I Got My Tarot Cards Read. Trippy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7). You're ultimately seeking truth.

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

Dirty Little Secret # 39085095802385fgs

I made the following confession to my Publisher friend yesterday:

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

This was his response:

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

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

Conspiracy Theories

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

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

“Yeah, your nose.”

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

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

"Exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vindicated

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

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

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

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

Not Pregnant, Just Lazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Boobs are Growing Out of Control!

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

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

-I'm pregnant (with quadruplets)

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

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

-Good karma for the same

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

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

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

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

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

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

My New Song

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dave and Me sitting in a tree...

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

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

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

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

Avoiding the Topic at Hand

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

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

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

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

Looking for a New Job:
Have an interview today.

Hold on there, Cowgirl

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

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

New Developments in the Moving to Chicago Saga

And elation. The author clearly left that out.

Dave has been laid off!

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

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

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

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

The end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was right:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paulo C.’s cousin does this thing…

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

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

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

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

The Really Good Alternative.

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

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

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

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

Breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phone Interview

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

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

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


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

"What does your average day look like?"

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

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

On that note, have a great weekend.

Bob Saget is a Hunk and Other Breaking News

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.