life lesson #2349823974

I was all set to write an ode to the cheese curd in honor of my upcoming trip to Montreal, where, I was a little too excited to learn, cheese curds are a key component of the signature food. But then yesterday some lowlife piece of donkey shit had to go and burglarize my apartment, and now it's all I can think about.

Some money was stolen from me when I was at a waterpark in eighth grade, but since then it's been pretty much smooth sailing. I've never even lost my wallet. Last night, however, I returned home from work to find an empty space where my mp3-filled computer used to be, my brand new digital camera missing, and a wide open window. Post-shower this morning I threw some clothes at my laundry bag, but they hit the floor because that's gone too. I do hope the motherfucker enjoys my dirty underwear.

I was going to buy a new computer soon anyway, my parents generously offered to replace the camera, and shopping for cute undies is fun. But now I know that someone has been in my apartment, and based on a rudimentary understanding of criminals, it's pretty much a guarantee that he or she (who am I kidding--he) will be back. My neighbor, who once shared my false sense of security, has been robbed twice and now keeps his door to the roof locked. Thanks for warning me, dude. So now all I can do I guess is keep the roof door locked, lock my windows, close the shades, and pray to god I'm not home sick the day a face appears in the window causing me to have a heart attack and die. Oh, and apparently there's this nifty thing called renter's insurance. My mom's been telling me to get it since I moved in, and she erroneously assumed I was responsible enough to follow through. Silly, silly parents.

All in all, I guess there are some things you just have to learn the hard way. Like how it took me about ten blistering burns to accept the fact that whities like me do need to wear sunscreen. Hopefully I'll only have to learn this the hard way once.

extra! extra! wisconsin third-graders eaten by t-rex skeleton!

Ah, I love when the Local Paper gets all arty with its photos:



Based on the caption, I don't think this front page picture was intended to be humorous. And ohmyholymotherofgod is that a BLACK child beneath the hintermost upper incisor?!?!

only in new york, kids

It is with great sadness that I inform you of the impending departure of the Fat Asian Baby. On Monday she will leave the place she has called home for the last 24 years for an indeterminate but definitely too long time. As the FAB is pretty much homeless, I hosted a farewell gathering for her on my roof terrace thingy that featured the only items befitting of this occasion: meat and beer.

Last night I met up with the FAB after work, and we went to Gristedes to buy supplies. I'm normally a Fairway kinda girl, but Gristedes is half a block closer to my place, there's never anyone there, and there are these creepy cartoon chicken and cow statues that talk to you when you take the escalator downstairs and that I am becoming strangely obsessed with. Anyway, we rounded up several cases of beer, a couple of meat products, and various grilling necessities. Upon checkout, we realized that it would be rather difficult for the two of us to carry 60 beers and four bags of groceries, even just two blocks. As we were trying in vain to distribute the bags, a kind stranger came to the rescue.

"Here, take my shopping cart," he said. I hesitate to use the pronoun "he," because said stranger had quite sizable breasts and was dressed in a silky feminine shirt and tight white pants. He reminded me of an older, more weathered RuPaul. Apparently, he was turning in aluminum cans for the deposit money, and had found a shopping cart on the street somewhere that he no longer needed. After a pause to process the fact that a homeless drag queen had just offered us a free shopping cart, the FAB and I accepted the gift graciously.

So thanks again, Homeless Gristedes Drag Queen. I will think fondly of you whenever anyone says New Yorkers are unfriendly and selfish, and, of course, whenever I use my new shopping cart to procure mass quantities of cheap beer.

