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?]

fan-fugging-tastic

It's been a long time since I've found a new (to me) blog and felt compelled to spend hours upon hours reading every last bit of the archives. If you haven't already stumbled upon this delightfully sarcastic gem of celebrity Schadenfreude, I present to you: Go Fug Yourself [via Stereogum.]

ground control to moronic bouncers

Thank you, Karenplusone, for confirming that the man at whom I stared with my jaw hanging open and drool running down my chin, was, in fact, David Bowie and not Robert Plant, as the friendly keeper of the Roseland balcony VIP rope insisted. Maybe Robert Plant was there too, but who's going to notice him when you're standing next to fucking David Bowie?

I <3 NYC

[Note: this post will go wonderfully with a nice bottle of Cabernet and some Carr's Table Water Crackers]

First of all, has anyone else noticed the proliferation of tourist t-shirts saying "I [heart] NYC" instead of "I [heart] NY?" Lame.

Anyway, sometimes I really do [heart] the City of New York. Like last night, when Perplexa and I bounced around at the Franz Ferdinand show (over schmover, they were fun,) saw David Bowie exiting the VIP section which we so sneakily penetrated (ok, I'm not 100% sure it was David Bowie, but the dude really reeeeally looked like him, and another girl said "I think that was David Bowie," so for all intents and purposes we saw David Bowie,) went to the supposedly cool afterparty and before entering realized it was decidedly not cool, then walked into another bar passing Chloe on her way out for a cig, scored free shots at the next bar after a cane-using crack addict did a jig for us in exchange for a cigarette (as we had no crack to give him,) and capped off the night at 2 a.m. with grilled shrimp cocktail, homefried potatoes, and petting of the cutest puppy I've ever seen. And then when I got home, I successfully ended the life of a monstrous cockroach with a whack from my family size bottle of Listerine and a swift flush down the crapper.

The best part of all this is that after five years in this city I still appreciate the little things. Like the fact that if one place doesn't work out there are countless other options, that if you get stupid drunk cabs will be lining up to take you home, and that one can roll into a cafe at 2 in the morning and be served hot, fresh food surrounded by people spastically dancing to Beatles songs and crazy puppies with really sharp teeth. We talked to one guy at the Chloe bar who was so pissed he didn't get into the not cool party, and all he had to say was how much that sucked (getting in would've sucked more, in my humble opinion,) and how much the current bar sucked (in which we managed to have fun,) and how cool the bar across the street is but it's so dead that it sucks (in which we later went and had fun.) And I really just felt sorry for him, because as long as you've got some friends you can make things not suck.

odd jobs

*This heartwarming tale of the occasional triumph of beast over man has been making the blog/email rounds today. It reminds me of a story my physical therapist mom told me many years ago about a patient of hers who slaughtered beef cattle for a living. One day the patient put down her rifle, and a cow stepped on it and shot her in the back.

*I've learned that I would make a horrible gold-digger, which is quite tragic because I'm not a big fan of working. This summer I briefly dated a guy who works at this newly crowned four star restaurant that has FAB's undies all in a bundle. Before I got a chance to dine there, I pulled the ol' disappearing act (according to the column this is a guy thing, but what can I say, I'm highly impressionable.)

*Another stereotypical NYC man characteristic I've adopted is fear of commitment. Not in relationships, but with jobs. How can I settle down with one, when there are so many attractive options? Such as these two positions, courtesy of the Local Paper.

sentences schmentences

Sorry, FAB, but this one's gonna be in list format, just like the massive, undone "to do" list helpfully propping up my left elbow as I type this at work.

Things I Enjoyed This Weekend (Note: All activities enjoyed with Perplexa unless stated otherwise)

*Discussing girls with P's 19-year-old brother over pasta and ice cream. The boy's got some stories...

*Waking up in Jersey and being served french toast by P's mother, which compensated for waking up on a pull-out couch from 1942 with spring shapes imprinted on my back. Also, discussing the un-French-ness of said toast with Cute French-Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met in Real Life First (Perplexa was not present during this two-hour instant messaging love session.)

*Being asked if we could, like, go back wherever we came from by the poor vertically challenged girls stuck behind us genetic mutants at the Stellastarr(*...I just can't type the asterisk in seriousness) show. They were good though.

*Having a drag queen tell me he wanted my shirt and then touching his "boobs." They were made of birdseed packed into nylon stockings.

