i need...

*to reconnect my cable television. I thought that getting only the free, crappy channels like PAX would make me find something worthwhile do do with my evenings, but it turns out I'll just watch an hour and a half of that dance version of American Idol and feel really bad about myself. Cable's not so great, I've been rationalizing, even now that I'm no longer forced (Forced!) to spend laundry quarters on Coors Light. Well, I think I just found my motivation to spend an extra $80 a month: God bless you, Tara Reid.

*to make more money. Sure, my little luxury secretary job keeps me well fed (a little too well fed, actually) and pays the bills, but I'm addicted to buying clothes almost as much as I am to smoking, drinking, self-loving, and burritos, and the lengthy withdrawal is getting to be too much. I thought about selling some old stuff on Ebay, but my old stuff isn't so great, and also there's a much easier way to make money on Ebay: Good ol' Jesus.

*to never quit my job, ever. In addition to the free meals, free snacks, free espresso beverages, free health insurance, free gym, and free Metrocards (feel free to hate me right now,) the people here are for the most part pretty awesome. Or at least crazy enough to keep things exciting. I just received this firm-wide email from the friendly HR girl:

From: Friendly HR Girl
To: Entire Firm
Subject: Confused?

Please do not use the women’s restrooms if you are not a woman.
Danke.

why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?

And do cockroaches fly? I'd always wondered, since I only ever see them crawling on toothbrushes, sitting in shoes, or swimming in the toilet. The answer to this no-longer-eternal question, I just learned, is a resounding yes. I think I just had a small heart attack. And now I face a death-or-death dilemma: do I close the windows and get cancer in 20 years from toxic Raid fumes, or do I leave them open and risk sudden cardiac arrest? I'm leaning towards cancer...

(And yes, there was gasping, uncontrollable shaking, and screaming involved.)

a little service bloggin'

*In addition to spending my too brief time in Wisconsin dying my sister's hair, finishing fourth out of four in Scrabble (I know, I'm as shocked and appalled as you are,) and trying not to hurt anyone in my constant nicotine withdrawal rage, I saw a few good movies. Dad rented Anchorman, I took the whole fam to the theater to see March of the Penguins (sadly, not so popular in the land o' hicks,) and my sister brought back a great new Chilean movie that you should check out if you like movies that are good. It's called Machuca and depicts the 1970's dictatorship mess through the eyes of kids from different sides of the tracks, so to speak. One part Y tu Mama Tambien, one part City of God, and one part [insert your favorite foreign film about the rich oppressing the poor here.] Who knew the Chileans even made movies?

*I "discovered" a website that has some cute, cheap, well-made shoes. Remix Vintage Shoes has stuff for both ladies and gents, and the merchandise is shipped super-speedily. Some of the shoes are too vintage-y for my tastes, but I got these cute flats in red, and even though flats and pointy toes usually make me feel either fat or like a Christmas elf, respectively, I'm quite pleased with them.

*On my way back to work from LaGuardia Airport, I made a move that can only be described as genius. My New York City mantra, and what makes the city livable for me, is "Nothing is worth waiting in line for." This includes, most notably, bars, hipsterrific rock shows, the Barney's Warehouse Sale, and Magnolia Bakery. I am pained when I see such lines and just want to shake the liner-uppers and scream, "There's an equally good cupcake place down the street!!! Unless you're here for the banana pudding in which case I understand your need to be in this line!" Anyway, so when I finally returned from my excessively delayed flight and saw no less than 300 people waiting in the taxi line, I hauled my tired ass and three bags to the M60 bus, not really sure what I was going to do from there. Not two minutes after saying sayonara to the suckers waiting two hours to take a thirty minute cab ride, the bus stopped at the next terminal where there was another taxi stand, loads of taxis, and no line. Then we passed another. And then another. It wasn't until we'd passed all the terminals that I realized I should've gotten off at one of them and taken a cab, but things worked out in the end as I found a new use for the borrough of Queens--the N/R stop on Astoria Blvd. Bus stopped there, I got on train, I was at work--having saved myself $25--in about fifteen minutes. Score.

*And last but not least, if you come across the following men, beware. Be very ware.

Creed lead Jesus-freak Scott Stapp gets royally punked by drunk college kids in Gainesville Denny's. [via cityrag]

Ben Gibbard is a whiny and arrogant asswipe.

Area Man will bite your face off.

all work and no sleep

A very literal interpretation of William Carlos Williams:

The Black Swingline
by Gina Michele Ginas

so much depends
upon

a black swing
line

always jammed with
staples

beside the neoprene
wristpad. (You know, that thing that makes typing on a keyboard more ergonomic.)

livin' in the shadooooow

Following the trend of other It Girl blonde sisters, Carrie dyes her hair dark red in an attempt to distinguish herself from her bigger, blonder, better (kidding) sister. We can only hope this doesn't lead to an infamously bad pop music career, anorexia and purported drug use, and/or a truly hideous clothing line.

happy friday

I'm off to Wisconsin to spend the weekend gorging myself on oatmeal pancakes (Mom soaks the oats in milk overnight...mmmmm,) relearning high school math for the GRE, and helping my 21-year-old favorite person in the world practice for her driver's test.

wack shit

*If you have been hiding under a dresser and have not yet seen R. Kelly's revolutionary epic music video "In the Closet," now you can do what I did in high school and college and just read the Cliff's Notes. [via Stereogum] (Though, unlike The Red Badge of Courage, the original is more than worth your time.) If, on the other hand, you get the "hiding under a dresser" reference, the Cliff's Notes will only serve to enrich your understanding of, and appreciation for, this masterwork.

