i'm not pregnant!

A bajillion thank you's to Cityrag for posting this. Courtesy of the Britster, it now seems that every time a female celebrity is caught on camera not sucking in her stomach, pregnancy rumors abound. Dudes (yes, I'm sure it's mostly dudes responsible for this,) sometimes a girl's stomach sticks out, for example: when she's just eaten a delicious sandwich, when she's had a few beers, the week before she's on the rag and bloated as all hell, if she has a lower spinal curvature that causes her stomach and butt to protrude pretty much all the damn time (ahem,) or if she's having a contest with a friend using their abdominal muscles to see who can make theirs the biggest (double ahem.) Even 99% fat free Cammy D has been caught in pictures with a "bump." Make it stop! Argh. Ah well, perhaps next time I'm in the city I can stick out my tummy and get a seat on a crowded subway.

Me (right) and equally unpregnant friend Maj last summer:

TMI time

One thing I've observed from my years working with dogs (and molesting every one I see on the sidewalk) is that mutts tend to live much longer and have fewer health problems than purebreds. It would make sense that this would translate over to humans, and I'm sure we all learned in grade school science class about that group of inbred Quakers or whatever who all got the same weird genetic disease. Now, coming from hearty, blue collar midwestern stock (I am a supermutt mix of Irish, Polish, Italian, Dutch, French, three strains of English, and Lord knows what else) one would imagine that I'd be pretty healthy. While I drank my farm-fresh milk three times a day as a child and have never broken a bone, through various times in my young life I've suffered from chronic strep throat, pneumonia, chronic bronchitis, sinus infections, various mystery flu-like things, infected toenails, anemia, vicious insomnia, sebacious cysts, and a litany of rowing related ailments, the most exciting of which being a torn rib muscle and permanently displaced rib bone. There's one more biggie I'm leaving off this list, because, despite my tendency to overshare (no, really?), it's just that gross. (And as I'm home from work because of it right now, it's the impetus for this entry...well, that and the fact I just took a couple very necessary Vicodins.) So anywho, now my mom's favorite thing to do is remind me of all the fun health problems that run in our family: colon cancer and hypothyroidism and high cholesterol, oh my! The good news, however, is that all the women on her side (whose genes I've definitely acquired the most of--thanks for the long eyelashes and J.Lo booty, gals!) live to be damn old, so chances are I'll get to be a biological weakling for a long, long time. Perhaps I should finally learn to pay my medical bills before the collections agencies call.

i like sandwiches

Well well well, guess who has absolutely nothing to write about! Yes, for the first time in a long time, my life is essentially drama-free and my mental functioning is almost at a level that some people might call "stable." While many of those around me are experiencing drama-tastic existences (yeah, pretty much all involving members of the opposite sex,) the most excitement I've had of late includes a long night out in which one wholly unnecessary tequila shot had me facing the bottom of a friend's toilet (hooray for unintentional calorie reduction!) and discovering the $1.00 table at the neighborhood antique store where I purchased six thin bangle bracelets of various cheap metals that look quite cool when all worn together. Now I'm mostly just working, sleeping, or drinking, and I'll let my half-assed and spotty job applying rampage decide whether I remain in Ithaca for the summer or begin Project Get My Fucking Shit Together 2005 immediately.

the name game

From the Local Paper, courtesy of my lil' sis:

A daughter, Ziranda Alexis Rachel Mason, was born April 6, 2005, at Saint Joseph's Hospital to Zalerie Mason of Colby. She joins a sister, Zabrina Mason, 6. Grandparents are Scott and LaVonne Mason, Thorp.

Not gonna lie, I'm a wee bit homesick.

real world 17

Today the Real World people are casting at my place of employment. I was supposed to work all day, but since people waiting to try out for a reality TV show aren't particularly interested in ordering up some steak and eggs or "bitchin' breakfast burritos" (which are quite amazing, I might add,) and three waitresses for eight tables is a little excessive, I was released early. But not before I got a good look at the crop of hopefuls shivering in their miniskirts and furry stiletto booties (not making that one up) in line outside. I so desperately wanted to go down the line and save people some time: "No...no...nope...oh honey no...ok you're kinda cute...nope...sorry." Oh to be a casting director and get paid to be judgmental. Or to go back in time to my job at my college's illustrious admissions office, where I got paid to make fun of people's applications with other smartass workstudiers and take four hour lunch breaks during a five hour shift.

i want my brit brit

Ithaca NY, please get your shit together and provide your cable television subscribers with the Best Channel in the Universe. If ever there were a time to start, that time is NOW.

fallen soldier

Sad news, guys. Much like what happened to me at good ol' JP Morgan Stanley Goldman Stearns Brothers and Co., Inc., the Computer Nazis at the Dronester's place of employment have taken away Blogger access. Let us all bow our heads in a moment of silence and pray to our respective supreme beings that this restriction is only temporary. Drone, you will be missed, but not forgotten. Amen.

informer, you no say daddy me snow me i'll go blame, a licky boom boom down

This morning I did something I'd always sworn I would never ever do in a million badillion years. That something starts with a "c" and sort of rhymes with "novocaine." It was fun. My worldview has changed, and I think for the better. Though staying up all night after work and then returning to work in the a.m. wasn't the most brilliant idea I've ever had, my wonderful 22-year-old boss and her rich Cornell undergrad best friend/enabler came in for a five hour champagne brunch to make me feel like I wasn't the only glass-spilling asswipe. Also, though I don't really recall, B the Bartender and I had some sort of conversation about the post-making out weirdness. I imagine it went something like this: "We're cool right? Are we cool? Because it's really not a big deal and I just want everything to be normal and I think you're great and I want to be able to just hang out and it should be ok right? We're cool ok? Awesome let's go eat old pizza crusts and drink the box of Franzia in the fridge." It was also revealed this morning that the incredibly, amazingly good-looking hippie chef, with whom I want to have sex almost as much as I crave his smoked turkey, melted cheddar, garlic mayo and bacon sandwiches, is getting divorced from his wife of eight months. Uh oh.

weenies

This very brief video clip (courtesy of Cute Canadian) is quite possibly the best thing I have ever seen. It almost makes up for my housemate's jackass fuckbuddy coming home at 2:15 a.m. (conveniently just as I've settled in after work,) complaining that we have no food in the house to give him (for free,) demanding that I give him a piece of my cookie that I was famishedly (don't care if that's not a word) eating (I most certainly did not give in--no one gets between me and my food,) and then making all kinds of racket making me never want to have sex ever again for the rest of my life. [I love ya, M, but now I truly understand why he's just a fuckbuddy.]

heh

In case you were wondering where my soul will be spending all eternity: Terri Schiavo's Blog. [thanks, RJ]

life update

I apologize for the lack of thrilling blog action lately. It's not so much laziness as much as perpetual drunkenness/hungoverness. I'm still holding on to the fact that I did not drink on Saturday as evidence that I am not becoming an alcoholic, much like I used to think that because I could count on one hand how many cigarettes I smoked each day I was not a real smoker. But those days are long gone, and now I'm in the restaurant business fulltime which basically translates to gluttony, alcoholism, and fucking one's coworkers. Shyness and asocial tendencies aside, I think I fit in quite well.

