a new page for the "gina's a moron" book

As usual, my intentions were good.

I am moving to Brooklyn tomorrow after seven beautiful years in Manhattan. I was late to the moving-on-August-1st-I-should-probably-reserve-a-Uhaul-in-advance party and have to procure my vehicle in the Bronx, the part above the northern tip of Manhattan that is very, very, very far away from where I am currently living and even further away from where I will soon be living. Typical dumb Gina move . . . I'm over it. The problem is that yesterday, in an uncharacteristic fit of productivity, I gave myself the false hope that I might actually go into this move prepared (barring trivial things like changing my address or, for that matter, knowing what my new address is, exactly.)

Last time I moved I got wasted the night before, slept through my alarm, woke up when the Uhaul folks called me, and made my poor and amazing ex-boyfriend watch me pack up the rest of my crap and do a move job on fast-forward, including sitting in my current building's entryway watching my stuff for an hour and a half while I sold my bed and broke at least twelve traffic laws trying to return the Uhaul on time. So this time around I decided to start early, and yesterday I packed up four giant duffel bags. Like starting an article sooner than two hours before it's due, this was a great feat. So when I woke up today, my mood was bolstered with the knowledge that I'd finish the job, have a relaxing evening, and be all rested and prepared to move in the morning.

But I woke up too early and couldn't get out of bed until Ellen brought me coffee, and then we decided to watch a little TV, and then a little TV turned into two episodes of Work Out, the first two and a half episodes of Project Runway, and an entire bag of Harvest Cheddar SunChips. There's just no fighting with the Bravo channel or Frito-Lay. And to my defense, I haven't been watching TV at all lately (pick your jaw up off the floor) and had not seen a lick of the new ProjRun season. I'd forgotten how empty my life was sans Heidi Klum.

Anyway, now here I am, 1:25 a.m., home from work and exhausted and a little buzzed, and I've got myself a 24-ounce PBR (I am moving to Williamsburg, afterall) to keep me company. And now it's time to wash dishes so that I can pack them and unload the bookshelf and find a container for all my goddamn hangers and other fun things, so that I can move on no sleep and then work eight full workdays in six days, starting Tuesday.

(I'm totally making the "world's smallest violin" motion to myself right now, so you can put your hand down.)

updates

Hey everyone! There are some exciting new developments in Via Gina Land!

*First and most definitely foremost, I would like to announce that www.viagina.blogspot.com is the second site listed when one does a Google search for "world's largest round barn." Shooting for number one in 2007!

*This morning at the intern-y thingamabobber, I learned that I'd be doing my first celebrity interview. It was actually my first interview of anyone, ever, period. My greatest fear was that I'd fail to operate the tape recorder, but I think I managed to succeed at turning it on and pushing the red "record" button. A brief rewind-and-play revealed that everything I said was mumbled gobbledygook, but, fortunately, I will be transcribing the conversation. The interview itself went pretty darn well. My editor was a little surprised that it only lasted 12 minutes, but I've always operated under my own made up "concision is best" policy. (Or all my years of procrastinating have just made me do things really fast.) Anyway, the person is someone not currently in the public eye but who you'd definitely know if you listened to Top 40 radio in 1998. And I managed to finesse my way into getting her to reveal the answer to a rather burning question I'd had back in the day involving Christians and heroin. I actually can't wait to go to work on Thursday to write the article. And then perhaps someday I will be able set foot in a Midtown office building without curling up in the fetal position and rocking compulsively back and forth in a corner.

*And last but not least, this blog will now be coming to you from the burrough of Brooklyn! My friend N and her live-in ex-boyfriend are vacating their place and I just couldn't not take it. It is illegal, it is cheap, it is huge (by my screwed up New York standards), and it is ALL MINE. It's in a basement so there's no sunlight and I have to share a bathroom with like eight other people, but I'm nocturnal anyway and will pee in the kitchen sink if I have to.

That is all.

Over and out,

Gina

round things, fried things, and really ugly dogs

God, I love fairs. The Central Wisconsin State Fair was, in addition to Dairyfest, pretty much the highlight of my life when I was a kid. The rides, the fried cheese curds, the staying out past my bedtime, the requisite five-legged goat or other freak animal, lots and lots of cows, toothless carnies . . . aside from that one time in 7th grade when I ate an entire elephant ear and rode the Gravitron twice against my will and have never been so nauseated in my entire life and lost the ability to eat fried dough products, donuts included, for about six years, it was all good.

But we did not have an Ugly Dog Contest. (Incidentally, I think that the 1st Place Ribbon should go to Pee-Wee and that Tator Tot shouldn't even be in the contest, and Elwood pretty much rocks my world.) [Thanks, Lizard Breast!]

