let's accessorize!

It's Friday and my brain is fried and totally in the gutter. Via JC Report, a weekly email newsletter on "global fashion trends," comes articles on Chinese luxury goods, the designer hotel boom, Azzedine Alaia shoes, and The Bulge(TM). This latter item is a "very realistic looking, flexible insert [that] sits snugly atop your natural assets and provides significant increase to your manhood." Ummm. Errrr...I mean...uhhh. Ahem. Ok, that rotating picture is strangely captivating. But anyway, like excessively padded bras, this device poses a dilemma. If the purpose of it is to attract members of the sex to which you are attracted, once you've succeeded wouldn't the poor sucker be a little disappointed?

In other news, I just rediscovered this British online shoe store. With a selection more impressive in size than even The Bulge(TM), reasonable prices, and cool stuff for dudes too (Ten-year-old Boy is my preferred style of dress,) I'm tempted to stop resisting and just get a shoe fetish already.

oh baby baby

The Company Computer Nazis have been overthrown! Gawker and Gothamist and precious Blogger are back to keep me company until it's time to blow this popstand. I've expanded the link list with a couple boy blogs that I find highly entertaining (and, most importantly, extensive and frequently updated.)

*Thighs Wide Shut. Fills the hole left by the blockage of Whatevs, over which the CCN have not yet relinquished control. Also, this picture is hilarious.

*My Blog is Poop. Rivals the tastelessness of my own title. This post, using baseball as a metaphor for hooking up, is particularly thought provoking. After hearing both sides of the argument, I'm still not sure where I stand on the Home Game vs. Away Game question. Perhaps it would be more cut and dry for me if I didn't sleep in a twin-size loft bed.

i love the new britney

If you haven't already, go to Stereogum immediately and check out the best Brit Brit pic ever. It is amazing on at least ten levels. And don't miss the comments--especially the one by "Gluehead." I burst out laughing and drew ire from Big Important Chicago Boss Who Is Actually Very Small as he walked behind me, but I don't care because I'm leaving soon! Muahaha.

the relay from chile

The one thing I regret not doing in college is a study abroad program. I was too busy injuring muscles I didn't know existed. My little sis, however, is taking the opportunity to immerse herself in the words and ways of a foreign culture by spending six months in Santiago, Chile. Just days into her trip, she is having new and exciting experiences. Behold the email I received from her just this very morning:

Hey, just wanted to let you know that last night I experienced what I may have to label the most awkward moment of my life--and there have been many candidates for this honor. I don´t know if I mentioned that my host sister, Monica (aka Kiki) got a boob job yesterday. This seemed weird in itself because I would love to be so small and pretty and cute and I don´t think her looks need to be improved in the slightest, but I guess she always dreamed of being more chesty so whatever.

Anyway, she came home around nine last night and I was told to go up and visit. So I did, and she was very tired and in a lot of pain but apparently quite happy. So I asked her if it hurt a lot and such and then couldn´t think of anything more to say, so I stood around until my host mother, Monica the Elder, exiled me and Pablo the bf from the room so she could change her newly enhanced daughter´s clothes. I hung out in the hall trying to decide if I should go downstairs until finally M the E came out and invited us to re-enter the invalid´s room. Kiki was lying in bed with her eyes shut, smiling beatifically, and Pablo got onto the bed with her and my host mother cleaned off a chair and told me to sit down. So I sat there, staring at Kiki and trying to decide if I should say something. I could almost feel Pablo wondering why the hell I didn´t leave, and I was certainly wondering the same thing myself but I couldn´t figure out how to gracefully make my exit. Finally Kiki´s older brother Cristian walked in, and when he left I hopped up and followed him.

Honestly, I never thought I´d find myself hanging out in a room with somebody recovering from a boob job and said somebody´s scary boyfriend. Incidentally, Kiki doesn´t look all that different. Maybe it takes a couple days to reach full effectiveness. Or maybe you have to add water or something.

Thanks, kiddo. You just keep on learnin'...

temper tantrum time

I want one of these.

I do not want one of these.

I feel like a two-year-old. A two-year-old who can drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, and consume five-pound burritos.



