), he called me back and said, “Oh yeah, security came up and made me pay for the day. No big deal.”

“Really? I knew it!”

“No, psycho. Not really. Nothing happened.”

I found this pretty unbelievable considering everything that happened in my mind.

I’ve decided to face my fears and return to the gym today. I spent the whole morning coming up with excuses to give the security guards when they come to escort me out. I think they’ll believe me.

And I'm Back...

2007-09-07T05:04:00.000-07:00

Hey B, Can you tell your mom to keep it down? I'm trying to work.

Not that I've been anywhere—just working and writing and fending off those readers who are not loyal enough to check this page every day. Even more, hoping that some of them (colleagues) would go away.

Since I've all but moved into the coffee shop where I get my work done, I think I'll go ahead and talk about it a lot. I tried auditioning a couple new places, but I'm a creature of habit and it didn't work out so well. As Dave would say, "I require a certain environment to cultivate my genius..." He says this, of course, right after he fails a practice GMAT or something like that, so the irony is not at all subtle. Anyway, two weekends ago I convinced myself that I was not above bringing my laptop to the Starbucks by my apartment. If all went well, it would save me the 25-minute commute down to my regular spot. Now, I've got nothing against Starbucks—the company in general that is. They hire thousands of people, provide a service, and do it with consistency. But, their chairs suck. I've got tons of padding on my ass and still I left numb. (I guess they don't want people to sit there all day with their laptops.) Beyond that, though, the people who come in there tend to have too many babies. And on the Upper West Side, where I live, the high-pitched mothers have taken a liking to outscreaming said babies, telling them things like "Mommy has to go get her nails done," or "Mommy doesn't like the green tea latte." Sorry lady, but little Beethoven doesn't understand you (kids on the UWS have the worst names). Also, Starbucks doesn't toast stuff—at least not this one—and I'm definitely too uptight to eat my bagels un-toasted. All of this is to say, Starbucks is not my new favorite spot.

After dealing with some adulterous-like guilt, I decided to return to my original coffee shop. I'd mention the name of the place as a public service announcement to those looking for a great place to get work done (and I have before), but quite frankly, it's been too crowded as of late and I don't want anyone else to discover it.

In an unintentional act of narcissism, I asked the Skeeze, "Do you think they at least noticed that I wasn't there last weekend?" ("They" being the people who inhabit/work at the coffee shop.) Skeeze said probably not, and added that the girls who work there kind of hate me. Shucks.

I've got my Table Nazi skills down to an art. In my lazier days I wouldn't get to the coffee shop until about 10 am on the weekends. At this time, every table was inevitably taken so I would just stare at people until they got so uncomfortable that they would have to leave. Now, I just get there at 8.

My coffee shop isn't quiet. Usually I hear a ton of conversations that break my concentration. Considering I'm on speed half the time, this is saying a lot. Two of my all time favorites:

-Guy and girl. He's obviously some type of life-consultant and she's a hometown girl who moved to the city to act:

Hometown Girl: I'm not getting any call backs and when people ask me to go out, I'm afraid that if I say yes I'll be out drinking when I get a call back. My mom says that I should say 'No' when people ask me to hang out. If someone asks me to go out on a Wednesday, I should just say 'No, I might have an audition on Wednesday.' It's, like, positive thinking.
Life Consultant: "Don't say 'I might' have an audition. Say, 'Sorry, I can't make it, I have an audition on Wednesday.'
Hometown Girl: That's sooo true.

-Two writers (By the way, there's nothing I loathe more than writers who sit around talking about writing):

Girl Who Stutters Like a Very LOUD Porky Pig and Can't Spit it the Fuck Out: I always sit down and try to write here but I end up listening to other peoples' conversations. I mean, two girls are sitting around talking about their night and who they slept with—it's like I can't not listen. It's really hard to concentrate when other people are talking and you're trying to work.

[Here I almost turned around to say, "Yeah, no shit," but for some reason I needed to know what dumb shit they were going to talk about next. Sorry I asked.]

Guy Who Looks Like a Blond, Converse-Wearin' Tim Allen: Yeah, so in the next scene the guy's going to look in the mirror and see his reflection and has a revelation.

G.W.S.L.A.V.L.P.P.A.C.S.I.T.F.O.: I can so totally see your book as a movie.

Guy Who Looks Like a Blond, Converse-Wearin' Tim Allen: No, I'm writing it more like a sitcom. Writers always make the mistake of writing novels like they're movies. It doesn't work [note: um, really?]. They should be writing books like they're TV shows not movies.
G.W.S.L.A.V.L.P.P.A.C.S.I.T.F.O.: I want to give my main character a Ph.D. but I want her to be young, like right out of college. You know, I want her to be smart, though.

When he can't take this chick's voice any more, the Skeeze texts me: "Ba-dee-ba-dee-ba-dee, that's all folks"

I have so many other little anecdotes-if-you-will that I want to puke all over this page right now, but I can see that this here post is getting long. I'll update again soon with some other stuff, like maybe about how my old roommate—The Diablo—has proposed ten totally unrelated new career plans in the last month. Or maybe we could talk about his new website (you're going to die) or how he has acquired a new group of cronies whose sole purpose is to pump him up and agree with his schizo ideas (do I smell a pending suicide?) On that note, I'm so glad that my cousin and I had the gumption (yes, gumption) to hook him up with her friend before I moved out of his place last year. Now we still get all the dirt with none of the pain.

As a sneak peek, because really, I can't help myself: The Diablo decided he was going to be a surfer after watching John in Cincinnati (yet, went to California a few weeks ago and didn't get on a board once). As you can surely see, he's from Ohio himself and what could be more of a 'sign' that he should also surf than seeing a show—no less loving it—about a guy from Ohio who loves surfing?? He's such a nutbag I could write an entire blog based entirely on him. It’d be interesting, too. Okay, I'm done blabbing. Swear. More soon.

I'm on hiatus.

2007-08-03T14:24:00.000-07:00

Obviously.

I will be back, though. Just really busy with great things in the works. Will report back soon.

Fun Bobby and the Case of the Loose Tongue

2007-07-05T07:56:00.000-07:00

This is a collage from last weekend. My friend Bobby was in town from San Diego and we went on an extensive bar crawl around the city with some of his friends. When my friends met him, they asked me, "Is he in the mob?" They're so observant. It took me three years to figure it out. While he's no longer involved in all that, I think the diamond pinky ring should have been a dead giveaway. The pictures above are from the last place we visited. This blond chick was swinging an imaginary lasso around trying to rally her up some men. She caught two minnow. She had these two frat boy-types begging (literally, begging) her to go home with them. "Come on, you promised." She was your typical, fake lesbian type--a tease that acts sexy but obviously isn't going home with anyone. When will the boys ever learn to steer clear from the fake lesbos? Bobby went in and ruined it for both (again, not that they had a chance anyway). The collage tells the story. My cameo's on the bottom left, although I'm pretty sure this won't make sense unless you know the people. [You can click it to make it larger].

Right now I'm waiting for Dave to take a call for work so we can get out of here. We're at his parents' condo in Florida and I'm too damn sunburned to go to the beach today. We're going to instead go across the street to a hotel lobby where I can write, he can study for his GMAT. I don't know why I always get so sunburned. Even with sunblock. My dermatologist told me that I shouldn't even go into the sun. "You mean, I should wear a lot of sunblock?" "No, just don't go outside."

Speaking of Dave's parents, last night we all went out to dinner. His mom, who isn't one for subtlety, mentioned that she thinks that people should marry within their culture. As in, Dave should marry a Russian. I told her that maybe we could stop by some strip bars and go find one of his classy co-nationalists. That, or a mail order bride? I was pissed. "Dave is American," I said. "They wouldn't have him in Russia." Really though, you can't get any more American than Dave. He came here when he was six. His parents, on the other hand, are Russian to the bone (although I'll never understand why people who want to leave their country so bad end up coming here, reaping the benefits, only to insult all things America). Come on now, though. Dave isn't really going to relate to one of the Cold War sweethearts you're thinking of. He was too busy playing Nintendo in the eighties.

I was/am a bit annoyed by the comment and don't want to be here right now. I mean the lady still asks Dave how "Lana" is. Lana would be a Russian girl he dated in college for a month. Dave asked me what was wrong a few minutes later. "My sangria is way too sweet."

This morning I told him that it would be similar to my parents asking how "Justin" was all the time. "He is such a nice guy." Either that or subtly mentioning that they don't want me to marry a Jew right in front of him. My response though, contrary to Dave's non-response last night, would be that I want to marry a Jew and guess what, my kids will be raised Jewish. That's what I want. And I assume Justin's fine, thank you very much, but I don't talk to him anymore.

One and a Half Eyebrows

2007-06-14T13:20:00.000-07:00

This chick totally feels my pain

I saw a segment on the Today Show this morning about a judge who is suing his dry cleaning shop for $54 million because they destroyed a pair of his fave pants. Of course, the bastards denied it because dry cleaners are shady as hell.* They claim that he brought the pants in with red and blue marks all over them as if maybe he was dense enough to forget that, no, he actually did not. On the other hand, the $54 million dollars is a bit steep. I was thinking more along the lines of $200 for the pants and some additional money for the "emotional pain and suffering" and legal fees. Obviously, he won’t get the $54 million and if anything it makes him look psychotic, but evidently there are tons of loopholes in the law that support consumers' rights. He's calculated the loopholes and clearly they add up to 54 mil—which has me thinking…

Today I went to get my eyebrows waxed. When I left, I realized that the girl took off a whole half of my right eyebrow. If this guy can get $54 million for some pants, I wonder what I can get for a distorted brow? Now, I know what you're thinking: "Your eyebrow will grow back." But 'tis not so. I spent years harvesting that beautiful eyebrow (RIP). In fact, my old eyebrow waxer in San Diego would always give me tips on how to get it to grow. "Rub orange and citrus fruit skins on it. That make it grow.” She would massage my eyebrow to provoke the follicles. She would compliment my eyebrow whenever I brought it in, talking to it regularly like some do their plants to make them grow. She was there as my eyebrow matured from a young girl into a grown woman. My eyebrow finally graduated right around the same time that I moved to New York. Now, like an Alzheimer’s Patient, she has deteriorated significantly and I’m looking for revenge.

