i was born in the backseat of a mustang, on a cold night, in the pouring rain

Actually, that's not true. I was born in a hospital under close medical supervision. But that's the chorus of this song by this band that I've been listening to on my iPod when I stand out in the snowy backyard wearing my mom's Ugg-like sherpa slippers and many layers of fleece and flannel to sneak cigarettes. But then early yesterday I ran out of cigarettes and have had the damn song running through my craving, anxious and fuzzy brain ever since. Given the degree of suck involved in withdrawal from smoking five a day (that's individual cigs, not packs,) I can pretty much swear on my most valuable possession in the world, Furry the Bean-bag Bear, that I will never, ever smoke more than that. (Well, at least not on a regular basis--chain-smoking while drunk is just a given. [Is that good enough punctuation for you, FAB? Aside from the fact that it's not a complete sentence?])

Fortunately, this quitting practice will be halted temporarily when I head down to Madison tomorrow to celebrate interacting with a human being under the age of 45 for the first time in almost two weeks. I refuse to celebrate New Year's Eve because, like Valentine's Day, it's one of those holidays on which certain things are supposed to happen (e.g., having insane amounts of fun at some party you're being totally ripped off to attend, having a significant other who isn't as bitter and cynical as you are) and they often don't because they're simply out of your control, and then an otherwise fine, ordinary night is a big disappointment. Whereas for Thanksgiving and Christmas you just get together with some people and eat a lot. But I digress. Point is, my brain feels like it's tumbling around in a clothes dryer and I'm going to Madison to get drunk this weekend. Yay! Happy End of 2004!

book it!

So, I finally caved and read the Da Vinci Code (my unwillingness to read it, of course, was based purely on all the annoying hype and not sheer laziness. Ahem.) My review: not fucking Tolstoy but damn entertaining. It's really that simple, you THREE THOUSAND AND TWENTY Amazon reviewers. A Sparknotes aficianado and reader of approximately 1.2 pleasure books (I don't mean that in a dirty way) per year, I read the thing in less than two days, and granted I have no obligations or engagements save for shoveling snow and putting dishes in the dishwasher and turning it on, but still, I am impressed that this not so little book went down so easily.

Alright, time to watch Oprah and pretend to exercise on the recumbent stationary bike that so elegantly graces the family living room.

on the 12th day of unemployment

As anticipated, I have taken laziness to a whole new level. In one week I have left the house exactly twice--once to go to Target; once to the far inferior WalMart--and my LL Bean flannel pj's are getting quite the workout. Also, as you can perhaps tell from that last sentence, I've finally gotten around to reading Eats, Shoots, & Leaves and am trying to help keep alive the semicolon and make proper use of dashes. (Though there is really no hope that my grammar will ever be as good as it was at age 15 or so.)

Highlights of the holiday weekend included introducing my parents and uncle to the wonderful worlds of Da Ali G Show and Freaks and Geeks, a rousing dinner table conversation about the ages and causes of death of every single semi-close relative, and the revelation that if my grandmother (70, lung cancer) had had her way, I would've been named Gretchen or Gertrude. If you know my last name, just take a moment to ponder the atrocity that would've been. If you don't know my last name, trust me and assume like I do that Grandma's brain was almost as fried as her lungs from smoking two packs a day for 50 years.

Anyway, after a few weeks of uselessness I'm going to have to, like, start doing stuff. This includes making plans for getting my lazy ass into graduate school for psychology so that I can make money listening to people's problems all day and then sell out by writing some self-help book and hawking it on Oprah for lots of money. Or something. Or perhaps I could become a researcher and come up with brilliant insights like those in this article, which is on the first page of the APA's website for chrissake.

I'm already making fun of my possible future career. Awesome.

the fam (minus the sis who is in mehico)

My baby girl, Babe. She is getting old (11 1/2) and has had some issues with bed wetting lately. So she has to wear this diaper at night to which my mom attached some denim suspenders so they stay on. She tolerates it pretty well, but, as you can see, she's a little embarrassed.



Crazy Daisy. We got her after the love of my life, Bridget, died during my senior year of high school. She was six months old at the time, because nobody else wanted to buy the puppy with the underbite.



The Parents. Have you ever seen a more wholesome picture in your entire life? Seriously, have you? This looks like it should be the generic picture in the frame when you buy a picture frame at the store.

almost makes up for severe nicotine withdrawal

After dinner I casually mention that I wish there are cookies in the house, hoping that perhaps some will turn up in the next week or so. Less than one hour later, Mom brings a plate of chocolate chip cookies with still melty chips out to me in the computer room. This would never, ever have occured a few years ago. God bless her soul. And Empty Nest Syndrome.

culture shock

Because it snowed last night and my flight got in really late, my parents decided to hire a "limo service" to bring me home safely from the airport. Said "limo" was a busted up--and I mean rusty, dented, and shaking--Dodge Caravan, which would've freaked me out had I not driven a very similar model throughout high school (or at least until winter of senior year when the tires kept exploding while I was driving and it failed to start in the subzero weather that is a fact of life in these parts.) Anyway, I hopped in the passenger seat next to a scruffy, tattooed, heavily accented young gentleman that seemed to be about my age. He was smoking in the car, so I lit up too.

He turned out to be quite a chatty fellow and immediately mentioned that he needed to be home by 3 a.m. because he had "the ankle bracelet." Now, as I was thinking about how this must be some euphemism for a demanding wife, a la "the old ball and chain," or something, he said, "But don't worry, I just got in a fight, they give me the late shift so I can't go to the bars, but I can't go 150 feet away from my house anyway. Sucks man." Realizing that he was not talking about a wife (though I later learned he has an illegitimate three-year-old,) I said "So, wait a second, you actually have a bracelet...on your ankle..." He pulled up his tapered jeans to reveal a heavy duty black strap attached to a cell phone sized electronic device. Apparently if you get in a bar fight or some other kind of trouble necessitating police intervention, the "cahps" take you to prison, secure a heat sensored monitor on your ankle and a receiver in your house, and then know if you've left the 150 foot radius of your house while you're not at work, or if you've managed to remove the bracelet.

But we're talking serious drinkers here who will not be hindered by such sophisticated surveillance methods. My new buddy then proceeded to describe how he attached a phone cord to the home receiver, wrapped it in a plastic bag, strung it out through the kitchen window so he got an extra 20 feet in that direction, and was able to go to his buddy's house, apparently between 150 and 170 feet away, to get wasted. He was very proud of this ingenuity, but was clearly more impressed by the cleverness of his friend. When his friend got into his bracelet-worthy scuffle, he also sprained his ankle, which resulted in significant swelling. The cops failed to take account of this, so when the swelling went down he was able to slip the bracelet off. But the friend knew that the heat sensors would alert the cops to the bracelet removal. Fortunately, the friend had a cat, who became the proud owner of a new large black collar. Had the friend not run into his probation officer at a bar several days later, he would've gotten away with it.

So basically, the crazy kids in Central Wisconsin are just like the crazy kids back in New York, only they get in trouble more because the police don't have unsolved murders and drug dealers and the mafia to worry about. That, and they all, and I mean ALL, have small children. Oh, and they also pay $350 per month for a four bedroom house. Except for the electronic monitoring and the burden of children parts, it doesn't sound to shabby.

the continuing saga of lenny kravitz's bathroom

So apparently I wasn't paying well enough attention the other night. Turns out the bathroom in which I fucked my hairstylist IS Lenny Kravitz's. Hairstylist's friend is the poor rich soul who lives downstairs and had to vacate his apartment when this mysterious incident occured [via Gawker]:

Lenny Kravitz's Craptabulous Crapper

We're half disgusted, half curious about the state of Lenny Kravitz's toilet, which is "blocked, clogged and congested with various materials," resulting in $333,849.77 worth of water damage to his downstairs neighbor's apartment. The insurance company is now seeking reimbursement in full from the rocker.

"Various materials?" It's 2004, can't we just say "syringes and latex?"

Dear Lenny was then kind enough to let the surprisingly cool investment banker stay in his place while the damages are being repaired. While I expect the bathroom was christened long before I wound up on the counter top, I am still proud to be leaving this city in true New York style and going out with a bang. (Ha, get it, BANG?) Next time you hear from me, I will be sober, crabby as hell from nicotine withdrawal, full of wholesome food, and wearing LL Bean flannel pajamas for at least a week straight.

oops

Remember how I said I really, really wanted to sleep with my hairstylist? Well, I am nothing if not a woman of my word, so I did. (Though it wasn't so much "sleep with" as "fuck in the bathroom of the totally sick apartment nextdoor to Lenny Kravitz's Soho loft.") I hope he'll still do my hair when I come visit, because he's by far done the best job ever (on my HAIR.) Also, I officially have a boyfriend. He lives in Canada. Anyone want to wager a guess as to WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? Thanks.

eeeyah eeyah eeeyaeeya...eeeyah eeyah eeeyaeeya

I have just completed my second day at Conde Nast packaging luxury gifts for the needy CEO's of the fashion and beauty industries. While I was robbed of an Anna Wintour encounter, I can rest peacefully at night knowing that Lubov Azria, wife of BCBG's Max, will be receiving her cashmere travel blanket wrapped in wrinkle-free tissue paper and tied with a satin bow, shiny side up.