*Purchasing a $250 sweater at Intermix in celebration of the fact that I barely have enough money to buy bologna for my homemade lunch sandwiches but by golly I have a credit card that is not quite maxed out yet.

who will say-ee-ave our souls?

Last night, Perplexa and I decided to check out the Billionaires for Bush party at Chelsea Piers. It was interesting, to be sure, but not remotely as interesting as what occured afterwards.

We returned to the 'hood around midnight, drunk, tired, and hungry. We stopped by Haagen Dazs for cups of the best cookie dough ice cream in the history of the world (flavorful vanilla, generous balls of dough, big hunks of dark chocolate...mmmmm.) Anyway, we sat down on the bench outside to revel in the deliciousness. As we were both drunk and suffering from critical cases of sexual deprivation, the conversation quickly turned dirty. Very dirty. I'd tell you more but I don't even want to imagine the Google hits I would get if I did. So as we were finishing up our ice cream and talking about eating other things (har har,) two people--a small housewife-ish woman and a tall young man clad all in black--asked if they could ask us a question. Well, they'd already asked one question, so we said sure.

What role does Jesus play in our lives, they asked. Well, he doesn't, we said. The woman proceeded to tell us all about the Bible, to which I replied that after having gone to Catholic school for eight years I knew plenty about the Bible, thank you very much. She retorted that she went to Catholic school for 20 years. Damn, she won! She also told me she was from Wisconsin. Oh the coincidence. Anyway, she then grabbed our hands and said a prayer. I was so on the verge of a laughing fit that I bit down on my plastic spoon as hard as I could. After the prayer was over I thought their mission would be accomplished. Oh no.

The woman still wanted to know why we didn't have close personal relationships with Jesus. Perplexa replied that she was Jewish. The woman pointed to her cheeks and said that she had spent the entire day downtown weeping for the Jews. She wept and wept, she said. With her focus solely on Perplexa now, the tall scary goth-ish manchild decided to save me. After asking why I'd cut the lord and savior Jesus Christ from my life and not listening to a word of my response, he proclaimed that I must not have been welcomed by my church. He took my hand and said another prayer, I turned to Perplexa and saw her receiving the same treatment from the woman, they finished the prayers, I said we had to go to bed, and Perplexa and I ran home faster than I ever imagined possible in our 3 1/2 inch Miu Miu and Marc Jacobs heels, respectively. And I'm sure they walked off feeling like they'd just done God a very good deed, indeed.

I think what I garnered from this whole experience is that people's views on these matters are not going to change. The Billionaires for Bush are not bringing any right wingers to the left with their slogans and outfits, clever as they may be. And the missionary Christians aren't about to turn a non-religious Jew and a Catholic atheist into Jesus freaks. But the difference between the two camps is that A., psycho-religious people (I'm not saying all religious people, just the psycho ones) are just plain WRONG and, most imporantly, B., the non-believers don't go around trying to convert and/or blow up those who hold different views.

bring on the botox

I don't have wrinkles, I still get carded when buying cigarettes, and I only wear a bra when I feel like it, but, alas, I am getting old. Several months ago I kind of sprained my ankle, and it kind of still hurts. I've dismissed this lingering pain as a result of dancing on it later that night and going for a run the next day, not as a sign of deteriorating cartilage and other things that are less resilient as one gets older. Last night, however, I received a sure sign that I am officially in the adult category.

It may come as a surprise to many of you, but when I was a kid, I was not exactly "cool." I nodded cluelessly in agreement when my friends talked about the rad-ness of pop icons like Michael Jackson and the cast of Full House. While they spent their evenings watching MTV and TGIF, I was glued to Nick at Nite. Maxwell Smart, Agent Joe Friday, and Dick van Dyke were my heroes, and I marveled at the fact that my parents were alive when their shows were on regular TV. One contemporary show that did manage to penetrate my shrouded worldview, however, was the Fresh Prince of Bel-aire. I've seen every episode at least three times, I still know every single word to the theme song, and damn if that Uncle Phil wasn't just hilarious! And Cousin Hillary, what a valley girl!

Anywho, last night I was flipping between the Republican National Convention coverage and Fox's Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Daddy, when I heard a familiar beat and the words "nooow this is a story all about how my life got twist turned upside down and I'd like to take a minute just sit right there I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called..." Um, sorry bout that. Point is, these words were coming from Channel 6, which means that episodes of my beloved Fresh Prince will be aired on none other than Nick at Nite this fall. It's all downhill from here...just put Snoop Dogg on the oldies station already and get it over with.