I will explain to the judge that without my half of an eyebrow, I will no longer be able to “raise my eyebrows” in disgust or surprise. If I only raise my left full eyebrow, I’ll look suspicious even if I’m really trying to express excitement. This could have quite a few scary implications, the resulting emotional duress of which will be quite expensive. I’m thinking, oh, $54 million, give or take a few. It’s my right as a consumer to seek full compensatory and punitive damage. Plus, last time I went to that shop and got a pedicure, they hardly removed all of the rough skin from my feet. Talk about incompetence.

*Speaking of shady dry cleaners. I overheard a girl talking to my dry cleaner (who, if you remember, thought the Skeeze was my boyfriend and subtly asked him about that guy I was with—Dave—to get me in trouble) about a broken window in her apartment. The dry cleaner’s sister cleans this girl’s apartment. When doing so, she broke a window. The girl was asking for the dry cleaners to compensate her for only half of the damage, but they wouldn’t hear any of that nonsense. They should be gladly paying for all of it! I need to let this girl know about the class action suit going on for a pair of pants and a half an eyebrow. She could get in on it for her damn window.

Slutty Cats; Imaginary Friends

2007-06-12T12:33:00.000-07:00

This line was actually used by my cousin’s friend’s friend:

“I can’t come into work today because my cat got raped.”

This, of course, launched a very important debate as to whether cat rape really exists. Isn’t rape the modus operandi in the animal kingdom? Cat sex is not generally spawned by a romantic moment or extensive wining and dining. There are no cat internet dating sites where cats can stalk out their next victims. Cats do not engage in foreplay, wear jewelry on their genitals, or use toys.

Yes, yes, cat rape jokes are now the norm over on upper Amsterdam Ave. [“Sorry I can’t hear you; I’m raping your cats.” “I would totally go out tonight but I think I’m going to just stay in and rape the cats.”]

Despite sharing different opinions on some aspects of cat rape, we’ve come to at least one unanimous conclusion: It was probably that sluttly little cat’s fault...wearing a mini skirt and pumps out late at night. Sheesh, the bitch was askin' for it.

In non-cat-rape-related news (and because I have nothing better to do with my time) (and because I've resorted to quoting funny things said by friends of friends of my cousin), I’ve come up with my dream team of girl friends. My few current girl friends are way too conservative. Or maybe I’m just too raunchy. Whatever it is, it’s not working out. I need girlfriends, if only because I no longer want to be that cliché chick who only hangs out with guys, or even more, because I want some girls to call on when some loser asks me, "So, where are all your hot friends?"

The problem is/was that I can’t/couldn't find any girls as obnoxious as me. That is, until now:

Sharon Osbourne: Discussed Gene Simmons' wife's snatch in a public forum.
Katie Price (of show, Katie and Peter): Has two personalities: Katie and Jordan.
Nicole Richie: For being generally rude and disrespectful; refusing to eat.

They could all pay for my drinks too.

I never thought that I would complain about getting free liquor and food...

2007-05-30T07:09:00.000-07:00

...but you see—the Skeeze has started something very horrible. It all began one Saturday morning when we went for our routine Cuban breakfast and drinks. I usually have a Bloody Mary or two; Skeeze gets Jack on the rocks—a friendly alternative to coffee, indeed. The bartender there, finally noticing that we were regulars, did what any good bartender should do and gave us a round on the house. Taking into consideration that the Skeeze only recently started drinking (at approximately age 23), it is understandable that he has the tolerance of a little girl. He tends to get giggly and silly and makes some pretty lousy jokes (sorry, Skeeze--you do). What he also does is overtip. Now, I worked in the industry for quite a long time, so I can appreciate overtipping. 20% is normal, 25 – 30% is really nice, but a $35 tip on a $25 meal? That's ridiculous unless you’re trying to get laid. Skeeze, were you trying to get laid?

I’ll answer for the Skeeze: “I don’t dig sloppy Mexican men [even though I am one].”
Me: Okay, then why did you feel obliged to give him a 140% tip?
Skeeze: But, but, but... He gave us free drinks!
Me: So, we didn’t ask for them. In fact, we actually refused them and they kept coming.
Skeeze: I think I’m going to puke.

So, there you have it.

Fast forward to recently. We’ve gone in a few times for a drink after work and have been getting way too much attention from this guy. Evidently he’s been promoted to a manager in the last month. Now, in addition to free drinks, we're being served free appetizers. Backtrack to the drinks. These things are industry strength/sized margaritas (seriously: abnormally large, joke, ha-ha glasses you might see at some kind of gimmicky Mexican place). It’s embarrassing and draws way too much attention to us. We don’t want to be rude and not drink it, but on the other hand, if we wanted another drink, we would have ordered one rather than asking for the check. This is Tuesday night, not Friday night (or even better, Saturday morning).

Last week, we managed to take the margarita down. We felt pretty accomplished about the whole thing. Assuming we were not done, however, the manager came around with a shaker full of margarita and refilled the clown glass. At this point, we had to feed it to a homeless guy who happened to be walking down the street (we were sitting outside). He had no teeth.

Aside from the manager’s generosity and overbearing service, our actual waitress sucked. This place is known for its bad service, but we’re okay with it. I usually give a 20% tip out of habit and because I go in there so much that I don’t want to deal with offending anyone. So, on this particular night, after the free margaritas and a plate of guacamole and chips, I left $10 on $38.70 despite the fact that I’d only seen the waitress once the entire night. I saw her talking with the manager afterwards and maybe due to my paranoia, she looked like she was annoyed. I’m sorry, is 25% not good enough for you? Did the manager promise her that we were good tippers? Does she expect a good tip for her lousy service? Just because we get free shit, doesn’t mean you get an extra tip. Plus, the Skeeze is the overtipper here, not I.

So, yeah--I’m pissed at the Skeeze. He should have never left that tip. This manager guy now has a hard on for us and it won’t go down. It makes me really uncomfortable.

By the way, there is a new waitress there. She looks exactly like—and, I shit you not—that chick in the movie Dodgeball…the one on the Cobras, from Transylvania…the big nasty teef and hideous accent? I’m pretty sure it’s her. Only, now she’s slingin’ rice and beans on the Upper West.

Starring: The Turtle Fetus.

2007-05-24T14:34:00.000-07:00

This past weekend’s trip to San Diego revolved around my sister’s wedding reception but also included gospel brunch at a drag bar and dinner with an ex-mafia friend of mine who looks/sounds like Gilbert Godfrey.

My family gatherings are colorful due to the fact that my dad’s side is inherently raunchy and uncouth while my stepmom’s side is catty, under the guise of "civilized" and "mid-western." My real mom was there as well because, hell, why not? Sister Courtney brought her new husband’s family into the mix. Their most definitive offering to the familial melting pot is that his dad and mom are also his grandpa and grandma. Long story. Obviously.

Anyway.

Courtney is pregnant. This means that there is yet another relative to make fun of: the fetus And so we did.

I found out earlier in the day that she was having a girl, so I called her husband to make fun of him:

“Ha! What good is Courtney? She can’t even produce a boy for you! Flush it!”

Courtney went around showing those little x-ray pictures of her baby at her reception. [What the hell are those things called again?]

I noted immediately that it looked like a turtle. She agreed, but contended that all fetuses look like turtles.

About an hour later, I heard her husband’s dad/grandpa saying, “Courtney, did you get too close to the sea turtles in Hawaii? That thing looks like a turtle.”

Ha!

When the champagne toast came, I sensed that Courtney was feigning for some booze (probably because she was saying, “Damn, I need a drink!”)

I reminded her that even though she couldn’t have a drink, her baby might want one. Here, my father gave me the look of death as Courtney poured the baby a couple ounces of champagne.

My dad decided not to talk to me anymore. It was because of this and because he was mad that I called out my other sister for not wearing a bra, thus exposing us to profound amounts of nippage. I mean, my Mormon grandparents were there. Speaking of them, grandma asked for a glass of orange juice. I got her a glass, which she noted was especially yummy. This is about the time when I heard my aunt screaming, “Do you know what’s in there?”

Rum punch. Probably the first sip of alcohol she ever had in her life. Clearly her mother was not as accommodating as Courtney.

Somewhere in the background, my mother was declaring to the masses that, “Boy, David is a good looking Jewish man. This is what a modern Jew looks like.” (She’s Jewish—of the Mormon variety, of course).

My uncle, not knowing that to call someone “Jewish” is not an insult, contended that “When I was young, all my friends were Jewish. I didn’t think anything of it. It was just normal.”

Oy vey.

The Many Species of New York Room-Renters

2007-05-17T09:03:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of listing my room on Craigslist before talking to Paulo C’s cousin. I’m moving out in 6 days, so this past Monday I figured I should probably get rid of the room. The Skeeze was out of town so I had no means of talking to Paulo C’s cousin (he’s my translator). I figured she would definitely want me to get rid of it, but 70 responses later I found out that she wants to wait a while to list the room; she has some freeloaders coming in June who will be using the place.

When I listed my room with the Diablo, I probably got about 20 responses over a period of a week or two. That room was $1,300 plus utilities so it narrowed down the responses to those who could afford it (I sure as hell couldn’t) and were willing to share with a random roommate. After all, for the same price you could probably get a studio a few blocks North and live by yourself. As for my current room—it’s quite the commodity coming in at an unheard of $500/month, no utilities. I mean, you get what you pay for: it’s small and comes with a built-in smelly, non-English speaking smoker with a perennially exposed pelvic region and way too many guests, but the place is pretty cute and somehow you end up saving money despite living in New York City. Had Paulo C’s cousin let me rent the room out, I would have given it to the person willing to bribe me the most. There’s no doubt in my mind that I could have got a grand. That is, if they didn’t mind tripping over the two Brazilians who are currently sleeping on our living room floor to look at the room. Sigh.

Here are some of the different renter species I encountered in the process:

The Stalker Species
This species is pretty standard. His/her system consists of calling during the night (while you’re sleeping), in the morning (7 a.m.) and in the afternoon (inevitably while you’re at lunch or in a meeting) just in case you weren’t available the other 650 times they called. This species convinces itself that you are not answering because you are busy, not because you are deliberately ignoring it.

The “Talks so Goddamned Fast I Can’t Understand His Name or Number" Species
…and thus has no chance of graduating into the "I Will Bribe You More Than Your Other Candidates Will" Species.

The “Uses Room Hunting as an Excuse to Brag About Herself” Species
I’ll let this email excerpt speak for itself (by the way, she was also a member of the “Expresses Interest via Template Email” Species)

“I'm 24, have been in New York for almost 2 years now, and havebasically led 3 lifetimes in those 2 years.”