In other exciting news, Yaya did not win America's Next Top Model! Perhaps there is a god afterall. One of my fellow temp gift wrappers happened to be in Yaya's class at Brown and confirmed that she does, indeed, "suck ass." I'm sad that this delightful "cycle" has come to an end, but it looks as though Project Runway will pick up the slack quite nicely.

Okay, now it's time to contemplate and do absolutely nothing about the massive amount of work to be done in order for me to relocate without losing all my possessions and/or paying a shitload of money to store/ship them. FAB, Drone? Be prepared to be bribed with various alcoholic beverages to help me solve this conundrum.

i'm going in!

I apologize for the light blogging lately. I have been busy making preparations for my big move to the homeland. And by preparations I mean sitting on the futon watching Oprah and picking the dead skin off my feet (my token disgusting habit.) Though today, as a courtesy to my sublessee, I did manage to change the light bulbs in my 3'x5' "kitchen" that have been burned out for about four months. Tomorrow should prove a little more exciting, however, as I am infiltrating everyone's favorite office building, 4 Times Square, on a one-day temporary assignment at a Conde-Nasty publication. In the event that I find myself in an elevator with Anna Wintour, I swear on my sorry excuse for a shoe collection that I will do my best to drop a silent but deadly fart in her vicinity. Or at least stare at her for a little too long.

if i had a hammer

I love the Salon advice column guy. I love advice columns in general, including those about sex, in TV show format, conducted by elderly ladies, or all of the above. But Cary Tenis is particularly awesome. I can relate to this question from last week for obvious reasons, except for the whole still looking for jobs part. I realized very quickly into my workforce foray that I only like (er, I guess "tolerate" is a better word) jobs where I actually, like, do stuff, which is why my favorites so far include my work writing and grading exams (mmmm...power!), making ridiculous coffee drinks and smoothies, and picking up dog doo. And which is why my last two "real" assistant/bitch jobs have sucked my proverbial you know what. When my parents get sick of me and it's time to find employment again, this paragraph shall be my guide:

So, in addition to getting off my chest my continuing rage at the conformist culture of mediocrity one encounters in the American workplace, I will say this: There's nothing quite like having a real skill. If at all possible, make your entry-level job one in which, even at a low level, you produce something tangible: for example, the proofing or editing of copy or the production of tangible new knowledge by, say, conducting phone interviews or doing research. That is much better than simply arranging the movement of suits from business-class seat to boardroom chair, in my opinion. The relevant motto here is not, I believe, "Bring coffee to power." You need a productive skill independent of their notions of who you are. Dig? If you cannot land a job producing things yourself, then find work assisting those who do produce things, so that you can learn.

Get a skill. Seriously fucking brilliant.

fuckers

When you're born in this world, you're given a ticket to the freak show. When you're born in America, you're given a front row seat. - George Carlin, NYT 12/12/2004

The subject matter of the two articles below [via Midwestgrrl, and me who for once read more than the headlines in the Sunday New York Times] have left me too disgusted for words.

*Walmart being sued for $75,000 for each corrupted soul that purchased Evanescence's latest CD, which contains the word "fuck." Goddamn lawyers.

*Current banned public discussion of my awesome sort of neighbor's awesome movie Kinsey, which is about the banned public discussion of the facts about sex and Dr. Kinsey's research thereof fifty years ago. Oh the sad, sad irony.

In other news, this unemployment business has made me nocturnal. Last night I was up until 5:30, not partying like a rockstar, but alone, drinking beer, smoking cigs, and researching grad school options and how to get my sorry ass accepted so that I can make a living off of studying the aforementioned freak show.

sleepy

I'm sorry to say I have precious little to report. My unemployed days have been filled primarily with naps (at least four hours a day,) VH1 celebrity specials I've seen a hundred times, and even some Oprah and Dr. Phil (Don't hate me.) But oh have I been productive! Yesterday I did the dishes, today I went to a sample sale and bought lots of cute undies for all the boys I'm not sleeping with, and tomorrow I plan to purchase an ant trap to take care of the little infestation in my kitchen. And I almost forgot...my sister pointed out that I was indirectly mentioned in the Local Paper!

The Marshfield High School advanced placement program is growing, as demonstrated by the increasing number of recognized scholars.

Joyce Chu, a 2004 graduate, won the AP State Scholar Award, which is granted to one male and one female in each state who have the highest average on all advanced placement exams taken. Chu had an average of 4.92 out of 5 points over 13 exams [that is just sick and wrong wrong wrong] she had taken in three years, said guidance counselor Katherine Dostal.

"You're not considered for state scholar until your senior year, Dostal said. "Only one other student (from Marshfield High School) has been named state scholar." [that's ME!]

As thrilling as this almost-recognition is, I wish they'd done a followup to show current students how such achievement will prepare them for their future. I can see it now..."since graduating from Columbia with a mediocre grade point average and no professional or further academic aspirations whatsoever, Gina was fired from her first two jobs after college and has returned to Marshfield to live with her parents." Somehow I doubt Ms. Chu will be in the same boat, but I'm still damn thankful my parents are not stereotypically Asian.

Okay, it's way past my naptime.

'tis the season

Now, getting fired last night did not surprise me in the least. I understand those of you who were surprised and thought I'd been exaggerating the patheticness of my work performance, because I was indeed the asshole in high school who freaked out after every other test and told everyone I surely got a C and then of course got the highest grade in the class or, at worst, an A-. But, you see, I was good at school, and I am not good at this whole adult thing. And when I say I suck I really mean it. So anyway, last night after leaving the gym I got a VOICEMAIL letting me know that Blahdy Blah Entertainment Company would no longer be needing my services. This is not at all unlike the time I got dumped by a guy via voicemail, only this time I actually got my shit back.

Ironically, in the Alanis sense of the word, today I got another voicemail from the first staffing agency I met with and with whom I've had no contact for the last four months. The agent informed me of a fabulous high profile advertising job at a hip downtown office with really cool people. One could say this is kismet, but I say there will be plenty of "fabulous" administrative assistant jobs waiting for me whenever I decide to come back here, and that the only thing that can possibly motivate me to get my proverbial shit together at this point is some quality time in a three bedroom ranch in rural Wisconsin with my slightly detached parents and two crazy ass dogs.

fun with sex and links and parentheses

Ah what a weekend. With my apartment securely spoken for, the last of my bills paid (or, rather, waiting patiently for me to open them on top of my fridge, but close enough) and the end of my 1.5 year streak of solid fulltime employment imminent (perhaps a little sooner than I'd anticipated...woops,) I was able to have a lovely, carefree weekend (well except for that part on Friday night...thanks guys.) Here's how to have an awesome weekend just like me!

*Justify skipping the gym by browsing stores all over downtown with male friend who has better style than you. After much trouble with the door (push, not pull, and hard,) stumble into vintage accessories mecca (so big! so cheap (relatively speaking)! and I really want this weird necklace with a giant silver owl on it!) Edith and Daha, and when stylish male friend wonders whether a cool plaid overnight bag is too girly, say yes, definitely, and then buy it yourself. Beg him to carry it home, because you have more places to go (thanks, Drone.)

*Meet friends and friends' friends at quality little Mexican joint after having a hell of a time getting 411 to find "el maguey y la tuna." Gorge self with chiles rellenos (apparently, relleno = mucho queso...mmm) and laugh at Perplexa as she spills hot candle wax on herself.

*Feel superior and far cooler than all those suckers waiting in a 50-person line outside Magnolia by getting YOUR chocolate cupcake with pink vanilla cream frosting and sprinkles at spin-off Sugar Sweet Sunshine. Thank the Good Lord you remembered to take a Pepcid today.

*Play with sex toys at classy and welcoming Toys in Babeland. Despite slutty past (and probably future,) feel like the most white bread, plain vanilla, prudish, "I only do missionary"-type person ever. Spend a little too much time playing with the gigantic "Moby." (Haha, get it? Hint: they're not refering to the little bald musician, despite a bit of a resemblance...)

*Go to Mercury Lounge to see Out Hud, the truly brilliant experimental, instrumental, electronic-y rock band that you only know about because you have cool friends. Stand in the back during the truly atrocious opening band's set making snide remarks about how they really need just one more yuppy-looking girl singing off key while banging a tambourine (because four just isn't enough,) and talking loudly about how they make you want to vomit. Because back hurts like an elderly scoliosis patient's, perch on back of chair near wall for unblocked view of the main event and bop head in lieu of dancing, even though for once you actually feel compelled to. Spot blogger in the audience and think of how weird it is that you know the intimate details of his sex life.

