they ain't too sma-art

I just got reprimanded by two different cops on two different intersections for improper crossing of the street. The streets I cross (improperly) every day.

At least I wasn't detained. [via Cityrag]

shiny happy

better than prozac


Seeing the above two weekends ago in between swimming in a torrential downpour and smoking...stuff in a canoe has completely cleared my head (except for last night when I couldn't sleep at all and got out of bed at 3:30 a.m. to watch a Tony Robbins infomercial and eat crackers, but I always sleep like crap on Sundays.) Anyway, my weekend was quite lovely, starting on Friday with my final review and approval of the advertising banner my boss designed. There was a glaring grammatical error that the boss, the graphics person, and the proofreader had missed, but guess who caught it? Who, you ask? ME! Then my beer and sausage extravaganza was quite fun, and when I came home from grocery shopping on Sunday to clean the zillions of bottles and grilling paraphernalia off the roof (I was far too hungover to do it on Saturday) I found it all neatly lined up in boxes and bags in the hallway for the super to take away, and my wonderful gay neighbor was out on the roof shirtless hosing everything down and sweeping up. He said not to thank him because he was just out getting a tan. I love him.

Speaking of girls who love men who would never sleep with them, Perplexa and I went to see Margaret Cho at the Apollo on Saturday night. I got a nice ab workout from laughing so hard as Cho brilliantly transitioned between rants about political inequality and stories about giant dildos. Feeling better about the world, Perplexa and I decided to walk home through Harlem. Beer was still the primary liquid in my bloodstream, so I stopped in a rundown bodega to get a bottle of water. Five large men were carousing by the fridge, and when I looked at it longingly they asked what I wanted, Miss, and handed me a mini Dasani. The man behind the counter said 50 cents for me, and I handed him a $10 as it was all I had. I started looking for enough change, but another man came up behind me, said he got it, and handed a couple quarters to the cashier. A little stunned, I left the bodega and told Perplexa the story as we walked away. It must've been the shirt, she said. (Thanks, Marc!) About a block away we hear someone behind us saying the usual "Hey baby, hey mami!" We of course barely noticed this and kept on walking, until I finally turned around to see the cashier holding up my $10 bill that I'd forgotten to take back. Had I been in his position, I probably would've just pocketed the $10. My faith in humanity was officially restored. At least until a few blocks later when we were called fucking bitches for not responding to some dude screaming at us out of his projects window. Anyway, here are a few of the 182 party pictures. (Don't drink and digital camera, kids!)

FABulous


party people


perplexing


cousin it


cuter than puppies


look through my window


why i don't feel a pressing need to move downtown

mmmeat

Why do Fridays at work, the days in which you just want to do nothing and go home early, always involve the most work and staying later than intended? Oh, right, because I'm a lazy sack of poo and don't do anything during the first four days of the week. In any case, I just spent the last hour calling gas stations from Tallulah, Louisiana to Ogallala, Nebraska in the hope of obtaining street addresses for a brochure mailing. You'd think this would be an easy question for employees to answer. It is not. Next, I am to review and approve advertisement revisions from the graphics department so that they can be sent off to whoever makes them. I have no qualifications to do this whatsoever, and Newboss is still on jury duty. Um, they look good to me!

But all of this means nothing, because I'm having a sausagefest...er, party on my roof tonight. And lots of people I know and love are actually in town and coming. My dearest FAB even changed her flight from Hotlanta so she could join in the sausagey fun. Can you feel the love???

late december back in sixty threeee

*Kidman Schmidman. Last night at dinner with work people we dined on caviar mousse, fried cheese, and baklava within close proximity of Frankie Valli. Take that, Drone! Despite the fact that I grew up listening to Oldies and am familiar with the bulk of the Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons catalogue, I was not the person who called out this one. Rather, it was the client/friend of my boss, who regaled us with stories of drunken carousing involving her extremely well-adjusted child, elevator operators as an au pair on the Upper East Side, and Italian male models she and her friends kidnapped in Napa. I want to be her when I grow up.

*This NYT article on the perplexing nature of the Ipod shuffle feature has to be one of the most retarded things I've ever read. Bob--if you don't want the Beastie Boys coming on when you're gettin' jiggy with your girlfriend, make a freakin' playlist! Bicycle dude--your Ipod does not know when it's time to "hit you up with 'In Da Club,'" and hence make you "all of a sudden in da club." Slow news day?