-Translation: “People are pulling on me from every direction. I’m in high demand.”

“I came here initially to be a magazine editor (beauty and/or fashion), ended up doing freelancefashion styling for [redacted], then worked as an assistant for a fewfreelance stylists, then worked briefly at an ad agency, then fellinto the advertising side of publishing [redacted] and am now en route to becoming a Buyer at [redacted] (I'm a merchandise assistant in theFine Watches area). I work the typical 8:30 to 6pm, M-F."

-Transaltion [I totally love this one]: “Came here to be an editor, but ended up an assistant. People clearly don’t know talent when they see it.” *

”I also moonlight in PR for a record label. I was definitely all over the place for awhile, but am now ready to settle in (at least, career-wise).”

-Translation: “I’m ready to settle down career-wise, but I’m still whorin’ around in the relationship department. Know anyone?”

“About me…I'm trying to think of what to say… “

-You mean the above wasn’t the part where you talk about yourself? (I even skipped a few paragraphs. There were 6 total in this thing).

Here the “Uses Room Hunting as an Excuse to Brag About Herself” Species offers her myspace address in case you need her background. Because, you know, you haven’t already heard enough.

The “I’m Looking for a Roomie!" Species
This species is looking for not only a room, but also a best friend and confidant with whom she (obviously it’s a she) can do the following:
-Watch T.V. while eating caramel popcorn
-Gossip about boyzzz
-Drink pink wine
-Bitch about work
-Go shopping
-Decorate! "Our place is going to be the cutest apartment of all of our friends" (Because we obviously share all of the same friends now)

The “I Don’t Do Drugs ‘Cos Drugs Is Whack” Species
This species is a not-so-distant cousin of the “I Don’t Like Drama” species. Basically, if you’re even throwing it out there, then you’re a crack whore/drama queen. It’s like me saying “I’m not into people with acute cases of psychoses and occasional episodes of neuroses.” Ummm. Yeah.

The “I No Speak English” Species
I already live with this species, but wouldn’t it be, like, so multi-culturally sound to have an English-speaker, a Portuguese-speaker and a Cantonese-speaker all living in perfect fucking microcosmic harmony? They could all walk around pointing at shit and pretending that if they talk just a bit slower they’ll start speaking one another’s languages in no time! “Issss thisss yooouuur milllkkkk oorrr miiinnnneee?”

There were others, too, like the “We are Two Foreign Student Who Want to Share Your $500/month Room (and thus take up twice as much space in the shared living areas like the bathroom and kitchen and living room, not to mention the hallways)” Species, and the “I’m 65 Years Old and Have 2 Cats” Species. I just don’t have time to list them all.

* I laugh, but, umm, my story isn’t too far off. Sigh.

"I'm Not American"

2007-05-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, Paulo C's cousin had a group of high-pitched Brazilians over to celebrate somebody's birthday (could it have been hers?) I still owe her a present from Christmas.

I was in a shitty mood because Dave and I are in the middle of a domestic dispute, and the last thing I wanted to do was fall asleep scratching my hives under the influence of Portuguese. I don't know where Paulo C's cousin rounded up all these people but they were my age; one was Russian, one was American, and the rest were Brazilian. All of them spoke Portuguese and English. All of those who weren't Brazilian wanted to be Brazilian. Well, except for the Russian, because Russians are pretty hard up on Russia and all.

My biggest pet peeve is a person who wants to identify with another culture so bad that he will disown his true culture in order to fully convert to the preferred one. Especially if this person is American and is "trying on" different cultures how others might "try on" different religions; pairs of pants. I say "especially if this person is American," but the odds are pretty much 99 to 1 that such a behavior is that of an American. I've yet to hear a Russian or a Mexican or an Australian disowning their motherlands. I mean, really.

So yeah, I suspected that all these people wanted to be Brazilian from the onset, but my suspicions were confirmed when I heard some chick (it's always a chick) saying, "I don't feel like I'm an American. You know, I don't identify with the culture. Sometimes people ask me if I'm French or Brazilian because I don't seem American, and I say, 'I don't know; maybe.'"

Wow, is that fucking deep or what? She is above everything that America stands for. And, if you ask her exactly what it is that America stands for, you better believe she'll ramble off some textbook cliches to the tune of: "Drive an S.U.V." "Drink Starbucks." "Superiority Complex." "Greedy." "Ignorant to the rest of the world [not enlightened like myself]." In my opinion, the greatest tell-tale sign of an American is an identity saga similar to the one she is currently entertaining.

I am totally interested in what her Brazilian friends thought of her when she said that. I would assume it was embarrassment for her. In Brazil, the idea is that no matter where your ancestors are from, you are Brazilian if you were born in Brazil. The irony thickens. "I don't feel American." For Christ's sakes...

The Bastard Walks

2007-04-19T13:53:00.000-07:00

Gawker and I seem to disagree about the whole Dwayne Buckle situation. I wrote about this guy a while back and was amused to hear that a group of lesbians, you know, stabbed him after he made some mundane, lowlife remark to them. Bravo. Well done.

Of course, our hero, D. Buckle, remembers saying something classy to the group, something along the lines of, "Hi, how are you doing?" In actuality, he spat and threw a cigarette at them, then told them he'd "fuck them straight." Dude has a short term memory; totally doesn't take rejection well.

Anyway, now the chicks are in jail and this guy's probably hitting on other straight chicks who don't want to fuck him.

How Many Times Did the Guy on The Train Just Make Love to Me?

2007-04-03T17:56:00.000-07:00

Before I tell you the answer, let me tell you the background:

The lady across from me was wearing a yellow raincoat and carried a duck face-handled wood umbrella. She watched my every move.

The girl to her right was showing too much tit for the weather (Good weather is directly proportional to the tit visibility factor. Today wasn't that nice).

The guy to Titties' right had actually used the chest strap on his back pack. He had pork chop sideburns.

And to my right was a drunk. Ah, so we meet on even playing grounds, my friend.

I guessed his drink of choice: "Dirty martini. Not shaken. Not stirred. Not dirty. Just the bottle." Or so ordered his breath.

Here's how the rest of the conversation went:

Breath: I just lost $50,000 in Vegas.
Me: That sucks. You should have just given it to the blind guy playing the little piano/harmonica thing over there.
Breath: I'm going to my apartment in Queens. I lived there for two years and I have to change a light bulb. I'm an electrical engineer, you know?
Me: How many electrical engineers does it take to change a light bulb?
Breath: Three? One to hold the light bulb; two to turn the ladder?
Me: No, that's a blond joke. It just takes one electrical engineer. But it takes him 3 days.
Breath: One to hold the light bulb?
Me: Yes, we've covered that.
Breath: I liked that girl's tights. They had a bunch of holes in them. I like holes.
Me: That guy over there has a hole in his jacket. Do you like his hole?
Breath: I want to do you from behind and flip you around and make you breakfast. Bacon, eggs, omelets?
Me: Bacon: extra crispy. Do you make biscuits and gravy?
Breath: Do you know how many times I just made love to you?
Me: That's a good line. Does it work for you?
Breath: That girl's tights really turned me on. I like you better, though. If you were only wearing heels.
Me: [I look down at my running shoes] What; these? These here are real salt of the earth shit.

Here we got to my stop and Mr. Breath proceeded to follow me out of the train to ask for my phone number. Duck-faced umbrella handle watched it all--ask her. Titties will back her up. When I declined, Breath hopped back on the train to go change his light bulb.

I don't actually know how many times the guy on the train just made love to me. How many licks does it take to get to the tootsie roll center of the tootsie roll tootsie pop? One. Two. Threeeeeeeeeeee. The world will never know.

Snapshot

2007-04-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

Paulo C's cousin just came into the kitchen where the Skeeze and I were making dumplings and demanded that we, "no deje la cocina sucia." That would be, "don't leave the kitchen dirty." You see, we are only two years old.

Here, she took a glass out of the cabinet, drank out of it and put it back in. She then left a cigarette butt on the counter and pissed on the toilet seat.

She is but a bastion of cleanliness and hygiene.

It Wasn't Supposed to Work, But It Did.

2007-04-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

Last night I hosted a moment of brilliance.

I called Dave and was greeted with, "Hey, how are you?"

A little formal, I noted before hearing his friends in the background. He was with my ex's brother--the one who doesn't know about us.

"Oh, you're with Adam? You're undercover right now." I tell him that he goes undercover like a secret agent when he's with Adam. Must. Protect. Dangerous. Secret.

What I hate most about this bastard not knowing that we're together is that when they hang out, Dave is essentially single. Of course, there are other things about this arrangement that annoy me. Things such as the fact that Dave officially has no balls (I prefer a man with a large, durable sac, actually). Things such as us having already been together for 16 months (What the fuck are you waiting for? Seriously, what has to happen for you to tell him, Dave?) or that his friend is a bi-polar alcoholic who does not elicit any such trouble or anxiety on my part.

"That's fine," I said. "I've decided that I'm just going to make a couple of new friends and not tell them about you. I mean, I deserve to have a friend or two who think I'm single."

I thought about the prospects of having friends who didn't know I was with Dave. Everything about it is pure genius: If I flirt with other guys or allow them to, oh I don't know, pick up our entire tab, I won't get the evil "you have a boyfriend, you dirty slut," glare. I'll also be a better prospect for my new single friends to go out with. No one wants to go out with that girl with the boyfriend. Historically, that girl with the boyfriend is very dull. But not me, I'm single.

Anyway, I told Dave about all of this and he started getting pissed off. In the background I heard his friend screaming, "Are you on the phone with one of your hoes, bro?" Because, you know, Dave is single and has many hoes. (I know what you're thinking about the question posited above: Dave's friend is 21 and in a frat. But oddly 'tis not so. He's 34 and gainfully employed. Really).

Dave started getting pissed off. Like, really pissed off. I had no idea such a simple and logical proposition would work so well. The more pissed off he became, the more elaborate my scheme became. "No big deal, I'm only going to keep you a secret for 16 months."

Here we got off the phone and the text messages started: "Babe, I love you so much. I see your point."

I didn't write back. I get a call from him at some club. "Babe, have I ever told you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I want you to be the mother of my children."

"Shh," I warned him. "Adam might hear you."

Dave claimed that I was giving him major anxiety about this whole thing. Oh darling, I'm so sorry. Psyche.

"I understand. How could I have let this go on for so long? I shouldn't be hanging out with him so much."