*Go to sleep marvelling at the fact that you are sober and still had fun. Regardless, spend the next day lying hungover-like in front of the television, watching best TV shows ever, including Project Runway, the first of two school shooting episodes on Degrassi: The Next Generation, the famed Paris Hilton South Park episode (related: what the hell is going on with her crotch in this photo?) and the brilliant Talk Sex With Sue Johanson.

drool

I apologize if this is really boring, but I just have to tell you about this sandwich. If you happen to live or work near a Pret a Manger, pick yourself up a "Holiday Lunch" for the low low price of $5.98 plus tax. (It "feeds two" because if you buy one they give money to the homeless, or something.) Anyway, it is made with hearty wheaty bread, turkey, cranberry sauce, onions, spinach, sweet sweet mayonnaise, and STUFFING. That actually sounds kind of disgusting, come to think of it, but trust me it's awesome. And now that I've found the nutrition facts online (that's gotta be almost as much fat as a Big Mac) I know why. Mmmm fat.

corroboration

Job, it's not me, it's you. Okay, maybe it is a little bit me because I'm generally lazy and horrible at office work and take two weeks to complete a task that takes about ten minutes because I just read blogs and shop online and IM my friends all day long, but still. No matter how fabu (and I mean fabu in the "I'm making fun of people who actually say 'fabu'" kind of way) the coworkers and company may be, something about being an entertainment corporation marketing assistant just ain't right. Thanks to Lindsayism for sort of jusifying my incessant whining and insurmountable apathy at work:

I spent 6 months as an assistant in the Marketing Department at Miramax, so I know to tell you don't apply for this job. Seriously. Life is just too short.

This nice hipsterish girl who has yet to say hi or make eye contact with me, suggesting that we have similar personalities, just started as a temp marketing assistant in the cubicle next to mine. I really think I should warn her. But I don't want to burst her bubble during the new job honeymoon period. Ah well, chances are she'll figure it out soon enough, once the elation over free coffee and pretzels and promotional duffel bags starts to fade.

NY <3 itty bitty apartments

Wow. Since I've been thinking of blowing this popstand for a while (but, oh, I WILL be back,) I finally took some action and posted an ad for my lil' studio on dearest darling Craigslist. Despite beginning the ad with "I'm not going to lie--my apartment is impressively tiny," I've received about 25 responses in an hour and a half. Hot damn. Fortunately, the majority are from men who lack a basic command of the English language and/or demand I send them pictures or call them immediately in their one sentence replies. As much as I'd love to have a rotating cast of sketchy characters parade through my apartment as I wait there alone, I think I'm going to have to ignore/decline these folks. And if one of the several nice-sounding girls comes through, I could be living my free spirit dream in just a matter of weeks. As for the unbearably large length of time during which I will likely be living with the parents, my hometown buddy Phil informed me that there is a bar in town that serves rum and Cokes for $1 (plain Cokes are $1.50.) Between that, the vast availablity of fried cheese curds, and daily entertainment courtesy of the Local Paper, I think I'm gonna be ok. Fare thee well, NYC.

hickory dickory dock

I think I'd prefer to be picking up steaming dog poo, selling cheese over the phone, or wrestling wimpy men (all tasks for which I have at one time been paid, incidentally) than sitting in my cushy office right now. Though perhaps it would be better if I actually had nothing to do, rather than pretending I have nothing to do to the point that my superiors will likely put an end to my $16/hr charade very very soon. So it goes. At least my holiday weekend at the childhood home of the Fat Asian Baby was lovely. I got a little too drunk, gained a few delicious pounds, and played with her Oh-so-adorably-Fat Not-at-all-Asian Baby Nephew. But it's times like those that make me think of my own home and all the excitement that I am missing there.

There's fine dining...

Gourmets try turkey testicles

WISCONSIN RAPIDS - For anyone who has ever wondered what a fried turkey testicle tastes like, Betty Smithers has your answer.

"I'd say it tastes like chicken," said Smithers, 57, of Wisconsin Rapids. Smithers ate fried turkey nuggets for the first time Saturday at Mr. Ed's on Plover Road in Wisconsin Rapids. It was the second year of the tavern's Turkey Testicle Festival, which the organizer plans to make an annual event.

exciting job opportunities...

Road-kill collector's work slowing down

Marshfield News-Herald
Matt Gulmire's job starts after his fax machine spits out a new message. He grabs a map and plots the best way to get to the location. Gulmire, 50, of Hancock collects road-killed deer in Marathon and Winnebago counties, a job he started during the summer. The hardest part is dealing with the smell of rotting dead deer during the warmer months, he said. A day or two lying on the pavement causes significant decay. And with decay comes a stench.

In winter, carcasses freeze, so there's less odor.

and time for family bonding (and truly atrocious writing)...

Construct a family mission statement

Winter is almost here and for many of us, thoughts of the holidays are at the forefront of our minds. This is the season of many trips perhaps to see relatives and for some to take time for winter play. How possible is it that you will gas up the car, pile the kids in the back seat and just head out - destination unknown? You didn't pack, because you're not sure of what you'll need. And though you don't know where you are going, you're making good time. Only a few minutes into the journey the familiar voice from the back seat says, "are we there yet?" Well. It's hard to tell, since you're not sure what your destination is.

Where is your family heading? As you travel on together in this wonderful journey called life, how do you want your family to travel, and where do you want to end up? One very helpful tool is a family mission statement. Think of it as your map. Just as a family gets together to plan out a vacation, gather everyone around you to develop your family mission statement. As you dialogue about what you would like your family life to be, clarify the values and goals that are really important to you.

As I dialogue with myself about how the hell I forgot to send out that important payment that was due, like, ten yesterdays ago, I wish you the best in this wonderful journey called life.

food coma

*How to Survive the Dreaded Work Meeting 101. I'm already an avid player of Games 3 and 4 and, rest assured, will be incorporating 1 and 2 into my epic struggle to stay awake during the next Monday Morning Marketing Meeting.

*Anyone who says humans did not evolve from apes has clearly not seen this. Oh wait, they probably don't engage in such behavior... (the face in the third pic is priceless) [via ultragrrrl]

*My darling sis pointed out this gem of a letter to the Local Paper editor written by a former classmate of hers. Don't you just love 18-year-olds who know lots of big words but have not yet learned to get the fuck over themselves?

*Speaking of the Local Paper, the wedding and engagement section has become a major source of anxiety for me. Well, at least a minor source of anxiety. Actually, I'd say it's more like a moderate source of amusement, since social codes and I never really got along so well to begin with. So anyway, there were girls having babies in my ninth grade class, and I was less shocked and disturbed by that than I am by the recent rash of marriages among and, increasingly, between my old classmates. All the ones who stayed in Central Wisconsin bit the dust ages ago, and now even the escapees are getting in on it. I used to slip 'n slide with these people, and now they're "bride-elects." I am so not there yet, and my New Yorky friends had better not be because I simply don't have the money for gifts and dresses and such things. Pass the Kool-Aid, please.

only in you-know-where, kids

[pic via stereogum]

I was deciding whether to write about my wonderful weekend with the boy, E (I think the Cute Canadian IBWIMIRLF is now ingrained enough in my life to be referred to by the first letter of his name and not some cutesy acronym,) my not-so-thrilling but still amusing because it happens so often now celebrity sighting of the week (Ray Liotta, outside of Pastis, natch,) or the deer hunting fiasco in my home state, when my interest was piqued by a slew of consultants looking out the window of a conference room across from my cubicle. "Oooh looahk, there's a rahk beeyand playing on the beeyack of a truuck!" proclaimed a sincere midwestern lady. Though it was impossible to discern which rahk beeyand this was from the 37th floor, thanks to Gothamist I alone knew it was U2. I grabbed a cigarette and the iPod (though in hindsight the cellphone and wallet would have been better choices) and made for the elevators.

U2 is and always will be one of my favorite bands of all time. I got hooked on them in early high school, and my trip to Berlin (Achtung Baby!,) arduous college application/persuasion of the parents process (Angel of Harlem, what,) and both boyfriend breakups (With or Without You, sadly I'm not kidding...) wouldn't have been the same without their music. I don't listen to them much anymore since they represent a different and increasingly distant time for me and now I'm mostly into bands that would take a little longer than five minutes to sell out MSG, but when the last boy I briefly dated stated several times that he vehemently hated U2, I just couldn't bring myself to call him again.