Now who's coming with me to Dutchess? I'm serious about the 4-H Fashion Show.

happy birthday to me

Take a wild guess!

Twenty five is going to be a good one, I think.

my not so slow descent into alcoholism

I realized long ago that I needed to tone done my drinking just a tad. "Long ago" being exactly three days into what has turned into a three-month bender. For the past three months, it's been constant temptation and constant "hey sure, why not?" It has been fun as hell. But by no means sustainable. Fuck, in the past three months I've seen Drone, one of my best friends in the whole wide world who happens to live half a block away from me, maybe, maaaybe a total of four times.

So the new interny gig prompted me to not drink a drop for two whole days (seriously, this was a feat.) But perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to throw myself into real, honest-to-goodness alcohol withdrawal the week I added on a part-time job to my already physically demanding full-time one. I've been drinking regularly for the past seven years almost, and the worst I ever had to deal with were the occasional raging day-long hangover and many, many, many idiotic but often hilarious decisions. I guess I just never thought it could be this bad. I guess I'd never "needed" alcohol before nor even understood the concept. But now I understand. Isn't learning fun?!

So in addition to working two 16-hour days, plus a couple dinky 8-hour ones, I've had to deal with the following for the past 48ish hours:

a chest and head cold
persistent dull headache
nausea
sharp stomach pains
major beer-gut-esque bloating
the constant sensation that I'm about to crap my pants
hot flashes
goosebumps
hot flashes at the same time as goosebumps
excessive sweating
dizziness
dry mouth
extreme sleepiness, combined with an inability to actually sleep
shaking, lots of shaking

Tonight I cried at the end of work. My boss/manager gave me an empathetic hug. I had a chicken pot pie and less than a bottle of beer with Ellen. Now I'm going to finish the book I'm reading and go to bed.

THE END.

my god i love ebay

Tonight I proved to myself that not drinking can be fun, too! After a full day of office work and a full night of restaurant work, I decided to give my liver a rest and have Aranciata (the Italian Orangina) for my shifty. Unlike the last time I had Aranciata for my shifty with the same intention (two nights ago, to be exact,) I did not proceed to Whiskey Ward and Bar 155 with N and M and consume countless shots 'n beers and wind up having a noodle fight with N at Veselka at 5 a.m. (We tipped almost 50% for that one.) Nope, instead I very slowly coerced my legs to take me home, got some fro yo, and looked for clothes on Ebay. I got bored of that and did a search for "vintage medical" and lost an hour and a half of my life.

If you only have a new Embalmer Artery Clipper, will the hipsters shun you?

I haven't thought about breast pumps since I lived on the Upper West Side. I wonder if my old downstairs neighbors, The Upper Breast Side - Manhattan's First Breastfeeding Boutique, had any of these rather frightening devices.

This medical cocaine tin is actually really kind of cute. Gotta love the French--always thinking about style. It's on the "watch list."

I know a few people who could certainly use a RelaxAcizor.

I played with my Fisher Price Medical Kit all the goddamn time when I was a kid. When my friends and I played Doctor, we actually played Doctor. Once a nerd, always a nerd, I suppose.

It was really hard not to buy anything. Which is why I did buy something. This little gem, courtesy of seller footprintsofjesus from the great state of Texas, is going to make an awesome vase in my new apartment.

episode 1: landing that job!

We here at Drunk Girl's Guide know that finding the perfect job can be hard. Heck, finding a job that doesn't make your eyelid twitch constantly and cause you to run away to Upstate New York by way of Wisconsin and South America can even be a challenge for certain people. In this episode Gina Jameson will take you through her latest job-finding process step by step, with helpful tips and anecdotal advice to help you land that unpaid internship of your dreams!

Lay the Groundwork
The key to finding a great gig is putting yourself out there. Do your research and apply to every potentially suitable place you can find. This, of course, requires time, effort, and dedication. Armed with only the first of these criteria, I began my search on Craigslist one morning when I suddenly decided that perhaps it was time to look beyond drunken waitressing to fulfill my soul and my astronomical financial obligation to Citibank. After scouring the "writing/editing" section for three minutes, I decided to apply for an editorial intern position at a nightclub website because I haven't set foot in a club since 2001.

Put Your Best Foot Forward
First impressions are important. In your application email you want to highlight your best qualities and show how these will contribute to the success of the organization. It is essential to tailor your cover letter to each job for which you're applying and, if appropriate, provide examples of what you can do. Not keeping these tips in mind at all, I sent my fake cover letter, word for word, and a link to this here e-chronicle of my drunken escapades, inability to retain employment that doesn't involve on-the-job drinking, and general irresponsibility.