No, it's not that you shouldn't be hanging out with him; it's that you should just tell him, you pathetic fool. In the meantime, I'm single and ready to have some fun.

This Little Game Called Amnesia

2007-03-27T10:45:00.000-07:00

I invented the best game this weekend while I was in Chicago. It's called "Amnesia."

To play the game, you need another person who you want to make fun of and/or annoy. For me that person was Dave.

This is how the game works:

Me: I have amnesia. Who are you?
Dave: It's me, babe. I'm the love of your life.
Me: You? Come on.
Dave: Seriously.
Me: You must be my crazy neighbor or something.
Dave: No, really. We're in love.
Me: No, really. We're not.
Dave: I don't like this game.

I played this game with him several times this weekend and cracked myself up in the process. "I have amnesia," I would declare at any given moment. Then, "Ha! Ha! Ha!" I would start laughing before I even got to the second line. (The second line being, "Babe, you have to say that you are the love of my life after I ask, 'who are you?'").

Taking into consideration how funny I am, I reminded him of a great idea I had for a reality show. The reality show would consist of me being drunk and making fun of people. I am really funny when I'm drunk. He countered that I might be the only one laughing. Anyway, I highly recommend playing Amnesia with a loved one.

Oh, and here's another game. The game of "27," I guess you could call it. I played this one on the train this morning with the Skeeze whilst trying to decide if I should move to Chicago. This decision will never be made, by the way. Here's 27:

Me: "On the one hand, I'm already 27. I should probably think about settling down with someone and popping out some kids."
Me: "On the other hand, I'm only 27. There's no need to pick up my life and settle down just yet."

When I offer this kind of logic and anti-logic to Dave, he says, "You act like Chicago is some ho-dunk town; like I'm asking you to move to Ohio or something." Compared to NYC, though, everywhere is a ho-dunk town.

Sick

2007-03-23T15:36:00.000-07:00

I got food poisoning. Probably bad karma for pretending I'm Frank Bruni, the NY Times food writer, when I go out to eat.

I'll tell you more about that when I return...

Kitlers!

2007-03-20T12:02:00.000-07:00

I am officially obsessed with Kitlers.

"What the hell is a 'Kitler'?" one might ask. Well, I’m glad one did.

A Kitler is, by definition, "a cat that looks like Hitler." I ran across a link to this website (CatsThatLookLikeHitler.com) yesterday and seriously had to gag myself so I wouldn’t laugh too loud in the office. I spent a good 45 minutes on the site narrowing down my fave picks to two (pictured). Kitlers #917 and #934 definitely take the kitler kake. I then sent these pics to everyone I know, raving about the site. Their responses?

"Clearly you have a lot going on today?"
"Busy I take it?"
"As bored as you are, just thank God that you aren't bored enough to create a site like this."

It's not that I'm not bored enough, it's that I'm not brilliant enough! People that don't like Kitlers are clearly unimaginative and/or very anal. "But you shouldn't support Hitler. He was mean." Come on now. There is clearly a difference between supporting Hitler and supporting cats that have mustaches. Sheesh.

As a disclaimer, I don’t own a kitler. However, I still felt compelled to write a letter to the editor of the site thanking him for this fine public service. He truly is contributing to society. Please visit his site. Thank you.

I Got My Tarot Cards Read. Trippy.

2007-03-18T16:32:00.000-07:00

Friday night was my cousin's thirtieth birthday party. In sync with our family's notorious bad luck, the weather was horrendous and half of her guests couldn't make it. Still, about twenty people came and we all drank way too much.

A friend of mine was supposed to come in from New Orleans but couldn't get into the city, so I had the luxury of stealing his hotel room for the weekend. When I got home from the party, I closed the curtains in the room, laid in bed and did not leave until this morning. I was so lazy that I didn't bother to brush my teeth for two days, nor brush my hair after showering. It's not that I didn't want to brush my teeth, it was moreover that I forgot my toothpaste and didn't feel like calling down to have the front desk deliver some to me. That would have involved human contact, which I wasn't necessarily interested in. As for brushing my hair, hell, I wasn't seeing anyone.

But back to the party. There was a tarot card reader there and I decided that I'd try it out. I've never been to a psychic or had my palms read or any of that. I rarely even read my horoscope. Here's what she said:

1). You're working on a project and you're thinking about quitting it. Don't. (This is true. I've been so disgruntled that I've been thinking about giving up on the project I've been working on. I haven't talked about it much.)

2). You're dating someone but there's a block.

3). Whatever that block is, you need to let it go and give him another chance.

4). This whole situation is affecting your project. It's also making you, no offense, really shallow lately.

5). You're thinking about taking a journey or going somewhere. You need to do that. It will be a spiritual journey and it will be realy good for the project.

6). When you move you're going to meet someone else and that's who you're going to end up with. It's not the guy you're with now.

7). You're ultimately seeking truth.

Wow. That's pretty deep shit. Especially since I was 8 drinks deep and one of my cousin's drunk colleagues was passed out next to me with his fly unzipped.

Dirty Little Secret # 39085095802385fgs

2007-03-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

I made the following confession to my Publisher friend yesterday:

"I listened to 'The Da Vinci Code' on audiobook. I vowed to never read the book based on the first 5 pages of simple writing and the fact that everyone loved it, but now I'm addicted. Don’t tell anyone."

This was his response:

"Oh, you are going to have to figure out some way to bribe me if you don’t want me telling people that you are addicted to Da Vinci. Seriously though, I read that book in a single sitting (on a flight to London) and was totally enraptured while I was reading it. At the end of the flight, because I felt so guilty about liking it, I saw a woman eyeing it so I just gave it to her. That way at least, I balanced out the fact that I actually paid Riverhead and Dan Brown for that book."

I’m fully repenting for my sin by sending this confession to Post Secret or Secret Deodorant (who coincidentally stole the former's idea and turned it into a lackluster marketing campaign. Yawn.)

Conspiracy Theories

2007-03-12T13:55:00.000-07:00

Regarding Paulo C's Cousin:
The Skeeze posed a very interesting/important question about Paulo C’s cousin’s undeniable reek this morning on the subway:

“Is there some kind of device that could measure the aura of Paulo C’s cousin’s smell?”

“Yeah, your nose.”

“No, I mean something that would turn it purple so that we could see it coming from a mile away.”

“Oh, like that stuff that you put into a pool so that you can see when someone pees?"

"Exactly."

"She really does smell. We can keep the windows open now that it’s getting warm outside.”

“Yes, but it’s pretty amazing how fast she can wipe out clean air. Seconds, I say!”

“What incredible powers she has. She’s basically a Superhero... The Incredible Stink!”

“Or like Pigpen, that little dirty character on Charlie Brown.”

“Oh, that’s good. Pigpen plus the Tasmanian devil cartoon guy. She swirls around and induces fear in everyone with an olfactory system.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Considering the gravity of this conversation, one might deduce that our weekend was not very eventful.

Regarding My New Stalker from Monaco:
My new stalker (who is an ex-summer fling) called me a good 17 times. He then followed up to let me know that I’m the best telephone screener he knows. I can imagine he knows quite a few.

Regarding Dave:
Dave has turned me into quite the psycho, which I find hilarious because I pride myself on being the "cool girlfriend."

Not only did I break up with Dave, take him back, break up with him, take him back and then decide I was moving to Chicago*, I've come up with some theories.

Theory #1: Dave is talking to his ex-girlfriend on his land line, rather than his cellphone.
Theory #2: If I do, in fact, move there, Dave will be happy letting me sit around bored on the weekend while he goes out with his friends (and, of course, his ex)
Theory #3: Since Dave hasn't told his friend that we're together, he is effectively single when they go out. He hooks up with other chicks.

Like I said, I've gone nuts. Do I actually believe any of the above? Absolutely. The worst part of it all is that I know I've gone mad.

*As of today, I’m still moving to Chicago. Tomorrow is a totally different story though.

Vindicated

2007-03-09T14:17:00.000-08:00

My boss just referred to herself as "old and soggy."

Other things that are old and soggy:
-Astronaut Lisa Nowak's diaper after 900 miles on the open road.
-James Brown's unburied body after almost 80 days of being preserved in a "climate controlled" room
-The monkey brains that the Vietnamese consider a delicacy

Just Old:
-Dave walking in front of me in public, despite me asking him not to on several ocassions
-Dave not saying bye when he signs off IM, despite me asking him to do so on several ocassions
-Dave not having told his bestfriend that we're dating yet, despite me asking him to do so on several ocassions
-Dave's excuses for all of the above

Just Soggy:
-The socks that I took off yesterday morning after not changing them for two days
-The piece of toilet paper that I use to wipe Paulo C.'s cousin's piss off the toilet seat
-The umbrella that someone left by my office door for me to steal

Not Pregnant, Just Lazy

2007-03-08T17:54:00.000-08:00

My sister wrote me just now saying, "Yo, G! You haven't written anything since the other day when I asked if you were preggars. Write back and tell me what's up."

I wrote back, "Not pregnant, wish I was. Just lazy. Writing now."

Over the last few days, I've consistently skipped out of work to drink. Finally, I asked myself, "Is this normal? Do most bored almost-executives do this? Does this mean that I'm an alcoholic?" Then I realized I'm not an alcoholic, I just have a boring job and hang around with a friend who is a very bad influence (this is what my friends' parents used to say about me in high school. Me! Can you believe?)

Dave just had a second interview with a New York-based job. He'll find out if he got it today or tomorrow. Bring on the pregnancy! I told him that I'm going apartment shopping for us this weekend. We finally decided we'd move in together based on the fact that we annoy the hell out of each other from afar, may as well do it in close proximity. Plus, I'll save on rent and he'll have a live-in cook. I don't do dishes, fold or wash laundry however.

In related, I had a great interview on Tuesday. Well, at least I thought it was great. I walked out beaming at the thought of my own corporate credit card with which I can take friends, I mean clients, out for lunches, drinks, etc. Then I realized a few of my fatal errors:

-Mentioning the fact that the "dynamic between my boss and I was broken"
-Mentioning that in five years I hope to be a novelist. Read: Not working for you. Bitch.
-Being all together way too cocky and confident
-Mentioning the fact that I owned my own mag by the time I was 23 (people like to hire robots; resist mentioning independent endeavors always)
-Wearing a see-through shirt that surely made her cringe with jealousy. [Read below about the girls' recent growth spurt]

It was my only out folks. While I'm not totally certain that I didn't get the job, I figure if she doesn't call by tomorrow, I'm shit out of luck.