So this afternoon in a carpe diem moment, I found myself running in high heels down Seventh Avenue for a mile and a half, just ten feet away from Bono and the boys (all of whom were looking sexy as hell) as they played their next single, "All Because of You," and filmed the video for it (look for the girl with the blonde frizzy hair--it's humid here these days--and the stunned stare.) People were leaning out of high rise windows, Bono was giving shoutouts to foreign deli workers, and I didn't care how far I got from work even though walking perched on little three-inch sticks was my only means to get back to the office. At least, I didn't care until I re-sprained my bad ankle somewhere around 27th Street. I decided my time was up, waved goodbye to the band, and limped back to work while listening to U2 songs on the iPod and thinking. How E would've loved to be there too. How much more awestruck I'd have been if I'd experienced this as a sheltered high schooler and not a semi-jaded New Yorker. And, of course, how I'm never going to be able to leave this city for good, no matter how many midwestern retreats I need to be able to put up with the stress and insanity.

aaaah, now i feel better

[On next shopping trip, must remind self that wardrobe has not been lacking in dusty pink, black, denim, shirts-that-look-good-with-jeans, and sparkly stuff in years. Also, that I am no longer fifteen.]

bikram rock show

I am currently waging a war with my rascally brain chemicals that just can't seem to pick a mood and go with it. Is it too much to ask to feel the same way about anything for more than 24 hours at a time? This past weekend was jampacked with excitement, the internet boyfriend will be here this coming weekend, and progress is being made in My Current Life Plan, or, more appropriately, My Current What To Do For The Next Nine Months Or So Plan. Yet the ol' grey cloud has crept back into my head and I can't think about anything in a positive way. So I'm going to blame the craziness on my recent change of anti-baby pills, spend some quality time this week on spinning bikes and in tanning booths, and write about the good stuff.

The weekend started off with a great but not awesome Interpol show (nice to see you again, Mr. Bowie, though if you really want to be down with the kids you might rethink wearing khaki pants to a concert, but then again you can do whatever the fuck you want and be cool,) a midnight meal at the bar at Cafe Luxembourg while literally bumping elbows with Liam Neeson as he sipped a glass of red wine with ice in it (the weekend celebrity runins have moved up a few letters of the alphabet!) and a crazy series of prank phone calls by which Perplexa and I were both, um, perlexed.

The next day E and I drove up to her new home in Ithaca, because I had yet to experience the oh-so-crazy law school "party" scene, and because my favorite band since my last favorite band was playing a show. A whole awful lot has been said about The Arcade Fire in everyone and their great uncle's blog and even the superhip New York Times, but, I must say, the hype is warranted. Or maybe I just really like energetic Canadians who sing about upsetting things in a way that makes life not seem so bad and, in the process, throw in some accordion, cello, and xylophone action while hitting each other with drum sticks. In any case, their music is weird and complex and pretty and I can't stop listening to it.

The show took place in a tiny cafeteria-type room that was at least 100 degrees Fahrenheit in which kids were packed together in a sweaty, jumping, fist-pumping mass. But despite the the fact that we'd all soaked through several layers of clothing, the acoustics sucked, and the band's keyboard stopped working, it was one of my top five concerts of all time. The next morning, the 20+ person band posse was having brunch in the same little hippy dippy cafe as E, her very cool friend, and I were, and I made the requisite ass of myself by going up to the girl singer (on whom I have a major girl-crush) and having the following deep conversation: "I really loved your show last night!" "Oh thanks! Thank you very much!" "Okay, um, bye!" At least I wasn't sporting my Arcade Fire t-shirt at the time (I really needed a change of clothing after the show. And it glows in the dark. Anyway.)

So yeah, the weekend was fantastic, and this coming weekend should be good too, provided I can prevent myself from going insane in the presence of a guy who really actually likes me a lot. And I may have found a nice neurologist from Lebanon to sublet my apartment for a few months, so my fantasy Wisco retreat is looking more and more like a solid plan. It'll be just like the summer vacations of my childhood, minus the summer school that I used to take for fun, the lack of a driver's license, and the totally overrated ability to go outside for more than five minutes at a time.

oh the weather outside is frightful...

...and my office is freezing and, um, not delightful. But mark my words, it is going to be another good weekend. Not only am I seeing my two very favorite seizure-inducing rocksnob bands a mere 24 hours apart, but a miracle just occured in my blessed cubicle. No, I did not find the visage of Mary, Mother of God in any of my lunch items or free Godiva truffles. Rather, I burped. Now, I'm sure this is an ordinary occurence for most of you, but until this afternoon I had never burped aloud in my entire life. This isn't because I'm shy about my natural bodily functions (as the Fat Asian Baby can surely attest...sorry 'bout that, FAB,) but rather because of some cruel twist of fate that has rendered me biologically incapable of burping. Or so I thought... This wasn't exactly a full-blown normal person burp, but it was definitely audible, and I think I tasted a hint of the Au Bon Pain Corn With Green Chile soup I had for lunch. I can only hope this is the beginning of a new era in my life. Anyway, on to the good stuff...

mmmm interpol...


mmmm weird canadians...

[pic via Stereogum]

drool

Um, will someone please remind me why I'm thinking of leaving my job to become a professional vagrant?

To: NYC PROBABLYSHOULDN'TREVEALTHISONTHEINTERNET Employees

Great news! Godiva will be conducting a "chocolate tasting" session here at 1:00 pm today! No strings attached - just come by the Admin conference room on the 37th Floor anytime between 1:00 pm - 3:00 pm today to sample Godiva chocolate, coffee, biscotti and other products.

Please contact Sally Weisberger at x5182 with any questions. Enjoy!

who took my frog

Him name is hopkin green frog. [via Blacktable] Click the picture and keep on clickin'. This site pretty much mirrors my level of brain functioning right about now.

more yin and yang

This morning I had the official NYC Subway Commute From Hell. All previous Commutes From Hell have been demoted to Commutes From Purgatory. I waited for not one, not two, not three, but SEVEN jam-packed trains to pass me by before I was able to create 6 square inches of train floor space in which I could sqeeze myself. This has to be some kind of world record, and I want a fucking medal.

In other news, this morning I finally grew enough proverbial balls to have a conversation with my boss (of course, she initiated the conversation) about the future of my tempitude. I mentioned to her that I'd been thinking of shacking up with the parents for a few months, and she not only said that I could keep working here and leave when I need to as long as I keep her posted, but that "work sucks" and I should go travel around the world for a while. So that's the plan, Stan. At least, it will be the plan after I shack up with the parents for a few months and stop spending so much goddamn money.

the upper breast side fireworks eggstravaganza, november 2004

In a perfect example of yin and yang, a thoroughly horrible week was followed by a thoroughly awesome weekend. Even the weather went from cold, rainy, and depressing to warm and clear. In addition to a couple friends from law school, my friend E brought down a giant box of fireworks.



We drank vodka tonics and set them off on my roof. There were little fountain-like ones...



And some that shot up in the air and exploded like standard 4th of July fireworks.



And then there was one that also sounded like real 4th of July fireworks, which apparently pissed off a person in a neighboring high rise. Unfortunately, this person has damn good aim and nearly hit us with an egg.



Slighlty fearing eviction (though at least I'd have gone out with a bang! ha!), I went out with them to a bar in Brooklyn. Upon exiting the subway somewhere near Park Slope, E and I were welcomed to the fair borough by a nice gentleman who brushed past us, ran into the street, pulled down his pants, pointed at his (apparently cold) weenie, and said "Yo, ladies!" We see you, dude. And we are not impressed. Anyway, we finally got our corrupted asses to the bar, where this fine gentleman provided us with many rounds of beer and whiskey. Merci beaucoup, A.



The next day we left the apartment at the brutally early hour of 12:30 to get to a hair appointment. I thought fat ladies would be singing while monkeys flew out of their asses on a cold day in hell before this would happen, but I really, really want to sleep with my hairstylist. He is very hot and very straight and, needless to say, I will be getting my hair cut on a more regular basis even though he's a senior stylist and I really have no business paying someone that much money to play around with my hair (but it feels so good.) I guess it's the girl version of getting a lap dance.

After engaging in blatantly illegal activity and getting egged and flashed, our weekend was already quite full. But it wouldn't ever be complete without a ridiculous, a propos celebrity sighting. Just days after the infamous nip slippage, we saw Tara Reid hunched over in her chair at Cipriani Downtown (surprise surprise) getting a neck massage from some dude in a suit. When we walked by again ten minutes later (because, um, we really had to go back that way) she was still hunched over and getting the shit rubbed out of her neck by a different dude in a suit. I can only imagine what the cause of her neck pain might have been.

Because we were too tired to do anything else, E and I went home and took pictures of ourselves while sitting in our underwear and watching really bad television.



It proved to be good practice for later in the evening as the bar we went to has a photobooth. God bless black and white and shadowy lighting.

it's a craigslist kinda day

Am I just really easily amused or is this seriously awesome?:

The Storm

Reply to: anon-46815591@craigslist.org
Date: Tue Oct 26 01:40:13 2004

They were together in the House. Just the two of them.
It was a cold, dark, stormy night. The storm had come quickly and each time the thunder boomed he watched her jump.
She looked across the room and admired his strong appearance ...and wished that he would take her in his arms, comfort her and protect her from the storm. She wanted that...more than anything.
Suddenly, with a pop, the power went out... She screamed...

He raced to the sofa where she was cowering. He didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms.
He knew this was a forbidden union and expected her to pull back. He was surprised when she didn't resist but instead clung to him.
The storm raged on...as did their growing passion. And there came a moment when each knew that they had to be together.
They knew it was wrong...
Their families would never understand...

So consumed were they in their passion that they heard no opening of doors...
just the faint click of a camera......

is it friday yet?