Actually, I think I had more drive as a two-year-old (no pun intended.) According to my parents, this picture was not staged as I was determined to drive the car. In grade school, I took summer school classes for fun. In high school, I took more Advanced Placement tests than anyone else in the entire fucking state. In college, I woke up at 6:00 am, six days a week, nine months a year to haul a 200 pound boat around the Harlem River. All because I just felt like it. Now, I continuously dent my futon watching television shows with titles such as Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy.

Alas, I am no longer a two-year-old. It's time to stop the whinin' and do something (really, anything will suffice) with my ooooh so tragic life before I annoy the crap out of myself. I simply need to find a healthy balance between the masochism of my past and the hedonism of my present. Now that I've fully experienced both, how hard can it be?

weekend (not so) craziness

Ahhh New York...so much to do! But this was one of those weekends in which I didn't want to do any of it, and it was fantastic. On Friday I was planning on having a roof party, but the weather gods weren't havin' it. Plus, as you may have noticed, I wasn't really in the mood. So I went out with a few good friends and drank lots of Brooklyn Lager. In the timeless words of the Cars, it was just what I needed.



On Saturday I stayed in bed until sometime in the late afternoon and had a chat with Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met In Real Life First Thank You Very Much. After discussing the nerd factor of our fling (seriously, what’s the point of a fling if you can’t make out with the person? yet I’m so drawn to that little MSN bubble man,) I left CCIBWIMIRLFTYVM for a dinner of Ethiopian delights with Perplexa. Why mushy vegetables eaten with bread that’s spongier than that lo-carb crap is so transcendently good is beyond me. It’s definitely worth that special feeling you get in your stomach afterwards, which we nursed by reading Us magazine (Justin is soo not cheating on Cameron, I’m serious guys) and watching a National Geographic special entitled “Girl Power” which featured promiscuous female macaques, bisexual bonobos, and spontaneously sex-changing fish. Then I continued to rot my brain whilst Perplexa went off to some torturous sounding seven hour production at Lincoln Center armed with a little treat from my medicine cabinet.

Sunday was all about napping and laundry and television so I won't bore you with the details, but I must just say that I want to marry Sacha Cohen.

blue and gold

[Memo to the City of New York: It's neato that Midtown is all shiny and clean and ready to host hoardes of fannypack-wearing/overly-but-strangely dressed tourists. All those smooth, marbled sidewalks look purty and all, but they are so damn slippery when wet--especially for those wearing flipflops or similarly-soled footwear. I am now suffering back pain from tensing up during the fifteen or so times I nearly fell while walking five blocks to the subway. I'll take the old school gritty concrete, thank you very much.]

Today is dark and rainy and all around disgusting. Oh yeah, and it's my birthday. Happy birthday to me. But not only is it my birthday, it is my GOLDEN birthday. For those who did not consider this a momentous occasion as a child like I did, this means I am turning TWENTY-THREE on the TWENTY THIRD. I've been in one of my mini-depressions since last night but am slowly snapping out of it, thanks to some kind words from friends and...the package of cookies from my mom that the UPS man just brought to my door during that ellipsis.

In what I just know was a tribute to me, today good ol' Pitchfork posted some lyrics from a lovely My Morning Jacket song that is coincidentally entitled "Golden." Like my mood, it is melancholy and kind of sad but not hopeless. If I were more skilled I'd post the mp3, but I am not so I will be a chopped nut covered cheeseball and post the lyrics.

Watchin' a stretch of road,
Miles of light explode
Driftin' off a thing
I'd never done before
Watchin' a crowd roll in
Out go the lights it begins
A feelin' in my bones
I never felt before...

Mmm...people always told me
That bars are dark and lonely
And talk is often cheap
And filled with air
Sure, sometimes they thrill me
But nothin' could ever chill me
Like the way they make
The time just disappear

Feelin' you are here again
Hot on my skin again
Feelin' good's a thing
I'd never known before
What does it mean to feel
Millions of dreams come real
A feelin' in my soul
I'd never felt before

And you always told me
No matter how long it holds me
If it falls apart
Or makes us millonaires
You'll be right here forever
We'll go thru this thing together
And on heaven's golden shore
We'll lay our heads

is it friday yet?

*He told me he was 18, I swear. [via everywhere by now]

*It's people like the woman so excellently panned in this Salon article that make me want to retreat even further into my little liberal NYC/blogland bubble. Or, like, change the world or something.