My Boobs are Growing Out of Control!

2007-03-05T16:50:00.000-08:00

Thanks for takin' care of that, brother...

I have no idea why this is, but I have a few guesses:

-I'm pregnant (with quadruplets)

-I eat 4 day-old salmon that has developed, amongst other things, boob growth hormones.

-God is smiling down upon me for all of my benevolent contributions to society

-Good karma for the same

-Someone has a stellar reverse voodoo doll with which they are bringing much joy to my life

-I eat like a damn pig and all the weight is going to my boobs and ass (us quarter Puerto Ricans just got it like that)

-Evolution. Darwin and good ol' Mother Nature want me to attract more mates; have more sex; produce many Gigi-like offspring

The Way to My Heart. Hint: Not Through My Stomach.

2007-02-28T17:29:00.000-08:00

Dave really knows how to apologize to a lady. He has entered a contest to win the above toilet for me. He called me raving about it. "Babe, it has a TV, a radio, little pedal things so you can workout while you're pooping!"

He promises that, one day, we're going to have matching toilets. They're going to face each other, so that we can look into one another's eyes as we accomplish our life work. They will have signs that read "Gigi's Throne" and "Dave's Throne." They will cook, clean and sing us lullabyes if we want them to, damnit. He says we will also have crushed velvet capes, golden crowns and bidets that will clean and blow dry our asses. Sweet talk will only get you so far, my dear.

My New Song

2007-02-27T13:57:00.000-08:00

The [abridged] story that led to my momentary break-up and new song:

Dave has a problem talking to his ex-girlfriend. Now, it wouldn’t be a problem with me if he talked to her, but it quickly became a problem when he started lying about it. And lied, and lied, and lied... Suspicious? Yes, very.

My friends keep telling me that since I’ve decided to take him back on the basis that I believe that he didn’t cheat on me, I have to drop the subject. I'm sorry, I think you guys have mistaken me for someone a little bit more mature. Come now.

Kerrie (that’s the ex’s name) used to call non-stop at the beginning of our relationship, but he explained that they were just friends and that she always keeps in contact with her exes. It was annoying but I got over it considering I keep in touch with some of my ex-boyfriends.

Fast forward to three weeks ago. He lied when I heard a voicemail that was obviously from her. He said it was his mother. I reminded him that his mother has an extremely thick Russian accent and is 65-years old. The girl on his voicemail, however, had a Shaumburg, Illinois accent and was approximately 30.

His story, which came out after I saw a text message from her, was that he hadn’t talked to her for a while, until one day she called to report that she had tried to commit suicide and was in treatment.

The first and most obvious question was easily: “How the hell does a 30 year old ‘try’ to commit suicide and fail?”

I mean, suicide failure is for high school amateurs. She should know better than that. Slit your wrist long ways, not horizontally. Mix a bunch of pills, not just one type. Resist coming up for air in the pool. Will power, will power, will power! So, in her clear attempt to gain the world’s attention, she ended up gaining that of my boyfriend. Yayy for me. It was the failed suicide attempt that launched three months of phone calls and my song.

The song is to the tune of Nelly Furtado’s song, “Say it Right,” which is unfortunately what callers hear when they call Kerrie's phone.

So the song starts out as I’m pretending to call Kerrie’s phone:

Listen to my song
I’m so happy
It really says a lot about me

I tried to commit suicide
And I failed
I just wanted attention

But now I’m happy
As indicated by the song on my phone
This song really defines me

Chorus:
Oh you don't mean nothing at all to me
No you don't mean nothing at all to me
Do you got what it takes to set me free

Yes, I agree. This is very sick. Sorry-ish.

For whatever reason, writing this out [the story, not the song] really makes me pissed off again. My mom brought up a valid point: If he can lie to friends he’s known all of his life, he can lie to you.* And that he did.

*I used to date his friend’s brother. Of all of his friends, this is the one who still doesn’t know. It was cute and valid for the first month or so. It's been 15 months. Add that to the list of things that piss me off about him.

Dave and Me sitting in a tree...

2007-02-26T12:56:00.000-08:00

I don’t feel especially funny or interesting right now. Mostly because I slept in my clothes at my cousin’s apartment last night and I’m still wearing them now as I sit at my desk pretending to be working. My boss just reminded me that my one year anniversary is coming up. I reminded her that this benchmark actually occurred last month. Now I have to go to lunch with her. Lunch with the boss = interrogation. Hopefully this interrogation will come with a raise, considering I’m obviously taking my sweet time with the job search.

As for Dave and I…we’re back together. Thanks for all the emails and stuff, my dears. You are way too kind.

I didn’t want to slam Dave too hard on the blog in our “time of grief,” and the story wasn’t that interesting anyway (Okay, yes it was!). For a minute, I resolved to make a list of the top ten things I would do in New York City now that I'm single. According to this ploy, the list would start and end with "humping boys." Many, many boys. I thought about turning this blog into a dating site and detailing my adventures for all to see (read: for Dave to see. Ha!). I'm glad I decided against this, however. Dave doesn't deserve it (what he does deserve is the special little song I made up in honor of the event at hand. Remind me to tell you about it).

My theory on Dave is that I can forgive him for anything but cheating (This is assuming he continues his track record of not beating my ass). So, seeing as how he didn’t cheat, I forgave him. According to my blackmail, err, forgiveness, however, he will be moving to New York now instead of me to moving to Chicago. I’ve started referring to Chicago as a “starter city.” It really is. Now, if Dave gets accepted into the MBA program he applied for—that’s the only way he’ll stay. He should know in two weeks. I think I’ll stay here either way though. The long distance thing is really starting to bug the hell out of me, but Chicago’s got nothing on New York and I’m way too young to retire.

Avoiding the Topic at Hand

2007-02-21T09:34:00.000-08:00

When the Title of the Article Sums up the Body of the Article:
Please don't invite us to your wedding, couple says
Ever since spending over $1,000 on my friend's wedding in September, I feel this couple's pain. I guess you could say, the title really spoke to me.

New Best Bartender in New York:
Chris at Artisanal. We have a little deal going on whereby I refer to the random guys that pay for me and my friends' bills "sacrificial lambs." I get strong drinks, Chris gets big tips. It's a dirty little game, but these guys should know better.

My Dad's Press Release:
Ever since I told my dad that I broke up with Dave, every member of my family has called to chat. And by "chat," I mean, get the gossip. I'm like their living version of US Weekly, basically. Not that I wouldn't do the same, of course. When I find out that one of my friends has broken up with his/her girlfriend/boyfriend, I'm always the first to call. I might look appear the shoulder to cry on, but in reality, I just want the scoop.

Moving back to Manhattan:
Most likely. Maybe in May.

Looking for a New Job:
Have an interview today.

Hold on there, Cowgirl

2007-02-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

Looks like I got a bit too excited about Dave moving here (and Dave in general).

Can't talk about it now, but you know I will soon. Let me deal with this.

New Developments in the Moving to Chicago Saga

2007-02-19T13:44:00.000-08:00

And elation. The author clearly left that out.

Dave has been laid off!

Now, why would I put an exclamation point after such a sad, "sad" statement, you ask?

Well, because if he doesn't get into the MBA program he applied to in Chicago, he's going to look for a job in New York and apply to Columbia.

More tomorrow because I'm off today. Just wanted to drop in and give you the great, I mean, bad, news.

When You Bitch About Valentine's Day it Just Reminds Everyone of Why You Don't Have a Boyfriend in the First Place. Seriously, Shut Up.

2007-02-14T11:38:00.000-08:00

The end.

Just kidding. I was going to use my Valentine's Day post to discuss how unromantic Dave is until I realized that no other boyfriend in the world would watch The Real Orange County Housewives just so he can report on it to his girlfriend.* (I go to bed way too early to watch it on my own).

By the way, I have no feelings either way about Valentine's Day. I could live with it; without it. I do, however, have a problem with people who spend the whole day bitching about not having a boyfriend/girlfriend. Shut up already.

Dave: i dvr'd city of god for u
GiGi: what is that?
Dave: a movie about Brazil
Gigi: Ohh, that one we were talking about?
Dave: yes
Gigi: you are too good
Dave: i know
Dave: very juicey housewives last night
Gigi: really? Tell me!
Dave: yes
-Pause-
Gigi: Babe, tell me about housewives!
Dave: i can't
Gigi: tell me!
Dave: don't want to ruin it for u
Gigi: babbbeeee! i won't see it for a month!
Dave: Fine, slade's ugly girlfriend went out without him for her b'day
Dave: he went out with some friends and some girls
Gigi: uh oh. I hate her
Gigi: so she's moving to beverly hills?
Dave: she's ugly and an idot
Gigi: yes
Dave: they didn't bring bev hills up
Gigi: I would never go out without you on my bday
Dave: i know u won't
Dave: i wouldn't allow it
Dave: i would beat u and lock u in the basement or closet
Gigi: oohhh, that's sexy
Dave: good

*Okay, okay. He watches it because he loves it.

Update: I’m still a dinosaur; I now have jock itch.

2007-02-13T17:34:00.000-08:00

I have been reduced to rubbing Selsun Blue on my back to get rid of my dinosaur spots. After I went through the $50 tube of cream that my dermatologist prescribed to me, I googled its name (“Oxy-something”) to see if I had the right prescription. I figured maybe the pharmacist couldn’t read doc’s handwriting and thus gave me the wrong cream.

I was right:

“Use for bla, bla, jock itch and bla…” Ughhh.

I called the dermatologist to say that my spots weren’t gone and I ran out of the jock itch cream he prescribed. His secretary suggested I come back in to get it looked at.

“Is that going to cost me another $20?” I asked.
“Yes, it costs $20 every time you come in.”

No wonder he messes up the prescription. Business must be slow.

Rumor has it, though, that dandruff shampoo does the trick. So, I’ve been making the Skeeze put on my shower loofa gloves and scrub my back. This morning I woke up with a raw, red back. I am proud to say, however, that the spots are going away.

Jock itch cream and dermatologist, $70
Selsun Blue, $10
Priceless jokes, generic

Paulo C.’s cousin does this thing…

2007-02-08T10:44:00.000-08:00

…where she walks around the house with her pants unzipped and scratches her upper pelvic region with her right hand; her head with her left. Her underwear are white cotton and her fingers must reek of vag and dandruff, respectively. With these hands she does the dishes.