Judging by the fact that I'm neither wearing heels nor about to cry, I'd say indeed it is! Thank you know who.

*In the spirit of my last post's brilliant analysis on post-college life, here is a truly best-of-craigslist post that corroborates my feelings, albeit in a far more Asian kinda way.

*If you know what 1020 is, read this.

*After getting bugged regularly for months and months, I finally caved and went to yoga with my buddy D. Now, I am neither flexible nor coordinated nor prone to following trends created by Madonna, but bring on the spandex capri pants and crunchy granola, because for a solid hour and a half I didn't feel like a basketcase. Om.

if you're sad and you know it clap your hands!

You think I'm about to talk about the election, don't you? Well, you are wrong. Ok, mostly wrong. I must just say that I agree wholeheartedly with Cityrag, who finds encouragement in the fact that at least a good hunk of the country showed up to support the dude who thinks countries should be run based on reason and not religion. So congrats to all who tried to get Kerry in (I converted both of my parents in Wisco!) If only the crazyreligious people embraced a little thing called birth control, the numbers would surely have been more in our favor.

Anyway, I'm realizing that, along with yours truly, the vast majority of my friends and my friends' friends are suffering from mildly to seriously incapacitating mental and emotional problems. On lots of meds, incapable of going to class, dropping out of school, quitting/losing jobs, sleeping with too many strangers, making sure the windows in the apartment are shut a few too many times, crying into burritos, and, most disturbingly, losing interest in boozing. But none of us have any actual problems. We've all graduated from "good" schools and gone on to other "good" schools or found "good" jobs. Why do we have to be so sad? What the fuck is wrong? Do the early twenties just suck? Do things just magically get better? Do things not get better but just not matter so much? Do we have to get married and make babies? Do we have to find Jesus? Can someone please please pleeeeease buy me a puppy?

bah humbug?

Since I failed to get into the Halloween spirit this year, save for the many many fun-sized candy bars I consumed in my cubicle yesterday, I feel the need to give credit to my friends and my friends' friends and some people I don't know who dressed in awesome, creative, and frightening ways. Because I do actually like Halloween, I'm just lazy.

First, here is E's friend B as Tippi Hedren's character in Hitchcock's The Birds. Impressively thorough and simply genius.



In the spirit of the standard Sexy Cat, Sexy Nurse, and Sexy Hooker costumes, here is Haenschen dressed as the ubiquitous Sexy Cheese Grater.



Next, via Cityrag, a costume that falls into the "why didn't I think of that" cagegory.



And, last but not least, here's FAB classing it up as a right, upwardly pointing breast.



Nice work, big kids.

you know you are a new yorker when... (#293,847)

you have serviced P. Diddy in some way or another. Drone just gave me an update on his workday (update on MY workday: 2:54 and so far no work whatsoever has been done by me) and informed me that he was just sent on an errand to purchase a designer shirt for the Diddy. This reminded me of my own brief stint of Diddy-servitude at the Doggy Gym, where, in addition to other glamorous tasks, I cleaned up the poo of Sean Combs' pitbull mix, Honey. Honey Combs! Get it? Honey? Combs???

freaky deaky!

In what is quickly becoming a weekly occurence, this weekend I spied yet another C-List reality television "celebrity" (sorry for the mutiple levels of redundance there) less than a block from my apartment. This time it was his royal fugness, Bachelor Bob, strolling down a tree-lined side street with a wee ladyfriend who undoubtedly owns several Juicy Couture velour sweatsuits.


[via Go Fug Yourself]

Apparently the UWS is to reality television stars as the LES is to indie film actresses from Westport and egomaniacal dirty Republicans.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, this year for Halloween Perplexa and I went tandem as post-college lost souls who preferred sitting on a bed watching the Freaks and Geeks DVD and eating freshly made Duncan Hines brownies to actually leaving the house.

get your dork on...

with this NYT article on "little Floresians" and feel utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of the world and the history thereof. These mini people lived on a mini island from 840,000 years ago to at least 13,000 years ago. For the severely mathematically challenged, that's 827,000 years. We each get about 80. Damn. All the more reason to drink beer, eat burritos, and have a lot of sex (or think a lot about with whom you would like to have a lot of sex but you can't because he lives in fucking Canada.)

Look, a cool Russian squirrel! [via Yahoo]

sheena is a punk rocker, and jesus is a marshmallow

Oh golly jeez, I just can't wait to go home and get down and dirrrty with the following Bible recipes! [via Newyorkish]

Baby Jesus Haystacks
Melt choc chips and peanut butter together for 1 min in microwave, stir and microwave for additional 1 ½ min until melted. Add chow mein noodles and stir with 2 spoons/forks as tossing a salad.

Drop onto waxed paper.

Add a marshmallow to represent baby Jesus.

He's Alive Buns
Wrap one biscuit around 1 marshmallow. Dip in butter and roll in cinnamon/sugar.
Bake as directed on the refrigerator biscuit package.
The Marshmallow will melt and the bun will be hollow inside

When Mary told the disciples the stone had been removed from the entrance, the disciples ran to the tomb. John was the first to arrive and look inside. Peter entered and saw the linen that had been wrapped around Jesus lying flat as if the body evaporated. The tomb was empty! (just like the He's Alive Buns are empty)

Resurrection Rolls
Give each child one triangle shaped section of crescent roll. This represents the tomb.
Each child takes one marshmallow which represents the body of Christ.
Dip the marshmallow in the butter and roll in cinnamon and sugar mixture. This represents the oils and spices the body was anointed with upon burial.
Lay the marshmallow on the dough and carefully wrap it around the marshmallow.
Make sure all seams are pinched together well. (Otherwise the marshmallow will "ooze" out of the seams)
Bake according to package directions.
Cool.

Break open the tomb and the body of Christ is no longer there!!
Celebrate God's love!

Now, I enjoy a good marshmallow Bible metaphor as much as the next person, but I think children can learn everything one needs to know about Jesus from the epic film "Jesus of Nazareth." In addition to taking up six hours of classtime during the Easter season every year in grade school, the film was directed by Zeffirelli (arty!), and the Jesus was kind of hot (or at least I thought so when I was 10.) Screw marshmallows and Pilsbury biscuits.

yay fashion

[via Yahoo]

support the troops

You know it's going to be a good weekend when you kick it off with a good C-List celebrity sighting. On the way to purchase Advil (it was Friday) before heading down to Soho for Perplexa's birthday dinner at Balthazar, I found myself face to face with none other than Elisabeth Hasselback Filarski, of Survivor, The Look for Less, The View, and Republican National Convention fame. This supposed style maven was wearing the exact same clunky Frye boots as I've been wearing into the ground for the last couple years, only she was sporting hers over her jeans, Ugg-style. In a few words, oh honey no.

The next morning I arose nice and early to hitch a ride to Boston with a taller, blonder, and crazier crew friend. The drinking commenced immediately upon our arrival six hours later (there were a few accidental highway exits and a pit stop at the ex-boyfriend's house (surprise, ex-bf's parents!) along the way.) Ever the competitor, I insisted on keeping up with her one Red Stripe every ten minutes pace, which resulted in a couple of puking incidents at bars later on and us getting hopelessly lost in Cambridge when stumbling home from a bar approximately two blocks from where we were staying. Where are the numbered streets that are not all crooked and full of dead ends?

Somehow I survived to see another day, which turned out to be a little on the cold and miserable side, but it wouldn't be a proper crew race any other way. I got to see my favorite light blue boys and girls race, pet tons and tons of dogs and puppies, and harrass some jackass carrying a Bush/Cheney sign whose ass TBC pretended to bite as I took a picture, and as he turned around to ask what was wrong with us. Heh. Time to drink again! We curled up on the couch at TBC's friend's apartment to watch some TV and drink some White Russians. If your cable lineup includes the Travel Channel, I suggest you watch the show Million Dollar Boats. Nothing like an overtanned, oversteroided man wearing nothing but a leather vest commanding a 150 mph speedboat called The Love Muscle to brighten your day. Drinking continued well into the night at the official regatta after party, which was a big mess of drunk sweaty athletes and a couple drunk but not as sweaty former athletes getting stuck in an elevator and climbing over a waist high pile of furniture to escape.

The ride home on Monday necessitated so much caffeine and water that we took about six pee pit stops, but the drive was lovely. I'm not a big Connecticut fan, mostly because I'm just jealous of all the rich people, but I must say the Merritt Parkway is gorgeous, especially on a sunny fall day. And now it's back to work and my head still feels a little funny, and I need another weekend to recover from my weekend.

noticing a pattern here (also noticing that not a single sentence in this post is, in fact, a sentence)

So apparently when I'm down in the proverbial dumps I have nothing at all to say. But I'm trying to think positively and will not dwell on said dumps. Because things are just great! Like the fact that the cafeteria in my building has had yummy squash two days in a row (acorn and spaghetti...crossing my fingers for some butternut.) And this morning I pulled a cute outfit out of my ass when I thought I had nothing at all to wear. And I've gotten away with wearing jeans to work every day this week. And the Cardinals (my original home team) and the Red Sox (Yankee superiority is beyond old) are in the World Series. And Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend said, without encouragement, that he really likes my thighs (which I'd always thought were disproportionately large.) And today's Dog of the Day is totally ridiculous. And this weekend I'm going on a bender in Boston with my crazy-in-a-good-way girl friend and various members of the rowing elite. So, you see, things are just peachykeen. Now if only I weren't literally bored to tears and utterly bereft of motivation to change that. And, most importantly, if it were warm enough in my office such that my fingernails would stop being a lovely shade of mauve.