So anyway, I was going to simply post an email I just sent to Cute Canadian, as it pretty much sums up my life right now (except for the part about fucking the coworker, since CC doesn't need to know about that.) And because I'm lazy (and drunk.) But then I decided that each point of the email could be blog fodder for when I'm sober and/or awake, so I don't have to think about something to write about! This includes my thoughts on the popular Ithaca activity of drunk driving (as I learned tonight, not a good idea!), my shitty job prospects due to unforseen psychology superdork competitiveness, and the strikingly handsome 50-something Cornell physicist who hangs out at the restaurant all the time, tells stories about his Iraq war consipracy theories cooked up with friend Carl Sagan and riding on the back of whales off his land in Hawaii, and wants to makeout with me (among many other nubile young things around here.) All in all, I'm pretty effortlessly happy and living life, which is a lot more than I can say for my year and a half in NYC post-college. Just need to stay away from the car keys, pull some psychology connections out of my ass, and limit sexual activity to my ol' battery powered buddy.

christ is risen

Happy Easter, everyone!

P.S. I didn't consume a single drop of alcohol yesterday! (As long as we can all agree that yesterday started at 3:30 a.m....)

i'mdrunk

For some reason (laziness) I'm all about the children's books lately. Tonight I left work drunky drunk (it is very hard for me to type this right now) thanks to a special trip to "empty the dirty dish bin," my shift drink, and after hours, and came home to a party of 30-something pot heads courtesy of the dude who lives in the attic. They all passed out on the couch, but before doing so one asked me to read him a bedtime story. I immediately thought of the Velveteen Rabbit, which was one of my favorite books as a kid, until my beloved rat terrier, Bridget, chewed the hell out of it. I proceeded to read it out loud like a kindergarten teacher and now I have to go to sleep and contemplate life 'n stuff. What a beautiful story. My favorite books are officially ~1000 page Russian novels and 20 page children's stories.

i'm sick

Either the internet is contagious, or drinking so much that i can't recall the last day in which i did not consume alcohol, not sleeping more than five hours a night, and smoking more than ever have weakened the ol' immune system. I feel like I'm in college again, since which, not so coincidentally, I hadn't really been sick (shhh, don't tell my former bosses.)

why you should not fuck your hairstylist and ignore his subsequent phone calls

Now, I liked Friends as much as the next 13-year-old back in 1994. In fact, my unibrow-, acne-, and curled bangs-having self would've cut off a limb or two to look like Jennifer Aniston. But it is ten years later, and I am free of the aforementioned atrocities (well, mostly,) and I no longer feel the need to look like an early 90's sitcom star. If this random stylist had to copy a celebrity haircut, couldn't she at least have gone with the au currant MK Olsen? Freddie the Hairstylist Who Probably Doesn't Use a Computer, awkwardness and bad feelings aside, I'm coming back.

the spell continues

In response to the two questions from the peanut gallery, No and No. While I did in fact use a can of Lysol yesterday, its purpose was limited to spraying the shit out of my bedroom floor (literally, damn untrained but cute as hell beagle.) The first question requires a more complicated answer. As we learned in a previous exercise, for an approximately three-year period I was stuck in a pattern of becoming way too into guys who were not that into me, the majority of whom I later realized I didn't actually like in the first place, but got so worked up over because I wanted them to like me, and when it didn't work out I'd find another guy to not like me that much in order to make myself feel better. (Trust me, there is some way of reading that sentence such that it actually makes sense.) Anyway, I seem to have freed myself from that vicious cycle, which is all well and good, but in the process I have stumbled upon a new phenomenon. Much like the Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend (who is still in the picture, but to what degree I have no clue,) B the Bartender is supercool and laidback most of the time (awesome) but terribly insecure/nervous/intimidated/whatever when it comes to the getting naked part (not so awesome.) Basically at work we flirt like junior high kids and he has no problem pulling me into the wine closet to make out, but at my house last night he was like a little lost puppy (one who's an awesome kisser, at least.) Sigh. Perhaps there is indeed a reason they say not to get involved with coworkers. Or maybe we just need to be drunker next time.

weekend update

I have returned to Ithaca from my weekend in New York. I had lots of fun, the beagle didn't poop in my room while I was away, and even though I spent all the money I've made here thus far and more it was very worth it.

On Saturday night I met my college crew friends for dinner at an excellent restaurant in the West Village. Overwhelmed by the presence of about 10 people I love and haven't seen in several years and hungry from forgetting to bring food on the bus ride, I got very drunk very quickly, which proved beneficial at our next stop. Hunk-O-Mania was pretty much as expected--throngs of Long Island and New Jersey's finest bachelorettes, overly beefy dudes running around in g-strings, and a performance that I'm sure is very very tame compared to what goes on at a bachelor party. Highlights included replying to "you look like you need a lap dance" with "no, no I really don't," friend Maggie very literally running away upon receiving a similar proposition, and the grand finale which featured a "performer" with a wiener the size of a Lysol can.

I crashed at Drone's apartment and spent the following morning/afternoon in bed watching television. We saw the inadvertently campy Blue Lagoon (has there ever existed a hotter human being than Brooke Shields at 15?) and Mimic, a Mira Sorvino film about giant mutant cockroaches taking over the New York City subway system. I later found my way to Perplexa's (who is leaving us to live in London near her boyfriend and make lots of money...bitch.) We reminisced about the good ol' days, particularly about our suitemates during freshman year of college. Let's just say Perplexa and I were a great match and the other two were a great match, but said matches did not match at all. Though there are stories galore, I think our year together is best summed up with the Sonic Youth Incident. In an attempt to retaliate for having to put up with all the 'NSync music and "OHMYGOD aaaaaah eeeeeh!" sorority-type shrieking, Perplexa and I (known to them as "the sad people") put my old Sony boombox on the highest volume it would go, placed it against the shared wall, turned on Sonic Youth, and covered our ears. Shortly thereafter one of the girls knocked on our door and said, "Um, like, can you guys maybe turn that down?" To which Perplexa replied, "Only if you stop giggling."