*Like statistician Dorothee Fochs, I too was unaware that chimps were hunted for meat. I'll eat just about anything (kangaroo, unidentifiable soy products, brussels sprouts--only with a lot of butter) but that's just a little too canibalistic.

*Further proof that Canadians are weird. Gotta love 'em though. [via Newyorkish]

ain't nobody gonna burst my bubble

Project Don't Get Deported to Wisco began officially today with a trip to an NYC staffing agency. I was a little concerned about going in for an interview and computer testing given that I slept all of five minutes last night. (Note to self and others: Do not spray half the contents of a can of Raid inside a 144 square foot space. Carcinogenic fumes are not, in fact, preferable to one measly cockroach.) However, the woman I met with (who assisted Drone in his "industry change" as well) was very friendly, gave me resume-spiffing suggestions, and said I "presented well," dark undereye circles and all.

Next was the testing. Three 30-minute exams on Word, Excel, and Powerpoint followed by a typing exam. These basically confirmed what I've known all along--I should be a professional test-taker, if only such a thing existed. Eighty-one words per minute, baby, with zero errors. Boo. Yah.

So then I get on the elevator all pumped from my proven (but feigned) computer expertise. A man, presumably from the agency, noticed that I was carrying a score report. "Don't worry," he said, "people who do really well on tests suck at actual jobs."

Fucker.

i <3 nyc

I just had oysters, foie gras, cheese, and wine for dinner. Shortly thereafter, I saw a cockroach and doused my little abode with Raid. I don't know if it's the fat or the fumes, but I'm feeling too woozy to go to bed.

budduppa parking light

I don't really feel like writing cover letters at the moment, so I'll tell you about the crazy ass dream I had this morning in between smacking the alarm clock and finally waking up five minutes after I usually get on the subway. Also, thanks to Drone for his little update, as I know he is a very busy bee over at Better Than That Other Guy Who Has a Similar Business Headquarters. Pure Protein goodness is forthcoming.

As Joni Mitchell (or was it Carly Simon? are they really different people?) so astutely pointed out, you don't know what you've got till it's gone. I've learned that this is especially true of regular sex (well, to be honest, I've been learning this one the hard way for the last three years,) the ability to use hands painlessly for things such as grasping a pen and washing one's hair (despite its snooty reputation, rowing is quite a savage, bloody sport,) and sleep, including all the good things that come with it, like white eyeballs and coherent thoughts (I am no stranger to sleep deprivation, the degree of which, apparently, is highly correlated with my parenthesis and comma usage.) An insomniac extraordinaire, I rarely enter into the REM stage, much less remember the dreams I have when I happen to get there. This morning, however, I had quite an excitingly strange dream that I only remembered once E mentioned her dream about copulating with Lance Armstrong in a grocery store parking lot.

Basically, the dream got good and memorable when I received an assignment from an unidentified old man to go to outer space. With the assistance of an unidentified older woman and my little sister, I was to fly to Venus in a little red two-door sedan (not a Corvette, sadly) and secretly plant a computer chip inside of a yellow sportscar that was parked there. If my unconscious experiences are any indication, flying into space in a small gas-powered vehicle is at first terrifying and then fun once you realize you aren't going to die. So we arrived on Venus after bypassing the sun (naturally,) and I put the very important computer chip in the car. It started emitting a pulsing light and we were detained by some celebrity who I think was Star Jones. Turns out, Venus is home to hoards of B-list celebrities who are fed up with earthly craziness. Jared Leto was there too.

According to a handy online dream dictionary, "Celebrity dreams show the strong urge to find a place within a group that is emotionally secure and creatively satisfying." Furthermore, "Seeing Venus in your dream, [sic] symbolizes love, desire, fertility, beauty, and femininity." Yes, Online Dream Dictionary, I do desire emotional security, creative satisfaction, and, um, desire. As does everyone else in the freakin' universe. I blame my haywire brain on the single most disturbing 30 minutes of television I have ever experienced--last night's episode of Six Feet Under.

Wow, I'm Fillin' In for her "G"-ness (AKA Please stand by...)

Hola, Blogers. This is Drone, here (shameless plug). Gina has authorized me to publish her official daily statement on her behalf, as her work folk have digitally barred her from posting. Hot off the presses from Gina:
 
...[T]he company computer nazis took away blogger, gawker and gothamist, and I'm very sad but will blog from home (when i'm not out on hot dates, of course.) 
 
