local paper goodness

*Something tells me the mother of little Anakin Jude is a high school sophomore. Just a hunch.

*"Through research, we found out there is a significant amount of drugs present [at the skate park]," say these high school sleuths.

*Man charged with child molestation and prostitution uses his 79,000 pound semi-truck in an attempt to elude the cahps. "Collins used his truck to try to ram police vehicles, but tried to avoid regular motorists, according to court documents." How courteous.

tjif

Big ups to E for introducing me to planetdan. There's a whole lot of nothing for me to do in the office today, and it's making doing said nothing while suffering a wee hangover almost enjoyable. I particularly love his posts about various Jesus figures.

*Jesus has a six-pack.

*I demand to know why none of my relatives ever gave me one of these lovely gifts when I was a "young Catholic athlete." Though it appears there is no computer-gaming Jesus.

*Not technically Jesus, but as close as humankind has come since He ascended into Heaven. Even though I saw it yesterday and have seen the infomercial, this post has made me laugh out loud uncontrollably on four separate occasions today. In case any of my coworkers didn't already think I was weird...

Have a good weekend, y'all. You can find me terrorizing a small town in western Massachusettes with other oversized girls.

"tid bits"

*I'd read a bit of this article on cage wrestling, but I missed the part about how it's thriving in two of the three midwestern towns in which I grew up.

But in Sioux Falls and other small cities and towns of the Great Plains - Fargo, N.D.; Rochester, Minn.; Marshfield, Wis.; Sioux City and Des Moines - cage fighting is making a comeback, drawing hundreds, even thousands of spectators to fairgrounds, small arenas and, most disturbingly to city officials, the parking lots of bars.

I still lament the time Drone and I were too stuffed from Day After Christmas Dinner to go see midget and women's wrestling at a bar near my parents' house. [thanks for the info, K]

*I pretty much love all things that can be described as "so bad it's good." Which is why I adore the movie Glitter, questionable street cart hot dogs, and the Local Paper. This crappy writing contest is genius.

*And last but not least, the moment you have all been waiting for, Joan Rivers was fucking awesome. She's performing in New York City once a week for quite a bit longer, so if you live here I'd highly suggest going to see her. Your $25 ticket will get you a solid hour of guilty, un-PC laughter and will benefit Joan's favorite charities, God's Love We Deliver and Guide Dogs for the Blind (and, yes, she makes ample fun of both gay people and the blind, and pretty much every other person you can think of.) Oh and the date part wasn't too shabby either, but in an uncharacteristic moment of blog shyness I can't bring myself to say anything about it.

linkydinks

*I love British people. Their dry sense of humor, their crooked teeth, and their inadvertently hilarious honesty.

*I also love Weimaraners, especially when their owners go off their meds and dress them up in neon spandex.

*Reluctantly, I'm starting to love cats. Especially cats that always look pissed off. Damn you, fourfour.

*Last but not least, I'm not sure how I feel about Joan Rivers, but I do tend to gravitate towards ridiculousness, so tonight I'm going on a double date with a costume designer who contacted me on Friendster and his two gay friends to see Joan Rivers live and in person. I dare you to come up with a better first date idea.

"is this the best you can do?"

When I started this here job, I told myself I'd be good and not blog at work. For the first week, I didn't even check my blog for fear of leaving the address in the computer's history. By week two I was happily using my blog's links to check all my usuals. It's now week three, and not only am I blogging at work, I am about to blog about work at work, in an open office, which means I sit four feet away from my superiors. I am fully aware of the stupidity of this, but you've probably discerned by now that my middle name is not Prudence. (For those who care, it's Michele, with one "L", because I'm 1/16th I-talian.)

As mentioned before, I am a glorified secretary. Come to think of it, it's not even glorified--the name has just changed to "administrative assistant" in this era of political correctness. I exist to do all the crappy work that no one else wants to do. And I understand this. I wouldn't want to staple a five-inch stack of two- and three-page documents every day either. But now I do this, because I was clueless and unprepared when I graduated from college. And those who were prepared, like the analysts, are my age and graduates of similar colleges and now get to ask me to fetch them new garbage cans. I don't regret any of the choices I've made in recent years since none of them have seriously destroyed my life, so I can accept my current lot. The perks here help, as do the friendly people, including my often amusingly crazy bosses. But when 8.5 Million Dollar House Boss just chastised me for improper photocopying of a book ("if you press harder you won't get that grey area in the middle") it was all I could do to say "ok" without unleashing the classic Gina anti-authority attitude ("Is the grey area really compromising your ability to read this? I don't think so.") Especially when redoing it involves copying each page separately, then rotating every other page of the resulting document so that when I copy it double-sided (a necessity for 8.5 Boss, the other prefers two pages on each side and then double-sided) the backsides of the pages won't be upside down (which is the standard copier setting.)