Show 'Em You're a Tiger!
Sometimes you may come across a situation in which the position you applied for doesn't actually exist. This is not the end of the world. Since your alcohol consumption has dramatically improved your social skills over the years, you may just be charming enough in your interview to land an alternate gig. This is where you need to show your stuff. When my "editorial internship" turned into "write one dinky article per week from home" I knew I had to shine. That's why I turned in all four articles I managed to finish in two months at 5 pm the day of the deadline, at the earliest (4 am on Wednesday was still Tuesday to me!), and came up with dramatic yet mostly true excuses for not completing the rest. The three-day bender after my coworker died turned into a two-month drink-a-thon. Which is both harder and funner (yes, funner) than one may think.

Stand Out From the Pack
In order to rise to the top of your chosen field, you need to distinguish yourself. You should try to go above and beyond the call of duty and complete work that's out of the range of your job description. That's not why I sent the following email to my editor:

Hey [Editor]. So I think perhaps the time has come for me to throw in the proverbial towel. I don't know why it's so incredibly difficult to get myself to write one little not incredibly difficult article per week, but it is. I think it has something to do with being productive for the first time in a while and deadlines and psyching myself out to a ridiculous degree. Anyway, I'm really sorry for letting you (and myself) down. Thank you so much for the opportunity.

The truth, it hurts.

You Did It!
If and when success comes, you need to be well-rested and prepared. Two days after my email, I received a mysterious 212 phone call and, for once, answered my phone.

Editor: "Hey Gina! It's [Editor]. I got your email, and, uh, this is going to sound a little weird since you want to quit, but uh, would you be interested in an actual internship at the office? Two days a week, copy editing, photo stuff, more writing, 10-6?

Gina: I have to be at my real job at 5:45.

Editor: Okay, 10-5 is fine.

Gina: Okay.

This morning is my first day at the ol' office. I've prepared myself by getting quite drunk and just plain drunk two nights before and the night of, respectively. Yesterday morning I woke up with Beef Stroganoff in my hair (long story). And this morning it's off to the office!

We here at Drunk Girl's Guide are sure you can use Gina Jameson's job search tale to help start your dream career!

happy birthday to my stomach

The other night Ellen and I went to the 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee and new restaurant Degustation to celebrate my birth 24 years and 354 days prior. It's a good thing I didn't get called onstage to spell as I'd recently consumed half a bottle of prosecco and a pint and a half of Stella. In good conscience I'd have had to remove my Knights of Columbus 7th Grade 1st Place spelling bee trophy from its place of prominence in my bedroom. But this isn't about spelling. No, it is about food.

Okay, let me just get one other little thing out of the way before we talk about food. Wesley Genovart, the 26-year-old Spanish chef at Degustation, is hot. Really, really hot. If I were younger and dumber I would've left my number on the back of a receipt (which I did to a chef when I was younger and dumber, and it worked, but that's a whole nother story.) Actually that's giving myself too much credit. We overheard that he has a girlfriend.

Anyway, the way Degustation works is you make a reservation and sit at one of the 16 seats at a bar that curves around the open kitchen. So you get to stare at the hot chef for a couple hours. Or watch the food preparation, if you're into that sort of thing. The menu is all Spanish-ish small plates, and there are about 18 of them. Ellen and I consumed 10.

We arrived five minutes before our 10:30 reservation and our seats weren't ready yet. There's nowhere to wait in the teeny tiny restaurant, but the hostess escorted us next door to the slightly less teeny tiny Jewel Bako where we grabbed a table and a couple glasses of white wine. Now I'm no wine snob (okay I sort of am,) but I was slightly disappointed that the wine was ice cold. It fogged up the glasses and didn't taste like much of anything, but when I warmed up the cup part with my hands it "opened up," as they say. When our seats were free, they transfered our tab between restaurants, which was awesome.

Time for a red! We went for the Rioja because of the description, not because I didn't know what any of the other Spanish reds were. (Time to expand my Wines For Dummies collection.) There was no room on the bar to keep our bottle so the servers kept it on a nearby shelf which had me worried but my glass magically filled itself whenever it got close to empty. E and I ordered the five course tasting menu, and the server explained exactly what we'd be getting, thus helping us decide not to get the tasting menu. We did a little mental math, and getting two of each of five things for $100 versus choosing what we wanted and trying a bunch of different things for less money seemed to make much more sense. Lesson learned: Always find out what you're getting with a tasting menu.

