"album cover"

That's my friend Dan on the bottom (who took this with the self-timer), and I've hung out with two of the others. I've never been so proud to be associated with someone.

discipline

As someone who received check minuses in the "displays self-control" category on many a grade school report card, I've learned that the only way to, well, control myself is by establishing strict rules, all of which have come about through years of trial and error. For example, I will not buy any clothing item--except those from Ebay, H&M, a thrift store, or Target--that isn't drastically on sale. (I actually prefer the restriction of options, and the challenge to not buy crap.) I will not smoke cigarettes "just this one time when I'm out with friends." (Still working on that one, but doing pretty good!) And I will not use the computer while drunk unless I can still spell. This one, so far, I am rocking.

Last Saturday, I went to a Kentucky Derby party with Ellen. It was sponsored by Maker's Mark, and hence totally in line with my new drinking rule--don't spend a lot of money on drinking. But apparently I need a new rule--don't drink mint juleps that are more liquid than crushed ice. My only memory between crying in the bar and falling asleep is trying to write an email to my sister. I couldn't type to save my life, and, somehow, from a force deep within, I managed to shut my computer.

Then on Friday I was feeling antsy after staying in with a nasty cold all week, and went to Terroir (verdict: ridiculous, over-the-top, expensive, and awesome wine list; food that sounds a lot more awesome than it is) after some work stuff in Manhattan. Had a few glasses of wine and two beers, got home and felt the need to eat some cake and make myself a cocktail. Also, to talk to an ex-boyfriend (not the most recent one--don't even need a rule to avoid that) on the internet. The next day I found I'd acquired some new Facebook friends, felt a fleeting sense of shame, and had the following conversation with the ex:

Ex: You again
Me: Heh, um, sorry I had a bit to drink last night. Hope I didn't say anything majorly retarded.
Ex: Really? You didn't seem drunk at all. Your grammar and spelling were impeccable.

I have no recollection of anything I said, but by golly at least I spelled it correctly.

FAIL

Today was the day for trying to be productive and getting nowhere.

I finally had made an appointment for my, ahem, "annual" at the Planned Parenthood, because I support their mission to provide affordable healthcare for all, and also because I was too lazy to search for a real doctor located downtownish and not affiliated with Beth Israel Medical Center as I'm pretty sure I owe them around five hundred dollars (see below). Only after making it through Door Number Two there did I find out while signing my admission sheet that I was now "Self Pay", i.e., they don't take my shitty-ass expensive restaurant employee insurance anymore. So I made the two-transfer subway trip into the city just for a cup of cardamom coffee. Which I proceeded to drink on the trip back to Brooklyn, burning my tongue in the process. That was to be, I would later find, the highlight of my day.

As soon as I got home, so as not to start reading Jezebel and lose all hope of getting anything accomplished, I proceeded to call a couple of phone-tag-loving potential wholesale clients for work (a-whole-nother anxiety-ridden tale), hoping to secure a meeting time. Both, of course, were too busy to talk and said they'd call back. Continuing a theme, I got to calling the hostel I'm hoping to stay at when I go to a friend's wedding in a month. "I'm checking someone in right now, can I call you back in 15 minutes?" My phone remained non-vibrating for the remainder of the evening.

Now, none of this is personal, and at least I gave things the ol' college try (which, in my case, is the effort equivalent of a B+). I could've done the healthy thing and taken steps to save my day. The gym, perhaps, or a nice dinner, or working on my bedroom, or putting old cd's on my iTunes. Instead I took a two hour nap, ate pasta with cold sauce from a jar, and went back to bed where I have now been dinking around on my laptop for the last four hours. I think I'll just take this thing to its logical conclusion and go to sleep without brushing my teeth.

especially adapted to cases of inverted nipple

I am so bidding on this.

the time portal of all life between my legs

THIS IS AN IMPORTANT PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

If you are not familiar with the name Alexyss K. Tylor, please continue not doing whatever you should really be doing right now and devote the next nine minutes and fourteen seconds of your life to this video. I think I've finally found my religion.

796 baby!