*Yesterday I made the tragic but unavoidable mistake of buying Lucky magazine. While it is certainly no great work of journalism, its genius premise is undeniable. I don't even like the majority of the shit they tell you is "so fresh this season," (I got my Frye boots in 2002, bitches! And they are definitely no longer fresh, in the traditional sense of the word.) but there are always about 5-10 things I see that I want, and in addition to all the other things that I perpetually want, it just ends up making me sad. But what made me most sad while perusing their massive fall issue was the Tampax ad. It looks like a perfume ad with the thick paper and flap you lift to smell the product, only what you're smelling is Tampax's new line of scented tampons. AAARRRRGHGHISDLFKJ:LSKDF!!!!!!!!@@@@!!! First of all, I don't want to smell someone's tampon. Second, isn't the point of those flaps to see if you like the smell of the perfume? What girl takes a whiff and says, you know, I'd actually prefer my vagina to smell more like honeysuckle? Third, putting chemically perfume inside your body can never be a good idea. And last but not least, I don't know what kind of sexual maneuvers girls these days are doing (it's been a while for me,) but I can't think of any reason why the area 2-4 inches inside a woman's body needs to smell like baby powder and freesia. Whatever happened to the old school shower? Sheesh.

*Yesterday outside my building a woman walked by with a cameltoe. What moved this occurence from the mildly humorous into the groundbreakingly bloggable category was that she was wearing a skirt. One of those knee length kinda poofy and ethnic-y skirts that are so "on trend" this summer. She was a little chubby, and the front part of the skirt had somehow wedged itself securely into her crotch region. I did double and triple and quadruple takes to ensure that my eyes weren't deceiving me or that the skirt was for some reason meant to be like that, but no, she was just good old fashioned fashion roadkill. Gotta love some good Schadenfreude.

if my mother were a nutter

As you should very well know, my little sister and I love making fun of the Local Paper. It's not a horrible publication or anything, but the frequent typos, hick headlines, and overly earnest attempts at portraying wholesomeness ruffle our feathers. Maybe we're just bitter and jealous of all the fat and happy midwestern folk, but damnit, what's wrong with shooting some fish in barrels from time to time? One of our favorite fish has a regular column about her wholesome, Christian family. Her maiden name is Nutter. This week she tells us about her adult children, with whom my sister and I went to school, and how wholesome they are. Here is what this column would look like if it were about my family:

Children Grow, Get the Hell Out of Community

This past Saturday night, my husband and I walked to The Cinema in downtown Marshfield to see the summer comedy "Wedding Crashers." He thought it was hilarious, but I thought it was crude, vulgar trash--almost as bad as the Simpsons cartoon show. That Owen Wilson is pretty handsome, though. Anyway, I only agreed to go because my husband works 90 hours a week and I hardly get to see him.

Several years ago, we chose the town of Marshfield to live in because my husband got job offers in both Marshfield and Boston, but because Boston is more expensive and he had massive graduate school debts to pay off, we had to settle for Marshfield.

On the way home from the movie, we walked by the Recreation Tennis Court, which is located at a relatively busy intersection. Fifteen years ago, our oldest child harrassed us endlessly about waiting forever to cross it and looking both ways about twenty times while driving her to daycare, and later high school. We would always say, "When she learns to drive, she will have an accident at that intersection, and even though we'll have to pay for the damages, we'll laugh a little inside." Walking by the intersection that night, we commented on how glad we were that she only rear-ended our friendly neighbors and they were nice enough not to sue us for whiplash. We commented on how the Marshfield community fosters such a sense of community. And how quickly the years passed by.

We visited about* each of our children and where they are now. We talked about how difficult and exhausting it was to have them at home and that Marshfield was a nice community in theory but nearly bored and isolated our crazy kids to death.

When my husband's mother died, her brother, who was a priest and the head of a monastery, gave each of our small children pendants with pictures of Jesus on them. They only liked the pendants because they were free and shiny. The priest uncle died shortly thereafter and was found naked on the floor of his bedroom with his butt up in the air. Silly Uncle Joe.

Upon graduating from Senior High, our daughters fled to huge cities on opposite ends of the country. Gina has been living in New York City for six years now. Since college she has been working at jobs she doesn't care about and spending her free time getting really fucking drunk, sleeping with questionable men, and urinating in public. She comes home to visit twice a year and expresses appreciation for the use of our minivan and all the free food. After a hearty course of psychotropic medication to help her get through high school, Carrie now works to help the hell-bound homosexuals at her hippie college in Los Angeles and spends her summers in Marshfield watching television and walking the family dogs. While she expresses appreciation for the Marshfield schools which allowed her to take enough AP classes to get into a faraway college, she doesn't give a shit about the community atmosphere of small town caring.

Yes, this last Saturday night was a good night to remember memories and reflections while we walked home from the movie.

*I can't let that one slide. Even my mother, who has been known to say "warsh" instead of "wash," would never replace the word "discuss" with "visit." Good lord.

western mass

Put away your seersucker and boatshoes, kids. This past weekend I learned that there is stuff in Massachusettes besides Boston, The Cape, and The Vineyard. Imagine that. Friend M was going home to the wee northwestern town of Shelburne Falls for the weekend, so Friend S and I decided to escape Princeton and Manhattan, respectively, and impose ourselves on M's big happy family. Our weekend primarily consisted of lazing around, eating a probably toxic amount of fresh blueberries directly off the trees, with vanilla ice cream, and in pancakes, and playing high school (not my version of high school, sadly) by drinking plus-sized beers on the rocks down by the river. S and I also managed to get our culture on, both in Shelburne and on the accidentally very long ride home.

Every small town needs to have the World's Largest Something-or-Other. Marshfield has the Round Barn, and Shelburne Falls has potholes.





[I just like this picture of M wearing her friend's four-year-old son's Harry Potter goggles]


I tend to be fairly up to speed in regard to culture, both pop and plain ol', but when S suggested swinging by the Mass MoCA on our way home, I had to ask what it was. Turns out it is a six-year-old contemporary art museum (duh) housed in some old factory buildings in North Adams, MA.