We started off ordering the cheese plate (would've preferred smaller hunks of more cheeses rather than huge hunks of two cheeses, one of which was a little too pungent for dear Ellen), this foamy poached egg with jamon thing, a fancy little roast beef open-faced sandwich with foie gras mayo, squid stuffed with pork ribs (I've been really into the surf and the turf in such close proximity lately), pork belly, rabbit something or other, and pan seared foie gras. Before the foie gras came out we saw Mr. Hot Chef making the lamb dish, and it looked so good we tacked that on too. Everything was good and, if not great, certainly interesting. Side of chlorophyll, anyone? We ate the foamy poached egg with jamon thing in about 6.2 seconds, and I could've eaten about ten more orders of it. This also marked my first foie gras experience. It's like eating a hunk of melted butter. It is good.

Before dessert we went outside for a cigarette, and before I could start searching my bag for matches a server whipped out a lighter and a smile. Awww. For dessert we ordered the apple tart because Ellen noted that the strawberry dessert came with but one little strawberry sliced up. Kinda weak. But she told the server it was my birthday and we ended up with both anyway, plus a sparkler in the apple thing. I tried repeatedly to blow it out, given my new phobia of sparklers, but my efforts were in vain. Everything was so good all around that I'm tempted to go back on my real birthday.

Attentive and friendly but unobtrusive service + tasty and fun food + hot chef + cozy, relaxed atmosphere = three and a half oinks from this little piggy.

pilot

[With all respects to Style Network's faaaabulous series Modern Girl's Guide to Life, without which I never would have learned how to vomit without the assistance of five shots of whiskey and my fingers.]

Urinating in public. Puking. Having sex in bathrooms. Not getting fired. Finally, there's a blog that tackles your daily challenges with a take-charge attitude. Drunk Girl's Guide to Life is a fun series delivering useful tips for today's alcoholic woman.

East Village trend correspondent Gina Jameson--along with fellow Drunk Girls Ellen Stolichnaya, Natalia Beam, and Susetta Pabst--hosts this sporadic treasure trove of practical advice. Not sure how to select a quality bottle of wine that you won't be able to appreciate because you're too drunk? Don't worry, Drunk Girl's Guide shows you how! Can't figure out what happened to all your cash? We'll enlighten you on that, too (hint: you spent it on alcohol and cabs.) Each episode covers questions you were afraid to ask, on topics from drinking to hangovers to morning-afters and more.

Just consider Drunk Girl's Guide to Life your big sister with all the answers--your very own cheat sheet to living well!

Stay tuned for Episode 1: Landing That Job!

New Episodes: Whenever I feel like it.

work, sex, or just plain drunkTM

Hey, kids! I just invented this superawesome new game! It's called Work, Sex, or Just Plain Drunk^TM!

It's quite simple, really. The only supplies you need are a physically demanding job, a healthy amount of horniness, and at least a borderline level of alcohol dependency. I like to start playing Work, Sex, or Just Plain Drunk^TM when I wake up in the morning (that's sometime between 12 noon and 2 pm) and continue throughout the day. So what you do is you wake up and go about your morning rituals (mine are drinking coffee, doing the crossword, and eating half a box of hemp granola, but that's neither here nor there.) As you do these things, take note of all the new bruises, scratches, or other abrasions located on your person. Then you try to figure out whether they happened at work, while having sex, or when you were just plain drunk (obviously you are generally drunk at work and while having sex, hence the "just plain" qualifier.)

I'll give you a few examples of just some of the many injury types you'll encounter as you start to play this game.

The Stumper

Evidence
The two-inch diameter multicolored oval-shaped bruise smack dab in the middle of my right thigh.

Analysis
My work bruises are usually around my knees from running into the outside planters or on my hips from hitting the standing bar. I'd just had sex with Bartender, and he's definitely starving and my thigh is quite muscular, but I don't think he'd try to eat it. Two nights before I'd been out drinking and a work regular said he saw me run into a parked car, but the friend who was with me could not confirm this tale. This is a toughie.

Conclusion
Four days later I had my epiphany. I noticed that the corners of the tables at work are just at mid-thigh height, and the corner would explain the oval shape of the bruise. One point!

The Imposter

Evidence
A set of five long parallel scrapes on the back of my left shoulder.

Analysis
The shape, number, and location of the scratches would certainly suggest sex, and I did indeed pay a visit to the Bartender's basement apartment the night before; however, he was half asleep and more subdued than usual. Before that I was skipping stones and drinking a 40 down by the river, but all I remembered was getting my hands really dirty and wishing I'd had my camera because the lights in Manhattan reflecting on the river sure were pretty.