*Yes yes yes! My first blogger idol has a second blog, to which us cityfolk can all relate. I wanna be Eurotrash when I grow up, too.

*The Blacktable describes New Yorkers to a T in two brilliant paragraphs:

First off, the foot speed of an average New Yorker is approximately 447 miles per hour. Please adjust your walking habits accordingly. You cannot walk six abreast on the sidewalk here like you're in the opening credits of 90210, eyes aloft toward tall buildings above. We don't say hello to people as we walk by, either; there are eight million people in the street. It's nothing political, you see. You're just getting in the fucking way.

We're a friendly people. It should be noted that we're especially helpful when being asked for directions, because we like to show off how smart we are. The correct response to directions given generously, however, is not, "Oh, 11 blocks, huh. Should I take a cab?" No, you should not. Anything short of a ride to the airport demands another type of transportation, unless you're completely wasted and navigating that special area where 4th Street crosses 12th Street. Please, try to pay attention.

blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

I was starting to write about my new job, but as my boss has been on jury duty since I started there's not much to say about it just yet. Though I must mention that I love that I get to wear jeans on Friday and pretty much anything but jeans during the week, there's free good coffee, Pepsi products, and Snyder's pretzels, and I can use instant messenger and listen to the radio in my very own cubicle.

Things continue to be weird though. Yesterday I got to work an hour early. By accident. Actually, it was only 45 minutes early because I was "late." Then after work Perplexa and I went to our first Pilates class. It was alright I guess, but the amount of actual exercise would take me about 10 minutes to do on my own. The other 50 minutes included a lot of talk about how to breathe (um, duh,) how to engage the muscles of one's pelvic floor, and the importance of proper pubic bone alignment. I think I'll stick with the treadmill. Perhaps the weirdest thing of all is that, though I still don't do anything at work, I don't read the blogs much anymore. Not even Gothamist or Gawker. Has my ADD really gotten THAT bad?

hateration

I want to go back to New Hampshire!!! Just two days removed from the wide open spaces of air filled with actual oxygen and strange things are already happening, the least of which being the moronic, over-cologned IT guy named Luigi who just restarted my computer and hence deleted an epic blog post after I specifically told him to tell me if he needed to restart my computer. I can still smell him.

The strangeness began as soon as D and I rolled back into the city in our rented Corolla. A proverbial black cat in the form of the last boy with whom I had a "constant non-committal make-out session (NCMO, pronounced 'nic-mo')" crossed our path somewhere around West 43rd Street. As I just recently did the stop calling thing this was rather startling.

After shaking that one off, I returned to my humble abode all ready to begin a stoned slumber. The elevator light was on number eight, and no amount of button pushing would make it budge. Since I moved in over a year ago, said elevator has been out of commission just two times, and one of those times was The Blackout so that doesn't count. Needless to say, walking up ten flights of stairs while exhausted, carrying luggage, and needing to pee sucks.

If that wasn't enough, I decided I just couldn't wait the nine hours until I'd be at work to check my email. Lo and behold, I was greeted my very first piece of blog hate mail! And this is not just any old hate mail, but a 1,678 WORD PIECE OF HATE MAIL. Sandwiched between blurbs on new-wave Christians and fake-hair scrunchies was this run of the mill Local Paper joke: "Oh goody, an inane patriotic poem. This must get an entire page in the newspaper!: 'Jim Bob* woke early one morning with words flowing through his mind. Within about 20 minutes, Bob 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...]" So Jim Bob Googled himself one night and was offended. I do feel bad for being a bully, but if ever there was evidence that there is not enough to do in that little town it is that one thousand six hundred and seventy eight word email. (Incidentally, this is my favorite line: "I will say this…'I, Robot'…you are 100% correct." Right on.) Anyway, sorry Jim. My snotty sarcastic ass is really not worth that many of your words.

And, last but not least, when I returned home last night and turned on the TV, the guy from three NCMO's ago (who is physically old enough to be my father but has the sweetest face ever and the loveliest leather/booze/smoke smell) was on the screen in a VH1 documentary entitled "The Secret Lives of Swingers."