(I have spent all morning figuring out how to do this fancy picture posting technique)

bonds 'n cheese

Something very fishy is going on over here in my humongous midtown box o' fun. I've been solidly occupied with work (not my usual "work," but, like, real actual work) for nearly four hours and I'm still busy! This is largely due to the absences of both Fatboss and Stereotypicalboss. The former is in Brooklyn scouring the home of his deceased, senile, packrat aunt and uncle for an emerald ring that may or may not be hidden there somewhere. I keep picturing him as an over-sized Gollum calling out for his precious while pawing through stacks of Reader's Digest from the 1980s. The latter is with his wife at the doctor trying to make mini STbosses and/or Lawn Guysland JAP's. I don't think I've ever answered the telephone more times in one day in my entire life. I also had no idea where this post was going, but the inaccuracy of that last sentence brought on the realization that my current job, taking orders for bonds and things, is not at all unlike my first.

And so I bring you the website of my first place of employment, where I spent the weekends of the 1998 holiday season taking telephone orders for ceramic barns filled with cheese, Precious Moments figurines, and other extremely tasteful items. There is certainly a perfect gift for each of your loved ones, as several of the Fat Asian Baby's dearest learned the hard way this past Christmas.

thisiswhathappens

whenyouspillabottleofdietcokeinyourkeyboard

two words--

Birth. Control.

"A daughter, Kimberly Lee, was born April 24, 2004, at Saint Joseph's Hospital to Patricia Kimberly Brunton and William Lee Brunton of Pittsville. She joins siblings, Jacob, 15, Tyler, 13, Luke and Zack, both 12, Tana and Kyle, both 10, Kayla, 7, Kody, 4, and Kortney, 2. Grandparents are Vicky Meyer, Marshfield, and Cletus and Ileen Brunton, Platteville." [via where else?]

if you want to turn into a puddle...

...check out the Dog of the Day. The owners are obviously completely and utterly insane, but goddamn, I would almost give up lunch just to hug that thing.

rock n roll and apple pie

I could get used to going to a rock show every Monday night. Such a better way to start the week than watching the most annoying people in the world argue about nothing on The Inferno. Only problem is now I'm too tired to write in complete sentences. Which is not really a problem since I'm not required to do such a thing at my job. Here are my fractured thoughts on the evening:

*there were more boys than girls at the show (which, I should probably add now that I'm awake, was Sleater-Kinney)

*the brunette guitarist rocks, and if I were a boy I'd have a crush on her

*the rockin' brunette guitarist was wearing Citizens of Humanity jeans, because even political activist indie-rockstars want their asses to look good

*the crowd's energy picked up towards the end, but Perplexa wins the award for most consistent enthusiastic dancing (although that sweaty older guy in the muscle-T takes a close second)

*when you cover the flash on your digital camera and you're someplace dark, not only does everything come out red, but people's eyes look rather freaky

*I should maybe consider, like, reading the instruction manual for my camera, because these pictures probably could have come out better

*the Around the Clock Diner should really change its name, because you cannot call yourself a diner in NYC and not serve milkshakes

allow me to have a brief violent feminist moment

I really want to track down the guy who wrote this and introduce his weenie to my new meat tenderizer tool. [via Maccers]

where did i go to school again?

Because I don't remember it being like this. Though I must admit, the scene was really officially over for me a couple years ago when they broke out a velvet rope and started charging $5 to get into fucking NACHO MAMA'S. And there was still a line down the street. Speaking of nachos, another travesty up around 116th is the loss of Westside Market. It was by far my favorite supermarket in the area. Well, my favorite was the little health food store Tamarind Seed, but that was driven out early senior year and replaced by some craptastic shiny "asian" deli thingamajig. What's happening to you, Columbia??

via gina grows some balls

I changed my mind--I love Fatboss. Annoying or not, he provides comic relief. True, Crazyboss served the same function, but he was scary. Anyway, the latest funny Fatboss story: This super jappy girl who represents one of the computer programs we use comes over to hawk the program, basically. So she sits down and flirts shamelessly with Fatboss and Stereotypicalboss. She is about my age, so there's no way she's really genuinely enjoying their company, as her constant giggles would indicate. After she leaves, Fatboss says, "I'm so in love with her." I say to him, albeit shyly, "Because she was kissing your ass. Do you really think she actually cares about you?" Fatboss says no and turns to his computer to play the Itchy and Scratchy theme song 15 times in a row.

i'm just this bored

[via Callalillie]

1. Grab the nearest book to you, turn to page 18, line 7. Read what it says:
"Setup direct order entry by linking your Excel spreadsheet to the Autotrader Scratch Pad."