I can not call her by her full proper nickname anymore because I’m afraid that if Paulo C. were to google himself, he might contact her and say something to the effect of:

“Cousin, tell me, do you pee on toilet seats and scratch the upper region of your vag when there are guests over?”

Here she would squirm, wondering how he knew. Then the truth about this blog would come out and she would kick me out, effectively banishing me into a place where the coffee mugs are not cleaned with pelvic-paste-covered hands and Palmolive.

The Really Good Alternative.

2007-02-07T12:34:00.000-08:00

My new project is not something that I can talk about nor anything that is official. However, it has been a big part of my decision to move/not move/move to Chicago. Specifically, I’m waiting to see if anything happens with it before I quit my job and look for another one. Well, that’s not exactly true and herein lies the problem: I have been looking for other jobs and stressing myself out over it for no reason. Stressing myself out because I know that I don’t want to work a corporate job if I don’t have to, and stressing myself out because I know that if I do get said corporate job, I’ll again be juggling this important yet vague project that means the world to me with another shitty, full time job that is a waste of my time (in every sense of the phrase, aside from the monetary one). I say that a corporate job is a waste of my time only because I don't belong in the corporate world. Some people do and that's fine. I'm just not one of those people. Of course, the catch 22 is that I'm also not rich and I have no savings. If I want to survive, I have to work or find a really good alternative--which brings me back to the point of this post. The really good alternative.

This past Saturday around, oh, 2:00 EST time (even though I was on Central) I had an epiphany. Here she is: If my little project gets purchased, I will not have to look for a job. Not because I’ll make a lot of money (because, honestly, I probably won’t make much), but rather because I will do the following…

Quit my job. Move into my parents’ house (which is very nice but, sigh, located in small town Midwest) and work on the project full time, thus possibly even finishing it! Meanwhile, I’ll give my pops whatever money I get from the project and have him invest it. He does some kind of shady investment stuff with a return of up to 20% in as little as four months (not guaranteed, but from what I’ve seen, definitely guaranteed). From there, I finish my little deal within six months to a year, living rent free, visiting Dave on the weekends (only 2 ½ hours away by car) and hopefully make more money off the project’s, ahem, success. Only then do I move to Chicago with my money, which has by this point, almost doubled; buy a house and start on project number two, whatever that is.

For a while I had no confidence in this project, but as of late, I’ve come to think that, hey, it’s actually pretty good. I could be totally wrong, but either way, realizing that I don’t have to look for a job while working full time AND working on said project, is pretty damn relieving. If I find out that my project has no merit, at least I tried. At that point, I will be bitching some more about phone interviews with corporate zombies.

Breathe.

Was that good for you? It was totally good for me...

You Want Me to Move to Chicago, But You Can't Even Get to the Airport on Time?

2007-02-06T07:12:00.000-08:00

My friend wrote me an email yesterday thanking me for bringing the Chicago weather back with me to New York. I informed him that he's lucky; it's even worse in Chicago. Chicago get so much colder than New York. Evidently this is due to the fact that Chicago is right off of Lake Michigan, but the logic doesn’t make sense seeing as how we’re right on a body of water too. Nevertheless, it's ridiculous there.

On Friday night, I arrived at O’Hare at 9:55—seven minutes early. I called Dave while sitting on the runway to find out how close he was. I could hear music blaring in the background; people yelling, having a grand ol’ time.

“Babe, where the hell are you?”
“Are you here already?!”
“Yes.”

I hung up on him because A). I was pissed, and B). I couldn’t hear him.

Forty minutes and a phone call to Bobby, who I knew would feed into my anger, later, Dave showed up to pick me up.

I tried to play it cool, but I couldn’t. I was seething. A similar incident happened to me in the past with another guy. I arrived at O’Hare from San Diego, only to find that he had scheduled a car to pick me up (strike one), while he was drunk (strike two) but put in the wrong time, due to his drunkenness, so the car never came (strike three!). I broke up with that guy that weekend. So drunk you couldn’t pick me up on time? I see where this is going. To this day, the other guy is still pissed at me.

Dave was similarly drunk when he came to get me and claimed that he thought my flight arrived at 10:30. We went back and forth about how he had read to me earlier from his computer that my flight was to come in at 10:02. (Of course, when we got to his house, my flight schedule was still up on his computer--10:02 haunting him like guilt). I then decided to hit him where it hurts.

“You think I’m going to pack my stuff up and move here for a guy who can’t even get to the airport on time? No way.”
“What, so you’re not going to move here now? You have to let me know.”
“You’re out of your mind, asshole.”
“So, you’re just wasting my time?”
“Interesting choice of words,” I said, basking in my cleverness.

After calling him a few choice words and him calling me a spoiled j.a.p., we made up and went to dinner (oh, but he wasn’t hungry because he already ate). The rest of the weekend, I blamed everything (my tiredness, my minor bad mood, etc.) on the 40 minutes I lost at the airport. In fact, we are still on a 40-minute delay.

I start PMS’ing this week. I don’t see this dying down until at least the 13th.

Phone Interview

2007-02-02T17:48:00.000-08:00

Off to Chicago for the weekend. Can't wait. I haven't seen Dave for three weeks and he's mad at me because I keep mentioning that I do/don't/do want to move there. As much as I don't want to, I'm going to. In fact, I had a phone interview this week that went horrible. I'd like to say that I purposefully bombed the interview to prolong my stay in New York, but I didn't have to put much effort into it. I suck at interviews. They're way too structured for me and when people ask me questions that I find intellectually offensive ("What type of environment do you want to work in?" "What does your average work day look like?") I can't suck it up and answer. Plus, I always think about what they want to hear and get flustered.

"What type of environment do you want to work in?"

What I think: All I know is there better be a full bar and a live band playing. Or, I want to wake up, sit on my couch for about two hours and watch shit like the View, drink coffee, and plop my labtop down to read pointless gossip about people I loathe all day. I may or may not wipe the crust out of my eyes. I definitely won't brush my teeth. To me, this would be ideal. Working from home. In my pajammas. Eye boogers falling down my cheek.

What I blubber out: "Hmm, that's a great question. What kind of environment do I want to work in? I would like a results-oriented, fast paced agency environment. I can work on my own or in a team structure."

"What does your average day look like?"

What I really do: Read Gawker, Perez Hilton and TMZ all day. Look for other jobs. Send out mass emails begging people to meet me for happy hour. IM with Dave and anyone else who wants to talk. Think about how I wish I were a famous novelist so that my work environment would be as described above. Make up fake diseases so I can have an excuse to go to the doctor/dermatologist/dentist/gyno on the clock.
What I say: "Well, every day is different for me. One day I might walk into ... " It's too boring to even repeat.

Anyway, all of this has nothing to do with the fact that some chick farted in my face on the Subway today. I'm not even lying. I was sitting down and a girl who was standing right next to me on our stalled train, let it go. The Skeeze was standing up and he smelled it too. I told him to imagine how I felt, having my nose flush with her toxic ass. He said that he almost called her out. I wish he would have. Anyone who thinks it's okay to do this, deserves certain punishment. Or death.

On that note, have a great weekend.

Bob Saget is a Hunk and Other Breaking News

2007-01-31T16:50:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-29T12:15:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-26T20:31:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-25T10:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-17T12:18:00.001-08:00

No big deal.

Be back soon with updates.

Whore Economics

2007-01-11T19:35:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-09T17:35:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-08T17:22:00.000-08:00

"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

2007-01-03T20:19:00.000-08:00

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.

I'm Moving to Chicago. Don't Pass it On.

2006-12-29T14:43:00.000-08:00

I'm extremely paranoid about mentioning this but then again, I'm pretty paranoid about everything I do. Others might call it anxiety. And still others might call it psychoses. Whatever you call it, it doesn't negate the fact that there are work-related spies on my site lately. At this point, however, I could deal with getting fired. I just want out. Reasons tbd at a later date.

Now when I say "spies" I don't mean the Russian kind. Dave, my sweet Russian boyfriend, likes to pretend he's a spy for the KGB but we both know his only means of getting information out of anyone is feeding them alcohol and waiting for their tongues to loosen. Not very innovative now is it? I could probably teach him a thing or two.

The main reason I want to go to Chicago is obvious: him. I was talking to my dear old friend Bobby last night (coincidentally, Bobby claims to have a past with the mafia, but what Italian guy doesn't claim that?). I told him that I wanted to be in Chicago by April.

"Don't you like New York?" He asked

"Love it. Don't beat around the bush, Bobby. You know why I'm moving."

"Oh come on! You're moving for a guy?"

"Yep. I hate the long distance. One of us flying in and out of town all the time. It sucks."

"I don't know how you do that. When I lived in New York I broke up with a girl because she lived in a five story walk-up. Forget flying all over the country for someone."

"Exactly."

Anyway, the cases people make against moving for a boyfriend or girlfriend are funny. These same people would be more than willing to move out of state for a good job. I haven't had a job yet that treats me as well as Dave does. I can't wait. On that note, I need a job. If you offer me one, I promise not to write about you here (I'll just start another blog for that purpose). Also, I don't plan to get pregnant any time soon. I know that's the question so many employers want to ask but rarely do. You're welcome.

Alright, off to Miami. Have a great New Years Eve everyone! I'll be lapping up champagne with Dave's parents, basking in my own cool and celebrating the fact that I'm not blowing $350 to get into a mediocre club where the chicks pee on toilets.

Greetings from the Only Person in Manhattan

2006-12-27T15:30:00.000-08:00

The city is completely dead right now. I hate to use the cliche "ghost town" but that seems to be the case. To illustrate, the lunch buffet I usually go to only put out half of their regular selection due to decreased business this week. I was stuck with tofu terryaki and fake crab rolls. Yuck.

There was only one person waiting for the N train at the Times Square stop this morning. There are about 5 of 20 people in my office. Evidently coming in this week was optional. I so didn't get the memo. Both of my roommates are out of town. This is nice because one of them (Paulo Coelho's cousin) smokes about 18 packs a day despite the "there is rat poisoning in these bastards" warning on the back of her cigarrettes. The warning is in Portuguese, no less, so she must understand it. Even if she doesn't, there's an illustration of a rat being killed on a case of objects she puts into her body. Anyway, all of this is to say that, although she just smokes in her room, the house smells a hell of a lot better now that she's out of town. That and I think she must import her cigarrettes in from Brazil. Well, she does or the person she buys them from does. Very clever.