*Name has been changed here, although you could go back into the archives, but I know you're not going to do that, so I think this is sufficient.

oooh baby do you know what that's worth?

Heaven schmeaven. When I die, I want my soul to rest in New Hampshire for all eternity. Specifically, it will reside at Pleasant Pond accompanied by FAB's old roommate D's wholesome extended family and their giant poodle (who had quite the affinity for me, if you know what I mean,) and it will subsist on blueberry pie and weed. My hair still smells like a woodsy fireplace. Mmmm. Here is my new boyfriend, with more pictures to come.

more baby-naming fun

Thanks, Newyorkish, for enabling me on this fine Friday to make fun of idiot parents, one of my favorite hobbies. Rather than choose their own unique, oh so very full of meaning, and more special than all the other kids name, one nice wholesome couple decided to let the internet do it. There's even a picture of the ultrasound for inspiration! And, thank the lord, a comments box:

Strong Welsh name for males or females. From the Old Welsh masculine name Morcant, which was possibly derived from Welsh mor "sea" and cant "circle".

Give him something original. You don’t want your son walking around thinking “They didn’t care enough to put any thought into my name” or always comparing themselves to kids with the same name. Think outside the box give him something unique and meaningfull.

Lucian the Eater of Souls is a very old name, and really gives the impression of a strong and powerful man.

He looks like an Oliver.

Lance Berg would be be great beacause then he could have the nickname "Ice" making him Ice Berg. That would be cool, pun intended.

My ex husband's middle name. If I had had a son I would have named him that and called him Win. I like the positive thought of the name.

I can't even begin to comment, so back to work. There are people in Indiana patiently awaiting a shipment of Beer Koozies from yours truly.

say cheese

No matter what certain people may say, the fact that I now have a job that so far has given me nothing and no one to make fun of does not mean I am going to succumb to such craziness as working weekends. Puhleeease. As a matter of fact, this weekend I am road-tripping up to New Hampshire with people of questionable morals and penchants for mind-altering substances/gourmet cheese. I have not had a real vacay this summer (home does not count) so I am beyond excited.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm liking the new Gawker editor, largely because she wrote this: "People magazine has scored photographs from socialite Nicky Hilton's plebeian Vegas nuptials and, surprise, sister Paris is performing her signature Face At Just The Right Angle So You Don't Notice My Wonky Eye pose."

this is how you remind me

I don't know if it's the Poverty Diet of oatmeal, tuna sandwiches, and microwave dinners, the stress from switching jobs, or the flight of several beloved friends from NYC (come back guys! you don't need advanced degrees!) but I've been quite lazy/uninspired lately. Yesterday I was so numb that watching Bob Costas' Olympic coverage for more hours than I'm willing to admit was only minorly nauseating. But leave it to the Local Paper to snap me out of it.

Hi, my name is

Kristine Hampson

Age: 17
Home: Marshfield
Occupation: Student

What's the last thing that made you laugh?
We were looking for one of my friends in JC Penney and I yelled (his name), and everyone stared at me.

Which song would you choose as the theme for your life?
'Feelin' Way Too Damn Good' by Nickelback, because every time I start feeling good about something, something goes wrong, every time.

What's the worst advice you've ever received?
Don't get pregnant. Then a week later it happened.

If you could switch places with anyone in the world for one day, who would it be?
Jennifer Lopez. She's so lucky. She has the nicest (butt) ever.

When do you feel the happiest?
When I'm with my friends.

-Alyce Yorde, Central Wisconsin Sunday

I am now ready to take on the world, one FedEx-ed box at a time.

let the fun, alternative modes of income begin

Given my aversion to hourly wages, I am not too keen on acquiring another "normal" job. So I took a peek at good ol' Craigslist and found a post looking for subjects for a brain imaging study. $350 for one day of guinea pig-itude, which simply involves radioactive materials being pumped into one's arteries (not veins, arteries) and lying in a claustrophobia-inducing chamber with horrendously loud pounding noises. Sounds good to me! Anyway, a study recruiter called today and went through my life medical history. It was all a lot of "no. no. no's" until he got to the drinking. To make myself look like less of a lush, or so I thought, I told him I consumed, on average, 5-10 drinks per week. (In truth, it's 5-10 drinks per night when I go out, which is actually not that often right now, but 2-3 times when I'm in better spirits.) This causes him to delve into a series of at least twenty more questions, clearly hinting that I must be an alcoholic ("Do your family and friends say you drink too much? No? Really???") culminating with, "Do you really think you can stop drinking for an ENTIRE WEEK before the study?" Yes, Juan, I can. Now give me my $350. That's almost 50 burritos!

