and i thought the world's largest round barn and world's largest talking cow were special

It's been a while since I've checked in with the Local Paper, but I decided to see what I've been missing after being reminded of home by the predominance of mullets in Chile (somehow sported by the youth in neither a hick nor ironic way--I guess it's just genuine love for the 80's, reflected also in the neon colored fashions and INXS music playing in all public places, RIP Michael Hutchence.) And oh what we all have been missing! As it turns out, in addition to the aforementioned world-renowned tourist attractions, Wisconsin's Best Small City 1993 is also the proud home of "what may be the Midwest's largest urinal." Yes folks, on January 22, 2005 the front page revealed this news to the masses with an article entitled, "Urinal big draw for bar: Guys impressed with extra-large fixture." As one can imagine, this news did not go over so well with some of the more wholesome readers:

Front page was disgusting; fashion preferred
Editor: Disgusting urinal. What a sight for sore eyes to open the Marshfield News-Herald on Saturday, Jan. 22, 2005 and on the front page to see the disgusting picture, "Urinal big draw for bar." You are really scraping the bottom of the barrel for pictures on the front page. Better to have a picture of Donald Trump's new bride of Saturday so we could have seen her wedding dress. We women like to see fashion, not smut. To the people who buy Enquirer magazine, you won't have to go to the supermarket to buy it. It's delivered to your door.

Men versus women, gigantic urinals versus Melania Knauss-Trump...can't we all just get along?? Apparently not:

Front page story, picture not suitable for family newspaper
Editor: After receiving my Saturday, Jan. 22, 2005, Marshfield News-Herald, I have lost much respect for your daily (family?) newspaper. The disgusting picture and article about the urinal took up nearly one-third of the front page. You must really be hard up for news to print such tripe. Maybe you should change the name of your newspaper to "Marshfield Enquirer." What an opportunity for free advertising. Or did they pay you? I'm sure it will draw many patrons. After losing a son to a drunk driver, articles like these are not funny. Thank you for listening.

Since when does the National Enquirer run articles about bathrooms, unless they involve celebrities engaged in illegal acts therein? And how does one leap from oversized urinal coverage to disrespect for death of son? But nevermind logic, the daughter of the urinal commissioner steps up in the commode's defense:

My father would thoroughly enjoy all this attention to the urinal he ordered, and its notoriety over 60 years later. Please tell [the author] to contact me if he needs more historical documentation for such an important icon.

As a person also impressed by "extra-large fixtures," I must concur. Important icon, indeed.

livin' on the EDGE

Today was horseback riding in the Andes day. A strange old man in a little red car picked us up in Santiago and drove us out to a canyon in the mountains. We rode around for a couple hours behind a little Chilean caballero. Of course, I got the slow horse who needed to stop and snack on various kinds of foliage along the way. I suppose I'd be hungry too if I had to haul my ass up a mountain. Anyway, riding the horses back down the mountain--a very steep, rocky one with 90+ degree turns on the edge of cliffs and foot wide paths--was one of the scarier experiences of my life, up there with doing upside down circles in a three seater 1940's bi-plane and driving to high school every day in my parents' 1985 Dodge Caravan with the mysterious exploding tires. In hindsight though, I think I'd prefer to leave my life in the hands (er...hooves) of a horse than those of a human. They're trained to follow a path and not die, and they aren't going to be distracted by crazy drunk horsies or hot young fillies trotting down the sidewalk. Speaking of mortality, let's all have a moment of silence and make the sign of the cross for Gina's First iPod, who bought the farm yesterday after just four months of loyal service. You will be missed, darling, especially on my upcoming 13 hour flight homeward.

an army of juan

*three course steak dinner for two, including beverages and tip - $18
*havaianas flip flops that new york fashionistas wet themselves over - $3
*"all you can wax" special at a fancy salon - $5
*learning that your little sister wrote six novels between the ages of 12 and 18, over $0.50 copas de viño - fucking priceless (well, just a few dollars)