[Disclaimer: 8.5 Boss is actually a really funny guy, and he has a good heart and appears to be in possession of a soul. He's just a little OCD. So things could be far, far worse. For example, I could have taken over Drone's position at his former place of employment.]

ow

Good weekend, good weekend. I'd forgotten how painfully short they are when you have a normal job. Like with vacations, it feels like another weekend is necessary to recover from the weekend. All the more motivation to strive towards a life of glorified unemployment (i.e., freelancing and/or freeloading) or somehow become a French citizen.

Anyway, the birthday gathering was a success, and definitely more of a gathering than a party. I only invited a handful of people, and almost all of them came and brought with them items such as fancy tequila, wine, beer, champagne, boyfriends, a harem of Asian girls, and a large cheese pizza. Even my favorite deli guy got in on the action by providing Awesome New Friend S with a plastic cupfull of brandy when she bought beer on her way over. Since Drone and I started our own little party two hours before anyone else arrived (damn those cheap Chilean magnums of wine,) I don't recall the details, but it was fun and there wasn't much of a mess and nobody fell of the roof, though I do have a picture of Drone sitting precariously on the ledge. Bad Drone.

The next day was lovely as well, as I cured my hangover early on with a slice of cold pizza and followed it up with a nice brunch involving beer and my second BLT in a week. I'd originally thought it would be just me and a couple friends from crew that I don't see very often, but two others materialized at the restaurant and it was a veritable mini-reunion. Ridiculous makeout stories (from someone other than myself, for once,) revelations about even more people getting married (specifically, our beautiful med school friend is taking a gym teacher trophy husband,) and freaking out about the Bar exam ensued (you can do it, R.) And now I'm quite exhausted and forcing myself to go to the gym after work for the first time in about four months. It'll be brutal, but at least the gym is in the office and comes with complimentary Vitamin Water and Kiehl's products. Hooray for hedge funds.

happy birthday to me!

How cute is my mom? Not that you can see her here, but look at all this stuff she sent me! I just went down to the basement to do my laundry (do I know how to celebrate or what?), ran into the super, and came back up with a box full of organic pastas, organic rice mixes, organic cookies, organic granola, organic granola bars, vacuum sealed tuna, a book about "Wisconsin curiosities," and a decorative candle for my patio furniture. Just in time for the gathering I'm having tonight on my lil' terrace! Awww. This is quite honestly the first birthday on which I've been happy since, oh, 2001. I realize that is kind of sad, but now I'm not sad, so whatever.

happy friday

Doggy Daycamp in Bogota!


Sandals and Socks (and tightrolled pants and a cone wearing cat)! [via blacktable]


Draw a Pig! [via l'absurdite, whose piggie is way better than mine, though, for the record, my mouse sticks]

oh, it's right

Now THIS is awesome. Too awesome for words. So I lifted some pictures. Enjoy. [via cityrag]

profound observations about stuff

*Music. I am becoming one of them. I really like the Kills, and I love Bloc Party, but I hate the Roseland. Because I've been a dumbdumb about getting concert tickets before they sell out, I haven't actually seen these bands and would very much like to, but merely knowing that they've played much cooler, smaller, funner (yes, funner) venues makes me incapable of seeing them at a lamer, bigger, shittier one. Something about the Roseland just sucks the life out of a band. Excuse me while I go smoke a Parliament and contemplate what kind of star tattoo to get.

*Vermin. Cockroaches love dental hygeine. Two summers ago I caught a cockroach feasting on the head of my toothbrush. Fortunately, it was loving those bristles long time, so I was able to throw out the contaminated brush before I had a chance to use it. (Though in retrospect, this may not have been the first time that had happened. Eeeeeeesh.) Then, after brushing my teeth last night, (my toothbrush is now suspended on the wall in this weird, less cockroach-friendly contraption left by my subletter) I reached for the bottle of Listerine and noticed a familiar set of antennae poking out from behind the big black cap. I suppressed the intense desire to convulse and scream and jump up and down, cleared away the expensive hair-styling products that I never use, and sprayed the shit out of that Listerine with my Raid can. Bear in mind that I have a very tiny bathroom in a very tiny apartment. I am so getting cancer.

