holiday fun

Kind of like that winter break during which I went to Europe and had to pretend Christmas did not exist, I keep telling myself that Monday is just another day and everyone will not be off frolicking on a beach somewhere. Only this time, rather than accidentally eating pats of butter in a Parisian cafe and drunkenly hiccupping through the streets of London with Drone, I will be cramming 1,000 multiple choice questions relating to "Uniform Securities Agent State Law" (whatever the hell that is) into my severly atrophied brain. Unlike school exams which are passable with minimal to no studying and a reasonable amount of intelligence, finance licensing exams actually require work to pass, because no one in their right mind would have any knowledge of this information, because no one in their right mind, including those who work in the industry, ever needs to know it. Who wants to get wasted with me next Thursday so I can erase everything I've learned to free up my limited mental space?

step aside, sofia

This make your own movie site is among the most exciting links I have ever come across. [via Number One Hit Song] What better way to kill the hours between lunch and the time your stomach is able to accomodate a snack?

Here, in my first attempt at cinematic glory, last night's raucous antics are painstakingly chronicled.

And here is what might have transpired if I'd done otherwise, based on the last several years of my life. Note: If I were a creative person, I'd certainly make these about something far more interesting than myself. But, alas, this is not the case.

girls girls girls

Though I'm typically too engrossed in my extensive blog research and analysis to pay attention to real people around here, I should mention that I am not the only youngish lady in this big testosterone cesspool of an office. In fact, there are four of us brave enough to dodge the flying footballs, resist the lunchtime steak and pizza pigouts, and not find sexist jokes and stripper talk offensive enough to sue anyone. Who are these fabulous gals? Well, I'll tell you.

*Me first!: Aversion to bullshit is almost as severe as my aversion to cilantro. Unlike the latter, this aversion cannot be tempered by gradually increasing my intake of Burritoville salsa until I can almost tolerate it. This means I will never be a good go-getting team-player. Also, even though I spend most of my income on overpriced clothing, I cannot bring myself to buy anything business casual and, therefore, wear the same five outfits every week. Can also not bring myself to shower in the morning and always wear my hair curly (gasp!) and in a ponytail.

*Really cool girl who I would be friends with if I were less shy and/or not too lazy to walk to the other side of the office: Has been here for three years, totally knows her shit, and is nice and friendly in an un-bullshitty way. Wears fairly funky, colorful outfits and once told me she really just wants to work with kids.

*Princeton girl: Is a size -2 yet somehow manages to have large, perfectly shaped boobs. Has perfect, frizz-free blonde hair and a perfect, exclusively Theory wardrobe. Flirts with trader dudes like it's her job (errr...) and eats coffee for breakfast and Diet Dr. Pepper for lunch.

*New girl: Graduated my year from Schmarvard, starred in a Broadway show when my biggest life accomplishment was getting a silver medal at the regional spelling bee, and is absurdly nice to everyone. Wears boring business suits every day even though it is completely unnecessary, reads a giant book that says "Bonds" on it when she should be reading blogs, and never lets the gumball machine run out of Peanut M&M's. Maybe it's just Fatboss' low-carb lunch, but I think I smell an overachiever.

Guess which one gets to go on all the fancypants limousined client dinner extravaganzas. Hint: it sure ain't the new girl.

Disclaimer: I know how lucky I am to have this job (oh so extremely lucky, seriously), and it's not really terrible. If it were an estrogen-filled cesspool instead of a testosterone-filled cesspool, I think I would have been committed to Bellevue after about a week. Nevertheless, I will still make fun of it at every opportunity and pray to the Holy Father that no one here ever reads this.

promise of a new day

Here's another gem from the Local Paper. Usually the weekly "Hi, My Name Is" column supplies me with a nice healthy dose of schadenfreude and humorous inanity, but this one just makes me sad. If the Metro Channel ever does a "To Live and Date in Dairyland" series, they should call this girl.


Hi, my name is

Promise Bakken
Age: 18
Home: Pittsville
Occupation: student at Pittsville High School

What was your most memorable dream?
My most memorable dream would have been when I thought I lived in Ohio, and I lived in this huge house and I had three children, and we were happy. It was a really happy dream.

What's your favorite word?
I have a favorite phrase. 'Life sucks and then you die.'

If you had one superpower, what would it be?
To make any man in the world I wanted love me.

What are you most passionate about?
I'm not really a passionate person. But if I had to pick something: Divorce. I personally believe people never should marry in their entire lives, even if they live together, because of divorce.

Who is your hero?
My hero would be my brother, Randy, because he taught me so many things about life.


Randy, what have you done??

getting drunk on "to go" margaritas with your parents at an inappropriately early time rocks. work, not so much...