The vast indoor and outdoor spaces allow them to do all kinds of unorthodox stuff like this guy's Chinese scroll-inspired exploding car exhibit [photo ganked from artist's website] and the upside down trees.





There was also a host of works that can only be described as crazy-ass shit that's a little too abstract for lil' old me, though if you want a more academic description you can find it in the "Becoming Animal" part here. My favorite work in the whole museum was, of course, the simplest and most accessible. In Animal, Vegetable, Video, artist Sam Easterson strapped on mini video cameras to various animals, including a chick, a tarantula, and a water buffalo. The results are quite cute and entertaining, and by exploring the disctinction, or lack thereof, between human and animal they help us understand what it means to be human, or something. You can watch part of the videos by clicking the above link. Check out the armadillo with its cute little ears!

local paper goodness

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

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

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

tjif

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

*Jesus has a six-pack.

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

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

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

"tid bits"

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

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

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

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

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

linkydinks

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

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

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

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

"is this the best you can do?"

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

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

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

ow

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

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

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

happy birthday to me!

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

happy friday

Doggy Daycamp in Bogota!


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


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

oh, it's right

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

profound observations about stuff

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

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

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

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

good thing my credit card is always maxed out

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

new york city's finest

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

so sad! but so funny!

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

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

fes-ti-vaaaal

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

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

poor lil' canadians

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

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

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

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

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

oops!

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

hedgehogs

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

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

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

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

thank the lord for portable music playing devices

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

i believe i can touch the sky

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

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

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

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

i [you know] ny

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

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

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

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

fun stuff

*

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

linkydinks

*If you ever find yourself being attacked by a leopard while tending your potato and bean crops in rural Kenya, put down your machete and rip its tounge out.

*With his obvious insanity and recent criticism of psychiatry, Tom Cruise has joined Mel Gibson on my growing list of male "heartthrob" celebrities whose movies I intend to avoid for the rest of my days. This fictitious debate between Tom and the American Psychiatric Association is a hilarious and concise summary of the idiocy. [via Gawker]

*Although I have had no need for birth control of any sort for over three months (my God...THREE MONTHS!!) it is good to know that New York is on my side, as opposed to my former state of residence.

mark your territory

One summer back in college, I convinced a couple of high school friends to come visit me for a weekend. It was about 99 degrees on average then, and one of my friends, Sheila, hadn't been feeling so well. Nevertheless, Sheila insisted on walking around Central Park until we found the big white bridge and wanted to visit the Metropolitan Museum afterwards. We never did find the damn bridge, but we did drag our increasingly green-faced friend through several wings of the Met. Given Sheila's dramatic tendencies, we ignored her proclamations of sickness until she slumped to the floor in what can only be described as a swoon. We scooped her up and made a mad dash for the entrance, terrified that she'd throw up on a Rodin. We made it to the entrance all right, where Sheila proceeded to vomit the previous night's Asian Fusion all over the grand middle doorway at the top of the steps. She was mortified (though probably less so than the arriving museum patrons) until I told her that, hey, if you're going to puke in public, it might as well be in the main entrance of the main museum of one of the main cities in the world. Score one for Sheila!

Why did I tell you that story? Well, aside from the fact that it is one of the best things I've ever seen, I had my own Sheila moment last evening. Friend E invited me to an opening at her new place of work, another major NYC art museum. Probably not the greatest idea, since free wine and I get along a little too well. We were having a lovely time pondering the gofugyourself.com-worthy fashion choices of the attendees (red, white, and black horizontally striped socks with a red, white, and black diagonally striped sweater? seriously??) when I decided I needed a cigarette. We guzzled down our second plastic cupfulls of cheap chardonnay and proceeded out the front entrance. On our way back in through the revolving doors, as I stepped aside for E to go in first I tragically misjudged my distance from the doorway. Before I knew what was happening I was hopping through the doors on one leg, motioning for E to keep going. One of the doors had run right over my bare big toe, leaving a puddle of blood in the footbed of my cute sandal and a trail of droplets from the museum entrance to the ladies room. Thanks to the wine and a certain degree of shock, it didn't really hurt and I amused the little bathroom ladies by laughing uncontrollably as my mangled digit soaked through paper towel after paper towel. I still haven't quite discerned what the damage is, since I've only been brave enough to change the original bandaid once. What I do know is that the door sliced straight through my toenail and 24 hours later it's still bleeding. Needless to say, I think the Museum left more of a mark on me than I did on it. Score one for the Museum.

humble pie

I've been back in New York City for almost a month now, and I have yet to earn a penny. Given my psychological history and the reality of my financial situation, I should be a lot more depressed than I currently am.

Last night, shortly after my employment analysis, I found myself wide awake around 3 a.m. I checked the New York Times TV listings and, while encouraged that Dr. Phil received a star for "recommended series," I was discouraged to see that there were no Blind Date, Elimidate, or Cheaters-type programs to be found. There was, however, Sister Wendy: American Collection on PBS.

I had a minor obsession with Sister Wendy in high school and had since forgotten her. For the uninitiated, she is an elderly South African/Scottish nun with an inspirational appreciation for the visual arts. I grew up Catholic and had relatives in the nun business, and Sister Wendy, with her amazing buck teeth, weird accent, and inability to pronounce the letter "R" is truly something special. In her analysis of varied works of art, she directs the viewer to intricacies that in a casual museum breeze-through one would never see, and she describes her emotional reactions to each piece in compelling detail.