Every year for Christmas, my mom asks me what I want for a present, and I always just send her my Amazon.com wishlist since anything I really want I've already impatiently purchased for myself. Two years ago, in a sudden fit of responsibility, I added Suze Orman's The Money Book for the Young Fabulous & Broke to my list. Naturally, this was among my gifts that year, and not The Dirt: Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band. Guess which book I ended up reading first. Anyway, I don't know if it was the ridiculously gorgeous weather yesterday, or the realization that I'm almost past my mid 20's, but I decided on a whim to bring ol' Suze with me to the park. Hey, at least if I couldn't get her sparkling finances, I could get on the road toward a nice tan leathery glow.

Lo and behold, Suze is kind of awesome. After eight years of throwing away unopened credit card statements and making my minimum payments with my eyes partially closed at ATMs, suddenly, I was more afraid of upsetting Suze than facing my financial reality. While I did discover that my checking account overdraft loan does, in fact, accrue interest and my balance has gone up about $1000 since I last made a payment on it (woops), I also got my very first credit report, singing that "freeeeee credit. report. dot. COM!" song in my head the whole time. Somehow, despite multiple collection agency incidents due to unpaid medical bills, countless late credit card payments, and an apparent stolen identity in July of 2003 when four mysterious accounts were opened in my name, my FICO score is excellent. In the top half of the top range, meaning I could get the best interest rate available for a mortgage or car or whatever. Which means that I am but a business plan and a loan application away from opening the sandwich shop/vintage clothing for large-sized people store/wine bar/puppydog rescue/personal party space of my dreams. Thanks, Suze.

in case you were wondering

When your cheesemonger seems cranky, here is why.

Me: Hi, can I help you find anything?
Customer: I'm looking for something good with white wine.
Me: Well, what kind of cheeses do you like?
Customer: Everything! I like all cheese.
Me: How about a goat cheese?
Customer: No, I don't like goat cheese.
Me: How about a blue cheese?
Customer: No, I don't like blue cheese.
Me: Would you like something soft or hard?
Customer: Soft.
Me: Strong or mild?
Customer: Strong.
Me: Here's a taste of a soft, smelly cow's milk cheese from Virginia.
Customer: [tastes cheese] No.
Me: What don't you like? Too strong? Too mild?
Customer: Too soft. I'm looking for something crumbly.
Me: Like this hard, mild pecorino?
Customer: Yes.

ugh

I wear heels maybe once a month and frequently leave the house in saggy old jeans with giant holes in the crotch, so I am in no position to criticize someone's affinity for comfortable, hideously ugly footwear. However, if you're going to do it, own it. These aren't fooling anyone.

crafts for lazies

I've always wanted to be one of those crafty girls, someone who can just whip herself up a nice decorative pillow or Wonder Woman sweater. It must be so satisfying to get an idea and actually make it happen, and to always have something fun and productive to do when you're not busy eating Jelly Bellies and reading about grade school classmates on Facebook.

Other than one sock monkey for my old friend Katie, I don't think I've ever really made anything on my own. I tried cross-stitching in junior high, got 95% done with my project (a St. Louis Cardinals logo for my dad), and left it sit in my closet until my mom finished it sometime when I was in college. I tried sewing when I went home for Christmas last year, got super frustrated, and, uh, my mom did almost all of it.

But I will never give up the dream! Here, my latest "effort":


Gina's Kwik-n-EZ Laptop Case

Supplies:
*broken thrift store heating pad
*foam (thanks to the foam experts at Howard's Foam and Fabrics Solutions of Rochester, NY)
*duct tape
*Velcro
*needle and thread

Step 1: Remove actual heating pad from decorative heating pad cover. Contemplate cutting it open to see what's inside! Discard.


Step 2: Fold foam over laptop. Cut two sections just big enough to cover each side. Apply duct tape liberally on three edges to create a sleeve.

Step 3: Cut a third piece of foam as wide as the others and a few inches long to form a flap over the open part of the sleeve. Duct tape to secure.


Step 4: Place foam pocket into fabric cover.

Step 5: Enlist mom to sew on Velcro pads.

Ta da!