I've now been traveling for six days, and it feels closer to six weeks. Whether it's the impending homeless/jobless/penniless doom I face when I return to the US, the excitement of being in the southern hemisphere for the first time in my life, or the fact that our hostel is a dump and a half, my sister and I have been spending all day, every day, walking all over this enormous city. My legs are consistently cramped in strange places and my sister's are covered in mysterious bruises, but it's ok. We've seen a lot of gorgeous buildings in every little nook and rundown cranny. Us two 5'10" blonde chicks are getting free lessons in Argentinian slang by just about every dude we walk by. And as humbling as it has been to do idiotic things like spread lemon pudding on my bread thinking it's butter while the Chilean lady next to me smirks, I am thanking the Good Lord that this trip is not even half over. As I lie in bed tonight cursing the music that's making my bunk bed rattle, I'll try not to think about the igloo I'll need to build for myself in order to live in NYC when I return, and to think instead about the Buenos Aires Rowing Team boathouse (and hopefully rowing team boys) we're visiting tomorrow, the horseback riding in the Andes we're doing on Saturday, and the copious amounts of piscola (pisco and coke) and homemade guacamole I'm going to consume back in Santiago. And if nothing else, I'm tan(ish)!

ay mama que rico

Hola from very very sunny Buenos Aires. My brain is almost as fried as my shoulders so I apologize in advance for any incoherence contained herein. BA, as they say, is a very cool city, and not unlike New York. The neighborhoods are distinct in character (we spent today shopping in "Palermo Soho"), the public parks are pretty
and well maintained, and the subways sometimes don´t work (as my sister and I just found out the hard way.) My Spanish skills (useful only when wanting to embarrass my sis) and our hostel (that plays loud untz untz music till 5 a.m. and has bathrooms that lock you--ok just me--in) leave little to be desired, but a three course meal at a decent restaurant is about $5, we´re getting in many scenic walks, and I´m almost as tan as a South American. I have yet to take many pictures, but I will try to overcome my gringa shame and take more soon.

theez dress lukes completely...complete, to me

In the comments of my "my dog has vaginitis" post, Eric asked a very thought-provoking question. That question is in regard to Project Runway, and which designer is my fave. Well, Eric, here are my deep thoughts on this fantastic show.

As relatively unexciting as it's last season was, I thought nothing could fill the hole in my heart left after the conclusion of America's Next Top Model Cycle Three. I was dubious about Project Runway's choice of host (Heidi Klum - blah) and corporate sponsor (Banana Republic - mmm...beige), but after just three episodes it has proven itself a worthy replacement. Unlike the "models" of ANTM, the designers actually, like, sort of know what they're doing, and some of them are actually, like, good at it! Even the website is entertaining and provocative. I can honestly say I'd never really pondered the phenomenon that is T-Shirt Tubing:

Look at a t-shirt of your own. Note that the only seams are along the shoulders and where the sleeves attach. There is no vertical seam anywhere in the torso of the t-shirt; ergo, it is a tube.

Ergo, indeed. I was wearing a t-shirt when I read that, and you can bet your bottom dollar I felt myself up and smiled when it proved true. Anyway, the answer to Eric's question is: I'll be rooting for awesomely snarky and gay Jay because he makes nice rock 'n rollish stuff and that purty Chrysler Building dress, he's obnoxious and judgmental, and he dresses up like Jesus.

paranoia

I think I am a hypochondriac. Not when it comes to my personal health; rather, that of my dogs. I guess I never got over my dearest darling Bridget the Rat Terrier's death from lung cancer my senior year of high school, months after I'd started bugging my mom about her rapidly declining weight and muscle tone ("No dear, she's just been exercising more.") Though in hindsight, not knowing what was coming was probably for the best. Anyway, Bridget's little sister Babe is now of a certain age, and since I've been home I've been obsessing about these weird knobby things on her back and the facts that she has bad kidneys and has been peeing all the goddamn time. So I convinced my mom to take her to the vet, and I convinced myself that she was dying. Turns out, Babe is just fine. Except that she has vaginitis. I may not have saved her life, but I can rest easily knowing she will no longer suffer from any itching, burning, or pain during sex.

In other news, I'm off to NYC tomorrow, where an ol' buddy has so generously offered me his couch and excellent cooking for the night. Almost as much as having shelter and food, it is comforting to know I will not have to miss the next epidode of Project Runway. Next post will be in a few days from a cibercafe, as I spend a couple weeks pretending that my life is not really kind of a mess right now!

really super-duper important things

*I spent last night flipping between the Golden Globes and the AKC Eukanuba National Championship Dog Show. Tail-wagging is so much cuter than sappy acceptance speeches. Go Knotty!

*I haven't smoked a single cigarette in ONE WEEK. Guess who's gained a few pounds and plans on buying six packs for $2.98 each at the gas station before heading back to NYC.