Between Sister Wendy, the subsequent program about Robert Frost's necessary stint as a farmer, and the Science Times blurb about a 100-MILLION-YEAR-OLD daddy long legs preserved in a piece of amber, I embraced Dr. Phil's advice to GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF. Though it might not feel like it right now, the fact that I am even agonizing over how to pursue a fulfilling career is a luxury, and being able to have thousands of dollars of credit card debt is something that 99.99% of earthly beings are never afforded. Because, of course, if the Somalians could wear Marc by Marc Jacobs the world woudld be a better place.

adventures in employment

So I'm back to being job-free again. I'm not surprised that Chichi Soho Hotel didn't keep me on after a few trails, because, while I can fake being fake long enough to impress during a five minute interview, I can't pretend to be "polished" for a whole five hour shift. And, hey, they thought I looked good enough to wear short shorts and serve $15 cocktails to really really famous people, so I consider the whole endeavor a minor success. However, now I am no longer delusional about my ability to secure traditional employment. Since making a list of all my past quasi-things was such a resounding success in solving my relationship issues (*snort*) let's take a look at my 13-year work history and see if we can find the problem(s).

*Babysitter. At age 11 I took a babysitting course at the local library and received my CPR certification. I watched kids for quite a few families (mostly acquaintances of my parents) over the years, and pretty much sucked at it. As I've mentioned, I'm not really a kid-oriented person, and I also had a knack for falling asleep on the couch just as the parents would come home. There was only one family for whom I did a good job, and it was because their kids were a rare breed that I got along with, and the parents would leave us money to go to the movies and order Kentucky Fried Chicken. Since they were awesome and smart, they soon moved away to a big city and left me jobless for a few years.

*Telephone Cheese Sales Representative. In my first job on the books, I answered the telephone for a renowned Central Wisconsin-based purveyor of cheese and really ugly shit. I got paid $5.50 an hour to sit in front of an archaic computer for eight hours at a time and either answer the phones or, when they weren't ringing, familiarize myself with the paper catalog. It was utter torture and I quit as soon as the busy holiday gift-giving season was over, when folks across the country were calling to complain about the untimely shipment of their cheese logs and Precious Moments figurines.

*Medical Office Assistant. The summer after high school graduation my mom got me a full-time job in the private facility in which she was a physical therapist. My duties largely consisted of mindless filing and envelope-licking, and I would finish extremely quickly and then fall asleep at my desk. Even though I was constantly asking for more work to do in order to stay awake, I got a good talking to by the head doctor (whose kids I no longer babysat.) Finally they started sending me downstairs to do transcription (80 wpm, baby!) and organize boxes of old files, and we were all much happier campers.

*Coffee Shop Counterperson (Barrista is a stupid word.) This is one of the few jobs upon which I often look back fondly. Though the cafe was located in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Manhattan (at the time--said cafe was a gentrification pioneer) and I had to walk alone between there and the gated loveliness of Columbia at either 5:45 a.m. or 11:30 p.m., it was great because the work involved actually producing something, even if it was just annoying beverages and sandwiches; I made up for my paltry $7 wage by eating and or/taking with me two meals a day; and, most significantly, I either worked alone or with just one other person. Never quite got the hang of the cash register, though.

*Library Assistant. I didn't get enough hours at the coffee shop that summer so I also worked in the “Reserves” portion of the campus library. The “Reserves” portion is, um, reserved for books and readings that professors reserve for classes, and, since there's not much going on class-wise during the summer, the job involved a lot of sleeping in the back room. Not surprisingly, I don't remember too much else about this job.

*Doggy Daycare Provider. The next year I got my dream summer job. Essentially, I was paid to take care of 50-100 dogs at a time, instruct illegal immigrant Mexican workers to clean up the mierda, por favor, ogle the hot illegal Brazilian immigrant walkers of the in-house dog walking service, and work with some interesting folks, my favorite of which was a woman in her late 30's who was married to the Fifth Avenue plastic surgeon who'd done her boob job. The work was extremely messy and smelly and sweaty, and on my last shift I was badly bitten by an enormous beast of a canine, but it was a good time, overall. Still, I'd never do it again.

*Teaching Assistant. My junior year I applied for and got a Teaching Assistantship for my favorite class to that point. This meant that I got to take the class again, only I didn't have to take notes or exams and I got paid very well. I enjoyed having the power to write and grade the tests, and having my peers come groveling to me with hopes of better grades was totally weird but not at all unenjoyable. The downside, of course, was that I could no longer get away with sleeping in class, and also it was kind of embarrassing when it was MY cell phone that went off during the midterm.

*Computer Lab Assistant. The next semester I continued receiving the aforementioned great pay by working in the department computer lab. The lab was located in a remote corner of the level below the basement in the psychology building, and after a few shifts of sitting around in a totally empty room, I decided to show up very late and/or leave very early, and I eventually stopped showing up at all. This worked wonderfully until some sort of meeting was scheduled there during a shift for which I did not come to unlock the room. Amazingly, I got scolded but not fired, and I had to spend the latter, prettier part of Spring '02 20 feet underground.

*Dog Walker. That summer I called the ol' doggy daycare and requested to be a walker and only a walker. This was awesome because I worked entirely by myself, I got to see lots of bajillion dollar apartments, and dogs are far less annoying when there's just one to three of them. Early on I almost got fired for oversleeping by four hours after getting incredibly wasted with a band the night before, but I somehow managed to walk eight hours worth of dogs in four hours and was able to spend the rest of the summer destroying my knees, sweating my ass off, and picking up rich doggie poo. I am strongly considering being a dog walker again.

*Admissions Office Assistant. On a tip from Fat Asian Baby, I spent my senior year working in the Undergraduate Admissions Office. As mentioned in a prior post, it was unbelievably easy to fudge one's timesheet, so I once again got paid pretty well for doing very little. My boss was a hilarious Caribbean dude with two lazy eyes, and the work consisted of organizing and opening application materials. This provided ample fodder for joking around with my equally delinquent work study buddies, and it made me want to kick myself for worrying so much about my own chances for admission back in high school.

*Research Assistant. Senior spring, I was only taking two classes so I decided to take a second job. It was a temporary position for a psychology study being conducted way the hell uptown. My job was pretty much limited to filing and tracking down missing study participants, and I was jealous of the full-time assistants who got to call people and ask them a long series of really invasive personal questions. My boss was a cold, uptight lesbian, and, even though the office was casual, she scolded me for wearing a shirt that sometimes showed my bra strap and a sweater that sometimes showed a sliver of my lower abdominal region. I neither quit nor got fired, but, like many a Quasi-Thing, we just stopped calling each other.