*Internerds. Bloggers love them some drama. If you know anything about the Lindsayism/Stephanie Klein antagonism, you will find this Overheard entry quite hilarious on two, maybe three levels.

*Rich People. People in New York are really fucking rich, and no matter how long I live here it will never cease to amaze me. My boss at the hedge fund, who is all of about 33, blows my JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsBrothers bosses (and THEIR bosses) way out of the water when it comes to money. Yesterday I noticed on his Outlook calendar that he was going to look at a brownstone between Fifth and Madison in the East 70's (basically NYC's socialite playground.) Today he reported back that it is five floors plus a basement for a total of 6,600 square feet, and that at only $1,300 per square foot it is "actually on the low end." Well I broke out a calculator, ladies and gentlemen, and that comes to 8.58 million dollars. And I don't really have anything else to say after that.

good thing my credit card is always maxed out

Unlike a certain little sister of mine, I rather enjoy flying. It usually means I'm going/have just gone somewhere fun, sometimes there's free food and even alcohol, and I still think clouds are really quite fascinating. One of my favorite things to do on an airplane, aside from finding new ways to hide the fact that I'm still listening to my portable electronic device during takeoff and landing and thus causing the plane to crash (oh wait, that never happens...except on the Simpsons,) is playing the SkyMall Game. My scaredypants sister and I invented a variation of this game when we were little kids and looking for potential Christmas presents in the ginormous J.C.Penney catalog. Basically, you flip to any page of a catalog, preferably a crappy one, quickly decide what you would buy if you HAD to buy something, thereby voiding that thing for the other person, and then make fun of them for their lesser, more embarrassing choice (we got a huge kick out of the undergarments pages.) Nowadays, I usually fly by myself which makes for a less action-packed SkyMall Game, but the ridiculousness of the merchandise is usually enough to entertain me until I get motion sickness and the shitty Merlot/Nyquil/Vicodin/what-have-you kicks in. So, um, there's really no point to this story whatsoever, other than that The Morning News, which I had tragically forgotten existed until yesterday, has their own, and dare I say better, SkyMall Game, and you can play it in the comfort of your own overly air-conditioned office. My favorite part, of course, is item number 3, and my roommates in Ithaca actually owned item number 14.

new york city's finest

So apparently I was mistaken about having wanted to makeout with the arrested Broken Social Scener--it was a different one! Yeeeeeikes. Though, to this poor guy's credit, I'm sure he looks a little better without the massive bruises and bloody wounds.

so sad! but so funny!

As you probably know, I am not much of a cat person. They're not very friendly, they poop inside, and they don't acknowledge you when you call them. I am, however, a fan of kittens, games involving kittens, and kittens singing Led Zeppelin songs.

I am also a fan of all cats with any accoutrements, including this Quebecois feline recently adopted by Cute Canadian Friend's cousin. After falling off the balcony once, this poor kitty did not learn its lesson and fell off a second time. The vet told them they could either euthanize the cat or pay $2,000 (Canadian dollars, but still) to fix the leg. All wanted the former option except for one sobbing cousin, to whom this cat now owes its life. And fortunately for cat-kind, the vet threw in a neutering operation so it won't pass on its poor depth perception to others.

fes-ti-vaaaal

Today marked the third year in a row I have gone out to the Siren Festival. It also marked the first time I've heard any music there. In past years, it was just so damn hot and crowded and sweaty that after 15 minutes I booked it out to Brighton to drink with the Russkies. This year, however, a friend I made in Ithaca who has just moved to the city was going, so I decided to tag along and actually experience the thing. It was still so damn hot and crowded and sweaty, but we made our afternoon quite manageable by watching one band, Ambulance Ltd (hot singer, pretty songs, my superdorky midwestern mother likes them,) then riding the Cyclone rollercoaster (extremely fast and violent and I think I have whiplash and bruises,) then taking a Nathan's break (superb hot dogs, but don't order a "large" beer unless you want the 64 ounce souvenir one and not the 16 ounce biggest one on the menu...oops,) and then checking out one more band, Dungen. The one more band pretty much flipped me into new obsession mode. I read about Dungen almost a year ago on Stereogum and downloaded some of their songs. I could never fully get into them because I felt embarassed listening to people singing in Swedish, even when I was alone. Swedish is just a ridiculous sounding language. But the guys in the band are so blonde and rockin', the lead singer has my exact same haircut and color, and during their second song he broke out a regular silver flute and played into the main microphone. I played flute for ten years growing up, and I would be in absolute heaven if I could play rock flute for the rest of my life. I know there's not much of a demand for this, so I'll settle for writing and corporate whoredom. But the flute pretty much sealed the deal for me. If you have either Itunes or no shame and still use Limewire, download the song "Festival" and you will not be disappointed.

