mexico midgets!

How cute are these tomatoes? My mom had bad luck with her tomatoes this year because of a drought, but these li'l buggers survived. I much prefer them to cherry or grape tomatoes because instead of an explosion in your mouth, it's more like a gentle pop, and the flavor is perfect.

inspired by ephesians

It is good to have friends with day jobs.

Thanks, Ellen.

the holy trinity

On Wednesday, in an attempt to calm the cat and make him more attractive to potential adopters, I had him de-balled. The vet told me that in order to prevent infection I should replace his litter with newspaper for a week. I did as I was told, because what the hell do I know about taking care of cats? When I came home from work last night and was watching TV I was feeling extra sympathetic for the little eunuch. I invited him onto the bed with me, and he walked on my stomach/chest region as usual to find a comfy spot. His paws were wet and sticky. Let's just say I took an extra shower yesterday and immediately reverted to litter, at the risk of an infected feline crotch.

This afternoon the cat, presumably still a little sick from the whole experience, puked up a mound of wet food and I stepped in it with my bare foot. It actually made a squish noise as it oozed up between my toes.

Then tonight after I got home from work, the cat was toodling around in the litter box and then scratching at his food bowl. I went to feed him and noticed that he'd apparently kicked out a fresh piece of poop and then he'd stepped in it, smashing it into the ground.

All I can think about right now is the movie Labyrinth. Oh how I wish I could just call out to the Goblin King and David Bowie would come from wherever he may be and take the cat far away from me.

for the "why didn't i think of that?" files

*The 5-pound burger with 54 toppings. I want these dudes to be my new best friends. I especially appreciate the choice of "honey wheat bun." It's all in the details. When I was living in Ithaca, there was this sub shop Shortstop that everyone talked about, and once I finally tried it I got a sandwich there every day for lunch. If I had a car, I would drive four hours to Ithaca twice a month to get a fucking Shortstop sandwich. I never strayed from my turkey and provolone on whole wheat toasted with mayonnaise lettuce tomato cucumbers and sweet peppers, but I bet beautiful things could've happened had I checked all the dozens of options on the order card.

*The to-do list book. Every year in high school I'd use the planner we were given at the beginning of the year diligently for the first week of school. And then I'd chuck it, abandoning all my sincere but naive good intentions. Somehow, though, when I got to college I became addicted to carrying a little notebook with me everywhere to write down academic and social engagements, chores, and things I wanted to do or acquire. Despite being a very irresponsible person, I've managed to save all of them, and looking back and reading my daily lists is a total trip back in time that I'm sure will provide hours of entertainment should I ever reach old age. The psych major in me loves peering into the lives of others, and this just sounds like a fun-as-hell project that will make this chick some money.

*Literary Hot-or-Not. Though I did the internet dating thing for a very brief spell before I discovered blogging to kill time at the office, I've only once met up with someone who contacted me on Myspace or Friendster. He was a published novelist, and he had posted the standard black and white dust jacket pictures. Totally cute. We made plans to get some drinks, and, being me, I had lots and lots of drinks before meeting him for more drinks. In person he was not at all even remotely attractive. But I was drunk, and then I did coke for the second time in my life because he gave it to me (and I was drunk), and then I almost slept with him (oh the mature self-restraint!), and then I woke up in Carrol Gardens or somewhere really far away from Midtown, which is where I had to be to work at the hedge fund at 8:00 that morning, and I showed up in my going out clothes and was too fucked up to even care, and I stared at my computer for an hour before I had to go home sick. Amazingly, it was a whole month after that until they fired me. Then the writer sent me tons and tons of ridiculous, unsexy dirty text messages that, coupled with my uncooperative and cold responses would've made the greatest post in the history of this here blog had I not been too lazy to compile the conversations before my phone auto-deleted all the texts. Point being, those black and white author photos are not just deceiving, they're dangerous.

s.o.c.

Nope, still not a cat person. Anyone want a little black kitty cat with big green eyes and big bat ears and constant distressed "why aren't you playing with me motherfucker?" meows that will drive a mostly sane person to almost total insanity in a matter of days? I've been living with this thing for three weeks. I do like him but he gotsta go.

Last night at work I broke two glasses in separate incidents in my first thirty minutes on the floor. Then halfway through I quite royally fucked up the check for a large party. And then after work I couldn't bear going home so I hung out with a coworker downstairs and set a paper towel on fire, on purpose, but I'd accidentally produced a flint-like device and couldn't blow the danged thing out, which sent the backwaiters and manager running downstairs to find the source of the smoke-smell, and I quickly attempted to explain myself and when I got to the top of the stairs the first and only thing I saw was Rachel Dratch sitting at a table and looking at me with disdain, and then I went home and smoked eight thousand cigarettes (okay, just two, but I felt like smoking eight thousand.) Work reminds me of grade school. No matter how superior a job I do, I'm constantly getting myself into trouble in some new ridiculous way. It's strangely comforting, actually. Like I haven't lost myself, or something. Woooah didn't intend to go there.