I miss the Skeeze. I have no one to go to Cuban with on Friday. If I do find a friend (who will undoubtedly be a guy), the people at the restaurant will look at me weird, like I'm cheating on the Skeeze. Evidently this happened last week when the Skeeze took his girlfriend in to eat. The Skeeze and I both have long distance relationships so we're always together. I got the same look when I brought Dave in once. I'm trying to plan a good joke to play on the Cuban restaurant. Like maybe Dave and I will be eating there and the Skeeze will walk in and start crying. It would be great.

Beyond that, I'm just getting ready for New Years Eve. I'm flying down to Miami with the boyfriend. We will have dinner with his parents, drink champagne, make out and all of that. We're not going to do anything big that night. We've decided that it's amateur night, so Saturday will be a nice alternative. Plus, go to hell if you think we're going to pay $300 each to get into a club. Your club bores me, even at the discount rate of $150 each.

Today's random thoughts brought to you by my severe boredom.

Gift Certificates are for Drug Addicts

2006-12-21T16:30:00.000-08:00

…or so postulated my mom when I told her I was going to get my grandparents one for Christmas.

“Why can’t you just give them the cash? They’ve worked all their lives and are always giving people money. Wouldn’t it be nice if someone actually gave them money?! Plus, gift certificates are for drug addicts!”

Polite laugh. Waiting for punchline/proof of theory.

“You see, parents think their kids are going to buy drugs so they don’t want to give them cash!”

Okay ma, just because that’s what you (I) did, doesn't mean grandma and grandpa...

Personality #24 Strikes Again

2006-12-20T13:52:00.000-08:00

Dave says I have 42 personalities. He particularly can't stand personality number 24 (she's the one who comes out when I'm PMS'ing). As it turns out, she and Dave had words the other night.

Dave called me as I was walking into my house after some good Cuban and a charming bartender with a heavy hand.

He told me he was on his way to some charity event. "I think it's for breast cancer."

"Breast cancer, huh? Because you walk in central park every summer, right? Because you're such a proponent of charity events? Are you going to be tying little pink bows this weekend? How much are you donating?"

"It's a holiday party and I'm going with my friend, Nick."

"Nick, huh? You mean Nick who owns a boat and a Mercedes because he needs a gimmick to get laid? That Nick?"

This is to say that I get a little bit jealous when I drink too much.

"What are you talking about? He was just asking me about you and why you won't move here. He says that if you loved me you would have already."

"As if Nick would know anything about a relationship."

"Babe, you're really pissing me off right now."

"Okay, you're right. How was your day?"

"Good."

"I miss you baby. Have fun tonight."

Seriously, I really have nothing else to report. Well I do, but there are spies on the site now. Life has been a bitch in the office lately and I would love to rant about it, but I can't. Not yet anyway.

Update: Turns out Dave was wrong an it was for children's cancer.

Things You Shouldn't Mention if You're Writing for a Luxury Magazine

2006-12-14T10:07:00.000-08:00

I got a freelance assignment from a luxury magazine.

$625 for a 1200 word travel piece. Not too shabby.

Here were the editor's remarks:

"The beginning seems insecure."
The beginning consisted of me describing the way by which I chose to travel to the location at hand: "Twirling around whilst blindfolded and then pointing at a map. It wasn't an informed decision."

What? Are you telling me there are better techniques? Like, maybe, wanting to "experience the culture found in India," or "I've always liked French food and movies, so I thought I'd go dwell in the romance of it all." Puke. I liked my creative beginning.

So, that's Lesson One: Don't, by any means, be creative. Flaccidity is key.

"You shouldn't mention that you stayed in a hostel."
Well, I did stay in an overpriced hotel one of my nights there and it was only one notch nicer than the hostel, which was a tenth of the price. So, shove it.

That brings me to Lesson Two: Writers are generally poor. They don't have lavish experiences that will jive with those of their readers. So, they should lie. Being serious here, folks. Lie.

"I don't like the part where you talk about taping pictures together."
Here I was describing a super tall building that we couldn't capture in just one picture. Therefore, we had to take two pictures and tape them together when we got home. No biggie, right?

Lesson Three: Assume that the people reading your article will never actually go to the place you describe and experience the same things you did. People read travel articles because they're interesting.*

"Don't mention how rude the people were."
They were bastards. Deal with it.

Lesson Four: If you have any inclination that the magazine cares about its readers, you're wrong. In lieu of honesty, provide fluff. Again, when in doubt, lie.

*Travel articles suck. Nobody reads them.

Give Me a Break

2006-12-13T20:28:00.000-08:00

I initially called Adobe's customer service line today to complain that I was having trouble registering my new Dreamweaver, but ended up instead complaining about being transfered five times. I don't need to go into the details about how every new "service specialist" needed me to verify my name, address, email and problem, so I won't.

The point of this ultimately pointless blurb is thus:

Specialist number three, as he was diddling with my profile, was shamelessly singing the Kit Kat theme song.

"Give me a break, Give me a break..."

Subtle, dude.

I know I'm annoying, but sheesh, give ME a break.

I'm a Civilized Human Being and Stuff...Almost.

2006-12-12T13:49:00.000-08:00

Formerly titled: "Self-Righteousness will get you nowhere, yet still I indulge in the stuff every so often."

So, for the first time in, well, ever--I have full insurance benefits. I guess I had them when I was a kid and throughout college, but I never indulged in them because I was used to having them around. In 2001 I let them free like a butterfly, thinking that if they really loved me they'd return. They totally did. Five years later, which is now, we're back together and tighter than ever. So, I've been making sure to take full advantage of dental, gyno, dermo, general practice doctors, etc... Despite my perfect vision, I might even go to the optomerist. Why? Because I can. Yay me!

Anyway, yesterday I went for my second dental appointment of the year (because us fancy insurance-havin' folk get to go twice a year for just a measly $20 copay per visit).

What I forgot--amidst praising myself for being so responsible and civilized--is that I had changed dental plans and dentists after my last appointment. You see, I had this theory that my initial dentist was trying to take advantage of me with the added "full oral examination," the cost of which was never mentioned after my first appointment, but billed to me a few weeks later aside from the insurance bill. So, I canceled him but didn't make the changes in my records. That'll show him!

(I'm pretty sure I even bragged to a few friends about how people can't try to rip me off and not expect to be dealt with properly.) So there, Mr. Dentist!

Since I lack a working a memory and common sense, I went in yesterday, had my cleaning, listened to the assistant rave about my perfect teeth (I don't shy away from ass-kissers; I embrace them) as well as complain about the Christmas music:

"I am so damn tired of this music. First they play George Michael's song, then Mariah Carey's, next is Joy to the World..." True to form, she had about 80 tools in my mouth, yet wanted some kind of affirmative response from me.

Moral of this story is that I had to pay $114 out of pocket because--let's be real here--I'm not that bright.

The secretary said she would bill Aetna anyway to see if they'd reimburse me, but I think she was just trying to make me feel better.

In other news, I got my first bathrobe ever, at the age of 27, and I can't stop raving about it. I'm preaching about the stupid thing to strangers on the subway like it's this cutting edge new invention. "Have you ever slipped into a bathrobe after a shower? Dude, you should really get with the program."

I don't know if I'm cut out for being civilized. It's been a rocky ride so far.

"Count the Lemmings"

2006-12-10T10:31:00.000-08:00

My dad called me yesterday to tell me he was "counting the lemmings."

"Huh?" I asked.

"Lemmings. You know what lemmings are, right?"

"Some kind of animal?" I guessed.

"Yes, well I think it's a fictional animal but there's an old saying about all the lemmings jumping off of a cliff together. Basically, a lemming is someone or something that does what everyone else is doing."

[I looked up lemmings and they are real, not mythical, animals].

"Okay, so what's the game?"

"I'm at the Watertower Mall in Chicago and I'm counting all of the people wearing Burberry. There's number sixteen. Oh there's number seventeen."

"That's so funny! When I lived in Chicago, I remember noting how many people wore that crap. I always thought that whoever designed the ugly Burberry design was actually some ruthless jerk like me who wanted to see just how ugly of a design he/she could produce, and then additionally convince people that it's not only not heinous, but it's actually appealing. Same phenomenons as the capri pants craze and the rainbow-colored Louis Vuitton bags' popularity, come to think of it. They're all very effective dumbshit filters, Burberry, capri pants and Louis Vuitton bags are. You pretty much know that whoever is wearing this stuff is reliant on their accessories for a personality and not at all worth talking to."

"Exactly, eighteen and nineteen. I'll text you with the final number."

Here I called Dave and told him what my dad was doing. A few minutes later, Dave called back and said he saw a couple wearing matching Burberry scarves. I texted my dad the news and it turns out that Dad saw the lemming couple too. The total lemming count over a three hour period was 41. Having seen Chicagoans' inherent love for this crap, I'm not surprised at all.

My New Nickname

2006-12-07T15:45:00.000-08:00

My Spanish-speaking colleague just let me in on a little office humor: Me. Evidently, my official behind-my-back nickname is "Puta."

"Wait, does puta mean bitch or whore? It's been a while." I asked.

"Well, you're not a bitch, so..." [You heard it here first, folks. I'm all nice and stuff in real life]

"Yeah, but I'm not a whore either though. Relationship and all that."

"But you act like one."

"How so?" I asked as I remembered the girls are hanging out today. But, not without due reason - It's our holiday party tonight and we're supposed to dress up nice. My version of dressing up is bringing the girls out for a night on the town. Either way, turns out that the girls aren't the the reason.

"You know that picture I saw?"

"Oh, yeah. That."

That = Dave and I took some naughty pictures a while back. When he sent me the little online photo album thing, I didn't realized he had mixed the naughty and nice pictures together. So, as I was innocently looking at pictures of us in the sunset, I clicked onto one that he had taken one night while he was standing above me, so to speak. The girl who sits behind me shrieked immediately. I mean, don't get me wrong, I logged out with the quickness, but evidently she'd been enjoying the pics along with me. She's since spread the word and there you have it...

Nothing is Off Limits...Not Even Jokes About Dear Old Pops in the Hospital

2006-12-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

Dave: i found out that my dad was in the hospital this week
Me: is he okay??
Dave: he's fine now
Me: what happened?
Dave: he almost drowned when they went on their cruise. he swallowed some water
Dave: and wasn't feeling well when they got back
Me: oh my gosh
Dave: my mom didn't tell me anything until yesterday
Me: poor little guy
Me: i need to bring him an intertube when we go to FL
Dave: good idea
Me: well, a charming one at the very least
Dave: i'm going to get him some inflatable arm tubes

Happy Anniversary to Us! (Warning: Cheese Abounds)

2006-12-03T21:48:00.000-08:00

Not only do we get along famously, we both take really sexy pictures...