I am now extremely intoxicated (a growing theme here on Viagina) and exhausted and have added on a good five years to my age by sunburning the heck out of my face, but it was so worth it. And, as has come to be usual anywhere in New York, I ran into some familiar faces including Alex in LA's little brother and Alex, the 39-year-old who borrows money from his father and dates 23-year-olds and can get away with it because he is cuuuuuuuuuuuuute. I also got lots of free band stickers and pins and a Garnier Fructis radio. It's quite amazing what having a reason to wake up in the morning and having friends to do stuff with will do to a person. I haven't been this extendedly happy since junior year of college. Is my quarterlife crisis really, actually, finally over???

poor lil' canadians

Yesterday I managed to drag myself out of my post-work/post-burrito coma and have a lovely evening out with...myself. The Toronto "collective" Broken Social Scene was playing Central Park's Summerstage, and I'll be damned if I was going to miss one of my favorite bands playing just a few cross-street blocks away from my apartment. There was no way I was going to cough up the $40 ticket price, even if, you know, I actually had $40 (my wild spending days are, alas, over,) but herein lies the beauty of Summerstage. You can sit right outside the venue, not see anything, but hear it all crystal clear.

I totally misjudged when they were going to go on and only got to listen to three songs (and apparently I was not the only one to do so,) but as I crossed over to the east side of the park I could hear one of their many fantastically, weirdly beautiful songs, "Lovers' Spit," grow louder and louder until I finally snuggled my goosebumpy self happily into the crook of a tree. At some point towards the end of their set, the lead singer gave a shout out to his friends in prison, which I thought was rather puzzing until I read the concert reviews online--one member of the band and the producer were arrested and jailed the night before for trying to buy marijuana in Washington Square Park. Apparently, these two folks have not spent much time in New York since about 1982. Delivery service, dudes!

Regardless, Broken Social Scene will always have a place in my heart. They are solidly on my esteemed Most Favorite Bands Ever List, chronologically following Ace of Base (junior high...and shut up you liked them too,) The Beatles (early high school,) U2 (late high school,) Radiohead (college,) and the Canadian Persuasion (post-college) of BSS and The Arcade Fire (I know they don't sound at all the same but there are similarities in the bands themselves and in the role they've played in my life (i.e., helping keep me sane.))

Incidentally, I find it amusing that people are discussing each member (there are, like, 15 members) by name in trying to figure out who the pot-head is. I know the names of some band members but couldn't attribute them to the right people to save my life. But I do know from the photos who is missing. And that person is the one I so desperately wished I could make out with when I saw them play at NYU. Go fucking figure.

Last but not least, did you think I wasn't going to plug their album, eh? Buy it here and if you don't like it after listening to it five times I'll give you a blow job. Or just apologize for wasting your $12.

oops!

I don't know what I ate yesterday, but today I had the most raging case of food poisoning. I actually don't think I'd ever had food poisoning before, in spite of my great love for raw seafood, sneaking nibbles of unwashed produce from the grocery store, and the 30 second rule. Also, I never ever puke (unless I've had too much to drink and take a cab home--sorry NYC cab drivers,) and I'm solidly on the Dooce end of the spectrum when it comes to numero dos, so this problem was especially disturbing for me. Moving right along, after visiting the ladies' room four times in an hour, I thought it was safe to go downstairs for my first cigarette of the day. Well, it was not safe. Let's just say that during the seemingly neverending trip back into the building, through security, and up the elevator all I could think about was that infamous Saturday Night Live skit "Oops I Crapped My Pants" which you can view in all it's awesomely disgusting glory here. You're welcome.

hedgehogs

So five weeks since moving back to New York and going to bed at 5 a.m. because I had no reason to get up in the morning, I am off my ass and doing something. That something is one of the last things I've said I'd ever do. Among these things are i-banking, paralegaling, and prostitution. I've somehow managed to combine those--working at an apparently quite prestigious (hell if I know) hedge fund.