Conclusion
Upon noticing a similar scratch on my calf when I showered for work several hours later, I recalled that it kind of hurt when I crawled through the hole in the fence that is supposed to keep drunken fools from playing around down by the river. The direction of the scratches corresponded to the side-step motion I'd used to get through the hole. Another point for me!

The Obvi

Evidence
Ellen: Um, Gina, you have a hickey on your neck.
Gina: Oh, shit.

Analysis
Sure enough, Roommate's Friend had gotten a little carried away the night before. The small size and long, narrow shape of the abrasion were atypical of a hickey. I'd put the breaks on the hickey development process early, so it would be just a litte one. (As an aside, my expensive Bobbi Brown concealer failed to cover the telltale spot, confirming that God hates me.)

Conclusion
Duh, it's a hickey, and for the teasing I had to endure at work for this one, two points!

And, last but not least, there is no cheating. Tonight it was this backwaiter's first day on the job, and when I was entering an order into the computer he shattered a big handful of wine glasses on the shelf below. I felt a slight sting on my legs but was too busy to notice or much care. When I got home and saw bloody streaks across my calves, I knew the source immediately. If only I'd not been sober at work tonight...

Now that you know the rules of Work, Sex, or Just Plain Drunk^TM, good luck playing it against yourself! May the best man win!

pitter patter goes my heart

Behold, my one shitty picture from the Broken Social Scene concert in Prospect Park:



I've gotta hand it to the happy hippy couple that puts on these free and benefit shows. I very much appreciated the folding chairs (no one wants to stand for the opening act,) the abundance and proximity of port-o-potties, and the semi-reasonable beer prices. The airplanes flying low overhead every two minutes were also an unexpected bonus.

As for the band, they kicked ass as usual, and for the first time in the last three shows of theirs I've attended I got there on time to hear the full two hours of Canadian jammy rockness. I love how their songs are all so different, and how everyone plays five instruments, and how the lead singer Kevin Drew "really really really really" wants us all to "enjoy our lives," and how I want to have sex with pretty much every band member (and as you can see, there are a lot of band members.)

Ooooo Canada...

my fourth of july

by Gina

This morning I woke up after a night of wine, beer, and whiskey revelry and went down to my deli to get coffee, the paper, yogurt, and hemp granola (which is the fucking bomb, by the way.) On my way back up I passed by the homeless man who hangs out on our stoop. He was wearing hospital scrubs (clearly he'd spent the night at Bellevue), the bottom portion of which was covered in poop. As was our stoop. A fellow vagrant shouted "Dude, you're a mess!" and he said, "Yeah, I need to find some sweatpants." I went upstairs, scarfed my hemp granola, and went to work the lunch shift for five hours.

Work was busy, and since I had to work the night also I got a break for an hour and fifteen minutes. I came home, and the homeless man was clad in civilian clothes and was no longer covered in his own feces. Congrats, dude. I then did the Fourth of July in New York party thing complete with kebabs, potato salad, beer, and setting off fireworks on the rooftop in 45 minutes and sprinted back to work.

Work was dead. I had one table that ordered the $65 bottle of Franciacorta (the Italian champagne) and when the bartender gave it to me and put the replacement on ice to chill, the bottle exploded, sending shards of glass into the face of our friendly Bangladeshi backwaiter. He was a little peeved. The night proceeded to get even slower when the fireworks started. We'd had the go ahead to drink whatever we wanted so we all ordered our wines (Langhe Arneis - a white from Piemonte, the land of Barolo, for me.) The manager put on some Black Sabbath which was a perfect complement to the sounds, smoke, and light of the fireworks. I love work the most when it's abnormal and surreal like that. And when I can drink expensive wine for free. Anywho, I got to leave early and proceeded back to the party on my roof.

Things were still semi-raging, and I found a half full (always an optimist!) bottle of warm Two Buck Chuck, poured myself a glass, and added some ice cubes. (Just like Liam!) Then Ellen and I played with sparklers and an ember flew in my eye and scratched my cornea:











Note that I never spilled my wine, so classily placed between my knees. Priorities, people. I've scratched my cornea once before. It was Christmas Eve in seventh grade, and my sister and I were playing that pen and paper game Pigs in a Pen, Squares/Boxes, whateveryouwannacallit, and we got into a fight and I tried to rip the pen from her hand and in the process stabbed myself in the eye. I went to the emergency room and got a tetanus shot and some numbing eyedrops and a gauze patch. You can imagine how cool I felt sitting on the bench at my junior high basketball tournament that weekend wearing my patch. Fortunately now I have no self-consciousness and will rock my homemade eyepatch until this puppy's healed.