Gina has promised me a protein bar for this favor. We shall all chase her with sticks in the event that she does not make good on this guarantee. Oh yeah, Gina's birthday is this Friday! Happy two three, G. 

at least he didn't do the running man

I don't know so much about drugs.  I know what chemicals are doing what in what part of the brain, but as far as how they feel or what they make people do I'm fairly clueless.  However, I recently learned that using eight different drugs simultaneously and going out in public is not such a good idea. 
 
It wouldn't be a Gina/Perplexa night at Mercury Lounge without something weird happening.  Last night, the Delays played their first show in NYC.  Their album reviews are less than stellar, but, derivative schmerivative, they have some damn good songs, and the lead singer is so itty bitty and cute and British with a voice that alternates between low and raspy and crystal clear falsetto, and I wished I could wrap him up, stick him in my pocket, and pull him out to sing for me anytime I'm feeling sad.  For a Manhattan show the audience was fairly enthusiastic, but one gentleman stood out, to say the least.  
 
If you've heard the Delays, or you listen to the songs on their website (do it!), you will see that, while upbeat, they don't exactly inspire bouncing-off-the-walls dancing craziness.  The non-descript backpack-wearing dude in front of me begged to differ, as he moved spastically the entire time and created a three foot radius of empty space in which he flailed about.   Here are just some of the dance moves performed by this guy to the confusion, delight, and horror of those around him:
 
*The Robot
*Overhead clapping at inappropriate times
*Pretending to shoot heroin into his arm with his finger
*Pogoing, lots and lots of pogoing
*Ballroom dancing with an imaginary partner
*The dance the undead do in the Thriller video
*That thing where you wrap your arms around yourself so that from behind it looks like someone's making out with you
 
I hope he made it home ok.

what day is it?

For some reason I have not been able to go to bed at a reasonable hour since getting back to New York. I don't know if it's excitement about new boys (who, refreshingly, are my age, unaware of the blogosphere, and willing to admit an unironic love of cheesy music) a plethora of upcoming social events (most of which I'll probably be too lazy to attend but, hey, it's nice to have options,) or finding a new job (yeah, um, i'll get on that right after lunch...) Or maybe it's just because I'm smoking too much, not exercising, and dozing off after work. In any case, I think my point is that I'm tired and you should amuse yourself with things other than my blathering:

*BLT candles. [via numberonehitsong]

*Silly laws, including a not so shocking one (#10) from The Second Fattest State in the Union.

*I'd pretty much forgotten about Delia's (sorry...Delia*s) after it was replaced by J. Crew in 10th grade as my source for clothing that was unavailable at the local mall. But now that I will no longer be overpaid for being underworked, I think I might just start buying stuff from them again. It's like Urban Outfitters, only priced more appropriately for the quality (or lack thereof) of the goods.

*See if you can tell the difference between these two photos. This mental exercise will surely help wake you up should you find yourself nodding off at work. [via Cynical-C, hate him not me]

has anyone ever told you you look just like...

Well whuddya know, my doppelganger is on the cover of my favorite magazine. Favorite largely because the writers don't seem to have a stockpile of unclever euphemisms for male body parts, and it features interesting clothes that one might actually afford. Not that I need any encouragement in that department. Anyway, ol' Jules is "talking about British dudes." Oh I could say a thing or two about British dudes, but I'll leave that to my dear Fat Asian Baby. Hehehe.

very important news roundup

*Stoned Delaware Student Gets Lost in Connecticut: "Police said Cunningham, of Dover, Del., confessed that eating an entire bag of mushrooms, 'probably wasn't a good idea.'"

*NYT explains my most recently acquired vice: "Ultraviolet rays can make the time spent on a tanning bed more pleasurable, a study has found. 'These people are getting their little hit of UV,' one researcher said."

*Gawker is right on the money: "Morgan Stanley is the third Wall Street firm to pay big bucks [to sexually harassed female employees] -- Smith Barney and Merrill Lynch have previously paid out more than $100 mil combined. This pattern could very well lead one to believe that Wall Street boys would much rather be assholes and pay out millions of dollars than keep their money by merely not behaving like retarded frat boys while at work."