2. Stretch out your left hand as far as you can. What do you touch first?
Dipak, the skinny little Indian computer guy who only eats rice and beans.

3. What was the last thing you watched on tv?
A Discovery Channel documentary on feral children, and The OC.

4. Without looking, guess what time it is:
4:20?

5. Look at the clock. What time is the actual time?
4:27.

6. With the exception of the computer, what do you hear?
Dipak humming.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
7:25 am. Take a wild guess.

8. Before you did this survey, what were you looking at?
My multi-screen computer pod.

9. What are you wearing?
Reddish-brownish pants, black shirt, black shoes. I hate work clothes.

10. Did you dream last night?
No.

11. When did you last laugh?
Just a minute ago, when Superboss decided to chat with me. Or do you mean laugh for real?

12. What are on the walls in the room you are in?
The offices of the Really Rich and Important People.

13. See anything weird lately?
See Question #3.

14. What do you think of this quiz?
Desperately trying to be clever kills time. Yay.

15. What was the last film you saw?
Threesome, starring the busted Baldwin and Lara Flynn Boyle pre-anorexia.

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
A diverse stock portfolio so I'd never have to work for The Man ever ever again.

17. Tell me something about you that I don't know:
My pornstar name is Spanky Columbus.

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Eliminate the effect of calories on body fat.

19. Do you like to dance?
Only when intoxicated enough not to remember.

20. George W. Bush:


21. Imagine your first child is a girl. What do you name her?
Eva, Eve, Ava, or something like that. And I thought of it first, Snoozle.

22. Imagine your first child is a boy. What do you name him?
Trampus.

who needs the onion when you've got the news herald?

Today I would like to introduce you to the writings of my darling little sis. While she specializes in short works of fiction and history research papers, I most enjoy her analyses of articles from the Local Paper. She is probably the only other person in the world who shares--nay, surpasses--my degree of love for this fine news source. Last night I received three delightful emails from her:

*Just wanted to make sure you're aware that on the front page of today's News Herald there's a picture of a child named Cinnamon Harwood. [Ed: For some reason, Cinnamon, and it's improper spelling bastardizations, is quite popular in Wisconsin's Best Small City. Though sadly not nearly as common as MacKhaeylah, Madicyn, and the like...]

*This is absolutely unbelievable. I'm still shaking. I think it's finally happened! The single worst ( = best) News Herald column in history!!! It has everything: complete inanity, horrendous syntax, lots of details that no one in their right mind would ever, ever, EVER care to hear, and a stupid, irrelevant, self-praising moral.

Please tell me you saw this: 'No horsing around tolerated at the Boy Scout camp'

*Aaaahhhh!!!! It's just too much!! Sorry I'm sure you saw most if not all of these already, but I just can't resist. The News Herald is *brilliant* today...

"Criminal damage to property:
A 39-year-old Marshfield woman reported her 42-year-old ex-boyfriend cut holes in her hooded sweatshirt, two bras, four pairs of underwear and a half T-shirt without her consent between March 6 and March 24 in the 300 block of East Fourth Street. Total damage was estimated at $100."

What a bastard. I mean I don't mind people cutting holes in my underwear if they *ask* first, but to do it without her consent is just crossing the line... [Ed: Also, I must point out that it was not just a T-shirt, but a HALF T-shirt. I imagine this is some kind of hideous neon colored cutoff type thing, no doubt worn with acid-washed, tight-rolled jeans.]