(Dog not included.)

nice genes

Hey guys! Wanna join my new Facebook group? It's called "Everyone I Went to Elementary/High School with Has Babies Except for Me". I guess until I saw pictures of all those chubby li'l faces I could just go on believing that that phase of adulthood would never actually happen. Also, squeaky knees and wrinkles on my forehead when I give my signature "good god you have got to be kidding me" look. Alas, no more blissful ignorance for me. Sigh. Perhaps someday I'll pass along my spelling skills, irregular gait, and extreme moodiness to one or two very lucky individuals. Until then, my cat is getting the best damn litter money can buy! (Seriously, look into it. It'll change your life.)

brie de dromedary

One of the great perks of my job is getting to try new and/or interesting food products. Like curry chocolate, illegal Brie, and camel cheese. It is always amusing when one of these products makes the New York Times, and we get to watch as non-regular customers wander aimlessly around the store in search of sold-out local ricotta or cured pork jowl, and old ladies with Martha Stewart accents call us on the phone asking how to get to this faraway land of Brooklyn. Sometimes I wonder if my passion for customer service isn't really just passion for making fun of others. Anyway, back to the camel cheese.

I was pretty excited when we got the sample a few months ago. Because, um, CAMEL CHEESE. So how is it? Well, on the plus side, I appreciated the learning experience offered by the packaging. Let's just say that were I to make it to the final round on Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? and got the Africa map, I would be screwed (this was actually a legitimate concern of mine as a child.) Also, if I were ever in Africa and hadn't had a dairy product in weeks, I would probably be pretty happy to eat some camel cheese. On the negative side, um, nothing against camels or the fine people getting creative with their milk, but it just doesn't taste that good--basically like pureed low sodium cottage cheese covered in a bloomy rind. And for $30 a pound, which is more expensive than 95% of our other cheeses, I think it belongs in the novelty category along with Bacon Bars and Antipasto Lusso (aka "party in a jar").

So where can you get camel cheese? Sadly, nowhere. There was a shipping issue and it remains unavailable. But I hope they'll get it together soon. I very much look forward to whipping out the camel cheese when someone asks if we have anything low fat.

there's no place like home

I was just looking through some of my semi-recent pictures and got all sad that my parents don't live in Marshfield, Wisconsin anymore. That little town drove me nuts while I lived there, but good God was it entertaining once I got some faraway adult perspective. Last summer I made the nearly unbearable mistake of bringing my then boyfriend home with me. The silver lining was that because we were so fundamentally wrong for each other, we always did lots of stuff to pass the time. So I got to play activity planner in the place that will always be closest to my heart. And with a little help from the "delete" button, my memories are nearly untainted!

Please ignore the lady in red for a moment and feast your eyes on the skinniest man I've ever seen, wearing an entire unidentifiable animal on his head cinched with an American flag bandana.

This, naturally, was at the Styx concert.

Under a full moon.

Even a pouty little twit jealous of your close relationship with YOUR SISTER can't ruin that one. Ahem. Moving on . . .

To Central Avenue, where the Senior Craft Shoppe sits nextdoor to Shockwave Video and Adult Entertainment.

And where, apparently, one can find the occasional local microbrewed beer tasting. Seeing my awesome but often anxiety-stricken dad get tipsy (a rare occurrence) gets two thumbs up from me.

There is nothing like a day at the zoo! Especially if you are Miss Grizz.

In the context of last summer, all I have to say is, "Seriously".

Pictures do no justice to the majesty of this beast's horns.

"On the mega" would be a good catchphrase. For . . . something.

I can testify based on personal experience that there has been no work done on this mini golf course in at least 20 years.


Apparently Al Capone used to crash here when he was sneaking along the Yellow River. And now it's a wine bar. Yes, a wine bar. In Marshfield. Although they keep it real by serving barbeque potato chips as a bar snack.


The World's Largest Talking Cow has lost its calf. Sad.

You can't tell here, but this guy is looking with disdain at the camera. Sorry, dude. It's not every day you see a horse-drawn buggy that doesn't charge $50 an hour in these parts.


And last but not even close to least, The Rear End. I'd seen this sign a million times, but never once thought to venture beyond the thin layer of pine trees.