"And one thing I will say for George Bush, he has disabused me of my old belief that it doesn't really matter who's President"- a blogger named Barlow

Aside from the report I had to do on Millard Filmore in third grade (when the assignment was states, I got Delaware, so, yeah,) I don't remember thinking about politics until grade five. The year was 1991, and Bill Clinton and a bunch of other guys whose names still escape me (Dukakis? Buchanan? James K. Polk?) were in the running for President of the United States. One day, the third most hated teacher in the course of my plaid, pleated skirt-wearing career wrote the names of all the candidates on the blackboard. She then proceeded to ask each student for whom he or she would vote if 10-year-olds could, in fact, vote. I calmly and confidently replied, "I don't care." Scary old Mrs. Kraus bellowed "You don't...CAAARE?" in front of the entire class, and being the stubborn bastard that I was and am (now I REALLY wasn't going to care,) thus began my legacy of political apathy, ambivalence, and plain old unawareness.

Though I was an excellent history student and even eeked out a 4 on the American Government AP exam, my interest didn't improve much over the years. I can't say I remember a damn thing about the 1996 election, and though I filled out a voter's registration form in 2000, my first eligible election, I never bothered to ensure that it was processed (it wasn't, but I was in New York and Wisconsin went Democrat, so it was not my fault, ok?). But then, by the grace of Jon Stewart, my amateur political analyst pal Perplexa, and my extreme distaste for all things fanatically religious, I have become a person who not only registered to vote after minimal (ok, a few months of) prodding by friends and family, but was able to hold my own in an hour long, albeit very drunken, debate with my boss' Bush-supporting boss.

And now, with my newfound political fervor (we're talking in relative terms, here,) I bring you a couple of articles that are so good and persuasive that 1., even I was able to complete them and 2., they are going straight to The Parents in Wisconsin who are still, for some ungodly reason, undecided. So, Mrs. Kraus (are you still alive?), I CAAAARE. Happy now?

*NYT mag's Without a Doubt: "What makes Bush's presidency so radical — even to some Republicans — is his preternatural, faith-infused certainty in uncertain times." Do take special note of the part about the Swedish army. Yeeeikes.

*John Perry Barlow's October 3rd Post, Supporting Kerry Anyway [via Gregtheboyfriend]: "Gradually, I have watched the steam go out of the Anybody-But-Bush crowd as we realized that anybody, in this instance, was the increasingly irksome John Kerry...Against this backdrop of Bush-driven national emergencies, I've been allowing John Kerry's accent to diminish my sense of commitment to his election, I can't do this any more. Neither can the rest of us who have any regard for the well-being of our descendents. Yeah, John Kerry makes a lousy candidate for Prom King. But that isn't what he's running for." Booyah. Great article, but the comments scare me.

i have a giant mayonnaise stain on my shirt

A big shout out to the parents for providing me with the nature and the nurture to grow up and not find the following email forwards clever and/or inspirational [via Perplexa's Unsolicited Advice Cousin]:

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree.

Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they just take the rotten apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy.......

The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing.

They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who's brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Share this with other women who are good apples, even those who have already been picked!

Now Men....

Men are like a fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the crap out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

and

Today is International Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman's Day, so please send this message to someone you think fits this description.

Please do not send it back to me as I have already received it from a Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman! (fill in - Matt's aunt Diane)

Good motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOOHOO, what a ride!"

Have an amazing day!

Fortunately for my keyboard and proverbial TPS Reports, I don't throw up easily.

new york to the rescue

I'm so hungover I can barely walk, or maybe I'm just still drunk. But praise be to Jesus, this otherwise miserable, dreary day has been saved by none other than Rod Stewart, whose hair I just saw in Rockefeller Center bopping along to "Maggie May" with hundreds of overweight midwestern housewives in ill-fitting jeans. If I'd been stoned instead of drunk I think the surrealness would've made my head explode.

tressler tressler bo bressler banana fana fo fressler me my mo mressler, tressler!

If President Monkeyface wins again, I am moving to Denmark. It is home to beautiful coastline and people that make me feel small, Surreal Life 2's Brigitte Nielsen (i.e., she who lumbers around the house wearing nothing but a cook's apron and has beer for breakfast,) and my dream occupation, Baby Naming Policeperson.

At its heart, the Law on Personal Names is designed to protect Denmark's innocents - the children who are undeservedly, some would say cruelly, burdened by preposterous or silly names. It is the state's view that children should not suffer ridicule and abuse because of their parents' lapses in judgment or their misguided attempts to be hip. Denmark, like much of Scandinavia, prizes sameness, not uniqueness, just as it values usefulness, not frivolousness [ok, so maybe there are some problems with Denmark].

In some cases, Mr. Nielsen [my new mentor] says, he believes he is performing a vital public service. He advised the Ministry that Anus and Pluto be rejected, for example. He also vetoed Monkey. "That's not a personal name, " Mr. Nielsen explained. "It's an animal. I have to protect the children from ridicule."

I'm all for free speech, and I'm even for abortion, but, hypocritical or not, I think some people must be stopped in order to help the defenseless. Like this poor brood [courtesy of the Local Paper]:

A daughter, Emberley Therese, was born Oct. 9, 2004, at Saint Joseph's Hospital to Rhonda and Kenneth Hill of Marshfield. She joins siblings Makailee, 10, and Tressler, 2.

get on top. shaboogie.

Last night I consumed: unknown quantity of Grey Goose, a few glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, four giant New England oysters, asparagus with lumps of crab meat swimming in butter, two kinds of mashed potatoes, half of a filet mignon, half of a lobster, creamed spinach with about an equal cream to spinach ratio, pecan pie smothered in whipped cream, carrot cake with cream cheese icing, and a $20 glass of port wine. If heaven were Ben Benson's steak house I would break out the rosaries and start going to church again.

reason #329407 why my new job ain't so bad

As I sit in my new cubicle on the other side of the office, wearing my new favorite jeans (seriously, they are the shit, and less than $150!) and gazing out at the sparkling Hudson (in a few hours the sun will begin to set--beyootiful,) I'm realizing that things could be worse*. Sure, I have to get up for a babysitting gig at 6:30 every morning to make ends meet (and by ends, I mean money for booze and expensive clothing--thanks, z!) and I'm not any closer to finding that elusive sense of meaning and purpose in my life, but the following conversation with my boss indicates that I am in an environment more suited to my personality (at least for the one more month I'm a temp during which I'll be crossing my fingers that I get hired for real and get me some stock options, whatever those are.) So I had to make reservations for my boss and other work people, myself included, at a famous NYC steakhouse. The only time available was for 45 minutes after my boss wanted the reservation and, as she is not superduper important like Drone's boss, I had to take it. So I called her (she works about 20 feet away from me, but it's aaaall the way around the corner) and said, "So I guess we'll just hang out here until then." She replied, without hesitation, "No, we will just go there and drink." Right-o, boss.

*Yes, I went to the gym last night. Amazing what a lil' serotonin will do.

the sun'll come out, to-mor-row

Despite some meager attempts to have fun this weekend, I am suffering from a major case of the blahs. This is my own damn fault since I haven't touched anything made of spandex in two weeks (except to shake the dustbunnies and hairballs off a pair of shorts and shove them back in a drawer.) As recent medical research suggests, exercise is about as effective as Prozac at raising serotonin levels and, hence, one's mood. So tonight I'm going to spinning class, because the dry mouth and sexual side effects of the aforementioned pill are just not ok. That, and I have no health insurance and am too lazy to go to doctors. I'm also a fan of good old fashioned positive thinking when I'm feeling craptacular. For example, I'm happy that, though far from perfect (or even mediocre, for that matter,) my skin is much better than Brit Brit's. And despite my problems with the little bastards, as far as I know there are no cockroach colonies shacking up in my kitchen appliances. And if I have enough money to pay off enough of my credit card debt to max it out with a plane ticket, I'm going to visit my lil' sis in Chile--land of the really hot people.

oh shandi, you came and you gave without takin'

Leave it to dear friends and reality television to make my day. Drone and I followed through on our Shandi-stalking plan and paid a visit to the Wallgreens on 33rd and 5th. After scouring the main floor and the lower level, I was convinced it was a bust. But there, there in the last aisle we peered down was Shanthrax herself, stocking cosmetics on a shelf overhead. As I am socially inept and prone to giggle fits, I hid around the corner while Drone went up to Shandi, engaged her in conversation, and asked to take pictures. She was nothing but sweet, if not totally freaked out, and told us about signing with an agency and living in New Jersey. (Are there no Walgreenses in Jersey?) Then her manager came by and asked her to go stock something in Aisle 6.