Anyway, as much as I love New York I'm very glad to be back in Ithaca. It's slow, quiet, cheap, and full of entertaining drunkards. And I still like my job! And most importantly, the aforementioned dry spell is pretty much definitely ending tonight.

libido update

Last Friday marked the two-month anniversary of the last time I got laid. As someone who figured out how to, um, make myself feel reeeal good at the age of seven, I don't know that I've ever been hornier in my life. Things have been patched up with the Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend, but as there are no imminent plans to see him, I've been having impure thoughts on a very regular basis. I've gotten that special feeling around quite a few people lately, including a girlfriend-having law student who resembles a nerdier version of an old hookup, the cute and blatantly sexy female bartender where I work, and a very cool male bartender where I work who sounds like another old hookup (I have a bit of an obsession with male voices...weird?). Ruling out the first two for rather obvious reasons, at first I told myself that the latter would just have to remain a fun flirtation, given that I'll be spending at least a couple eight hour shifts alone with him in the basement loooounge every week. But then I realized that, oh my god, I'll be spending a couple eight hour shifts alone with him in the basement loooounge every week, and lack of self-control has been a recorded flaw of mine since my first kindergarten report card. So I'm just going to sit back and let the drama ensue or not ensue, and look forward to this coming weekend's bach...bachel...bachelorette (*gag*) party and "Hunk-O-Mania" show in New York City.

manic panic

Holy crapola, I just applied for three promising jobs in approximately 3.2 minutes. The two most related to my interests are in Boston, which is well and good except for the whole not knowing anyone in Boston aside from my ex-boyfriend's parents part. The one in New York is on the right track though not entirely up my alley but it pays well (and by "well" i mean not extremely super shitty) and full time is 35 hours a week. THIRTY FIVE LITTLE HOURS A WEEK!! I am so utterly flabbergasted by my productivity that I don't really know what to say here, other than you absolutely must read this awesome faux-article [via Midwestgrrl,] and watch this awesome video that is obviously very well known, but, well, sometimes people miss these things.

come into myspace

Many months ago, long after tiring of Friendster, I joined Myspace. I promptly received about 300 emails in one weekend from everyone and their dog's band, in addition to every man with overly gelled hair in Hoboken. But that was then, and now I am back on Myspace, with a shiny new profile including the goggle picture, and a proud mention of my new, more remote location. Though not in such droves as last time, the gentlemen are still a-callin'. Since joining several days ago, I have received a total of four friend requests:

First, from this man


Second, from his slightly less hirsute counterpart


Third, from Big Bald Man, GI Joe edition


And last but not least,


Perhaps I shouldn't have listed my body type as "body builder" in my profile? Or chosen a photo that didn't picture me holding a power sander and wearing an ill-fitting baseball cap?

a day at the mall

In the absence of constant internet access and cable television, I have to go to new levels here to keep myself entertained. Having already read several books, watched the entire first season of Law and Order on DVD, and done my laundry, today I set off with E for the Pyramid Mall, a place that is as frightening as it is awesome.

We began in the bookstore, where we saved some big buck$ by reading Teen Vogue and Elle on site, rather than paying for the whole 20 minutes it takes to absorb them at home. Then it was on to our stated purpose for being in the bookstore, the Test Aid section. We plopped down on the floor and got surprisingly involved in our GRE study books and made ourselves feel rather stupid for failing to answer simple math problems that would've been no sweat about eight years ago. We did manage to learn some new vocab words, however, by employing sophisticated memorization techniques (e.g., the big word, which I have already forgotten, that begins with "pusi-" means wimpy, like pussy!).

After all that learning we were hungry, so I sated myself with some Arby's curly fries while E had some oddly flourescent mint chip ice cream from Friendly's. Next stop was the arcade, where we joined the mom-accompanied four-year-olds and school-ditching punkish kids. They all seemed to be enthralled in their respective games, but E and I weren't there for the games, we were there for the goods. After some pathetic attempts at winning tickets with Skeeball, we found a game that guaranteed 8-10 tickets per token. With our $4 bounty of 50+ tickets each, E and I "won" some glow-in-the-dark jelly bracelets, mini metal handcuffs, and temporary tattoo belly jewels, which will most certainly earn me some extra tips tonight during my cocktail waitressing shift.

Is there any better way to spend an insanely cold Wednesday afternoon? I think not. Thanks, Pyramid Mall!

FABulous

Have I ever told you how much I adore the FAB? Yes? Well I'll say it again. The girl fuckin' rules. If you haven't already, please take a moment to read her latest post, in which she tears a regrettable old hookup of mine a new one, in a way that I could only dream of doing myself. Thank you, FAB, for defending the fairer sex and my not-so-fair blog. And now, if you'll please excuse me, I'm going to go take a dump.

blubber

Just a couple of links today... (Good god, my metabolism is going totally haywire and the second I typed "links" I wanted some sausage. And tonight I plan to order french fries for my waitressing shift dinner only because I'm dying to consume a ton of ketchup [i.e., the whole jar] and doing so with just a spoon would be gross. Also I'm dizzy and tired and nauseated all the time and I've been remembering to take my vitamins and there have unfortunately been no activities in the last two months that could've caused me to get preggers. Any medical professionals in the house?)

*Pretty soon I'm going to need one of these. [via Blacktable]

*French women don't need oversized toilets. [via Perplexa]

chile two - santiago

Tragedy has struck, folks. There is no UPN in Ithaca. Repeat, there is no UPN in Ithaca. I don't know what they have against Moesha around here, but discovering last night at 8 PM Eastern Standard Time that I was cut off from America's Next Top Model was almost too much for my fragile psyche to bear. If anyone has access to any sort of video recording device and could send me the show in the mail every week or something, please click "Gmail me!" to your right, and you will be handsomely rewarded (once I start getting paid.)

Anyway, here's the rest of the pics.


There are approximately 293,847 different bus lines in Santiago. And as far as I could tell, many of them seem to travel pretty much the same route. They also do not tend to stop or pull over to the side of the street when picking up or dropping off passengers, so you've got to get your timing right and jump on or off without getting thrown out the door and/or into oncoming traffic. It makes New York seem like a friendly little amusement park.



Nothin' like getting really drunk to take away the pain of a sunburn.


This is the corporate headquarters for Telefonica, the major phone service provider in Chile. The building is shaped like a giant cell phone.



San Cristobal is a big hill covered in cool looking trees and topped with a statue of the Virgin Mary. It is probably the most recognized tourist attraction in Santiago, as you can see by the fancy signage guiding people in it's direction. After our visit to La Virgen, my iPod mysteriously came back to life after lying dormant for over a week. Coincidence? Creo que no.

chile one - andes, viña, and valparaiso

Waitressing update: The Saf-T-Steps served me well last night, and I didn't break any glassware until AFTER closing. Boy update: Called Internet Friendboy against my better judgment, and we had a normal, pleasant conversation. Can officially stop feeling bad about that mess. And tonight is the premier of AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL CYCLE FOUR!!!