*The Morning News describes various dog breeds. And now I so want a pit bull named Mandy.

jesus <3 marshfield

During my senior year of high school, there was a big time controversy going on in lil' old Marshfield. There had always been a big statue of Jesus in this public park on the highway on one end of town, but one day a man reported this breach of the Constitution to the Freedom from Religion Foundation and all hell broke loose, so to speak. The man's name was Clarence Reindeers. Clarence Reindeers' argument--that seeing the religious imagery made him physically ill--didn't hold much water, sadly, as he lived across the street from Saint Joseph Hospital and cemetery. So the city did what any law abiding entity would do and sold the patch of land on which Jesus stands to a private party, put state and national flags next to it, and painted it bright colors.



Meanwhile, on the other end of town, another Jesus watches over something very special.



Here are some other pics from my impromptu vacay that having nothing to do with Jesus:

At least Daisy the Dog thinks Mom's hemp clothing is hot



In Madison we sat by the lake and watched kids race canoes. All three canoes sunk and it was really funny.



My baby, Babe



Daisy, who was six months old when we got her because nobody wanted to take the puppy with the underbite.

:)

Sorry if I've scared anyone with the moroseness in some of the latest posts. While I may only be able to chew with one side of my mouth until at least Wednesday, I am, in fact, quite relieved and happy now. The prospect of just going to a different place every day, and perhaps (oh please, God) having a job that commences later than 7:45 a.m. is quite exciting. (And a cute boy is taking me to dinner tonight. I didn't think people did that anymore. Hope the food is soft...)

i have no job and a hole in my tooth. this "adult" thing is just not for me.

I have safely returned from the land of unironic trucker hats. For the first time in the eleven years that I've been coming to New York, seeing the skyline from the plane made me neither warm nor fuzzy. I took one look at it, snarled, and turned my attention to the Queens side. There are lots of houses with those round backyard swimming pools there.

As anticipated, getting to work this morning was a task completed only with constant pacifying, in the form of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to get out the door and to Starbucks, and iced grande soy latte (grande soy iced latte?) on the train, and a cigarette from the train station to the building. I thought I'd be sitting around all morning terrified, but around 10:00 I heard the magic words: "Gina, follow me to the back." Except for the nasty HR lady who said that if I were her daughter she would have smacked me silly for running off like I did (I'm no parenting expert, but I doubt that technique would work very well on lost/confused 22-year-olds...bitch) the conversation went very well. Mainboss is simply a wonderful human being, and he was very understanding and sympathetic to my unhappy state and the fact that I am not the kind of person who does well here. I decided against continuing to work on a scary warning/probationary status, and now I have two weeks to find someone who wants to pay me. And to go to the dentist, finally, before I lose my health insurance.

I'm daunted by this task given my pathetic lack of job-hunting and interviewing experience, but right now I feel so much lighter, and not just because I've lost about five pounds on the Mom's Wholesome Cooking/Scared Shitless About How To Make Money and What To Do With My Life Diet. Hmmm, perhaps I could devote my life to eradicating that Atkins nonsense...

at least there aren't so many bugs in nyc

I was going to post some self-indulgent drivel about how utterly hopeless I think my life may be, but I kind of got it out of my system while out mowing the lawn and getting mauled by mosquitos on every non-DEET-slathered patch of skin. Plus, no one needs another Gloomy Gus.

*The first sentence says it all. "The beer gods were looking after Patrick Troyer on Wednesday when three kegs of Wisconsin Amber lager crossed Troyer's path on his way to work."

*Reason #2938470239 why I love my sister. While out walking the dogs today, she told me a story: "Earlier when I was walking to my haircut, I passed by a big old guy with three girls, and they were all carrying stacks of paper. They handed me a piece and said they were opening a new Baptist church and that I should come check it out. I didn't know what to do with the flyer, and there were no garbage cans around. I was passing by the Presbyterian church, and I hung it on their door." [I am now in possession of said flyer, as it was hanging on the Via Family door as well. Just to warn you heathens out there, if you do not know for sure that you are going to Heaven, then there is a good chance that your eternal home will not be Heaven.]

*Oh goody, an inane patriotic poem. This must get an entire page in the newspaper!: "Jim Schecklman woke early one morning with words flowing through his mind. Within about 20 minutes, Schecklman composed, I, American, a poem to honor the troops deployed around the world." [I wonder if he was inspired by the upcoming Will Smith blockbuster, I, Robot...]