*Bond Sales Assistant. Aaah, my first Real Job! Through a connection I acquired a position at JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsBrothersBank&Co.,Inc. I sat in front of four computer screens at a desk on a trading floor for 10 hours a day and didn't do a whole lot, other than read blogs and blog. Because I respected my boss and got paid a lot and didn't have any better ideas, and also because no one there asked or expected me to do a lot, I lasted for over a year. I was almost fired when I freaked out one Saturday morning, boarded a plane for Wisconsin, and called my boss on Monday saying I'd be out for a week. After a stern scolding from an evil HR lady, I decided it would be best to move on, since I knew I could never think of the position as a "career, not a job."

*Marketing Assistant. Needing something else quickly and not knowing what I wanted to do, I signed on with a temp agency. I was placed at an entertainment company that had some good perks like the ability to listen to music out loud all day and free coffee and pretzles. I got my very own cubicle and quickly earned the trust of my bosses, for whom I shuffled around paper and sent emails and made spreadsheets of really boring stuff. This was a gross mistake on their part, as the sparkles soon wore off and I started doing less and less work, to the point where I pretty much did nothing at all, which was perpetuated by the fact that all the bosses were constantly away at conferences. One night I got a voicemail from the temp agency saying they'd "no longer be needing my services," and when I snuck in to retrieve my gym clothes the next day, I felt very, very sorry for the pour soul who had to sort through the disorganized mounds of unfinished work in my cubicle. And by very, very sorry I mean more amused than actually sorry.

*Waitress. This job rocked, for the most part. Since a friend of a friend had hooked up with someone at the restaurant, I got a coveted position in the Ithaca Collegetown scene. I'm not naturally very good at waitressing and after a week of training I was sure they'd let me go, but things improved to the point where the management even complimented me on several occasions. Many of the coworkers were in the same lost stage of life as I was (am,) I got to get drunk while working, and I enjoyed the hectic physical labor and small, family-like atmosphere. If I could find something similar in NYC I'd be a waitress again and would probably be ok at it, but that's not looking so good, since none of my friends have slept with any employees of hip yet laidback restaurants lately.

So what have we learned from all of this? Much like my dealings with dudes, I don't like most jobs and fuck up grandly when I try to stick them out, and the jobs I do like and idealize either aren't suited to me or have no long-term potential. Of course, dudes can easily be replaced altogether with a nice vibrator, but a vibrator will not pay my rent. And with that brilliant sentence, I am off to try to fall asleep before the sun comes up.

hang the dj

Much fun has been made of the "art" of DJ-ing, but tonight I learned that it is the DJ who has the last laugh. I just finished trailing for my first evening shift at Chichi Hotel, and a DJ came in to "work" for three hours. During this time she bopped her head a little, talked on her cell phone, and stood behind the sound equipment (no turntables that I was aware of) looking cute. For this arduous task she gets compensated $300, $50 in food and alcohol which she can consume while working, and drink tickets for her friends. Meanwhile, the waitstaff scurries around in the required high heels for eight to ten hours and typically makes half that amount, minus the extra goodies. Perhaps it's time to rethink my career plans...

nightclubbin'

I love it when I "discover" a not-so-new blog and it's so good I have to read all the archives. If you want to dispose of several hours of your workday, I recommend Clublife, the chronicles of a bouncer at a New York nightclub and the Guido idiocy that ensues there on a nightly basis.

it's official

I am a lost cause.

One night back in Ithaca, once I was sure I was moving back to New York, I browsed the Nerve personals partially out of curiosity but mostly out of boredom because there's not much else to do when you're in Ithaca and still awake at 5 a.m. The first profile that popped up was a guy who seemed pretty much absolutely perfect for me. So I wrote to him, and we've since gone on two dates, and sure enough he is absolutely perfect for me. Very cute, in amazing shape (he runs marathons and surfs,) very smart (getting a PhD soon,) speaks five languages and has traveled all over the world, has shit in common with me like being from a hick town and loving cheese, likes to get drunk and stay out till 4 a.m., etc., etc. And, go figure, I feel nothing. I can't even allow myself to begin to flirt with him, even though I want to so fucking badly. Instead, I'm still hung up on the Canadian, with whom I'm suddenly back in touch with. We've texted back and forth and talked on the phone no less than six times in the last 24 hours. The Canadian doesn't even have a job, is a little overweight and a lot alcoholic, hasn't bothered to visit me in the past six months, and is hoping to move to England or France in the fall if he can get enough money from his disgruntled parents. What. The fuck. Is wrong. With me????!?!?!!

Perhaps tomorrow is the day to make an appointment with a therapist like I've been meaning to do for the last two or three years.

who wears short shorts? she wears short shorts! nair for short shorts!

I got a job, y'all! It's at one of the restaurant/lounge things at a chichi Soho hotel. The three people I "interviewed" with (and I use quotes because they didn't really ask me anything) gave me wildly differing information, so I don't know exactly in which part or what time of day or how often I'll be working, but that is not important right now. What is important is that soon I can start spending money that does not belong to Shitibank. In the next day or two I have to go in to get fitted for the uniform, which consists of a black tank top and baggy white short shorts, or as I like to call it, Hooters Chic. Though I've finally made peace with my thighs, I think they look best under a layer of clothing. Sigh...guess who's going for a run tonight!

hateration

*Is Lindsayism hating on Mulgrew? I do believe so. While I've enjoyed some things on her blog, criticism of someone who writes consistently funny stuff on an almost daily basis, coming from someone who writes (on her blog) maybe 100 words a week, the majority of which are neither funny nor interesting to all but a select few, is rather pathetic. I'm also going out on a limb here and assuming that she has never read Mulgrew's blog. Nice.