Basically, I am a glorified secretary, and my job includes maintaining my bosses' Outlook calendars, filing shit, and printing out and stapling massive volumes of research reports. While "administrative assistance" is pretty much exactly what I suck at (and have gotten fired for,) I think this will be ok. At JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsBrothersLynchGroup and Co., Inc., I rarely had anything to do, and so when I did get something to do, I was in the mode of not doing anything and didn't do it. At my Entertainment Company job after that, I had stuff to do but was stuck in a remote cubicle far away from my bosses, and so when I got stuff to do (really boring stuff, I must add) I just didn't do it because blogging and eating were more fun. But at this job, I have lots of stuff to do and am in very close proximity to my superiors, so I have no choice but to do it in a timely fashion. And then there are the perks.

Oh my fucking god the perks. So this hedge fund (which for the uninformed is a company whose contribution to society is trading stocks in order to make money for those who work at the hedge fund and for the owners of the hedge fund, period) has about 100 employees who do the hedge fundy stuff and takes up two floors of a typical NYC office building. My first day, I noticed the amazing array of free snacks and beverages, including Oreos, Kit-Kats, dark chocolate covered almonds, Asian salty mix, dried fruit, Diet Dr. Pepper, Fuji Water, Vitamin Water, etc. My second day I became aware of the free gym available to all employees (a normal NYC gym membership will run you approximately $100 per month, plus a hefty initiation fee.) But today I learned about the motherlode. There is free breakfast and lunch. Every day. Breakfast consists of a variety of bagels with cream cheese, muffins, cereal, and espresso drinks. Lunch includes hot food such as today's offering of salmon, porkchops, and chicken wings and also the most impressive salad bar (three different kinds of grilled chicken, avocado, artichokes, two different slicing styles for tomatoes, ten dressings, etc., etc., etc.) And after you assemble your salad, there are two little Mexican dudes employed specifically to toss it for you and also to chop it up if you so request. You then take your food to your desk in a ceramic dish, eat it while checking your email, and push it off to the side. Then, about 15 minutes later, some black ladies come along and clear your dishes for you. Meanwhile Bob Geldof arranges these massive concerts to raise AWARENESS for the rampant poverty in Africa. Ok.

I would normally be miserable doing what I'm doing, but I've decided to apply to journalism school for next year, so right now I just need to make some money. According to my temp agent, I've gotten "rave reviews" so far, which is utterly hilarious and will last about two more weeks unless I get myself a Ritalin prescription, a lobotomy, or a heretofore unseen amount of self discipline. I thoroughly plan on one of those things happening, should I stay, which will depend on whether they'll offer me health insurance and a sizable salary. And also on my receipt of an industrial sized Swingline, as I already have major knots in my left shoulder from all the damn stapling.

thank the lord for portable music playing devices

If you work in New York City and your job entails providing customer service of any sort, I have a handy guide to help you fit in with your fellow employees. First and foremost, be sure to engage in other activities while on the job, be it talking to your bff on your cell phone, clipping your fingernails, or counting all the money in your drawer, penny by penny. When a patron at your place of employment approaches the counter behind which you are "working," do not, I repeat, do NOT bother to look up and acknowledge the customer, and continue what you are doing for at least five minutes. Then, begrudgingly ask the customer if he or she has been helped, even if you are the only one behind the counter, and hence the only person available to help. When the customer replies "no," continue with your activity of choice for another five minutes. And when the customer sarcastically inquires as to whether there is anyone available to help, get what the customer requests, set it on the counter, and continue what you were doing until a nice long line mounts in front of your register. Finally, commence the slowest checkout process known to man, including superfluous services like double bagging, so that your customer eventually reaches across the counter and puts his or her items in the bag and storms off, while the rest of the line audibly sighs. If you aspire to win an Employee of the Month Award, shorten your personal activity time to 2-3 minutes and maybe improve your bagging skills. Just a little though.

i believe i can touch the sky

Week Five of my unemployment is rapidly coming to a close. During these five weeks I have successfully gained a few unnecessary pounds, overdrawn my overdraw protection on my checking account, and gotten a surprisingly painful tetanus shot. I've also been so emotionally volatile that I almost cried when Harold and Kumar finally made it to White Castle. And that's my life right now, in a nutshell. Go me. But all is not bad.