adventures in poverty

Sorry for the blog-slacking. Due to a 55% cut in pay (but now I get to wear jeans on Friday!) my life has taken a very sudden turn for the boring, and I've been preoccupied with figuring out how to go from leaking money out of my pores to being, like, financially responsible. There have been many sobbing phone calls to the parents lately, who, while of course concerned, are of the "well back in MY day" type. Nevermind that back in his day, my dad's rent was $57 per month. As the only help I could squeeze out of them is the promise of a shipment of Clif Bars, I am forced to make some changes.

On Friday I made a list of my current rent and monthly expenses, which, by some annoying act of god, turns out to be the EXACT amount I will be making at the new job. Because I prefer eating food over not eating food, this means it's time to prioritize. Moron that I am, this is a foreign concept, but so far it's been easier than I thought. Rent, utilities, cell phone, and subway are clearly essential. The gym membership, tanning, anti-baby pills, and Brazilian bikini waxes, not so much. I'm not particularly looking forward to being flabby, pale, crampy, and hairy, but as my only romantic interest at the moment lives in Canada I figure I can sacrifice a little vanity. Now the only remaining question is TV and internet. I suppose I don't NEED digital cable and a high-speed connection, but given that my two major hobbies are watching the channels numbered above 100 and illegally downloading mp3's, I'm having a hard time with this one. Also, I have somewhat of a burrito "problem" which peanut butter and jelly sandwiches just can't help. Onto finding Job #2. Wonder if Burritoville is hiring...

aaahhhh life

The Procrastination Queen (that would be me, of course) strikes again. Thirty minutes after ending my reign as Bond Sales Assistant Extraordinaire I was informed that I'd been hired somewhere! To start the next morning! So now I have a neato new job for a cool, creative company. Of course, this means that I'm being paid exactly enough to pay my rent and monthly bills. Not eat. Not drink. Nor generally take care of myself (or not take care of myself, as the case may be *coughcoughhack*...damn cigs.) So, it seems I either need to sell my body or move to a much cheaper apartment. If anyone reading this knows of anything in or near the city that isn't too scary, please please let me know. Likewise, do inform me of any rich old men who want to pay me not to have sex with them.

t minus zero days

Today is my very last day at JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsLynchBrothers. I'm so excited/scared shitless about leaving that I can't begin to think straight and will probably be on one constant smoke break all day. Leaving pretty much every other thing I've been involved with for any length of time (e.g., summer camp, rowing, my little coffee shop job, hell...even high school) resulted in a healthy dose of sentimentality and nostalgia, but now I'm just feeling ambivalent. I guess I'll miss the pickles that come with the sandwiches in the company cafeteria. Those are the best damn pickles in the world. Anyway, as I'm sure my final departure at 5:00 will result in no fanfare whatsoever, I feel I should bid farewell to those whom I have been seeing on a daily basis for the last year and 1.5 months and will likely never see again.

*Mainboss. You are a wonderful boss. Your sense of logic and down-to-earth nature (you have a wife. and kids. that you actually like and spend time with!) make me question what you are doing here. Thanks for giving lil' ol' me a chance and a big-ass bonus with which I paid off all of my credit card debt, even though I've since replaced said debt. I'm sure I learned something somewhere along the line.

*Stereotypicalboss. Keep doing your thing at Spice Market, or whatever the new "it" place is.

*Fatboss. While I will not miss your incessant playing of Hamsterdance and similar annoying-as-hell computer ditties, your rightwing diatribes and occasional temper tantrums were quite entertaining. Stay away from those carbs!

*Twirlyman. Thanks for introducing me to a psychological disorder I'd only heard about on Sally Jesse Raphael. There are other ways to deal with your stress and anxiety, and if you seek treatment I'm sure the hair will grow back.