[Note: Despite the disturbingly large difference in head sizes, I do not suffer from encephalitis.]

crap

I'm feeling depressed again. And I can't poop. And I'm seriously pissed off that some women in this office think it's okay to use those ridiculous toilet seat covers that would be unnecessary if everyone would just quit it with the sprinkle-causing hovering and then leave them on the toilet seat so that the next person has to remove them with their bare hands so that the first person's precious back-of-the-thigh skin is spared from germs that wouldn't exist if everyone would just fucking sit down in the first place. Damn, and now I have penis envy too.

my mom said "warsh" once

...as in, "Are you going to warsh the dishes?" Even though my daddy wears a tie to work and I was ordering from the J. Crew catalog as soon as I hit high school, I feel that this shred of white trash heritage and the locations of my birth (Missourah) and childhood (Wiscaansin) qualify me to make sweeping judgments and use slang terms to make fun of my redneck and Midwestern brethren. So here we go...

*Perhaps even more than cheese curds, the Green Bay Packers are Wisconsinites' greatest source of pride. Apparently they have not been playing up to par lately (hell if I'd know,) and my Dad informs me that a wave of depression has hit the state. Good thing fullback Najeh Davenport is around to restore their faith. [via Thighswideshut]

*What's wrong with this picture? And the person who took it? And the person who wrote the caption? And the person who ok-ed it for publication? The Local Paper has some serious catching up to do. [via Newyorkish]

*Suicide bombers at the Jerusalem Sbarro...fake bomb threats at the local mall. I think the Blacktable is onto something. [via FABolis]

at least i'm not married and working at blockbuster

...is my new motto. Because I'm a glass-is-half-full kinda gal. Say it, and just try not to feel better about whatever existential crisis you're having. Thanks, sis. And thanks, sis' friend who is indeed married and working at Blockbuster.

just can't get enough

It's an ANTM bonanza in this city! First, I walked past America's Last Top Model looking pale and sad just a block from my apartment. Then yesterday morning Drone and I made plans to go Shandi-hunting on Thursday evening at the Walmart on 33rd and 5th. THEN last night as I was leaving the office, I crossed paths with Xiomara (my current place of employment hosts celebrities on a daily basis, though usually of the C/D-list variety, and they usually never come up to my floor.) After we passed each other I totally turned around to check her out, and I am pleased to report that her thighs are larger than mine. Given my profound excitement over these encounters, god help me if I ever come face to face with Tyra or Janice.

invaluable impact

I just received the following email from my soul mother's alumni association:

CCW Mentoring Fall 2004 Program Launches in November
Greetings,
Columbia College Women is proud to announce another year of the CCW Mentoring Program! Your involvement in CCW's Mentoring Program will make an invaluable impact on a student's life...You will be notified during the week of November 1 whether or not you have been assigned a protégée, but we would appreciate your participation in the kick-off event even if you are not assigned to a student. To be assigned to a protégée in advance of the kick-off event, you must register by Wednesday, October 27th.

While at first I read this and laughed at the prospect of having a protegee (what a lucky one that would be,) upon further consideration I realized it might not be a bad idea. I wish someone had told me earlier on that if you go straight to school after college you will wish you hadn't and don't let your parents tell you otherwise, if you don't go straight to school you will become seriously lost, depressed, and/or confused for at least a year and remain moderately so for some time thereafter, and if you stick to vodka tonics and eat a substantial meal you will probably not puke, break too many things, or blackout and sleep with men of questionable location on the human-ape continuum. Then again, perhaps there are some things you just have to learn for yourself.

[oh, and in case you care about such things, my weekend was weird and great and CCIBWIMIRLF is awesome]

so...

Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met in Real Life First is coming to visit tonight, and therefore I have spent the day smoking, running to the bathroom, and contemplating what kind of alcoholic beverage I'd like to load up on before he gets here. Here are some insanely cute, awesomely absurd [via cityrag], and fuggily fugly pictures of dogs.

reason #2364 why my new job is better

At the request of my boss and my boss' boss' boss, I just spent the last 30 minutes scouring the internet for a diecast model of a Short Bus. As a dutiful, responsible employee (ha, hahahahaa), I sifted through countless webpages for jam bands called "Shortbus" or some derivation thereof, and finally completed the task. I will be patiently awaiting my promotion and raise in hourly wages.

This little assignment reminds me of one of the first blogs I ever read (a tear...), The Tard Blog. Www.tardblog.com (how am I supposed to capitalize that?) has apparently been taken down because I guess for some ungodly reason a few people found it offensive. Well, someone has mirrored it for you to enjoy in its glorious, hell-in-a-handbasket entirety.

$16/hr

Lately, during the course of my daily blog reading, I've noticed a lot of comments popping up from a guy who signs off as "Jason Mulgrew--Quasi-Internet Celebrity." I thought that this was annoying (still do, actually) and wanted to hate him, but then again I've commited such cardinal blog sins as posting IM conversations and song lyrics so I'm not one to talk. (Only once each though. So sue me. Oh, and just assume that anything cheesy or lame that I write is meant to be tongue-in-cheek. Right.) Anyway, I'm going to be spending the rest of the day reading Mr. Quasi-Internet Celebrity's archives because he's hilarious. Read it all, but if you've ever been a paralegal or have ever known one, read this first.

fucking genius

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haute couture invades the UWS...or not

As FAB pointed out, a brand spanking new Barney's Co-op has arrived at the edgy fashion mecca that is the Upper West Side. While I am thrilled that one of my favorite stores is a mere several blocks from my place of residence, I am more than a little mortified. Ever since E introduced my to Barney's back during the very first Marc by Marc collection, I've suffered a crippling addiction. A little J. Crew here and there just doesn't do it for me anymore. I'm now the type of person who will spend an hour on public transportation to get to a cheap-o Cuban restaurant but is excited that her latest jeans purchase was ONLY $140. (Real World Melanie would soooo never do anything like that.) Oh well, at least I'm not addicted to crack. Anyway, I checked out the store this weekend, bought the aformentioned denim, and made an unsurprising demographic observation. Unlike other Co-ops, which are aimed at the younger, "poorer" crowd, the average client age in this one was about 50. There was even an elderly habit-wearing nun perusing the racks of $500 tweed blazers. We'll see how long this one lasts...

In other fashion news, while rounding the corner on my way home from the 'Ville last Friday, I found myself staring into the shockingly large and pale face of none other than Yoanna House, America's Next Top Aqua-Drops Commercial Actress and Psychology Today Cover Model. Before calling Drone and screaming with glee, I noticed that ANTM totally lies about the girls' heights (5'11" my ample ass,) she was wearing neon green pajama type pants (which leads me to believe she either lives in the area or was going to the Bikram yoga place nearby or something,) and she looked...not so happy. I should've given her some of my burrito.

gina's apartment

Aside from one scream-inducing incident on Dockgoose's bed back in '00, I managed to live in New York City cockroach-free for a good four years. Given that the majority of the places I lived during that time were not exactly new and/or clean, I thought the whole cockroach thing was just a myth. This notion pleased me greatly, since, after large moths and these big black Wisconsin spiders that can jump and run 10 miles per hour and hide in your bed forcing you to sleep on the living room couch for a week, cockroaches freak me out more than anything. (They'd probably be number one or two had 10-year-old me not gotten a moth caught flapping around in her hair, then proceeded to watch Silence of the Lambs at a slumber party, and then suffered a moth infestation in her bedroom fostered by the apparent moth breeding ground that is hamster food.)

Logic once led me to believe that living on the 10th floor of a building would reduce the risk of vermin invasion, but, as I quickly learned last summer, this is not the case. I was welcomed into the wonderful world of roaches when I sat down to pee one night and noticed that my toothbrush had grown moving antennae. Despite nearly passing out from the ensuing sympathetic nervous system spasm, I collected myself enough to grab a magazine and send the cockroach scurrying behind the sink cabinet. After a new toothbrush and a couple more bathroom appearances, I bought myself a can of Raid and used it liberally (I'm waiting patiently for my cancer diagnosis,) as I was still unable to kill the speedy fuckers on my own.

This summer's cockroach experience, though topping out last summer's count with a record-breaking six, has been more positive. The first one helped me with a dating decision (I'm sorry, but failing to stomp on a cockroach that is just waiting for you in the middle of the floor is sooo not manly,) the next three improved my hand-eye coordination and ability to use Frye boots, Listerine, and hand lotion as weapons, the fifth taught me a biology lesson as it flipped over immediately upon Raid exposure, and the sixth just didn't bother testing my master level skills and positioned itself directly in the toilet bowl. I never thought I'd see the proverbial day, but my screams of horror and disgust are slowly being replaced feelings of resourcefulness and power.