So the Company Computer Nazis are back in full force. Certain pages of Craigslist have been blocked since day one (no Casual Encounters for me, sadly), but now the whole site is contraband. I will love forever the person who emails me the Best Ofs when it's updated, because, hilarious as it is, reading that shit on my precious free time would be just sad. Not that what I do with my precious free time is any less sad. Anyway.

I'm not taking the Craigs blockage too harshly because this morning I came across a new (to me) excellent website. Erin's Livejournal [via Stereogum] is hilarious--so hilarious that she's in some kind of blog contest on Nerve. Of course, I wouldn't know anything about that because the CCN blocked that one a looong time ago. Prudish bastards. Anyway, this is my favorite post of hers so far, as it so eloquently addresses one of my biggest pet peeves:

"Thursday, April 1st, 2004 11:33 am
all my paper bag ladies

when i was in 7th grade you couldn't bring your gym clothes or diorama on the history of the soybean to school in any old bag. it had to be a COOL bag.

acceptable bags: the limited, limited express, benetton, DEB, the gap, rave, banana republic
unacceptable bags: jc penney, kmart, giant eagle grocery, big lots

i remember mornings where i almost missed the bus because i was rooting through the pantry for the appropriate bag while telling my mom that a walgreens bag just wasn't going to cut it and to shut the fuck up because she doesn't know anything.

by high school i had scrapped keeping up with the joneses and carried my shit in a backpack decorated with band names written in marker because i wanted to let the world know i am a rebel and my music is important to me (not that you'd ever understand my music).

graduating from school and going into the work force i forgot about bags. when you live in a city dominated by cars people just use purses and briefcases and that's about it. bags are a makeshift solution to a temporary transportation problem. purses and briefcases are different. they're for things you bring with you every day - house keys, wallet, butt plug, etc.

in new york everyone commutes and no one has cars to put stuff in so there's a big proportion of people who bring their stuff to work in bags. most of them are still stuck in the 7th grade mode. the bag has to be from a COOL PLACE. no matter how old & tattered it is. no matter how inappropriate.

so you'll see married businessmen with lunches in little pink striped victoria's secret bags who don't seem to realize that looks weird at 8 in the morning and other people are thinking they're a pervert and really they just bought the wifey something nice for their anniversary. you'll see ghetto bird boys and girls who look like they can barely afford a Metrocard but somehow have a huge prada bag with them that's carrying anything but actual clothes.

when i see them i feel bad and weird. it instantly takes me back to the time when i used to be so caught up in that competitive bullshit. i want to shake them and scream 'WE DON'T CARE! WE'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE JUDGMENTS ABOUT YOUR ATTRACTIVENESS OR SOCIAL STANDING BECAUSE OF YOUR BAG. THROW OUT THE GUCCI BAG AND USE THE DUANE READE ONE BECAUSE IT HOLDS MORE STUFF AND ISN'T FALLING APART BECAUSE YOU BOUGHT IT THREE YEARS AGO AND IT'S BEEN HOLDING YOUR TUNA FISH ON RYE EVER SINCE'."

Amen, sister.

friday lifeblood

*Week in Craig: Craigslist is like the American Idol of the internet--so painfully bad and guilt-inducing but I just. can't. stop. And yes, yes, making fun of it...candy from a baby...but Amy Blair is just so darn good at making fun of it.

*Dooce: It took me a while to get into this apparently very popular blog, as my fear of babies and small, screaming children rivals my fear of moths and other large, winged insects. But the How To Annoy Me archive carried me through till ham 'n muenster panini time, and the rest is damn good, too.

*Wasabi peas: Why are dried lentils coated in dried horseradish paste so addictive? My stomach hates me right now. But the tingling sensation in the back of my head and the water dripping from my nose are far more effective stimulants than caffeine.

*Crowding around Fatboss' computer to watch a live, high-speed L.A. car chase. The suspect has currently disappeard somewhere inside the Beverly Center mall parking garage. Amazing driver, but I'm not sure that was such a smooth move, in the long run.

copy cat copy cat!

Either that or the Night in the Big City kids don't read my blog. (The horror!) Over a week ago I wrote my no time to blog post, which said:

"I've noticed an alarming trend in the blogosphere recently. Everyone, it seems, suddenly has better things to do...One can only hope this is just a passing sun-induced mania or something."

Today, they write:

"I've noticed a similar drop off in content at several other blogs of note, and it just has to be the return of the sun."

Is my finger on the f-in pulse or what? If only my bond sales skills came as naturally as my blog analysis talent...

don't get a job

Just don't. Ever. Today is not a good day for the younguns of Corporate America [via my overprotected email account]:

*"Well i'm kinda just feeling numb and down all at once. I can't figure this out. Let's fly away."