*Mr. Fartypants. You really should see a doctor about that. Or at least stop eating eggs and beans and excessive amounts of vegetables, for the love of all that is holy.

*Person who reads this site and also works at JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsLynchBrothers. You caused me to have a minor nervous breakdown when I was in Wisconsin and discovered that someone had viewed my website from the company domain. I was SURE that it was my bosses and that, upon my return, I would be escorted out of the building by armed guards like Pre-Fatboss Crazyboss was six months ago. I forgive you; you didn't know. Best of luck, and may your bonuses be large.

*Princeton Girl. Please eat a sandwich once in a while. They have these really good ones across the street on multi-grain bread with avocado, cheddar, tomato, cucumber, sprouts, and a little mayo. Deeelish.

Now, who wants to place bets on whether I get my shit together enough to continue paying my rent, or whether I curl up like a roly-poly bug, relinquish my cute and cozy apartment, and hide out in Wisco for the rest of my life?

i feel bad about myself right now so i'm just going to go ahead and make fun of others

I've said it before and I'll say it again. OB/Gyn's need to stop giving crack to parents-to-be. There is no other logical explanation for the travesties bestowed upon so many innocent babies. I've always been pro-choice, but not when it comes to names. There need to be government-sanctioned rules.

This weekend, my dear FAB became an aunt to a little boy with a name that will undoubtedly ensure his intimate familiarity with flushing toilets in the near future. And then I read this. And then I went to the Local Paper to see what the bundles of joy in my hometown are being called. In just one day at the Local Hospital, we have:

*A son, Braeden, joining a sister, Kamryn.

*Twins Roman Kenwood and Olivia Mae. They're joining sisters Adeline and Evelyn and their last name is Paffel. Maybe they'll grow up and make some bizarro Victorian/Wild West/Typical-Wisconsinites-of-Polish-and-German-descent reality show?

*Jaidyn Alexandria joining half-sister Desirae. Vowels are fun to play with!

*Kelvin. I will never understand this name. Why not just go all the way and name the kid Celcius or Fahrenheit? It would be more UNIQUE.

*And finally, the worst of the worst, Kia Lynn, joining sister Kiana Lynn. Why must the kids be named almost the exact same thing? And why must one be named after a crappy car?

Mark my words, should little humans ever come out of my body they may be genetically predisposed to various anxiety and depressive disorders, but they will not have stupid names!

weekend

Hot dogs and beer and rickety rollercoasters.



Risking death and blasting German death metal.



Livin' in the shadoooow, of someone else's dreeeeeam...(Somebody please block my access to the Ashlee Simpson show.)



Calisthenics in a Speedo on Brighton Beach.



I used to beee a little boooy.



I love Hedwig (and I'm a big, shameless dork for celebrities.)



Pink.



VIP

r.i.p.

It was just brought to my eavesdropping attention that the blue-shirted, bekhakied dudes on my trading desk are meeting somewhere on Rivington Street this evening. Goodbye, LES, it was nice knowin' ya. Predictions for the next hipster neighborhood? My vote goes to the Upper West Side. Hey, it sure would be ironic. Just imagine if all the kids grew out their mullets, wore their college sweatshirts with pride, and started using strollers instead of hobo bags?

Wessiiiiiide!

of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages, and kings

Yes, folks, the time has come. Today I was informed that this Wednesday I will be saying goodbye to the World o' Finance so that the eager beaver on the other side of the desk can take my place. You'd think that in the past three and a half weeks I would have found new employment. Well, you'd be wrong.

Part of my lack of aggression in the job hunt has to do with the simple fact that I do not really desire another job. But another big part has to do with all the corporate bullshit that just makes me ill. Sadly, jobs devoid of said bullshit, like, say, playing with rich people's dogs, would require living off of PB&J and denying myself the right to designer denim, simply in order to remain in my beloved 144-square-foot studio in the sky.

Coincidentally, today I received a newsletter from the temp agency I signed up with (and have been blowing off for weeks.) Based on my allergy to words like "team-player," "self-starter," "multi-tasker," and "110%," I don't think I'm what they're looking for:

*Must love project work, be a great team player, have excellent Word, Excel & PowerPoint and be ready to give 110%. This is a great opportunity for someone who really wants to get involved with a talented and driven team.