*The Swedish William Hung. [via Lindsayism]

*I'm gonna go ahead and be an asshole and link to the weather report for where I will be spending the greater part of the next few weeks. In case you didn't get that, it's:

High/Low (°F) Precip. %
Tonight Jan 17 Clear 63° 0 %
Tue Jan 18 Sunny 91°/60° 0 %
Wed Jan 19 Sunny 90°/58° 0 %
Thu Jan 20 Sunny 92°/55° 0 %
Fri Jan 21 Sunny 89°/55° 0 %
Sat Jan 22 Sunny 89°/54° 0 %
Sun Jan 23 Sunny 87°/57° 0 %
Mon Jan 24 Sunny 89°/55° 0 %
Tue Jan 25 Sunny 88°/55° 0 %
Wed Jan 26 Sunny 88°/54° 0 %

Muahaha, suckas.

*Why I love Dooce:

6) If you weren’t a slut in your early twenties you TOTALLY missed out.

7) And the part I can’t leave out, coming home to a warm bed and a man who remembered to set out my pills for me on the countertop, a man who didn’t watch any of the shows on the TiVo we watch together so that we could watch them together this weekend. I’ll take this life over my early twenties ANY FUCKING DAY.

*If John Mayer and Lizzie Grubman were indeed making out at Marquee, I need to go throw up for like six different reasons.

best google search hit ever

Ok, so posting Google search hits is a little tired, but this is too good:

I have claustrophobia and I got called for jury duty. I don't think I can do this.

Recent runners-up:

fair skinned people named gina

and

how many carbs in a can of beerr [sic, unless searcher was writing in Wisconsinian dialect]

message from drone

So my poor lil' Drone is pretty much too busy to remember to breathe right now, much less blog, so I'll take it upon myself to share with you the latest word from him, via cell phone message: "Dude, where are you when important stuff happens? I was just out running an errand for my boss and I was on my way to Dolce and Gabbana and on the way Chloe [Sefugny] passed me and she totally checked me out and I totally checked her out and it was SOOO funny it was like this extended triple take thing and it was funny as hell." You keep up the good work, Drone.

jet-setting, poverty style

In continuation of the justified ridiculousness that has become my life, I decided--and very skillfully, if I do say so myself, persuaded my mother--that since my sister is in Chile for a year and has three months off school and no travel buddy, and since I have no commitments right now, and since I have a flight back to New York City in a week (return leg of my trip home) that I wasn't going to use, and since flights to South America from New York City are really cheap (relatively speaking) right now, and since my sister offered to pay half, and since playing Bob Vila around here will earn me my half, and since I have a little cash somehow by the grace of God, and since I need to go back to the East Cost to find a real job anyway, that it makes all the sense in the world for me to go to Santiago right now. Nevermind the fact that my credit card debt is astronomical and I have no source of income or official place of residence and if I fuck up again my dad will probably disown me. So anyway, on Wednesday I fly to New York where I will tackle Perplexa and the very busy Drone as soon as I hunt them down, and then on Thursday it's off to Santiago for two weeks, with some time in the cheap and meaty Buenos Aires. This will be by far my most exotic trip ever (after the high school marching band trip to the oh-so-adventurous Atlantis Resort ["As seen on TV!"] in the Bahamas,) and I am very excited. Let's just hope I can gain some semblance of responsibility when I return and realize once and for all that I am not, in fact, wealthy enough to buy $300 sweaters and $70 bikini waxes. Or really, for that matter, $60 sweaters and $20 bikini waxes. *Sigh* Fucking razorburn.

what i'm doing today

Because I'm unemployed--and just a helpful, go-getter type of person (*ahem*)--I am sanding the ceiling of my parents' bathroom today.



My mom suggested that I wear this chemical filtering mask, but I decided to go for the cancer patient look over a person fearful of Y2K armageddon.