*"Eh. I want to be on a boat right now. Fishing and eating Trivia Pringles and drinking Snapple. And I don't ever want to stop. You know that feeling?"

*"Fuck fuckf uck fuck fuc k fuck fuck fuckf dcfuudkufj;lszdjf;lkasj dfl/kajlkf!#@$$@!#!@#!"

In other news, the Via Parents are arriving in NYC with Via Sister and Via Uncle this afternoon. Hopefully computer assistance, a gardening lesson, and free food in midwestern proportions will defunkify things around here.

kiefer <3 my friends

So it turns out that the same day Drone spied Kiefer Sutherland chatting with his agent in Midtown, Perplexa saw him wasted at a little Irish pub in Gramercy. Now where will that crazy Kiefer turn up next?

Speaking of celebs with weirdo names, I feel it is my duty as resident onomastics expert (thanks, Andrew and dictionary.com) to regurgitate the New Yorkish list of the most onomastically unfortunate celebrity offspring. All I have to say is who the hell is Paula Yates, and why did she get to have sex with Michael Hutchence?

Victoria Adams/David Beckham: Brooklyn
Woody Allen/Soon-Yi Previn: Bechet Dumaine, Manzie Tio
Forest Whitaker: Ocean, Sonnet, True
Gillian Anderson/Clyde Klotz: Piper Maru
Erykah Badu/Andre 3000: 7 (Seven)
Robby Benson/Karla DeVito: Zephyr, Lyric
Marisa Berenson: Starlite
Bruce Willis/Demi Moore: Rumer Glenn, Scout LaRue, Tallulah Belle
Bjork: Sindri
Donald Sutherland: Roeg, Rossif
David Byrne: Malu
David Carradine/Barbara Hershey: Free (he changed it to Tom)
Mia Farrow: Lark Song, Summer Song
Jerry Garcia/Manasha Matheson: Keelin
Bob Geldof/Paula Yates: Fifi Trixiebelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, Little Pixie
Michael Hutchence/Paula Yates: Heavenly Hiraani Tigerlily
Geena Davis: Kian, Kaiis
Snoop Doggy Dogg: Chordé
Nikki Sixx: Gunner, Decker, Storm
Connie Sellecca: Gib, Prima Sellechia
Shari Shattuck: Creason Carbo, Calee Maudine
Damon Wayans: Fuddy, Trixie
Frank Zappa: Moon Unit, Ahmet Emuukha Rodan, Dweezil, Diva
Robert Downey, Jr.: Indio
John Mellencamp: Hud, Speck Wildhorse

UPDATE: I just made fun of an apparent suicide victim. Now waiting patiently for my handbasket.

one lobotomy, please

If you, like me, are so bored that you find this website entertaining, please note that there is much time to be killed here. [both via The Morning News] I'm only on the 3rd of 40 "How Much is Inside?" entries and haven't even touched the rest of the site. Say yer prayers, remaining six hours of work!

is the hazing over yet?

Aaaah, life. So funny sometimes. You work so hard to get to the top of something until you finally become one of the biggest, baddest kids around, and then you graduate and get thrown back down to the bottom of a pile that is exponentially larger than the last. Yesterday in spinning class (say what you will, but it's the only way i can get my lazy ass to the gym), the chick next to me was complaining about the heat, and the mid-to-late-thirty-something instructor says, "But sweat is good for you. Look at her [referring to me and my copious perspiration, probably a result of my copious Marlboro Lights consumption] and how young she looks. Then again, she's probably, like, 12."

For me, the transition from big, bad high school senior to lowly college freshman was an easy one, as it was aided by much tea from Long Island and a new intense (i.e., masochistic) passion. The trasition from big, bad college senior to one whose skin elasticity inspires jealousy in mid-to-late-thirty-something spinning instructors has not been so easy. Somehow I'd gotten the crazy assumption that by 22 I'd have figured out some things. Some things have indeed been learned, but I feel like I knew myself better when I was a teenager. I was a granola lovin' vegan, studied foreign languages for fun, planned to go to college in my favorite city, and was going to be Very Rich and Important. Now, I eat my bagels with cream cheese and smoked fish, can barely even remember English grammar, much less Russian, have "plans" for the future that last about a week and a half, and am probably going to give up a career that provides an easy path to become Very Rich, if not also Important. In the past I'd always been working toward something and belonged somewhere, and now it's like I'm floating aimlessly in a little bubble (a fun bubble, at least) and have no fucking clue when it'll pop and where I'll land.

Okay, that's enough trite cheesiness for one day. If, by any chance, it didn't sufficiently nauseate you, I'll end with this: Yesterday I saw Fatboss, who sits an arm's length away from me, Q-TIPPING HIS EAR. The inside of his ear canal. Next to me. At his desk. During the work day. Am I just being old-fashioned, or is that not really kosher?

ignorance is not always bliss

I have no other words for this article: Childless Couple Told to Try Sex [via Ultragrrrl]

sloe gin fizz, anyone?