*You know those heinous scrunchies with fake hair on them?



People wear those here.

Alrightie, time to go shower. My DEET grease-perfume is making me a little woozy. Guess I'll post again on Monday. If my parents manage to drag me kicking and screaming onto the plane, that is.

i like music and writing and clothes and food and aminals

Today I took a little roadtrip to Madison with Katie, the best friend from high school. We sat outside by the lake and ate (well I did at least) an absurd amount of ice cream with our friend Dustin, whom I hadn't seen since the 90's. He is about to head off to Berkeley to get a Ph.D. in chemical engineering. Hot damn. Dustin's that winning combo of extremely smart, extremely hard-working, and extremely down to earth, and I'm so happy for him. It feels good to know that some people have their shit together, even as I'm still contemplating picking up shit for a living. This brings me to what I've been thinking about in the car all day, which is how to make enough money to stay in New York. Wisconsin's Best Small City! will always be here, so I might as well give it the college try. Here's the list of ideas so far. Further suggestions are more than welcome, but keep in mind that my goal at this point is simply to have an occupation which does not make my brain drip out of my ears.

*Temping. I'm not a big fan of office jobs, but at least the office would be constantly changing. Plus, it pays well enough, and I can type and do mindless, repetitive tasks better than the average monkey.

*Dog-walking/Rickshaw-driving. These go in the same category because they're both the same kind of subservient. Bonus points for the inherent exercise, as I'm sure as hell not going to be able to afford my gym membership.

*Selling my body. No, not like that. There's a lot of research going on in ol' New York, and subjects are always needed. I once got 60 bucks to lie in an MRI thingy for 20 minutes. Also, I saw cold hard proof that I have no major brain deformitites! Only problem with this is that the big bucks go to the druggies, and I've yet to acquire a coke habit. Darn.

*An obvious choice to make some decent interim money is the food service industry. Fancy restaurants are out. Been there, done that. I am not hostess/waitress material. I worked in a little coffee shop once and liked it, but the pay is not so good. Then there's bartending, which I think I could do, but I have no experience and stupidly neglected to take the Columbia University Bartending Course when it was so convenient.

*Tutoring. Small children scare me, so babysitting is not an option, but I have a small, exaggeratable amount of tutoring experience. I was good at school, and my love for multiple choice tests is a little beyond normal, the evidence of which I will shamelessly waive in the face of anyone considering hiring me. Problem with this is finding work independent of an agency. There is no room to share the wealth right now.

Okay, that's about all I've considered much as far as temporary work goes. Oh, I also like to paint--walls, not canvases. Hmm. Anyway, it would be neato to have a real job, or go to graduate school, but if I'm going to spend any more large blocks of time somewhere I'd want it to be leading to something. And I HAVE NO STINKIN' CLUE what that something could be.

it's half-full, damnit

I could go on and on about how my life's been turned upside down (cue early 90's rap beat--nooow this is a story aaall about how...nevermind,) but I don't have any energy left for pessimism. Here are the things about yesterday that were awesome:

*Lunch with my best friend from high school at Applebee's. We both ordered wraps off the "Weight Watchers" section of the menu. Then we devoured a gigantic hunk of apple pie smothered in ice cream and caramel sauce.

*Finding a cute, bar-worthy shirt at Target for $2.24. Good to know that I can still shop when I'm sans income. Elisabeth Hasselbeck ain't got nuthin' on me.

*Taking Mickey the Horse out for a spin after picking up my sister from her riding lesson. Like any sport, watching people who know what they're doing makes it look so easy. However, riding requires just as much precision as, say, rowing or perhaps even more since your vehicle is an independently mobile animal. (Though for those who've rowed on the Harlem River, I think it's an even comparison.)

*Mom's foccaccia pizza. It's so simple--pizza crust, sliced potatoes, crispy onions--but for some reason it's one of my favorite meals ever. Carbalicious!

*A fireside chat with Dad about life 'n stuff. Though I should mention that while it was indeed near the fireplace, there was no fire, and we realized that the same two birch logs have been in that thing since we moved in 16 years ago.

