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

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"

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

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

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

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

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


"What is it?" I asked.

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


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


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

The Racecar Driver

The Prisoner

The Pimp

The Pig

The Mexican
A little politically incorrect for my taste.

Just kidding.

The Angel

The Epitome of Evil

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

-A girl I work with just got back from Mexico

-She has two kids and a deadbeat husband

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

-She paid for it both times

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

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

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

-Her mom hates him

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

"Bring it."

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

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

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

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

Her: "No, maybe next time."

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

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

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

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

Lunch with Hef's Lost Twin

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

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

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

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

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

Him: No, you're 102

Me: Okay.

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

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

You got it buddy.

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

I'm Sorry...

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

I'll be back today/tomorrow to:

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

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

The Diablo's Diary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, no problem..."

That was close.


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

Bitter Much?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow.

Morning After Going Drinking Apology Letter Template

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

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

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

-Sorry if I talked way too much about myself

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

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

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

Talking Trash in Sign Language, Plagiarizing and Pleasant Office Etiquette

Thanks, Rodale!

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

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

Take that, bitches.

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

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

I've Been Had!

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

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

That damned Finnish arthritis gets ya every time!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I So Win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, that's some deep shit.

I win.

Thanks for playin'...


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

It's My Birthday. Yayyy...

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

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

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

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

"I nursed her for this long."

Dave, of course, loved every bit of this.

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

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

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

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

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

It Wasn't Me...Unfortunately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am so depressed...

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

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

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

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

I always hate when they say that.

American Airlines =

The Great Big Pinto in the Sky.

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

A few notes:

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

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

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

Mental Images I Can Live Without

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

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

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

"I'm not fancy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh the People You'll See...

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

Let me introduce last night's cast.

Bald lady who loved my turquoise sweat jacket.

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

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

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

The Bum Who Needed a Bite to Eat.

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

Hipsters.

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

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

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

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

Chompers.

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

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

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

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

All Warm & Fuzzy Inside...

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

"Yes, she's my sister."

"Gigi, the editor of numberII magazine?"

"Well, she was."

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

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

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

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

A Pineapple Without Due Warning

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

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

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

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

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

"A little."

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

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

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


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

It's Not That...

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

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

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

In the Spirit of Narcissism...

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

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

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

Two Hour Delay at the Airport:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

"You can do whatever you feel like."

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

"Do whatever you want."

"So the driver accepts credit cards?"

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


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


Spinach!

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

"No. No spinach."

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

Kindred Spirits

My client and I

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

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

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

Over drink three we talked about paper production and Greenpeace.

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

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

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

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

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

What can I say? I’m a professional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm Running for President!

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

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

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

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

Two New Signs for NYC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Obligatory 9/11 Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

American or not, all should be remembered equally.

Good Marketing

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

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

Get to the Point, Yo.

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

He was stuttering something along the lines of:

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

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

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

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

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

Oops.

A Legitimate Question With No Real Good Answer

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

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

If Only Gigi Were a Couples' Therapist...

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

Scene 1

(Click to enlarge)

Scene 2

(Click to enlarge)

This Biting Feeling.

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

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

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

I'm totally photogenic

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

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

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

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

Why Customer Service Employees Are So Rude…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Chicago...

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

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

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