Today marks one year for Dave and I. Woohoo!

We were actually supposed to celebrate last night over a nice dinner in Brazil and then leave today, but we decided to leave on Friday night even though it would mean being apart on our anniversary. We both have major anxiety issues and the thought of getting back on Monday and going straight to work without rest, started getting to us. In fact, I have no fingernails left due to fretting. (Truth be told, I always bite my nails, but I held a special session the other night over dinner). When we hopped on the plane on Friday night, Dave took out two anxiety pills that he had packed with him. "Shall we darling?" We shall.

But back to our one year anniversary. A lot can happen in a year and a lot did (I won't waste your time by listing it in chronological order or anything though). Dave and I actually got together four days after I moved to New York City and, in ironic news, my decision to move here was in competition with the option to move to Chicago. I obviously opted for NYC, but I'm sure things would have been otherwise had I connected with Dave a few months earlier.

I didn't have a job when I moved here so I applied at a few places in Chicago. I'm psyched that I didn't get a job offer from Chicago though. Things wouldn't have gone as smoothly. I spent the first few months of our relationship freaking out about the fact that I had fallen so hard. I'm happy that Dave wasn't around on a daily basis to witness this. It just wouldn't have worked out, even despite his patience.

Anyway, I can see that this post is getting cheesy. Trust me, I don't buy too much into the "we were meant for each other" campaign, so I'm not going there. I'm just happy as hell that I have someone who I can pal around with and who has the same sense of humor as me. Oh, oh, oh. That reminds me of how I originally fell for him. The exact moment, in fact. We were out to dinner at Asia de Cuba on a Sunday night. We were talking about the night before. We'd gone out and then he came home with me and spent the night. We didn't do much, just passed out. The reason he stayed in the first place is because there was a ton of traffic on the way into the city from that airport. He had called me and told me this, then asked if he could just bring his stuff to my place rather than stopping at his hotel. When I hung up, I told my roommate (the diablo) that Dave was trying to pull the old "Can I keep my stuff at your place?" trick. We both nodded and agreeded that it was indeed so. Upon accusing Dave, the night after, of utilizing this ancient tactic, he replied, "Oh yeah, I just wanted an in so I could stay at your house and dry hump your leg all night." It was so embarrassing only because it was true. I wasn't sold on the guy until that moment, in which he took our pitiful night and threw it in my face. Kinda made me blush.

So yeah, there are a million things I can say here, but I'm not going to. I'm tired, I'm anxious, I'm pretty sure I'm going to walk into work tomorrow and get yelled at for something or other. Plus, I don't want to jinx a good thing.

Here's another for the road

Oh yeah, I´m out of town.

2006-11-29T13:20:00.000-08:00

We took a nap here with a stray dog last night

In answer to:

``Where is GUnit? No blog in over a week, everything okay? Are you on somefancy deserted island w/D and can't get online? I bet that feels nice...ifso:). Anyway, just droppin a sista a line. So here it is______________________________. ``

I´m drunk somewhere in Brazil along with everyone else I know.

I thought I was all cool and exotic until I realized that a bunch of people were down in various parts of South America this week. Some chick from my office is in Argentina, Not Chosen is somewhere down here, my parents are cruising around, some blonde guys from the states were on the bus with us, probably a bunch of other people...

There are quite a few problems with Brazil. For one (and this is a big problem), Smirnoff is the national vodka. Or, as Dave would say, ``Brazil needs a serious vodka face lift.`` He would know being Russian and all. The alternative is sometimes Absolut, which isn´t much of an improvement.

Another problem is that the girls here are seriously over-rated. Brazil must have a great marketing program. I´ll have to expand upon that later though because I´m drunk. Do I think that I´m cool because I´m drunk? Maybe just a bit. The alternative is being sober at work and, well, yes, I think I´m damn cool. So, there.

We´ve heard a lot of propaganda about Brazil being one of the next economic hotspots. I don´t buy it. This is my second time here and I don´t think these people are capable (or intrigued by the idea either).

I´m sunburned and the guy at the computer next to me is picking his nose. A lot more to report when I get back.

What's Wrong With This Picture?

2006-11-21T11:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, this is not a pop quiz. I've underlined exactly what's wrong with this picture, starting with the fact that I've sunken so low as to order jeans from Abercrombie and finishing with the fact that the "Fedex Next Day" I paid an extra $18.95 for necessitates a possible 2-3 business days. That's right, folks, next day = 2 to 3 business days, lest you become confused by the word "next" which is on all other occasions a synonym for "following."

Dave Has Finally Succumbed

2006-11-18T23:32:00.000-08:00

The phone call that every insane girl with a long distance boyfriend living in Chicago while she dwells in New York, for some reason, wants to receive on a Saturday night:

Dave: Hi babe, where have you been?
Me: I missed your call. I was on the train. Where are you?
Dave: I'm at Dave's birthday party.
Me: How does it feel to share a name with someone?* Are you having fun?
Dave: No. You're not here.
Me: Good answer. What are you guys doing?
Dave: Drinking beer and watching TV.
Me: You're getting old.
Dave: Yeah, I think that's what it is. I'm always tired too.
Me: Good - you're only allowed to have fun when I'm around.
Dave: What are you doing?
Me: Reading a book.

*I don't share a name with many people. There's an Icelandic writer with my name; an 85 year old lady who works at a movie theater in Del Mar, CA and some Australian lady who's on some show I hadn't heard of until stumbling upon its title during one of my routine self-googling sessions.

Your Computer Isn't Worth $2,000 and This is How I Know:

2006-11-14T18:10:00.000-08:00

A bargain at...

It weighs 600 pounds

It's width/height are equivalent to a yellow/white pages combo, although its storage space pales in comparison

Norton Antivirus: Go Away!

The newest, "hi-tech" accompanying software is a MS Office 2000 c.d.

"And here's this little card you put in the side if you want to go wireless"

A 1953 PC that you purchased for the bargain price of $2000 when the baby boom was at its prime--sucker--is not still worth, ummm, $2,000. Please resist all further sales pitches in my presence.

"Too Posh to Push"

2006-11-12T09:33:00.000-08:00

This is what my English client calls the trend that is English women opting a C-section over giving birth the old-fashioned way. "Too posh to push." I love it.

Things You Think About But Never Do

2006-11-08T11:57:00.000-08:00

The other day I was waiting in line for a treadmill at the gym. Waiting in line pretty much sucks and is usually a legitimate enough excuse for me to leave based on the ever popular excuse, "my time is too valuable (cough, cough)." In laymen's terms: "I'm lazy and could use a drink. Plus, this could take hours."

Of course, I'm fully aware that it will really only be two minutes max. So, seeing as how my thighs and ass are curdling as of late, I decided to wait it out.

It was 7:00, which means it was primetime and treadmill use is limited to a half hour. This is a great time for me to go because even if I "want" to do 40 minutes, it's illegal. This brings me to my point.

Whenever I'm waiting in line at this time, I always notice these tricky bastards who put their towels over the timer, so you can't call them out on going over their 30-minute limit. I spied two out and gave them an evil glare, just knowing they were probably approaching an hour under those towels. I don't have it in me to go up and pull up their towels, but wouldn't it be funny? I think so. At this point, someone got off the treadmill and I hopped on--ultimately forgetting about these evil, good for nothin' time-rapists.

A few minutes later, I notice some guy going around pulling up people's towels and checking their times. Could it be? It was.

While my immediate reaction was that he was a dickhead, my second and correct reaction was that he had the biggest balls in the place. He smacked them in some guy's face and got his treadmill. There's something to be said about big balls. Oh yeah, and being proactive and all that too.

Oh yeah, I moved to Astoria

2006-11-03T22:46:00.000-08:00

Now I live in Astoria.

How is it?

Well, I'm posting on a Friday night.

I say this as if it were different when I was living in Manhattan. I'm a homebody and staying in on a Friday night is pretty much my M.O. (even though my friend just invited me to the KFed cd release party - I wish I wasn't such a loser, I'd go just to observe). But back to me being lazy: Especially lately. I've been way too busy at work. So busy in fact that I haven't even officially realized that I moved yet. I just kinda sleep at a new place now and save $700 month. "Sleep" is the operative word here. I don't think I had one single night of good sleep in Manhattan thanks to firetrucks, drunks on the street yelling crap they inevitably regret the next day and random weekend morning parades.

The tradeoff is that Queens is really ugly. It's stuck in the eighties, identity crisis style. But, just like cruising around with an ugly friend will often do, having this place as my background makes me look a whole hell of a lot sexier. This is a fact not to be overlooked.

My new place is actually pretty cool. I now live with the Skeeze and a Brazilian girl. She doesn't speak English so we just sit around and stare at eachother. Well, that's not exactly true either. She speaks Portuguese, which I oddly understand a bit of. I respond in my broken Spanish and then we both stare at the Skeeze who translates what we didn't get. In other words, I ignore her at all costs. Small talk is not my specialty. Especially small talk in Portuguese.

The commute's about 10 minutes longer and the train usually skips my stop just for the hell of it. I hear there are great restaurants here and I'm excited to explore. My grandma and grandpa used to live in Queens and met at Queens college. I really dig them so it's kind of cool that I get to have this "experience."

Besides that, whatever. It's 10:30 and way past my bed time.

Little Red Exclamation Points

2006-11-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure that whatever the subject of your email - however "important" your message is - it does not constitute one of these: !

You see, to me this ! means that a family member died and/or you actually have something of an urgent nature to tell me. On that note, the fact that you're leaving the office early today [you're a slacker] or your office has a new address does not qualify as urgent, and definitely does not necessitate a !

Thank you.

Dogs & Dave

2006-10-31T18:55:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-30T11:46:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-28T11:22:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-10-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-10-19T17:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-16T12:24:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-10-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-10-11T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-09T22:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-10-07T08:28:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-10-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-10-04T09:29:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-10-03T08:44:00.000-07:00

...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 =

2006-10-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

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?

Mental Images I Can Live Without

2006-09-28T13:13:00.000-07:00

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."

2006-09-27T09:28:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-09-25T17:58:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-09-22T14:24:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

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."

2006-09-21T03:14:00.000-07:00

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