And:

"A son, Ryan John Geiger, was born April 13, 2004, at Saint Joseph's Hospital to Katie Bader and Trampus J. Geiger of Colby. He joins sibling Shawn Tinsley, 3 1/2. Grandparents are Sheila A. Bader, Unity and Bob and Jane Geiger, Abbotsford."

Trampus?

link consolidation

*This lil' blog post on loooove is so true and excellent that if I were having a glass is half full day it would make me feel all warm and fuzzy. It really is this simple. [via Lindsayism]

*Damn, Zulkey's Diary entry today could not be more apropos.

*I'm crying at work for the second time today, but for now my tears are a result of joy and suppressed laughter. I'm still not done reading this thread "involving a pair of roommates, a couch, and a trucker hat," but it just keeps getting better and better. [many many many thanks, Catherine's Pita]

egg salad--the new prozac

So all morning I've been on the verge of tears. My once occasional waves of fecklessness have been coming with an increasing frequency and magnitude. (Don't feel sorry though--apparently this makes me trendy!) About to have to tell the bosses that someone died, I was saved by the ever-reliable lunch bell in my head. Down in the cafeteria at 11:30 on the f-ing dot, the usual choices just weren't doing it for me. Turkey sandwich--blah, sushi--had it yesterday and don't want to die of mercury poisoning or whatever, soup--too healthy. But there, glistening in all it's gelatinous glory, was the trough of egg salad. Two scoops, two pieces of wheat bread, and two nearly pointless slivers of lettuce and tomato later, I had my pacifier. Never in my life have I had an egg salad sandwich. This is too bad because with the first bite of mayonnaisey eggs it was like there was a cold dark rain cloud in my head that turned into a cozy ray from a commercial high pressure tanning bed (not that I would, err, know anything about that.) Hedonism to the temporary rescue once again.

i'm so good at my job it kills me

Oh my god, so a client just called and asked for a daily price quote for a certain bond. I was like, "Uh, hold on a sec," and got the quote from this kid on the other side of the desk who does my job but for different bosses. I think I should probably be able to discern this information myself by now, considering I'm liscensed to conduct securities business and all. Then the client asks, "Oh wow, ok, so how do you feel about what Greenspan just said?" I gave him an even longer "uhhhhh" and handed the phone to the other kid. I thought I was on top of things just knowing that the mighty Greenspan had spoken. Perhaps this is a sign that I should spend less time blogging and actually, like, pay attention or something. Eesh.

the only thing i like more than WATCHING non-dating reality tv shows

is actually FINISHING them. Err, rather, it is reading snarky recaps on my new favorite website. Like my addictions to Marlboro Lights, Weissbier, burritos the size of my head, the Barney's Co-op, and boys in vintage t-shirts (hey, at least no drugs or gambling!), I should feel bad about my reality television addiction, but gosh darnit it makes me happy, so I don't. The TWoP articles are quite long, so you'll need "one of those jobs" to enjoy them. If you don't trust me or don't have the time, here are a couple of snippets from the latest Real World and American Idol snarkfests, respectively:

"Cameran interviews that Jackie seems like a nice girl (which is Cameran-ese for 'I'm about to say something really mean, so I have to preface it with something insincere') but that she is 'a little on the loose side.' Because she talks to boys in bars? And allegedly drinks beer? Wow, what a whore."
&
“Jamie interviews that Cameran is hating on Jackie, and that she should hate the player, not the game. No, she really said that. Is it 1999 and no one told me?”

“Diana will sing 'My Heart Will Go On.' Why? Whyyyyyy? This song choice just shows how sheltered and detached she is. Anybody with any interaction with human beings anywhere on earth would know that people couldn't possibly be sicker of this song.”
&
"Next up is John Stevens. John's favorite movie is Disney's Aladdin. Y'all realize you're not on ABC, right? You're not going to win any points with that one. And…Aladdin? Come on. That's not even one of the top five Disney animated features. He loves it because it's fun and has great music. He likes the big parade scene in the movie. Is he on medication? Please tell me he's on some sort of medication. That somebody at the tender age of sixteen could be so dreadfully, painfully dull fills me with utter despair."