However, though thankful for the pride I've gained from continuing to win my own little war on terror, I'm pleased that the summer is almost over and the infidels will (hopefully) soon be leaving my otherwise lovely home. Unless, of course, they learn how to sing and dance. That would be cool.

friday i'm in love

Or not. True to my (self) title as the Queen of Procrastination, I don't do any work all week and then do it all on Friday. While I'm busy logging data into various spreadsheets, read some other stuff:

*Hallelujah, praise the Jesus, liquor and wine can now be sold in NY on Sundays! [via Gothamist]

*Speaking of the son of God, there's this haunted house set up by one of those born again type Christian churches in my ol' hometown. While it's designed to deter the kiddies from destructive behaviors (gag) the special effects are actually very impressive. However, the Local Paper fails to mention what the church clearly considers to be the greatest teen travesty of all (suicide schmuicide.) At the end you're shuffled into a dark, empty room, and a big screen comes down showing the Pastor's head (Heaven's Gate, anyone?) which proceeds to inform you that if you lack a personal relationship with Jesus you are going to hell. Sorry, Jews and, like, several billion other people.

*Speaking of floating heads, here's why I need to learn me some Photoshop. [via Blacktable]

patent pending

After spending some quality time in the real world (sadly, not in the Real World) I've learned that just about anything good that happens to anyone is almost purely a result of prestige and/or connections. Examples include my last job (um, Boss, what's a bond?), Drone's boss' ability to secure a restaurant reservation anytime, anywhere while fabulous FAB can't get a resy at Per Se at 11:00 pm on a Monday, and the fact that Lindsay Lohan has been allowed into a recording studio. Clearly, many new products to be purchased by you, the consumer, are also a result of such insider connections. How else do you explain the existence of UGG clothing (unlike the boots, unflattering AND impractical,) and Febreeze Scentstories, the air-freshener that lets you "play scents like you play music...a new scent every 30 minutes...a new experience on every disc!" While I'm a major devotee of the signature Febreeze product (laundry and dry cleaning be damned,) this has got to be the single stupidest invention I have ever heard of.

if you want to live low, live low

*WTF? Despite having visited New York in May for a charity event, Cat Stevens was recently deemed a terror threat on a flight from London to DC. The flight was then diverted to Maine so that he could be removed from the plane and shipped back across the pond. Two questions: 1. Is Mr. Peace Train a threat just because of his relgious beliefs or is there some dirty secret? 2. If Yusuf is really believed to be a threat, why was he allowed to get on the plane in the first place? Makes me feel real safe.

*My little honorary Chilean sister just sent me a link to the best Onion article in recent memory, and it pretty much sums up the state of popular music. Please read this, Maroon 5.

*And now, the moment we have all been waiting for! Well, at least me, one or two of my friends, and Midwestgrrl. Round three of America's Next Top Aqua-Drops Commercial Actress! UPDATE: It appears that someone is even more excited than I! Drone has already expertly analyzed each shining star and given his final predictions. Now who's going to make a betting pool?

*POP!*

All major decisions I've ever made in my life happened in a split second with minimal to no deliberation. After having the taco salad hot lunch on my first day of high school I stopped eating meat and didn't do so again for eight years. When I was 14 and passed ol' Corrumbia on a tour bus I declared to my dad that I was going to go there for college. And my most serious relationship thus far commenced with the question "What's your name again?" after my first drunken blackout. You may be shocked to learn that lately I've been a little stressed and preoccupied with the idea of finding, like, a meaning and purpose in my life. I should have known that all the worry was for nothing, and that such an important decision simply could not be made through research, evaluation of options, or trial and error.

This morning it was decided definitively that I am going to get a PhD in Clinical Psychology (that's research, not necessarily shrinking.) This was not a new idea, but I'd always thought of excuses, like the fact that psych people are all crazy (but who isn't, really,) or that NYC is full of fabulous artsy fartsy jobs I'd be missing out on (but wouldn't be good at anyway,) or that I got a C in a psych class...and a mediocre GPA...and never made myself known to any professors (but the jock life was so worth it.) However, while failing to pay attention during today's Monday Morning Marketing Meeting, my graduate school application essay quite literally wrote itself. Also, I am the queen of filling in bubbles with Number 2 pencils (or with mouse clicks, now that we're so technologically advanced and all.) Best of all, the weight of having to sift through this incredibly complicated and daunting process pales in comparison to the complete lack of weight I felt in the lost bubble in which I've been floating around for the last couple years.

Okay, enough about me. Here's a little service journalism for y'all:

*If you live in New York City and enjoy food, go to Cafecito as soon as humanly possible. Order a bunch of appetizers and a pitcher (or two) of sangria. You will leave very happy and with plenty of cash left in your wallet.

*If you like vintage clothing, go to Kakkoii Mono and mention my site. You will get 23% off (thanks, KM!)

is it hazy out, or is that just my eye gloss?

Well well, what have we here? Another 'osphere-wide blog slump! Given what happened when spring turned to summer, I am not surprised by this as it is far too quickly turing from summer to fall. I've tried to write something every day, much like when I continued to compete in crew races on top of crippling insomnia, bronchitis, and a torn rib muscle. Okay, maybe not like that, but the point is I've tried and failed miserably to construct anything longer than a paragraph for no tangible reason. Things I have attempted to write about this week:

*The tragic corporatization of my beloved alma mater, as evidenced by the fact that almost all of the old staples, like little independent delis, bookstores, and best bagel places in the entire fucking city have been replaced by shiny, expensive boringness. Also, this photo I found on 114th of FAB's old flame looking a little too excited to get an autograph from the cutie patootie Hanson brother.

*The slippery slope into high maintenance girldom, as evidenced by my rapid trajectory from being an eyeliner and pedicure virgin to one who has a bikini wax appointment tomorrow at the place Gwyneth goes, and will not be getting a landing strip because that is sooooo passe. Also, the fact that I have kept one nausea-inducing girl on my AIM buddy list, simply so that I can read away messages like "At home in the Chi! Laying out and then getting mani's and pedi's before tonight!" to remind myself that I will never, ever, for the love of Jesus reach the bottom of the slope.

*The state of this season's fashion, including the rash of annoying articles about how slut clothes (i.e., low-slung jeans that when worn properly are highly flattering) are out and modest clothes (i.e., formless tents that only look good on supermodels or people who actually lived in the 1940's) are in. I'd link to an article but I've come across about 2,938,423 lately. Also, a corollary to this phenomenon--Gina's Ugg Theorem, which states that a., Uggs are ugly and unflattering, b., the reason Uggs became so popular is because they look cool on hot celebrities and supermodels, c., the reason they look cool on hot celebrities and supermodels is because they look gorgeous IN SPITE OF what is on their feet, and their gorgeousness is perhaps emphasized by the fact that they can get away with this, and d., Uggs on pretty much anyone else look ridiculous, making for a slew of fashion victims of a magnitude unseen since permed, poofy bangs and Aquanet. (Note, Gina's Ugg Theorem also applies to those flouncy little mini-skirts that should only be worn by those with no hips, ass, or leg muscle/fat whatsoever.)

Holy shit, I wrote something. Also, in case you'd given up on my dear friend Drone, he is back in full, hilarious form.

bring on the googlers

One thing I love about my new job--after Casual Fridays and free Snyder's Pretzel Rods in the break room--is access to Instant Messenger. May the Company Computer Nazis never penetrate the west side of Midtown. Yesterday's enlightening conversation with bored-in-class law student:

RaeganJ: so did you get the dolphin sex website that i sent you?
gina n betweena: yes yes
gina n betweena: where did you find that?
RaeganJ: how fucking creepy was that
gina n betweena: i know
RaeganJ: my freind justin
gina n betweena: for some reason this year i've learned several times that people allowing their animals to have sex with them is a very real phenomenon
RaeganJ: yeah. who knew
gina n betweena: i'd never thought about it before
RaeganJ: but apparently there is this whole zoophilia subculture
gina n betweena: but apparently there are people who will let their dogs/parakeets/whatever hump them until they, um, finish
[great minds...]
RaeganJ: yeah
gina n betweena: exactly. at least it's not the people having sex with the animals, but still...
RaeganJ: the thing i thought was funny was that the dolphin/parakeet/dog actually does finish
gina n betweena: i know. so weird. i also saw a thing online about a thing that horses hump so that breeders can collect sperm
RaeganJ: i knew about that
RaeganJ: cows do it too
RaeganJ: cause boy cows will only have sex with a girl cow once
RaeganJ: after that they refuse
gina n betweena: really? i had no idea...
RaeganJ: new cow or bust baby
gina n betweena: they didn't teach us that on our school field trips to the dairy farm
RaeganJ: you have to stick around a little longer for that one
RaeganJ: they also don't like the cows/horses/pigs to have actual sex because they can hurt one another
gina n betweena: ah. interesting. guess they wouldn't do well in the wild
RaeganJ: not so much
RaeganJ: apparently, modern breeding techniques have made the animals so different that they can't even make out with one another
[I love how Raegan refers to any and all sexual activity as "making out." Makes it all sound so innocent...Also, what did people do at work before the internet? Anyone?]