More pictures:



The only thing scarier than riding a horse up a mountain on the edge of a cliff is riding a horse down a mountain on the edge of a cliff. Though when said cliffs provide such breathtaking views, it is most definitely worth the crippling fear.




Viña del Mar is a beach town a couple hours north of Santiago. It is full of cheesy theme restaurants, skeezy clowns running around trying to rip off tourists, and awesome empanadas.






Valparaiso is often mentioned in the same breath as Viña, as it is just a few miles down the coast. But the cities could not be more different. Valpo has, except for the occasional misguided architectural venture (see picture 3,) retained all of it's old school shipping town charm. The elevators going up the hills are collectively an international historical monument and full of tourist stands, but Sis and I wandered off the proverbial beaten path into the maze of brightly colored houses upon houses and, once we got over the fear of being lost forever, felt like we were going back in time.

argentina two - signs

Oh my god, you guys, I don't hate my job! Perhaps wearing two-inch heeled, uncushioned, one size too big boots for an eight hour shift was not the best judgment call, but today I got my black orthopedic "Saf-T-Step" shoes at Payless and I'm ready to roll. Anyway, here's the rest of Argencheapa.


The view from our hostel, which cost us $5 a night, and that pretty much sums it up. Note to self: when staying in a hostel invest in some quality earplugs.



Let's get political! Avenida (In)dependencia; Che Monroe.


Dove thinks that without fake boobs, you can be happy! What do you think? Truth, or LIE? (Note that Buenos Aires has the largest percentage of plastic surgeons and psychologists per capita in the world.)


I'm immature.


Really immature.

argentina one - gringa tourists

As my mother always said, don't say anything if you don't have anything nice to say (and also, go to your room you ungrateful wretch.) So this week is going to be PictureWeek here at www.viagina.blogspot.com. I took lots of pictures on the trip to South America, and I've finally become unlazy enough to get them onto a computer. Here's the first installment, which includes most of the touristy Buenos Aires pics (and little history lessons, Gina style):


The neighborhood we stayed in in Buenos Aires, San Telmo, is very old world. Much like NYC's Lower East Side in that all the old tenements and antique-y stores and ancient restaurants are combined with trendy new bars lots of youngish people. This is a classic parilla, which is a place where people grill lots and lots of meat.


This is the Casa Rosada, which is the Argentinian version of the White House. It's pink because the leader at the time (hell if I know who) wanted to appease both political parties, one whose official color was red, the other white. Time to paint the White House purple!


This is the Puerto Madero, which is on a very brown river/canal thing on the edge of the city. The structure in the back was designed by the same guy who did the one in Madrid.




We took a ride on a Catamaran down a river north of BA. There are lots of cute little houses on the river and people go boating and waterskiing and rowing. Kind of like Martha's Vineyard or something, only the river looks like the one in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.


After the boat tour we got some lunch. This lomito completo (i.e., steak, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, avocado, and onion) is probably the best sandwich I've ever had. I think it looks like what McDonald's sandwiches falsely claim to look like in the commercials.


Back in the 'hood, we visited this bar, the oldest in San Telmo, quite a bit. The bottles on the second row up from the cash register are sold at the weekly antique fair for really cheap and I would've bought one if I'd had more luggage space. They were used to dilute the crappy early 20th century Argentinian wine until it was discovered that the nozzles caused lead poisoning.



Sister Carrie and I walked a heck of a lot in 90+ degree weather while wearing $3 rubber flip flops, so one day we took a nap in the big park, until a homeless man leered just a little too close for comfort. And if anyone wants to know why my skin actually looks alright, for a change, I'm chalking this one up to good lighting and Neutrogena Daily Moisturizer SPF 30 With a Hint of Tint. Seriously it's good stuff.

the next martha stewart

If you know me, you know that cooking is not among the vast array of skills I possess. While I have a great appreciation for the culinary arts, there's a reason I often eat multiple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a day, and it's not poverty (though that is also a factor.) Anyway, yesterday I cooked something and it was really easy and tasty, and I'm so proud of this groundbreaking feat that I must share my creation with the world (i.e., my friends and people who've recently Googled "sex with farm animals.")

Poor Girl's Eggs Florentine
ingredients: piece of two-week old bread, two-week old "fresh" spinach, two eggs, olive oil (or as Rachel Ray says, "oh oh",) salt

1. Toast the bread in the oven (unless you're one of those weirdos who owns a toaster.)
2. Cook spinach in a pan with a little oh oh until it wilts. Remove from pan.
3. Put more oh oh in pan and cook two eggs over easy (or, in my case, attempt to cook over easy but while flipping eggs manage to break yolks and make a big mess.)
4. Put toast in bottom of bowl. Put spinach on top of toast. Put eggs on top of spinach. Add enough salt to give Old Uncle Robert a stroke. Eat with fork (and knife, if you're into civilized things like that.) Yum.

And speaking of food, I have gotten myself hired as a waitress at a trendy (by Ithaca standards) restaurant. Currently taking bets on how many shifts until I spill something.

"they weren't even his own cows"

God bless my sister. On a day when I'm feeling blah-er than blah, she comes through with the Local Paper article I have been waiting for all my life. Here it is in all it's royally fucked up glory:

Neillsville man charged with sex with animal

NEILLSVILLE - A 63-year-old Neillsville man has been charged with sexual gratification with an animal.
Harold G. Hart, W7763 Highway 95, is facing four misdemeanor charges - sexual gratification, disorderly conduct and two counts of obstructing an officer. Hart told police he's been having sex with calves for between one and two years at the farm.

Clark County Sheriff's Department Chief Deputy Jim Backus said the last case similar to Hart's was 20 or more years ago. Hart likely traveled to the Greenwood farm because "it's really not far out of his travel area" on his way to Marshfield bars or strip clubs on Highway H, Backus said.

According to the criminal complaint, the family installed a motion detector on Jan. 22 because they routinely had seen footprints and vehicle tracks.
At about 4 a.m. the following morning, a sensor sounded, and Hart was caught leaving the barn. He said he used a bathroom in the barn and claimed he had never been there before.

However, on Jan. 28 Hart admitted to police he routinely stopped at the farm, usually after bar closing or on trips to strip clubs near Marshfield or Neillsville.

Hart told police he had sex with heifers before 1963, when he went into the service, and resumed about a year ago at the farm. He admitted to using a rope to tie calves around the neck and estimated having gone to the farm "at least 50 times." He always went alone and would sometimes go to the farm two to four times in a week, while other times avoiding it for weeks.

A statement by Hart said he never had sex with animals while maintaining a relationship with a girlfriend or his wife. Hart never took anything or intentionally damaged the barn.