*Person must be sharp, have very strong PC skills, including PowerPoint, be a successful multi-tasker and know when 110% just isn't enough. [is 115% enough then?]

*Top global marketing technology firm is looking for a dynamic, take charge Executive Assistant to support the VP of Sales and Regional Director. This position is fast-paced, involves heavy scheduling and requires a take-charge assistant. A self-starter with strong written and verbal communication skills, the ability to handle multiple tasks simultaneously and a forward thinking mentality is required. [something tells me they want someone to take charge]

*A sense of urgency, terrific organizational skills and a positive energetic attitude a must. Will also have project work, such as helping with new hire orientations. Super-duper perks, fabulous environment and free Starbucks coffee! $28K [hmm, maybe if it includes free soy lattes]

I can almost feel my hives flaring up. Wait, I don't have hives. But I do have a couple of promising leads. I'm "in the running" for a position at Drone's fancypants employer, and Stereotypicalboss, bless his heart, has connections leaking through his stereotypical dress shirt. Nevertheless, I'll be stocking up on peanut butter and bread, rice and beans, and those microwavable cups of salt this weekend.

alright, already

Lately, sitting in front of the television eating dinner from Burritoville, Subway, or the freezer has replaced going to the gym as my post-work activity of choice. Since there isn't much on TV at 6:00, I've been watching a lot of Conan reruns on Comedy Central. With Dave getting old and tired and Jay's chin more annoying than ever, I've long considered Conan to be the late nite champ. Until I realized, that is, that literally every other joke involves derision of either his appearance or the show.

As you may have noticed, I have a rather self-deprecating sense of humor (see first sentence,) but there is a fine and definite line between funny and fucking annoying. Yes, Conan, we know that you are unusually tall and have (gasp!) red hair and pale skin. And yes, you were once the third wheel on the late nite circuit. But you are not hideous, and, in fact, you are no doubt filthy stinking rich. As for your show, you know it's been extremely successful, and "every aspect of [it] has been praised in the media." Enough with the whining already.

(I must also add, since I know he'll do it if I don't, that Dockgoose's mother was Conan's high school Spanish teacher.)

crap

I think it may be time to pay a visit to an old friend.

civilian concerns: a study in contrast

It has long been said that Marshfield, Wisconsin is the New York City of the Midwest. Both cities have people, and stores, and some grass here and there. But while these cities are indeed strikingly similar, if you think long and hard some differences can be found. For example, here is what locals are most concerned with in their respective cities.

*NYC. On Friday when I left my big banker-type building in Midtown, I was greeted by several machine gun wielding police officers. While I am generally one of the "try everything once" types of people, I can say with certainty that being within touching distance of a machine gun was one experience that was not missing from my life. Also, hearing my superiors discuss who gets sent to our New Jersey offices in late August "in case something happens" just warms my heart. As does returning to the office to see "Terror Threat: Companies Prepare" on CNN along with a picture of the outside of my building.

*Marshfield. An angered citizen writes to the Local Paper:

Fri, Jul 30, 2004

Winner slighted in contest story

Editor: I am wondering why, when Smith Brothers of Colby won the pork cooking contest held during Hub City Days, their name and picture were not in the headline, instead of at the end of the story. I think that was very unfair.

ISABELLE BRENNER
Curtiss

Oh Isabelle, if only I too could be so concerned about the proper recognition of the winners of pork cooking contests...

a weekend in our nation's capital

Given that my ol' team's slogan was "Boozin' & Whorin'," a phrase coined by the coach, I expected that our reunion weekend in Washington, DC would be full of good times. Indeed, upon my arrival at Maj's apartment at 1:00 Saturday afternoon, I was greeted with a glass of gin and juice and was told that everyone had "had a couple shots already."

The drinking continued at the train station where we waited for our Duck Tour of the city to begin.



It was windy in the back of that Duck.



Very very windy.



We did our part to annoy the real tourists with incessant use of our complimentary duck calls. They seemed amused. Maybe.



Maj and I always enjoy showing off our abs of steel, and this time they were enhanced by greek food and beer.



I just like this one.



And this one I think speaks for itself.



Next year, we rock the coast of Croatia. At least that's the plan.