One and a Half Eyebrows

This chick totally feels my pain

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

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

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


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

Slutty Cats; Imaginary Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They could all pay for my drinks too.

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

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

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

So, there you have it.

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

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

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

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

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

Starring: The Turtle Fetus.

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ha!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oy vey.

The Many Species of New York Room-Renters

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"I'm Not American"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bastard Walks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's how the rest of the conversation went:

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

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

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

Snapshot

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

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

She is but a bastion of cleanliness and hygiene.

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

Last night I hosted a moment of brilliance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Little Game Called Amnesia

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

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

This is how the game works:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sick

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

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

Kitlers!

I am officially obsessed with Kitlers.

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

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

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

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

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

I Got My Tarot Cards Read. Trippy.

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.