His initial appearance in Clark County Court is set for March 10. Each charge carries a maximum penalty of nine months in jail.

rescue 911

Internet Boyfriend has officially dumped my ass like a sack o' potatoes. There's a long version which I'll spare you, because it essentially boils down to the part when the Missing Piece meets the Big O. While at times I feel very hurt and abandoned at a time when I've got enough emotional pain all by myself and certainly don't need any more, I know that it all makes a shitload of sense, for many many reasons. Now, of course, the fact that he can both think AND operate on a purely rational level makes me like him even more. Fucking bastard. At least there have been a couple things to cheer me up.

In trying to determine with whom I could potentially make out once I feel up to it (for once, praise the Lord, I most certainly do not feel up to it,) new friend M and I discussed one of the hotter guys here, who has just broken up with his girlfriend. Unaware of the details of me and IB, she kind of turned up her nose at this guy, saying, "He's not very exciting, doesn't seem to care about anything, just kind of emotionless. You know, he's Canadian." Oh, do I ever know. With apologies to my Canadian readership (I'm sure you do not fit this stereotype,) I must say that M is pretty darn accurate in her assessment, and, as she is a self-proclaimed lover of assholes, would reject his ass in a second. Ha! Unfortunately, I still find myself attracted to the super-duper-laid-back-nothing-in-the-world-will-ever-bother-me(-unless-you-cry-every-time-we-talk) type. Something tells me I've found my rebound!

Now, as I mentioned, I am not yet ready to rebound. But in the interim, fashion-related reality television has come to my rescue. If Project Runway being won by my standout favorite Jay is any indication, this is going to be a good spring, indeed. I'd be plenty excited about the upcoming "cycle" of America's Next Top Model all on my own, but Drone, in his brilliant second installment of pre-show analyses and predictions, has got me drooling, for once, when I'm not passed out on the couch.

two very vaguely related things

Yesterday E and I spent the rainy afternoon driving around town listening to monster ballads and trying to find me a restaurant job so that I can start paying someone rent and perhaps bringing my checking account balance back up to a healthy $0.00. Some of the places were closed, some weren't hiring until the summer when everybody leaves, and some were just hiring dishwashers. Later at dinner we were discussing our day:

G: I wonder who is a dishwasher in Ithaca...high school students maybe?
E: Yeah, because there are no Mexicans here like in New York.
G: [snorting laughter] I was thinking the exact same thing earlier.
E: [snorting laughter] Seriously!
G: But, I mean, there are also great Mexican cooks and stuff.
E: [very quickly] And Mexican doctors and lawyers.
G and E change the subject.

Yeah we're going to hell. In a handbasket. Whatever that means, exactly.

Speaking of hell, I recently began to read The Devil Wears Prada. The writing was so, um, not good (by getting published standards, let alone those of six months on the New York Times Best Seller list,) and plenty of stories about horrific high-powered fashiony bosses have already been provided to me by His Droneness, that after 30 pages of adjective happy, generic and inaccurate tales of post-college NYC life, I skipped to the last 10 pages and pretty much got the whole nauseating story. Still looking for something to read before bed, but not wanting to begin one of the ~600 page novels I'd bought in an attempt to reintroduce myself to the wonderful world of reading for pleasure, I returned to E's little bookshelf. Everything was pretty much of the college reading list variety, except for Shel Silverstein's The Missing Piece Meets the Big O. Not since Anna Karenina in 10th grade (and Where the Red Fern Grows before that) have I been brought to tears by a book. And this one took five minutes to read, as opposed to two months. [In case you're unfamiliar with the story, there's this little wedge-shaped piece that is all alone and looking for a shape that fits it to roll with. Many shapes come along, some that fit but don't roll, roll but don't fit, are missing too many pieces, or have too many pieces already. The piece meets a circle with just the right shape missing, and they roll for a while, but then the piece grows and has to say good bye to the circle. Finally the Big O comes along. The piece wants to roll with it, but the Big O is not missing a piece. It leaves, telling the piece that despite it's inability to do so currently, if it starts to flop over by itself its edges will wear down and it too will be able to roll. So the piece sits alone for a while, then begins to flip over, then wears down its edges, soon is rolling all by itself, and in the end meets up with the Big O and they roll by themselves, together.] While, granted, I have a little chemical imbalance at the moment and identified greatly with the missing piece (I'm at the part where the piece sits alone for a while, about to start moving,) the story is seriously fucking heart-warming and inspirational and should be cherished by all. And I don't think I've ever said anything like that last sentence without a heavy dose of sarcasm before.

two completely unrelated things

You know a scene was so over, like, two years ago when... So what will be the next edgy, alternative scene? So far the only options some friends and I could come up with are becoming Deadhead hippies, gangsta bitches, heroin addicts, or Abercrombie and Fitch wearers. I think the jury's still out, but if I ever go to Misshapes again I will be sporting business casual and will without a doubt be the most uniquely dressed person there.

In other news, in addition to lord knows how many brain cells I've lost since high school, I have also lost my ability to write. Not to construct a sentence, but actually to put pen to paper and write. Last night I wrote a gut-spilling letter to Internet Boyfriend (which ended up being more beneficial for myself than anything else,) and because the computer on which I wrote it was connected to a printer with no ink and had no internet access, I was forced to transcribe it onto a piece of paper. It took at least 30 minutes to do, is illegible to anyone other than myself, and caused some serious hand crampage. Sweet.

baby steps

So I've been in Ithaca for almost a week and, yup, still depressed! I haven't yet embarked on such helpful things as "getting a job" or "paying someone to listen to me whine" or "doing something besides browse the internet and read David Sedaris books" so I suppose this is to be expected. I've had a couple rather upsetting conversations with the Formerly Internet But Now Telephone Boyfriend, who is of the "suck it up" mentality, whereas I tend to belong to the "but I have a chemical imbalance why don't you feel sorry for me and call me every 20 minutes and tell me how great I am" camp. He suggested I treat my current problem as any other I've faced--getting my lazy ass into my beloved school, waking up at 6 a.m. every day for four years to torture myself by pulling on a massive, blister-inducing oar. So after we got off the phone today and I wanted to drown my sorrows in a vat of cheese and chocolate, I managed to get myself to the gym, and now I'm drunk and almost having fun. For once, I think there's some hope. Go Ithaca!

viiiva la muuusica la la la laaa

[Yeah, this title is an Enrique Iglesias reference. What.]
Well, I'm up in snowy Ithaca starting to get settled. Excluding the part where I paid my exhorbitant monthly credit card bill by overdrawing my checking account, thirty minutes before I would've been charged a late fee, I must say that so far I'm doing a good job getting my proverbial shit together. Big thanks to E for hauling my ass up all the goddamn hills in the morning. I haven't yet had time for my old favorite hobbies, reading blogs and illegally downloading music (which, by the way, I think is a beautiful thing, as it has introduced many people to many artists of which they would've otherwise never heard, hence helping said artists with ticket and music sales and only hurting the filthy stinking rich ones who don't need anymore money anyway.) Anyway, point is, I don't have a lot to say at the moment so I'll just fill in the "Kitchen Music Meme" sent to me by the Fat Asian Baby.