*Falling asleep with my Babe curled up behind my knees.

if only the real world were like "the real world"

So bossman is not happy. In fact, he is quite pissed. As he should be, because I seriously fucked up. It's not that I think that I should know what I want to do with my life at this early stage, but it doesn't make having no goals and purpose whatsoever any easier. I'll be back in NYC next week, and let's just say there's a good chance I'll be back in good ol' Marshfield not long after that.

crrrack

Whew, that was a close one. I knew I was a goner after I got in the family minivan, had trouble adjusting the steering wheel, and required tremendous restraint not to chew off parental heads because of their retardeduselesspieceofcrapsteeringwheel!!! That drama was soon under control, and while rocking out to Matchbox Twenty and assorted Top 40 Hits on the way to the Wal-Mart Supercenter, the only thought in my head was of how nice that first drag would feel. Then I almost hit another minivan, and the admonishing honk snapped me out of my daydream. But just for a moment.

I was forced to explore the Wal-Mart while waiting for a prescription to be filled. (Just 15 minutes! Take that, Duane Reade!) Man that place is enormous. There were more mullets and cameltoes than I'd care to mention to distract me from my nicotine fantasies, but I was still sure I'd be buying a $3.20 pack of Marlboro Lights in a few minutes. On the way back to the pharmacy, I noticed a lack of cigarettes at the checkout counters. Guess I'd have to drive up the road to Weiler's Convenience Store. Then I paid for the prescription (just some zit creme, no worries,) which cost the exact amount of cash I had in my wallet. Now came the big decision. Pay with credit card to save the cash for the Marlboros, or pay with cash and feel special for having the best willpower in the world? Since I've been reading Lolita all day, I asked myself, What would Humbert Humbert do? I don't think it's the best idea to adopt the thought processes of an insane murderous pedophile, but, nevertheless, I took the routine coincidence as a sign of something greater and emptied my wallet. Then I drove home about 20 mph over the speed limit and made a beeline for one of Dad's local microbrewery beers. It is delicious and refreshing, but it would be even nicer with a cig.

quaker oat squares topped with "rainforest granola" and soymilk for breakfast

All of a sudden I'm out in Dairyland at a rehab center in the form of my parents' 1960's three-bedroom ranch-style house. I woke up in NYC Saturday morning feeling like utter crap after yet another night of having a little too much fun for my own good. I started to think about all the people who were away for the holiday weekend with their families and friends. Rather than planning some elaborate vacation as I'd previously intended, I decided it would be nice to spend some time at home this summer relaxing. Then I remembered that my sister will soon be departing for the other end of the world, and there is no way I would spend a week in Wisconsin's Best Small City without a partner in sarcasm. Three hours after a little visit to Orbitz, I was on a plane.

My return flight isn't until this Sunday, so I'm taking this rare time of zero responsibility to do a little physical, mental, and emotional detox. Step One is to kick the nicotine addiction. I'm approaching Hour 50 right now, and, well, it sucks. Despite the profound fatigue, dry mouth, dizziness, headaches, and extreme bloatedness, I've managed to get into a good book (haven't read one of those things in over a year, and, surprise to no one who knows me, my first venture back into the world of literacy is by a dead Russian guy) watch a very dated but entertaining Clint Eastwood movie (hot damn, they just don't make men like that anymore) and take my girl Babe out for a walk (she is a certified doggy senior citizen but was dragging me through the woods like a hyperactive puppy.)

So, given my rather catatonic and uncomfortable state (yes, Mom, I'm just tired from traveling,) my goals for today, Day Two, are to ride the stationary bike, make more progress in the book, compose a compelling e-mail to my boss such that I don't get fired for my sudden departure, and not be too unbearably cranky. That is all. Perhaps in a day or two I will be able to put on non-pajama pants and leave the house for a little bowling or shopping extravaganza at Target.

Alrightie, I'm off to the basement gym. Since I hardly packed anything, I'll be exercising in my mom's t-shirt and shorts. They are both made of hemp.

bye bye, NY

Mary-Kate totally should have come here instead. I don't know what they're giving her in Utah, but it can't be better than doggy kisses, backrubs, and homemade oatmeal pancakes with fresh-picked strawberries and maple syrup from, like, an actual tree.

sausage and ponies

The weekend is so close I can almost taste the beer and various grilled meats. I'll be spending it on the island of Manhattan, which, save for a couple trips to Brooklyn, I haven't left in months. This makes me sad, but at least for a whopping 3.5 days I will be free from balding middle-aged white dudes who call each other "brother" with a straight face.