*While I'm ranting, might as well mention that nothing warms my heart more than a company telling girls to hate their smelly and gross vaginas in order to sell products. Thanks for promoting the notion that my crotch should smell like a field of daffodils, Daily Candy!

no sleep till...

On Saturday E and E's BF and I went out to Coney Island to see the community art project. While many of the new signs are quite cool, my favorite one is an old standby:



After some rather pathetic attempts to win prizes (one carnie took pity and gave us plush toys of a cow humping the moon...he later tried to take them away, but no matter,) we headed out to Brighton Beach, which, despite remaining stagnant since like 1952, is not impervious to the spread of American corporate culture.



A trip to Coney Island is never complete for me without visiting Brighton Beach. Though it reminds me of how little I remember from my college Russian classes, there are some awesome restaurants on the boardwalk, beautiful sunsets, and fugtastic fashion statements.



There are also vendors selling utterly ridiculous crap, such as these "Flashing Mouth Totally Amazing Party Attractions."



And yes, they are Made in China.

googs

A good percentage of the people who get to my blog (i.e., not very many at all) are directed from Google searches. Oftentimes, I can tell that my posts probably provided them with the information they were looking for, or at least directed them to where they could find it. This generally includes searches involving online shopping, Upper West Side grocery stores, and, the most popular one, hot blonde rapist of junior high boys Lauren Annette Summers. Certain things, however, I'm sorry but I just can't help with. These include anything related to the bodyparts on which Kelly Ripa puts her shoes, "Why did Gillian Anderson Divorce Clyde Klotz" (who the hell is that?) and, most perplexing of all, "learn how to put my ass into viagina of girl by sex." Call me naive, but I'm not certain that such a position is physically possible. Nevertheless, best of luck, bro.

wisconsin, you've let me down

While certainly not the last state, Wisconsin was not the first I'd expect to do this. [thanks, FAB] As Perplexa so eloquently said, banning the morning after pill on state university campuses is clearly an initiative by "conservative fuckers who hate women, gay men and women and sex in general." Because only a great deal of ignorance could lead someone to conclude that this is a good, helpful idea. For one, emergency contraception does essentially the same thing as the birth control pill and condoms--it prevents conception--and hence does not violently murder a four-celled organism. If the morning after pill is wrong according to whatever logic they're using, then so is regular ol' birth control. Secondly, college is the place where kids go to get drunk a lot and make stupid mistakes and be too poor to seek healthcare other than what the university provides. Speaking from experience, I don't think there are many girls running around thinking, "hey, I think I'll have some unprotected sex during the middle of my cycle so that I can make an appointment with health services the next day where they will shake their heads in disdain and lecture me for half an hour about safe sex and then give me a series of pills that will probably make me feel like I have food poisoning for a few days." So basically if this thing passes, if a couple of kids have no condoms and are too ragingly horny to stop themselves, or the condom breaks, or a girl passes out drunk and gets raped by the whole basketball team, her only option is to have a baby she can't adequately care for and fuck up her life plans or have an abortion and suffer the emotional, physical, financial, and oftentimes spiritual/moral pain as a result. Genius!

rant 'n rant

I realize that making fun of Craigslist Personals is like hitting fish with barrels, or whatever, but there is one particular recurring display of stupidity that almost makes me want to meet the posters so that I can shake them violently (if I were bouncer-size) and scream "HOW CAN YOU BE SO FUCKING STUPID?!." Recently on M4W, I spotted the following posts, all in a row:

HANDSOME INVESTMENT BANKER SEEKING SWF WHO'S... (Manhattan)

WEALTHY BACHELOR FOR TROPHY WIFE OR GIRLFRIEND (Manhattan)

SUCCESSFUL MALE SEEKING BLONDE BEAUTY (Manhattan)

FOR LOVE OR MONEY? (Manhattan)

SEEKING EUROPEAN GIRL (Manhattan)

YOUNG FINANCIER SEEKS FUN GIRL FOR ADVENTURES IN SPONTANEITY (Manhattan)

HANDSOME ASIAN MALE FOR BEAUTIFUL SWF (Manhattan)

WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE ONE OF THIS WEALTHY GENTLEMAN'S LOVERS (Manhattan)

Obviously, these posts were all made by the same person, as evidenced by the ALL CAPS TITLES, the same location format (you can type whatever, e.g., UWS, Midtown, or my personal favorite, Manhatten,) and the general theme of an impossibly handsome and wealthy man (*snort*) looking for a woman in possession of certain physical characteristics. The only possible reason for one person to post multiple ads would be to increase his or her odds of getting responses, which isn't too likely to happen if the person doesn't even try to be sneaky. Back when I had a real job and read these all the time for masochistic entertainment, there was a poor guy who was "clever" and changed some details. Tragically, that it was all one person was still clear to anyone with at least the intelligence of a six-year-old or maybe even a large parrot, and the dude must've posted 20 ads a day. For like a year. I was thinking that maybe if there are people stupid enough to do this, there are people stupid enough to fall for it, but I don't even think that's the case in this situation. God my head hurts.