What is the total amount of music files on your computer?
Somewhere around 2,000 songs. Sadly, my computer is currently residing in Wisconsin so I'm limited to my iPod, which mysteriously came back to life right after a visit to the Holy Virgin monument on the San Cristobal hill in Santiago. Praise Jesus.

What is the last CD you bought?
I'm thinking real hard and all I can think of is Arcade Fire, which I think is sad but true as my vagabondery has not exactly lent itself to the procurement of new music. But I'm getting back in the game and very much looking forward to buying upcoming new releases on old fashioned compact discs by British Sea Power, The Kills, Out Hud, and Spoon.

What was the last song you listened to before reading this message?
"The Sweater Song" by Weezer while driving around Ithaca with E running errands and trying to find me a job.

Write down five songs you often listen to, or that mean a lot to you.
1. Where the Streets Have No Name--U2. My first favorite song of my official favorite band in high school.
2. Let Down--Radiohead. My first favorite song of my official favorite band in college.
3. Almost Crimes--Broken Social Scene. My first favorite song of my official favorite band post-college.
4. Last Goodbye--Jeff Buckley. Best breakup song in the history of the world.
5. April Skies--Jesus and Mary Chain. I just love this band (I was clearly supposed to be a poor, angsty British teenager in the 1980's...sigh,) and was introduced to them freshman year by Perplexa, who, with the help of Napster, singlehandedly turned me into the charming music nut (snob?) I am today. Thanks, sweetcheeks.

Who are you going to pass this stick to (three persons) and why?
No one, because CERTAIN PEOPLE never update their blogs anymore.

weekend highlights

*Many, many thanks to Ashlee Simpson for making other "singers" feel the need to actually sing during live performances. J Lo and Marc Anthony just entertained me more than they ever have (which is, of course, not saying much) with their overly dramatic Spanish duet on the Grammy's. J Lo's horribly off-key vocals and Marc Anthony's, um, ugliness combined with the faux-sincerity of the spectacle made it a real heart-warmer.

*Thanks also to FAB former roommate D, who has provided me with a selection of futons on which to sleep and various pot-smoking apparati. I can't say I'm a huge fan of getting stoned, but being perfectly content watching terrible weekend television and eating pizza and leftover Indian food certainly simplifies things. Also, my recent viewing with Perplexa of the 1940's cautionary film "Reefer Madness," which depicts how weed makes everyone who so much as thinks about it instantly hyperactive and violently psychotic, has given me something to chuckle about as I sit by myself quietly in the corner, thinking about bunnies and how it feels kinda funny when I move my head.

*Though I've been in the know in regards to the Alife Rivington Club for years, I am not quite cool enough to know where it is, other than behind some unmarked door on Rivington Street. On Saturday E and I swallowed our not-quite-hipster pride and asked some vintage store salesperson for its location. Before telling us that it was just across the street, Customer Service Award Winner of the Year quickly corrected our pronunciation of the establishment. (A - life, not a - LIFE...okay then) It was all worth it because A-life is having some kind of clearance sale, and each of us got a snazzy pair of Nikes for a mere $30. Though my financial situation is not at all conducive to buying clothing and accessories, I just can't feel guilty about that one.

*And, lastly, the crowning glory of the weekend, with much credit to Drone and FAB former roommate D:
After some mingling and snarking at some rich kid's party in his Soho loft (of the movie "Big" fame,) Drone and D took a cue from another outside loiterer and decided to relieve themselves on the side of the building. While Drone left a puddle to be reckoned with, D's seemingly brilliant tactic of peeing into a grate on the sidewalk backfired as he was spotted by a police officer and slapped with a public urination ticket, to which D responded "Dude..." The host of the party came down to regulate the commotion, and when informed of what happened he scoffed, "Let them get what's coming to them," and stormed back in. This at least equals my previous favorite peeing experience: the two-part synchronized triple pee with friends E and S down the historic stone stairs of Riverside Park as FAB looked on in horror and guarded our brown-bagged 40's of Bud.

hi, my name is gina

After a week of searching, I've finally found my NYC vagabond holy grail: computers that I can use for free for an unlimited period of time, require no special login or password, support Gmail, and are not swarmed by the tech-savvy elderly of the Upper West Side. The day they change the appearance of the Columbia student ID will be a sad one indeed. Of course, this will be of no more immediate use to me, since on Monday I am relocating to Ithaca, New York--home of gorges, suicides, and disgruntled students known to commit suicide in the gorges. In a great display of sound logic, I am going there to overcome my depression.

I had a "Major Depressive Episode" exactly ten years ago--the spring of 1995, when no amount of synthesized Swedish pop or Reduced Fat Pringles could cheer me up and my plans for the last day of eighth grade included all the pills in my parents' medicine cabinet and a silent "fuck you" to the nice Catholics at Our Lady of Peace Elementary. Ever the procrastinator, I simply ditched the last day of school and put off the dying thing to give public high school a chance. I gave up Pringles, found a nice clique of band geeks to call my own, and devoted my existence to perfecting my college application in order to get the hell out of town. Though some would certainly argue otherwise, I'd been relatively happy and stable ever since.

Then I graduated from college, which proved not unlike entering junior high. In junior high, I lost my social network because I didn't own an ESPRIT bookbag and hadn't yet learned how to pluck my unibrow or cover up zits, and I lost it after college because of the cruel existence of cities other than the one in which I lived. In junior high, my teachers were not, to put it lightly, doing it for me, and I rebelled by amassing the largest chewing gum fine in school history and almost failing religion class; since college my jobs have been downright horrible fits, and I made myself feel better by dressing inappropriately and doing no work whatsoever. As a result of this two-fold lack of meaning and purpose and my unfortunate inherited neurochemistry and social anxiety, depression started to creep in, and after a year and a half in each case it became unbearable.