Anyway, I'm supposed to go to Mexico a week from today, but I think I want to go to Wisconsin instead. If passing up the chance to lie on the beach and learn to scuba dive in Mexico for eight days for the chance to mow my parents' lawn deep in the heart of Dairyland isn't a sign of craziness, I don't know what is.

Also, I have never seen the trailer for Snakes on a Plane, nor do I know anything about it whatsoever, really.

Bellevue here I come.

i love dorks

Even though I disagree with his approval of girls wearing formal shorts and leggings, I've come to check The Sartorialist just about every day. His earnest obsession with fashion minutia is endearing. And, sometimes, pretty hilarious:

[In the post from which the following excerpt was taken, TS highlights the exact times in the Hitchcock film North by Northwest when Cary Grant demonstrates the superior wearing of a grey suit.]

Chapter 2 02:17
The Jacket
- With one dramatic but subtle sartorial gesture CG set himself apart from all the other men in the scene. What is that important single element? look at that shirt cuffs/jacket sleeve proportion!
Not one other guy in that scene is showing ANY shirt cuff and Cary is showing ,like, 3/4 of an inch. So much white that I didn't even notice until half-way through the film that he was not even wearing a pocket square.

God, I can't even remember the last time a shirt cuff to jacket sleeve ratio was so perfect it made me forget all about the presence or absence of a pocket square. You go, Mr. Grant.

oink

Patience has never been a virtue I've possessed. So last night, my visiting little sis and I scrapped our plans to make dinner and went in search of Pies-n-Thighs. It's a confusing setup. There's a little alley on South 5th with folding tables sporting red and white checkered tablecloths. Then there's an open door to a kitchen and not much space for the waiting customers and three white-aproned ladies who run the whole operation, from bussing tables to cooking the food. And then there's a huge, dark, empty bar that's connected to the kitchen and smells like Lysol.

We hailed a white-aproned worker. "Do we just, like, sit down?" "Have you ordered yet?" She gestured toward the kitchen. "Aaaaah, ok." We went into the kitchen and glanced up at the menu board--one of those black ones with slats where white plastic letters can be arranged, just like at the establishments I called "restaurants" while growing up in Central Wisconsin. I ordered the pulled pork sandwich and when asked what side I wanted, I saw a pile of green beans covered in hardboiled egg and bacon, pointed, and said, "That." My sis ordered the grilled cheese with a side of green beans (we've had some jealousy issues). After a little more confusion regarding how to procure beer (you get it from the bar in a plastic cup, and then you can take it outside) we sat happily at our table.

We had fun watching other people making similar rookie mistakes as ours while calming our growling stomachs with Brooklyn Lager. I was already anticipating my next visit, when I could feel superior to everyone who's never been there before and is justifiably confused. Anyway, one of the white-aproned girls brought out our food. Of course, it was delicious. The pulled pork was super spicy but tamed by the finely chopped coleslaw and pickle slices it's served with on a bun, the green beans were cold and crisp and not overpowered by the surprisingly sensible amount of egg and bacon, and the grilled cheese was extra-grilled and extra-cheesy. They messed up and brought my sister french fries instead of green beans, so we eventually got both. (On a side note, I never understand why people get upset when restaurants err. It almost always means you'll get something for free.) Anyway, after finishing two beers and joining the clean plate club with everything except the fries (we came close though,) my stomach was so full I could barely breathe but my sister managed to convince me to get some pie (twist my arm!). My blueberry was great, and her raspberry peach was even greater. Pie is not a food I ever really seek out, and I rarely even eat dessert anymore (booze usually kills any sugar cravings I may have,) but I think that just changed.

The whole shebang (minus beer, but that was from the bar) cost us $21. We tipped my new favorite ladies $12. Between lunch, eat-in dinner, and takeout, I plan to have tried everything on the menu (fried chicken, battered catfish, mac 'n cheese...) by the end of September. Everyone needs goals, right?

we have the same coffee order

The other day I said I didn't know why I moved, but I do know why I moved. The place is mine all mine, it is the least I've ever had to pay for rent, and because it was formerly occupied by my friend I didn't have to go through the whole apartment search process. Effort is for losers. Also, after seven years in Manhattan, I thought it might be interesting to live elsewhere. Ever the adventurer, I moved just across the East River and can still walk to work on the Lower East Side. Anyway.

