Bob Saget is a Hunk and Other Breaking News

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave's Suntanned Picanha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Kind of Restaurant

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

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

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

Soon.

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

Having a Nervous Breakdown.

No big deal.

Be back soon with updates.

Whore Economics

As if...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I on Crack? Let's Explore.

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

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

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

Then there was our web designer:

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

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

"What is ephedrine?" she asked.

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

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

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

Her reply? "You're on Crack."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't get it.

-The fact that my boss hates me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…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

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

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

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.

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"

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

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

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)

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