Last week, after spending my laundry quarters on Coors Light, I decided to do what any respectable almost-24-year-old would do and called my dad sobbing and begging for money. Very lucky for me, he amended his "you're cut off after we finish paying for your ridiculously expensive college" plan and sent me enough money to survive this month, provided I BmyOB and don't go to Burritoville too many times. Thank you thank you thank you, Dad. And for the record, if I ever again give half a shit about getting laid or finding a boyfriend-like thing, I will have a new "most humbling moment" on my Nerve profile (though I do like the ol' "Getting paid $10 an hour to walk a dog that lived on the top floor of the Carlyle Hotel and ate steak for dinner via room service.")

I've been receiving some non-financial support as well, in the form of my equally unemployed and almost as destitute friend D (FAB's former roomie.) He has just returned from several months on an organic farm in Costa Rica and is crashing at my place until he gets his shit together or we start hating each other, whichever comes first. So far things have been good, as D's dragged my lazy ass out of the house to events such as the obligatory Fourth of July Brooklyn roof party, introduced me to the relaxing wonders of smoking Costa Rican passion fruit leaves, and demanded that I clean my apartment (and by "that I clean my apartment" I mean "that I swing some wet paper towels around the bathroom while D cleans my apartment.") D's also made me feel a little better about my past shopping extravagance, as he picked up a pair of awesome and socially conscious jeans at Barney's, decided to "just try them on," and then bought them after 30 minutes of the whole "but I don't NEED them, but they're so NICE, but I'm unemployed, but they're ON SALE" song and dance. Thank you thank you thank you, D. (And they do really look good.)

So now I've got about two to three weeks to figure out how to support myself in the city without going insane or else, well, there'd better not be an or else this time. It's crazy that in just five weeks my initial plan of waitressing at night and volunteering and taking classes during the day in the hopes of getting into grad school for psychology has been completely and utterly dismissed. Since college I've been whining and whining and whining some more about how I don't have a hobby or passion or creative interest and will never find my place in adult society, and then the other day I thought to myself, "oh wait, I don't totally suck at writing, and it makes me happy, and some people get paid to write stuff...Gina, you're a genius." Most significantly of all, this whole writing plan, if executed correctly, could result in my being boss, office, and business casual free at some point in the very distant future. That vision alone is enough to keep the dream alive. But for now, it's off to the temp agency to get myself a position in the administrative assisting arts. And a nice big Ritalin prescription.

i [you know] ny

One of the greatest things about New York City, hands down, is the corner deli. On just about every block of the city is at least one grungy little convenience store open 24 hours a day, which means that if you desperately need a loaf of Arnold's Whole Grain Bread at 3 a.m., you need not walk more than half a block to get one, and if you go to a fancy store and try to charge a sweater to your maxed out credit card, you can find an ATM and run back into the store with the adequate cash in a matter of minutes. But the best thing about the Corner Deli is the familiarity you develop with "yours."

At the closest of my delis, the one that doubles as a pizza counter, the same little man of indeterminate ethnic origin is ALWAYS manning the non-pizza counter. There's not very much in the deli, so all I ever buy from him is beer, and I've been doing so for over two years. We've never really had a conversation, but every time I come in he grins real big and says "Hi Smiley" (which is funny because I'm decidedly un-smiley) and when I buy my beer he asks "how's your friend?" I'm not sure who this "friend" is, but I gather that he's referring to a guy, and, well, I've brought more than one to the deli. Or it could be the expat Perplexa. Hmm...

Anyway, as I mentioned in my last post, I just spent the very last of my money (all quarters) on some beer. When I went in and asked Mr. Smiley how much a six pack of Coors Light was, he told me it was $9, $2 more than what I had in my pocket. I told him I only had $7, not to seek a favor but just to explain my moment of consternation as I calculated how many beers I could buy. He came over, grabbed my shoulders, and put his head on my back. Then he shook his head, laughed, and said, "Take it, you pay me later." I emptied my change on the counter, laughing sheepishly, and he just smiled and said, "It's just money!" And then when I was halfway to the door, he told me to let him know if I needed any more.

I was almost thinking of going the extra block and taking my 28 quarters elsewhere to experience my shame anonymously, but now I know that in MY deli, I will never be judged for being financially irresponsible, slutty, and alcoholic. And when I want a dried out, congealed slice of vegetable pizza at 4:30 in the morning, I'll get it with a smile.

fun stuff

*

*My sis sent me the link to the awesome postsecret, a blog that, well, posts secrets people send in on postcards. I was going to link to some of my favorites but there are so many good ones. If I were to make my own postcard right now, it would say, "I just spent my last $7 (all quarters) on beer and am drinking it by myself." But now I guess that's not a secret anymore.