My neighborhood is odd. It's the Deep South of Williamsburg, a buffer zone between the hassids and the hipsters. Unlike Williamsburg Williamsburg, my little area down by the river is largely unincorporated, so there are none of those New York conveniences like running down to the deli for a Power Sandwich (OMG have I never told you about Power Sandwiches?? Someday, my children, someday.) at 4 a.m. and the subway is a hearty 10-minute walk away. The only place to get coffee in the morning is a quaint faux country store/cafe/restaurant, and I can often make it there seeing just one or two people out and about.

But, of course, times are a-changin'. There are two new condo buildings going up on my teeny tiny block and one already in business up the street, and I've spent a lot of time wondering who the hell is going to be living there. I enjoy a nice river view and organic produce as much as the next gentrifier, but if I had enough money for a condo, I'd get one with more direct Power Sandwich access is all I'm sayin'. So who the hell is going to be living there?

Back to the coffee. So, obviously, all fifteen people who currently live in my immediate vicinity get their coffee at Marlow. One morning there were film crews all over the place outside, so I wasn't terribly shocked when a C-lister took the place behind me in the coffee line. I was a little suprised, though, when I saw him again the next day. And the next day, when he carried his iced coffee with soy milk and designer dog into the condos across the street. Say hello to my new neighbor!

UPDATE: EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I read about a restaurant called Pies-N-Thighs when it opened up whenever-ago. I thought to myself, I would like to go there, and then I thought that I would never bother to go find it in the hinterlands. I just discovered that it's, like, practically in my house. And check out that winning endorsement for their pulled pork. I can't even begin to describe my love for pulled pork. Can't wait to reconnect with my Fat Jeans.

like a moth to a flame

So a fair amount of celebrities representing all letters of the alphabet come to my restaurant. I usually don't write about them because they don't usually do anything terribly interesting, and also I am a New Yorker and therefore way too cool to care about such things (did you know Lucy Liu is only, like, 4'8"? and Jacquetta Wheeler smokes 56 cigarettes per hour? and David Lee Roth thinks we have the best espresso in New York?)

Anyway, I'm used to seeing people I see on TV in real life, but I had a new experience the other day. I'd just finished my marathon Project Runway catchup with Ellen, culminating in the doggie epidsode. The next day as I approached the restaurant, whom should I see in the window but Angela! It took me a while to process who she was, because I think she looks a lot like (a less hot version of) that chick from Crossing Jordan, and also because the show's still going on. I'd always liked to imagine that reality show contestants were kept on some secret island, witness protection program style, until the final episodes had aired.

I tried my darnedest not to stare too much, but her baggy plaid patchwork clownpants proved a force to great for my eyeballs to resist. Some of you will be pleased to know that she was not sporting any of her "signature rosettes," though I did not get a good enough look at her nether regions (thank heavens) to confirm the absence or presence of her other signature, the intentional butt panel that conveys that sexy just-peed-my-pants look (scroll a li'l).

My GOD I love television.

damn, you-know-who!

Diapers, poo, ball gags--all run of the mill fetishes compared to 37-year-old Martin's. Behold, the sender of the creepiest Myspace friend request I have ever received. Confused? Check out the FAQ.

signs

I really have no idea why I moved. I had a nice apartment in a cool neighborhood with good roommates and a ten-minute walk to work. Now I live in a dark basement with crazy roommates (more on them to come, I am sure) and a ten-minute walk to the subway that will take me to work. But I think I made the correct decision.

Yesterday morning, before the big move, I received a text from Ellen informing me that the alcoholic homeless man who lives on my stoop was passed out, his pants and the ground smeared with his own feces, with twenty-some flies dining on his poopy ass. "Congratulations on your move to Brooklyn," she said. If that's not a sign from God, I don't know what is.

What I'm hoping isn't is what happened later on in the day. So I am now in charge of a little black cat named Walter. I am, unequivocally, a Dog Person. But I like this particular feline, and so far his attempts to bite and scratch me have been on the playful side. Anyway, last night, his first in my care, he managed to get himself into the boiler room through a hole four feet off the ground in the padlocked door. I think he was in there meowing for about nine hours, finally emerging on his own volition after several failed rescue attempts. Phew. Anyone know how often you have to feed those things? And what the hell is catnip, exactly?

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

As usual, my intentions were good.

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

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

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

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

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

updates

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

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

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

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

That is all.

Over and out,

Gina

round things, fried things, and really ugly dogs

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

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

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

happy birthday to me

Take a wild guess!

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

my not so slow descent into alcoholism

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.

my god i love ebay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

episode 1: landing that job!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The truth, it hurts.

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

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

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

Editor: Okay, 10-5 is fine.

Gina: Okay.

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

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

happy birthday to my stomach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned for Episode 1: Landing That Job!

New Episodes: Whenever I feel like it.