Speaking of stupidity, the new Tommy Hilfiger reality show/Project Runway wannabe is so atrocious that I can't remember what it's called even though I've seen both episodes (I only get basic cable now, sadly.) For one, Tommy Hilfiger makes my skin crawl. He is to Ralph Lauren what Jessica Simpson was to Britney Spears before Newlyweds. No matter how frequently he claims to be on par with real top designers (remember on Rich Girls when he bought a Ferrari because Ralph had the exact same one? no? ok well he did, and yes I watch too much TV), name drops celebrities he's designed for, or comes out with new "hip" bridge lines, he and his brand still suck. And, appropriately, so does his show, with its lame and uninteresting challenges and even lamer and more uninteresting contestants. Not even I am masochistic enough to watch one more second of this sludge.

holy crapper

After just two weeks of looking for NYC restaurant jobs, I was about ready to start banging my head against a wall. It seems that unless you've fucked the general manager or an important bartender, the best you can do is walk in, smile, hand your resume to the bitchy hostess and be told "we'll call you." Which of course is about as believable as when that phrase comes from a guy you've hooked up with. So today I went to two places (nice places, even) that had posted ads for waitstaff on good ol' Craigslist, and then I begrudgingly called my temp agency to see about some fun-filled office work for Monday. Lo and behold, I just got called back to both restaurants I went to today, within ten minutes of each other. Thank you, Ella Moss. I could very well still have to resort to temping, but this smidgen of progress, essentially a chance to speak with managers for more than 45 seconds, is tremendously encouraging. Since both interviews are tomorrow, I will be spending this evening studying wine varietals, cocktail ingredients, and various restaurant terminology for the inevitable quizzes. As if I couldn't just learn what "position numbers" are AFTER I got hired.

the continuing saga of my hair

Today I went out and got myself some hipster hair. I'm not quite sure what to do with it yet, but I think I like it.



Better to look like Leif Garrett circa 1977 than Jennifer Aniston circa 1994, in my opinion.



And best of all, it was free thanks to Bumble and Bumble's program that teaches already professional stylists how to do razor cuts. I'm not a fan of the way they shelac your hair with eighteen different products so that you have to wash it again as soon as you get home, but if you're lucky and get a stylist who's done the program before (like I did this time) and isn't a newbie who cuts herself with the razor twice (like I did last time) it's a hell of a good deal.

rats!

You want rat stories? Ok. So during my sophomore year of college, I slept over at my boyfriend's a lot because his dorm room was a two bedroom apartment. Mine essentially was too, only it had seven people living in it. (And yes, once upon a time I had a real, live boyfriend. I can't believe it either.) Anyway, sophomore year my insomnia was raging, and having two 6 foot tallish people in a twin-size bed wasn't conducive to helping me sleep, so sometimes I'd spazz out and go lie awake on one of the three couches in the living room instead. One fine morning, Ex-Boyfriend's roommate was leaving for crew practice and noticed some movement on top of the garbage can, which was situated next to the couch I was on, and hence next to my head. Apparently it was a foot-long rat, and it scurried off, nearly missing my head, when Roommate walked through the room. Miraculously, I was asleep for a few minutes and have no recollection of this event, nor any knowledge of where the rat had been spreading its diseases before perching itself a few inches away from my face.

occasional and awkward foray into music bloggerdom

Bands for me are a lot like boys. I'll find a new one, become immediately attached and listen to it constantly. Eventually, the novelty and excitement wear off and it's over. And then a few weeks or months later I'll try to get back into the songs again (yeah, sleep with him,) but I'm just not that into it anymore. And then I'll long for a replacement, which seems like it's never going to come because something that good can't possibly exist (ha,) so I'll toy around with new ones that are fine enough, but just not filling the hole (that latest image is not part of this extended simile) and so I fantasize about the old one for a little longer. Case in point, I had my honeymoon period with the Arcade Fire, and I got back into them again when I was in Ithaca, and they will have a place in my heart forever but all the while I was wishing there was something else to get excited about, and now there is, and it's called Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Err, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! Like the Arcade Fire, the lead singer has a voice my parents would cringe at, a hokey instrument is used--accordion/harmonica, and they sound more than a little Talking Heads-ish. (Guilty as charged when it comes to the psych phenomenon of looking for characteristics in a new partner that an old partner had, even if you didn't necessarily gravitate toward said characteristics before.) I like the Gramophone's description of one of CYHSY's songs: "it sounds like so many bands, just way better." So now I just need to find a boy so I can stop thinking about the Fucking Canadian (2004 was the year for Montreal to invade my life, apparently,) and all my holes will be filled. (Sorry, couldn't resist.) Actually, come to think of it, I really just need a goddamn job.

raising the bar

If you've lived in New York long enough, you've probably got a good cockroach story or three. I happen to have about ten but it's not because I'm a dirty person, I swear! I'm just a little messy. Anyway, as Drone and I were leaving my apartment building this evening to go for a walk, I heard him mumbling behind me. "There's something in my shoe...I've gotta get it out now or it's going to bug me." (Pun not possibly intentional at this point.) I turned around to see the shoe be thrown to the ground and Drone say "oh my god" for about three solid minutes with a look of sheer panic on his face. Clearly it was a bug in there, but I didn't know the gravity of the situation until he collected himself enough to dump out a two-inch, intact cockroach from his New Balance sneaker. I had phantom "something in my shoe" feelings for the whole walk. And stomach pains from laughing so damn hard. I'm still a little creeped out since the cockroach clearly came from my apartment, but vermin are pretty unavoidable here, as evidenced by the footlong rat we later saw scurrying into a nice brownstone on 77th. Oh, New York...

note to self

The return home from a dinner of chips 'n salsa, beer, and cigarettes is not a good time to implement my new "exercise plan" of always taking the stairs to my 10th floor apartment. Lungs. Hurt.

something really dumb that i do constantly and will continue to do even though it annoys the crap out of me

Every time I return to my apartment from a trip to Starbucks or the new Bed Bath and Beyond on 64th Street or out drinking (pretty much the only reasons I leave my apartment,) I spend a good five minutes in the foyer/lobby/entryway/whatever frantically rifling through my bag to find my keys (frantically, because I usually really have to pee.) This is because I have one of those giant tote bags that is unnecessarily large and filled with unnecessary crap but that I can't seem to leave the house without. In reality, I could probably survive with a small purse that contains my wallet, keys, cellphone, iPod, and cigarettes, but you never know when that mini-deodorant, six pens, eight packs of matches, three jelly bracelets, bottle of Lubriderm hand lotion, box of Band-Aids, handful of tampons, whole arsenal of makeup, stack of bills that have yet to be opened, and package of fake tattoos will come in handy. Of course, said bag has two small interior pouches in which keys could be deposited and retrieved fairly quickly, but who has time to spend an extra millisecond putting them there rather than chucking them in the gaping bag? Certainly not me with my jampacked schedule!

this post has nothing to do with public urination

*On my recent drive from Ithaca to New York, I heard the following on the radio:
-An advertisement for a Buy One Pair of Leather Chaps, Get a Free Pair of Fingerless Gloves Sale
-A lady talk about how drunk she was from a booze cruise with her husband and then slurredly mention she was in the car on the way to pick up her "goddamn kids" from daycare
-A C & C Music Factory song on the Oldies station. Not even a 70's/80's/90's station. I think they played the Four Tops afterwards.
Yes, all of the above were heard in New Jersey.