Now, as opposed to when I was 13, I have the advantage of knowing exactly what's up. For example, I know that staying in bed until 2 p.m. every day and spending the night crying and avoiding human contact, as much as I feel compelled to, will only make things worse. So I've been hopping on planes to be with people who won't let me do too much of that. But as my parental funding was used up on the dust-covered piece of paper with latin writing and my full name on it, I can't do this forever. The advantage of Depression Part I over Part II is that when I was 13 there was only one logical next step. Now there are infinite possible next steps, and I am paralyzed by indecision and too stripped of self-confidence to just make a fucking decision already and fucking do something--anything. So I'm moving to Ithaca to redirect my focus away from making enough money to afford exhorbitant rent and liquor costs and toward getting my head screwed on straight, whether it be through finding a passion for something and becoming good at it (hahaha,) talking about myself to someone with a PhD as opposed to the blog-reading public (I have a sinking suspicion the latter might be more therapeutic,) or good ol' psychotropic meds (bring on the dry-mouth and sexual dysfunction!). Wish me luck.

humiliation

Yesterday as I was walking home, err..."home," from the temp job (which is really just a shit ton of Microsoft Excel wrangling and not a shred of "online research," those tricky bastards,) I passed a large group of black gentlemen loitering on the sidewalk. Because the whole gym idea never really transpired, I was moving briskly and marvelling at my shortness of breath from plain old walking. Anyway, one of the men sidled up next to me and asked if he could axe me a question. Totally immune to this sort of thing, I would normally play deaf, dumb, and blind and proceed without flinching. But because the couple in front of me slowed down to cross the street, and I was still moving along at high speed, I quickly stepped to the side to avoid slamming into them, away from the man, because if I'd have gone the other direction I would've slammed into him. In retrospect, either slamming option would've been preferable, because as soon as I made my move he shrieked with glee, "She jumped! HAHAHAHAAHA she jumped! Wooohoo you see that?!" And all of his buddies jumped in on taunting and making fun of the poor little white girl deathly afraid of the big scary black men.

back at the libes

How much blogging can I do in 5 minutes before the angry librarians kick me off? Let's find out! Though I guess it doesn't matter too much, because for the next three days I have a temp job for a marketing company in the Meatpacking District (perhaps I'll get a $600 haircut on my lunch break!) doing "online research." And I think we all know what that means...

Anyway, a little old lady with lots of bags just got all up in my business, even though it is only 6:27 for chrissake. Take a Xanax, honey.

back

I am currently in my thirteenth minute of half an hour of free internet use at the Upper West Side branch of the New York Public Library. This marks my first trip to the NYPL, and about my tenth trip to a library of any sort in the New York metropolitan area, not including my brief stint "working" at the ol' college library, but including that time after graduation when FAB and I drunkenly wandered into said library at 3 a.m. on a Friday night marvelling at the overwhelming preponderance of Asians there (who were studying, not drunk.) Anyway, New York is treating me well since I've been back, with a nice futon to sleep on (thanks, A,) enough quarters that were being saved for laundry to purchase coffee and eggs, and a free trial gym membership from the nice folks at Equinox in order to begin making ammends for my ravenous consumption of South American meats. Not all is well, however, as an attempt to go to a party I used to frequent with apparently not "hardcore" enough regularity was met with an "I recognize your [not even remotely cool enough] face, but I won't be able to accomodate you tonight. [Perhaps next time you should try using more product in your hair.]" Damn, time is up and an old man in a trench coat is looking at me angrily.

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.

i was born in the backseat of a mustang, on a cold night, in the pouring rain

Actually, that's not true. I was born in a hospital under close medical supervision. But that's the chorus of this song by this band that I've been listening to on my iPod when I stand out in the snowy backyard wearing my mom's Ugg-like sherpa slippers and many layers of fleece and flannel to sneak cigarettes. But then early yesterday I ran out of cigarettes and have had the damn song running through my craving, anxious and fuzzy brain ever since. Given the degree of suck involved in withdrawal from smoking five a day (that's individual cigs, not packs,) I can pretty much swear on my most valuable possession in the world, Furry the Bean-bag Bear, that I will never, ever smoke more than that. (Well, at least not on a regular basis--chain-smoking while drunk is just a given. [Is that good enough punctuation for you, FAB? Aside from the fact that it's not a complete sentence?])

Fortunately, this quitting practice will be halted temporarily when I head down to Madison tomorrow to celebrate interacting with a human being under the age of 45 for the first time in almost two weeks. I refuse to celebrate New Year's Eve because, like Valentine's Day, it's one of those holidays on which certain things are supposed to happen (e.g., having insane amounts of fun at some party you're being totally ripped off to attend, having a significant other who isn't as bitter and cynical as you are) and they often don't because they're simply out of your control, and then an otherwise fine, ordinary night is a big disappointment. Whereas for Thanksgiving and Christmas you just get together with some people and eat a lot. But I digress. Point is, my brain feels like it's tumbling around in a clothes dryer and I'm going to Madison to get drunk this weekend. Yay! Happy End of 2004!

book it!

So, I finally caved and read the Da Vinci Code (my unwillingness to read it, of course, was based purely on all the annoying hype and not sheer laziness. Ahem.) My review: not fucking Tolstoy but damn entertaining. It's really that simple, you THREE THOUSAND AND TWENTY Amazon reviewers. A Sparknotes aficianado and reader of approximately 1.2 pleasure books (I don't mean that in a dirty way) per year, I read the thing in less than two days, and granted I have no obligations or engagements save for shoveling snow and putting dishes in the dishwasher and turning it on, but still, I am impressed that this not so little book went down so easily.

Alright, time to watch Oprah and pretend to exercise on the recumbent stationary bike that so elegantly graces the family living room.

on the 12th day of unemployment

As anticipated, I have taken laziness to a whole new level. In one week I have left the house exactly twice--once to go to Target; once to the far inferior WalMart--and my LL Bean flannel pj's are getting quite the workout. Also, as you can perhaps tell from that last sentence, I've finally gotten around to reading Eats, Shoots, & Leaves and am trying to help keep alive the semicolon and make proper use of dashes. (Though there is really no hope that my grammar will ever be as good as it was at age 15 or so.)

Highlights of the holiday weekend included introducing my parents and uncle to the wonderful worlds of Da Ali G Show and Freaks and Geeks, a rousing dinner table conversation about the ages and causes of death of every single semi-close relative, and the revelation that if my grandmother (70, lung cancer) had had her way, I would've been named Gretchen or Gertrude. If you know my last name, just take a moment to ponder the atrocity that would've been. If you don't know my last name, trust me and assume like I do that Grandma's brain was almost as fried as her lungs from smoking two packs a day for 50 years.

Anyway, after a few weeks of uselessness I'm going to have to, like, start doing stuff. This includes making plans for getting my lazy ass into graduate school for psychology so that I can make money listening to people's problems all day and then sell out by writing some self-help book and hawking it on Oprah for lots of money. Or something. Or perhaps I could become a researcher and come up with brilliant insights like those in this article, which is on the first page of the APA's website for chrissake.

I'm already making fun of my possible future career. Awesome.

the fam (minus the sis who is in mehico)

My baby girl, Babe. She is getting old (11 1/2) and has had some issues with bed wetting lately. So she has to wear this diaper at night to which my mom attached some denim suspenders so they stay on. She tolerates it pretty well, but, as you can see, she's a little embarrassed.