Also, I just found this link and thought I'd take yesterday's nostalgia kick back a few more notches. As a kid I was a bit of a tomboy--never wore dresses (except the plaid jumpers I was forced to wear to school every day,) played lots of sports, and most definitely was not a Barbie girl, nor in a Barbie world. But I fucking LOVED these things. My favorite was made out of orange glittery plastic, and my mom bought it for me at ShopKo after I got my blood drawn for the first time and only kicked ONE of the four nurses brought in to hold me down.

sex and the city: the fake ID edition

Once upon a time, the Summer of 2001, to be exact, my home was below 14th street. Ellen, Chef Steph, and I lived in a prison-like NYU dorm called Third North, while FAB lived above the Subway (the sandwich shop and the train) on 14th and 1st. Dr. Dre's Chronic 2001 was our soundtrack as we lived, we learned, and we drank. A lot.

*The Alannas. As I said, three of us lived in the dorm. The dorm's suites, however, were for four people. I pitied the fourth girl before I even met her, as I sure as hell would not want to share a small living space with three girls who are already tight. But I didn't have to pity her for long. Alanna Number One had dyed platinum blonde hair, was in a sorority at one of those big southern schools, and wore hot pink thongs that "accidentally" peeked above her jeans. She was in New York to study acting, and study she did, by watching movies on the common room couch all day while eating her diet of raw mushrooms with ketchup. She moved out at the end of the first summer session and was replaced by, I kid you not, another Alanna. Alanna Number Two made me long for Number One. Number Two epitomized the Upper East Side JAP stereotype: she had her name monogrammed on her towels, wore Marc Jacobs, not Marc by Marc, and criticized the clothing choices of the attendees at her father's best friend's funeral (click that link--I am so not kidding.) Her finest moment came when, after being away for the weekend, she found a brand new box of Cinnamon Life cereal on her desk (Steph had consumed what she'd had and replaced it with more than she'd had to begin with) and a rumpled comforter on her bed (I'd slept in her bed drunk and naked, but as far as she ever knew I just sat on it.) I believe her response to this was, with classic bitch inflections, "Don't TOUCH...my STUFF." Sadly, Alanna Number Two moved out before Steph and I could carry out our plan of mashing up Life cereal in the pockets of her Marc Jacobs pants.

*Finance 101. The world was my proverbial oyster, as I had just gotten my first cell phone and my first credit card. Surely my lucrative job at the Doggy Daycare and the parent-paid rent would allow me to use both with abandon. Gina, meet Insurmountable Debt. Insurmountable Debt, Gina. (Three hundred minutes divided by twenty weekdays equals only fifteen minutes per day, and college sophomores who need to pay for their own books and food have no business going to Bergdorf and Barneys every weekend. Nineteen-year-old Gina, you are a moron.) But I'd deal with the crippling anxiety attacks later. Nothing a little Wisconsin R&R and Mom's homemade raspberry crisp couldn't take care of!

*Team Rockstar. Now for the drinking. There's just too much to talk about in one paragraph, but most of the drinking can be put into two categories: The W Hotel Union Square, and Danny Kane. Aaaah the W. I could write a novel about the drama that transpired at this place for all four of us, both together and individually. But I am not exaggerating when I say that careers were made, hearts were broken, and free cosmopolitans (apple martinis when cosmos quickly became passe) flowed like water. Then one fateful evening...somewhere, Steph and I were pulled into a basement kitchen by a man named Danny Kane. From then on, we were on Danny Kane's List, velvet ropes meant nothing, and we thought we were the shit, er, shizzle. Michael Musto summed up that scene well.

Yesterday I received an email from Danny:

Subject: your birthday

Please let me know if you want to have a birthday party.I know it's comin up this month.It won't cost you anything and I will give you drinks,and a free guest list.Please let me know by email or call me at 212-229-XXXX if your interested.

Thanks,
Danny Kane

Thanks, Danny, but no thanks. It was fun, but I think we've all moved onto *ahem* the next episode.

once a drone...

Hooray! Drone's back! And he's got a really cool job, though it's not without certain drawbacks. Let's just say that he's not so much a "drone" anymore as a "bitch." And his boss isn't so much a "robo" as a "queen." Read his hilarious tales of shopping for very specific hardware and feeding his superiors yogurt with a diamond encrusted spoon over here.