I'm also beginning to plan my relocation back to the East Coast, with, perhaps, a brief interlude somewhere else, but I'm not saying where because I don't want to jinx it. Okay, back to work. You haven't lived until you've waved a heavy power sander over your head for an extended period of time while standing precariously atop a step ladder. Or something.

back in the new york...er, wisconsin, groove

I just got back and am feeling all warm and fuzzy and loved and stuff (well, minus the warm part.) There's not a whole lot to tell you because we didn't really do much of anything. Fortunately, the Canadian and I can both be quite content to lie around fighting over whether to watch the news or reality crap, poking each other's tummy flab, and playing with his crazy South Beach socialite cousin's two irresistible dogs:

Duke, the fellow TV-lover


And Lola, the fellow lethargic lounger


At one point (okay, more like several points) I got all crabby a la the first paragraph of the last post, and after a good little cry on the beach I came to the realization that I am a needy motherfucker and basically shut down in the absence of constant reassurance that a guy who's beyond the quasi-thing category does, indeed, like me. This all makes me feel like a big asshole, but at least now I know what's up. So until I sort through this upsetting issue, I told him to just say "I still like you" whenever I turn bitchy to preempt the unnecessary drama. Also, I intend to start seeing a therapist so I don't need to spill my guts to the internets (and, more importantly, to increase my chances of getting into grad school. Just kidding. Sort of.)

One more Duke pic. I never thought I liked the toy breeds (save for the mini weenie,) but this shih tzu/lahsa apso mix is the shit (no pun intended.)

quasi-things

Well folks, I'm getting ready to head down to Miami for a week with CuteCanadianNoLongerJustInternetBoyfriend. Communications have been infrequent and lackluster ever since he got there a few weeks ago and I started preparing to move (and, um, fucking my hairstylist,) so this one's been demoted from being referred to by his initial to a descriptive acronym. Also, I'm blaming him for the fact that I've consumed my weight in cake and cookies and challah bread (my Catholic mother's Christmas tradition, for some very ungodly reason) every day for the last couple weeks. He simply doesn't deserve my pudge-free self at this point, though I did manage to shave for the first time in you don't wanna know how long, and I just might even clip my toenails. (Probably not.)

I have to leave for the airport tomorrow/today at 3:30 a.m. for a 5:00 flight via Minneapolis' ten-mile-long airport/mall, and, since my bedtime has been around 2 or 3 a.m. these days, I'm just not going to bother with the whole sleeping thing. As I have already packed and need something to do into the wee hours, I shall present to you a smidgen of the great amount of self-reflection I've had far too much time to do lately.

I've never been one of those girls who writes down all the boys she's kissed or whatever, but they say that laying everything out could be a good way to notice problematic patterns. While I've had a couple good relationships and a few one night stands of both the truly regrettable and awesomely ridiculous varieties, most of my, um, interaction with the opposite sex has been in the context of a "quasi-thing," a termed coined by the Fat Asian Baby to connote an extended, non-commital hookup situation. Here, for your voyeuristic pleasure, is the complete list of my quasi-things. (Note: all those included were slept with immediately [with the aid of much alcohol] and were the subject of brief to prolonged infatuation followed by complete ambivalence, except where noted otherwise.)

*The Swimmer With a Curse of the Irish Variety. We went on a date to Central Park, and then he came to my sophomore suite's party, and then we went back to his dirty frat house where we ate doughnuts, drank Mountain Dew, and hooked up to a Dave Matthews CD. The next morning I woke up with the worst case of laryngitis I've ever had and could not speak at all. He wasn't that into me after that, but I had a huge crush on him because he was damn hot (mmm swimmer body.) Then I saw him after he graduated and he wasn't so hot anymore. Ha.

*The Frenchie Chef With the Nice Blonde Hair. I hate to admit it, but this guy charmed my pants off, quite literally, with a nearly incomprehensible French accent, a great knowledge of gourmet food and weird South American herbal teas, and bullshit talk about sunsets in Madagascar ("Every night when I see zee sunset, I cry. Eet was so byooteeful.") My inexperienced 19-year-old heart was crushed when he suddenly moved to Japan. Our initial hookup marks the first of several incidents in which I drunkenly puked out the window of a moving cab. I'm courteous like that.

*The Grad Student Writer. I'd heard something about it being a bad idea to date writers. Ever the curious little monkey, I decided to find out why. Well, this guy was an arrogant douche so I guess that's why. He talked incessantly about himself, his stories that didn't sound very interesting, and the status of our non-relationship. I broke it off after he didn't call me on Valentine's Day but clearly still wanted to fuck me (poorly) that weekend. But no worries...the next night I came across:

*The Wanderer/Rickshaw Driver. This one almost doesn't belong in this list, because our quasi-thing was pretty long and awesome and genuine. He wouldn't go out with me for real because he was planning on riding his bicycle from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego (only made it to California or something). He wasn't really into material possessions, his dinners often consisted entirely of an avodado, and he was always pretty homeless. He has settled a bit and has a real girlfriend, and we still talk sometimes. I love him--in a warm and fuzzy, I'm-glad-this-person-exists kind of way.