Crazy Daisy. We got her after the love of my life, Bridget, died during my senior year of high school. She was six months old at the time, because nobody else wanted to buy the puppy with the underbite.



The Parents. Have you ever seen a more wholesome picture in your entire life? Seriously, have you? This looks like it should be the generic picture in the frame when you buy a picture frame at the store.

almost makes up for severe nicotine withdrawal

After dinner I casually mention that I wish there are cookies in the house, hoping that perhaps some will turn up in the next week or so. Less than one hour later, Mom brings a plate of chocolate chip cookies with still melty chips out to me in the computer room. This would never, ever have occured a few years ago. God bless her soul. And Empty Nest Syndrome.

culture shock

Because it snowed last night and my flight got in really late, my parents decided to hire a "limo service" to bring me home safely from the airport. Said "limo" was a busted up--and I mean rusty, dented, and shaking--Dodge Caravan, which would've freaked me out had I not driven a very similar model throughout high school (or at least until winter of senior year when the tires kept exploding while I was driving and it failed to start in the subzero weather that is a fact of life in these parts.) Anyway, I hopped in the passenger seat next to a scruffy, tattooed, heavily accented young gentleman that seemed to be about my age. He was smoking in the car, so I lit up too.

He turned out to be quite a chatty fellow and immediately mentioned that he needed to be home by 3 a.m. because he had "the ankle bracelet." Now, as I was thinking about how this must be some euphemism for a demanding wife, a la "the old ball and chain," or something, he said, "But don't worry, I just got in a fight, they give me the late shift so I can't go to the bars, but I can't go 150 feet away from my house anyway. Sucks man." Realizing that he was not talking about a wife (though I later learned he has an illegitimate three-year-old,) I said "So, wait a second, you actually have a bracelet...on your ankle..." He pulled up his tapered jeans to reveal a heavy duty black strap attached to a cell phone sized electronic device. Apparently if you get in a bar fight or some other kind of trouble necessitating police intervention, the "cahps" take you to prison, secure a heat sensored monitor on your ankle and a receiver in your house, and then know if you've left the 150 foot radius of your house while you're not at work, or if you've managed to remove the bracelet.

But we're talking serious drinkers here who will not be hindered by such sophisticated surveillance methods. My new buddy then proceeded to describe how he attached a phone cord to the home receiver, wrapped it in a plastic bag, strung it out through the kitchen window so he got an extra 20 feet in that direction, and was able to go to his buddy's house, apparently between 150 and 170 feet away, to get wasted. He was very proud of this ingenuity, but was clearly more impressed by the cleverness of his friend. When his friend got into his bracelet-worthy scuffle, he also sprained his ankle, which resulted in significant swelling. The cops failed to take account of this, so when the swelling went down he was able to slip the bracelet off. But the friend knew that the heat sensors would alert the cops to the bracelet removal. Fortunately, the friend had a cat, who became the proud owner of a new large black collar. Had the friend not run into his probation officer at a bar several days later, he would've gotten away with it.

So basically, the crazy kids in Central Wisconsin are just like the crazy kids back in New York, only they get in trouble more because the police don't have unsolved murders and drug dealers and the mafia to worry about. That, and they all, and I mean ALL, have small children. Oh, and they also pay $350 per month for a four bedroom house. Except for the electronic monitoring and the burden of children parts, it doesn't sound to shabby.

the continuing saga of lenny kravitz's bathroom

So apparently I wasn't paying well enough attention the other night. Turns out the bathroom in which I fucked my hairstylist IS Lenny Kravitz's. Hairstylist's friend is the poor rich soul who lives downstairs and had to vacate his apartment when this mysterious incident occured [via Gawker]:

Lenny Kravitz's Craptabulous Crapper

We're half disgusted, half curious about the state of Lenny Kravitz's toilet, which is "blocked, clogged and congested with various materials," resulting in $333,849.77 worth of water damage to his downstairs neighbor's apartment. The insurance company is now seeking reimbursement in full from the rocker.

"Various materials?" It's 2004, can't we just say "syringes and latex?"

Dear Lenny was then kind enough to let the surprisingly cool investment banker stay in his place while the damages are being repaired. While I expect the bathroom was christened long before I wound up on the counter top, I am still proud to be leaving this city in true New York style and going out with a bang. (Ha, get it, BANG?) Next time you hear from me, I will be sober, crabby as hell from nicotine withdrawal, full of wholesome food, and wearing LL Bean flannel pajamas for at least a week straight.

oops

Remember how I said I really, really wanted to sleep with my hairstylist? Well, I am nothing if not a woman of my word, so I did. (Though it wasn't so much "sleep with" as "fuck in the bathroom of the totally sick apartment nextdoor to Lenny Kravitz's Soho loft.") I hope he'll still do my hair when I come visit, because he's by far done the best job ever (on my HAIR.) Also, I officially have a boyfriend. He lives in Canada. Anyone want to wager a guess as to WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? Thanks.

eeeyah eeyah eeeyaeeya...eeeyah eeyah eeeyaeeya

I have just completed my second day at Conde Nast packaging luxury gifts for the needy CEO's of the fashion and beauty industries. While I was robbed of an Anna Wintour encounter, I can rest peacefully at night knowing that Lubov Azria, wife of BCBG's Max, will be receiving her cashmere travel blanket wrapped in wrinkle-free tissue paper and tied with a satin bow, shiny side up.

In other exciting news, Yaya did not win America's Next Top Model! Perhaps there is a god afterall. One of my fellow temp gift wrappers happened to be in Yaya's class at Brown and confirmed that she does, indeed, "suck ass." I'm sad that this delightful "cycle" has come to an end, but it looks as though Project Runway will pick up the slack quite nicely.

Okay, now it's time to contemplate and do absolutely nothing about the massive amount of work to be done in order for me to relocate without losing all my possessions and/or paying a shitload of money to store/ship them. FAB, Drone? Be prepared to be bribed with various alcoholic beverages to help me solve this conundrum.

i'm going in!

I apologize for the light blogging lately. I have been busy making preparations for my big move to the homeland. And by preparations I mean sitting on the futon watching Oprah and picking the dead skin off my feet (my token disgusting habit.) Though today, as a courtesy to my sublessee, I did manage to change the light bulbs in my 3'x5' "kitchen" that have been burned out for about four months. Tomorrow should prove a little more exciting, however, as I am infiltrating everyone's favorite office building, 4 Times Square, on a one-day temporary assignment at a Conde-Nasty publication. In the event that I find myself in an elevator with Anna Wintour, I swear on my sorry excuse for a shoe collection that I will do my best to drop a silent but deadly fart in her vicinity. Or at least stare at her for a little too long.