*I've made a brilliant discovery about which I'm so excited that I have to share it: As we all know, going to the grocery store can oftentimes be a pain in the ass. I happen to live in the Grocery Store Epicenter of Manhattan, where Whole Foods, Citarella, Fairway, and Zabar's all lie in the same 20 block stretch on Broadway. A trip to any of the above will result in some excellent cheese, produce, or creamed herring, and also getting trampled by crazy soccer moms and old jewish ladies. But just a block south of Fairway is the no-frills, cavernous chain store Gristedes, where I will be doing all of my shopping from now on. Because there is never, EVER anybody there. When I approached the cashier on Saturday afternoon after not waiting in line for one second, she had been picking at her fingernails for a good ten minutes. There's also a rather creepy lifesized cartoon cow figurine that talks to you on your way down the escalator. And you all know how I feel about talking cows.

*The latest scandal in my illustrious hometown is that two seniors from my high school stole a wooden tiger statue that had been hanging on a wall in the commons. A former classmate of mine writes to the Local Paper:

Alumnus heartbroken over mascot

Editor: Re "Tigers snatchers face felonies" (May 27, 2005)
Being a 1999 graduate of Marshfield High School, I was heartbroken to have heard what had happened. In high school the majority of students respected and honored the tiger as our mascot and would never think about acting on any dishonorable act. The four years I was there everyone had so much school spirit and enjoyed being active in school functions in some way or another. Obviously the individuals that performed this crime has no honor for their school. At first I thought it was a senior school vs. school prank but now that I heard the real story I cannot believe that individuals from the same school would do such a thing. I am sure that the situation will be handled in the most serious of manners and they will be punished for what they have done.

As soon as I read this I recalled an incident in which my friends and I, who were at school late at night for one of our many extracurricular activities, did indeed "act on any dishonorable act." We'd found an unwrapped maxi pad stuck to someone's locker, so we transfered it to the aforementioned (and anatomically correct, I might add) tiger. Needless to say, we weren't really pep rally types. Gooooo Tigers!

welcome to new york

Aaaah, nothing like missing your exit and being hopelessly lost when it's pouring rain in Jersey City, aka the Armpit of America, and forced to pullover on the side of the road to pee into your morning coffee cup and dump it out the window (two cupsfull, for the record) because you've been stuck in traffic for an hour and there are no gas stations or McDonaldses in sight, and even if there were you'd be too afraid to unlock the car doors and get out for fear of being attacked by one of the many toothless homeless people roaming the middle of the streets that are flanked by boarded up storefronts, pipes spewing brown smoke, and powerlines galore. I do not <3 NJ.

But it's all ok now. I managed to rent a car, pack up my shit, get directions, make it to the city in one piece, find parking half a block from my apartment, unload my shit (in the rain,) get gas on 46th and 11th (thanks, Friendly Gay Neighbor,) and return the rental car, all by myself! I have never felt so adult. To cap off the evening I bought myself a nice bottle of wine at enormous Beacon Wines (a white Bordeaux that the manager described as fullbodied and fruity with a surprisingly dry finish reminiscent of a good Sancerre...for $9.99...sold) and began putting my beloved little apartment back together. The welcoming committee also provided me with an immediate celebrity sighting (so tall and skinny!) and a nice clear view of the morbidly obese naked woman in the building nextdoor. Oh how I've missed New York. And it turns out most of my Ithaca friends will be either moving here soon or visiting frequently. I'm scared shitless about money and job stuff but so damn happy right now. And though they are largely responsible, I don't think my happiness is ENTIRELY a result of my Burritoville visit (they jacked the prices in my absence!) and consumption of 3/4 of the bottle of wine.

*sob*

I am really going to miss my time in Ithaca. I came here knowing but a single soul and without a clue as to what do with myself, and just a few months later I've made a bunch of friends (most of whom of course I will probably never see again...so it goes) and experienced a lot of *cough* new things. Though people talk shit about it all the time, Ithaca is actually a neat little town. It's like where I grew up only with lots of places to go and things to do and interesting people. Or at least a higher concentration thereof. Like these fine characters:


my waitress partner in crime (literally) and the friendly line cook


homegirl can drink and she's moving to the city soon too...yessss


he is awesome and looks like a giant cherub


little wendy lou the bassist and licensed massage therapist


shakespearean actor with quite possibly the most amazing farmer's tan ever


how pretty is this girl?


he's actually one of the smiliest people i've ever met, and one of the stonedest


the bitchin' barristas

Thumbs up, indeed.

mmmmm

If you know me, you know that I always go out with a bang. Often, literally. It is now time for me to leave the great town of Ithaca, and I made sure to stick around for my restaurant's end of the school year employee party. I decided beforehand that there was perhaps a chance in hell that my lips would touch those of another at some point, but I'd forgotten about this dude [see the last sentence...yeeeah] until we looked at each other at the party's afterparty and mutually decided to "go hang out at your/my place." Between him and my roommate's new puppy, I'm going to have a seriously hard time dragging my lazy ass away from here. But it will happen. See you on the other side!