*Jailbait. There was this crew party at the Boathouse early senior year, and the only food served was meat, and I was vegetarian, so I got really drunk. My friend and I got bored so we decided to swim naked in the Harlem River (so far we have not sprouted any extraneous appendages.) Afterwards I spied this freshman who was a cutie patootie and lured him back to my place with the brilliant line, "Wanna see my dorm room?" Turns out, he was only 17 1/2 and had a girlfriend. I am going to hell.

*The Nice Guy. After all the aforementioned nonsense (and some more scandalous, unmentioned nonsense) I was ready for some peace. So I convinced myself that things with this really nice, really really smart, really, um, nice guy would be just perfect. Well, suffice it to say I wasn't all that thrilled after a couple months, and, most importantly, he didn't watch crappy TV or listen to popular music, or music with words in it, for that matter. I'm sorry, but I just can't connect with someone who's not at least vaguely aware of Paris Hilton's latest antics.

*The Almost-Olympian/My Friend's Ex. Well, the day after I broke up with Mr. Niceguy was the Senior Dinner. And what else is a Senior Dinner for but to drink as much free wine as possible (I'm looking at you, Drone) and hookup with someone you've been staring at in the gym every day for four years. The fact that he was very very good looking and training for the Olympics somehow overshadowed the fact that he was a Republican, but, obviously, this one was eventually doomed. As was my friendship with his ex for a good solid year.

*The Almost-Olympian's Coach. So I started hooking up with his college coach instead. This one wins the Best Kisser Ever award, but homeboy had some issues. Basically, he would call me, I'd go to his place to hang out, he'd tell me about his relationship with his father and how much he was annoyed by this female coach, and then we'd go to sleep and not makeout (most of the time.) He stopped calling me once the school year started again (and he started a quasi-thing with the said female coach.)

*The 37-year-old Actor/Musician/Artist/Borrower of Money From His Parents. Now I was fully removed from the wonderful world of college and bored out of my gourd, so I posted an ad on Nerve. I was apprehensive about meeting guys off the internet, but after a few dates this was the only one I felt that indescribable urge to jump on top of. Once, I was dog-sitting for an engaged Catholic couple and we spent the night in their bed. Of course, they came home early. I tried to sneak out while toting a guy wearing black leather and smelling strongly of booze and cigarettes, but it didn't work and I think they said a few Hail Mary's afterwards. He broke it off with a voicemail message. Classy.

*The Blogger. This one knows about my blog so I'm not going to say much, except for the part about how I introduced him to one of my best friends and then they immediately started a non-quasi-thing (i.e., real live dating) behind my back. That part was awesome. But it's all good now, guys.

*The Foodie Who Couldn't Kill a Cockroach. The night after I found out about Blogger and Friend, I met this kid at Perplexa's sort of high school reunion. He was at her 6th birthday party and injured himself playing Red Rover. He paid for a few good dinners, but he dissed Bono, couldn't kill a bug for me, and seemed like he might be subconsciously playing for the other team. I realized I had a better time dorking out with the Internet Boyfriend, so I not so sweetly just stopped calling and, thankfully, he got the memo.

*The Hairstylist. You know about this one. Except for the part about him sleeping over the next night, calling me a little more than I'd expect from a guy (probably because I'm not available,) and enticing me to come back to NYC with free haircuts. This would creep me out a little if he didn't have nice thick messy hair, the coolest fucked up jeans that he artfully fucks up himself, and did I mention the free haircuts?

*Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend. Oh, Canada... He called me in the process of writing this self-obsessed drivel, and I remembered why I like him. His level of chillness makes it nearly impossible for me to be too wacko for too long. I was IM-ing FAB about how I was apprehensive about going to see him, and he asked what the noise was, and I said I was IM-ing FAB, and then he asked if I was telling FAB I was apprehensive to go see him. Of course I said no, but I'm a horrible liar so I was essentially busted. He said ok, but I'd better smile when I get there. Even though I won't have slept in over 24 hours, I think I will. Aww.

So what have we learned from this little exercise (other than Gina's kinda slutty and has questionable morals and needs approval from men to boost her wavering level of self-esteem?) Hmm, I think that's a rhetorical question. Anywho, if you've read this far, you are obviously very bored at work/home right now, and I'm sincerely sorry about that.