I doubt you will be shocked to learn that tonight I intend to watch both shows while smoking, drinking, eating a burrito, and wearing something overpriced with a cute boy in a vintage t-shirt, provided he's not feeling antisocial and lazy. Ahem.

well, you see, we thought at the time that a limited engagement in vietnam was necessary to prevent the rise of soviet communism...

...and other important foreign language phrases. This hilarious and somewhat useful link is for all y'all who will be doing some traveling in French, Spanish, and/or German speaking lands in the near future. And for once (ok, the third time) in my freakin' life I'm included in this category. Montreal, Barcelona, and Chile here I come! Somebody remind me to get my passport renewed. Seriously.

at long last...

...I have a digital camera. I still haven't the foggiest idea how to put photos on my blog, but I can get them onto Ofoto, no problem. Damn I'm good. Anyway, here are some random pictures of me and my best buddies (and siblings.)

one of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong

Like many recent college grads who neglected to go straight to school and have no imminent plans to do so, I've been thinking a little too much lately about what in god's name I should do with myself. I took my current job partially because the alternative was unspeakable, and partially because I thought doing the last thing in the world I ever thought I'd do would be kind of amusing. I do, indeed, laugh to myself when I walk into the sea of blue shirts and ties at 7:30am. However, while I've actually learned quite a lot here--important skills like talking on two phones at once (still need to work on that one) and driving someone else's Benz through Midtown without hitting anything--and people seem to think I'd look good in (gooh!) a suit, I am not, and never will be, the corporate type. This is sad because, on the one hand, this job has some serious future earning potential, and having money is neat because I like to buy stuff and go to far away places, but, on the other hand, I don't give a rat's ass about finance, and I'm really bad at being fake-nice to coworkers and clients that I have no other reason to care about. (Also, I can write really long sentences of questionable grammatical accuracy.) Could there be a way to reconcile this problem? A way I could do this job well while enjoying it? The answer, surprisingly, is yes.

This weekend I may have stumbled upon the solution to my existential dilemma. On Saturday night I attended my alma mater's annual alumni crew banquet, located oh so inappropriately at the Princeton (*gagging on my plastic spoon*) Club. Note to Columbia: You're the second largest land-owner in NYC--get your own freakin' club! Anyway, there was of course an open bar, and due to the upsettingly low turnout, it was not at all difficult to maintain a nonstop influx of alcohol into my body, which was thirsty and dehydrated from the gallon or so of beer I drank the night before. I learned from this that, when drunk, I can schmooze like it's my job. Wait a second.....Eureka! Essentially, schmoozing IS my job. And hence, the answer: I need to be drunk at work.

At the banquet, for some reason I alone was appointed to sell raffle tickets to the attendees. Normally, this would scare the crap out of me, given my struggle with a moderate case of avoidant personality disorder (see below.) After a couple gin and tonics, however, I was able to chat up all these dudes that are probably quite rich and important. I especially won the favor of one of the richest and most important--his last name is all over the boathouse--when I mentioned I liked his pants, an excellent red and blue plaid, in case you were wondering.

If I could get drunk at work, I would no longer be the quiet girl in the corner who looks sad, reads blogs instead of talking to people, and wears weird things like Converse shoes and faded denim jackets with the requisite Theory pants. I would discuss the weather and baseball with the clients that call when my bosses are busy instead of putting them on hold. I would ask people about their jobs while looking genuinely interested in pursuing a similar path for myself thus displaying my deep interest in the company. I would bat my eyelashes at the traders to get a better price, and then my bosses would shower me with bonus money and make me a VP. And then soon I would get my own clients, get rich, quit, and open up a coffee shop/rock 'n roll bar/dog shelter that I would staff with cute boys so that I'd be free to travel the world and run around in the park whenever I wanted. Grad school schmad school. Getting drunk at work is the best plan ever.