NY <3 itty bitty apartments

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

hickory dickory dock

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

There's fine dining...

Gourmets try turkey testicles

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

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

exciting job opportunities...

Road-kill collector's work slowing down

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

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

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

Construct a family mission statement

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

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

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

food coma

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

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

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

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

only in you-know-where, kids

[pic via stereogum]

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

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

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

aaaah, now i feel better

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

bikram rock show

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

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

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

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

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

oh the weather outside is frightful...

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

mmmm interpol...


mmmm weird canadians...

[pic via Stereogum]

drool

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

To: NYC PROBABLYSHOULDN'TREVEALTHISONTHEINTERNET Employees

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

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

who took my frog

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

more yin and yang

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

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

the upper breast side fireworks eggstravaganza, november 2004

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



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



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



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



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



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

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

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



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

it's a craigslist kinda day

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

The Storm

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

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

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

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

is it friday yet?

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

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

*If you know what 1020 is, read this.

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

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

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

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

bah humbug?

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

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



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



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



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



Nice work, big kids.

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

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

freaky deaky!

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


[via Go Fug Yourself]

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

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