I don't know why I expected it to be more climactic.


Pardon the pun.

who's that girl

Today I learned how to spit wine into a bucket, next to other people spitting wine into the same bucket.

I feel like I have more to say about the industry wine tasting I went to today, but I also feel like I spit my brain into the bucket. Which has me thinking I shouldn't have even bothered to spit out the wine. Anyway. It was the first one I've been to, since waitressing and mongering cheese only vaguely qualify me as "industry." Nevertheless, I recognized a ridiculous number of people there. It felt like high school, where I knew everyone in my class, and often absurdly specific details about them, and no one outside of the marching band knew me. Or college, which was pretty much the same story as high school, only substitute crew team for marching band. And now, of course, it's the cheese shop and people I was friends with at my last job.

As I observed the purple-toothed masses from my cozy corner cheese table, it was like the Let's Remind Gina Of Her Lack Of Communication Skills Parade. All the people I thought about talking to but did not talk to because I would've had to re-introduce myself include: The guy whose restaurant was an Eater.com obsession and where my friend's ex-girlfriend works; the nice lady I used to wait on all the time and who once helped me pick a white Burgundy at her wine shop; a former manager with a former regular customer who tried to ask me out and didn't understand how I could be both single AND not wanting to date him and who later consumed six bottles of wine (not exaggerating) one night with a girl who was so drunk she didn't notice the large spider crawling across the table in front of her and which I was able to pick up with a napkin and stash in my apron pocket (ok, there probably would've been no point talking to him other than making him uncomfortable, which actually would've been kind of satisfying); the General Manager of one of my favorite restaurants who is best friends with the General Manager of my old restaurant; the tall white sommelier who dated my friend and ditched her for a tiny quiet Asian chick and always brought her in for very expensive bottles of wine but never finished them and left them for us; the bartender at my favorite restaurant in my old neighborhood whom I met through the dude I used to hook up with sometimes at 5am and re-met waiting on his birthday party and have seen around 85,000 times; the wine empire heiress to whom I once nervously served a funky Northern Italian red called Ros di Rol which she compared to an old Brunello (score!) as she sat on Table L3. I could go on, but I want to watch ANTM on my new favorite website before I hit the ol' hay.

The number of times I've forced myself to talk to someone and had the "oh! you're so and so who knows my friend so and so and you do x y and z"/"um, what's your name again?" conversation has ruined me for schmoozing. I don't know if I wish things were different. But I'm leaning towards not. Aside from the obvious fact that I would be a totally different and probably more sane person, if I were so focused on maintaining superficial connections, how could I have been so happy spending time alone with my bosses, talking to a regular customer/wine merchant with a genuine smile and without whom I never would've gained the courage to go up to a stranger and spit in his or her wine bucket, and reliving all those little stories whether or not anyone else remembers them.

gina is content

Oh, Internets. I have been working so hard. Hard like . . . a person with credit card debt in an understaffed cheese store. I'm actually off work today and it has been wonderful. Not to mention productive! In addition to increasing the size 10 butt-shaped dent in my favorite spot on the couch, I got my iPod replaced by a Genius, did some laundry, played the word "borzoi" for 58 points in Scrabulous, and ate half a bag of Cheeky Monkey Tomato Garlic Dipping Oil, which I'm considering having pumped into my body constantly via IV drip (the bag looks eerily suited for that, actually). And it's still almost an hour until America's Next Top Model comes on! 

sigh

Scene: This afternoon, towards the end of my hour-long walk around the still very new to me 'hood with my roommate's pit bull, approaching a cute guy walking a cute Boston Terrier.

Cute Guy Walking Cute Boston Terrier: Is he friendly?
Me: Yeah she's really friendly! Um but I mean not necessarily with dogs...
CGWCBT: Oh, nevermind then.

Alas, it appears my dreams of finding everlasting love via my roommate's dog are already dashed. At least she'll be a good bodyguard.

In other news, it is currently 9:52 p.m., the first time I've thought about cigarettes all day, and almost two weeks since I last had one. I am going to go ahead and give myself a nice pat on the back.