*The new Loretta Lynn CD is as awesome as they say, especially when combined with a dear friend, a loud spring thunderstorm, and some cans of Bud and a pack of cigarettes. If I can be 1/100th as cool as this woman is when I'm her age, I shall consider my life a success.

*The Bermuda Triangle is not a myth, and it is located at the intersection of West 72nd Street and West End Avenue. On Sunday afternoon I watched with decreasing patience as approximately eight busses headed toward said intersection, where they are supposed to turn around and pick up east-bound passengers on Broadway, never to return. At least not until the second after I'd given up and hailed a cab.

*I'm so in love with this goddamn city it's ridiculous. The feeling I get wandering around outside on a mild, sunny day in NYC is nothing less than orgasmic. However, like many lovers (not that I've had many,) it never ceases to piss me off almost as much as it makes me happy (see above.) I wouldn't trade my lime green 144 square foot box o' fun for the world. At least not for another two years, according to the lease I just signed.

*Check out my badass girls at the starting line of their final race, about to win the darn thing. I do miss rowing very much, but I absolutely do not miss making the anticipating-the-most-intense-mental-and-physical-pain-you've-ever-felt-in-your-entire-life face right before the start. Just thinking about it makes me almost need to go to the ladies' room.

i need a shower. and a hug.

Just saw my bosses' boss perusing Craigslist personals ads. (This man is referred to as a "hound" by my bosses, which is indeed an accomplishment, as one of them mentioned today that he makes up for his height deficiency below the waist while nearly hitting me in the head with a rubber football.) Also, BB just asked me to come out for drinks with work people, which I am not inclined to do, since, like Midwestgrrl, I am extremely piggy about my Fridays. I was going to suck it up, but then when I wanted to leave without getting an account number which could just as easily be gotten on Monday, Mainboss reamed me out for my poor work ethic. How I don't show enthusiasm for the business, always want to leave at 5 (god forbid!), yadda yadda yadda. He's a smart one, Mainboss. If only I could wake up tomorrow morning, loins burning with a passion for government bonds, I would be flying my helicopter to the Hamptons in no time. But I just don't think it's gonna happen. Now where did I store those dog leashes and doody bags?

some people think i'm sweet. really.

Some of these are funny, some are just plain sad, and some are both, like the singer/songwriter girl Perplexa and I saw at C-Note last night. This girl was like a watered-down, acoustic Jewel, who was such a cliche she was almost a satire of herself, but, unfortunately, she was so serious we couldn't help but mock nearly every word out of her mouth ("Umm, this next song is about my ex-boyfriend.") Perplexa's friend Chaya even made up her own ditty, singing "I have a vaginaaaaaa, I have a vaginaaaaaa" in a high-pitched voice while making a guitar-strumming motion. This is probably one of those "you had to be there" stories, but it was so hilarious I nearly wet my Diesels. Do it yourself and just try not to laugh. Anyway, after far too many minutes of this, we started feeling like bad people (after all, she seemed like a nice girl) and just had to relocate. Speaking of annoying people with vaginas, yesterday after work I found myself on a crowded Times Square subway platform, as usual. A mousy, Marie Claire subscriber type woman shuffled along slowly in front of me, and I accidentally kicked her wedge rubber flip flop such that it flew off her foot and slid about five feet in front of her. I apologized immediately, but she turned around and snapped loudly enough that I could hear over my headphones, "Thanks a LOT! I really appRECiated that!" Dude! You're walking on a Times Square subway platform on a rainy day during rush hour wearing wedge rubber flip flops. Worse things have happened. Just glare at the offender like a normal, jaded New Yorker and get on with your life. Crap like this is what causes me to walk the two miles home at every opportunity and, subsequently, consider that a workout and never go to the gym. My cellulitey thighs are all your fault, mousy Marie Claire lady!

it matches the walls of my apartment!

In lieu of a marginally substantive post, today I thought I'd get one of the fancy new templates and tweak some things. Gotta keep up with the Jonses. And waste as much time as possible.

no time to blog = the new black

I've noticed an alarming trend in the blogosphere recently. Everyone, it seems, suddenly has better things to do than distract me from thinking about the gaping hole in my life that Meaning and Purpose used to fill. One can only hope this is just a passing sun-induced mania or something. I present the following samples as evidence.

*Eurotrash: "Well, I've been a little busy, which has been a huge culture shock. I actually had to go out and buy an alarm clock on the weekend, after seeing a doctor to have my pyjamas surgically removed. On Sunday night I had to set my new alarm clock. And then I had to wake up to it's piercing yell early on Monday morning. And then I had to get dressed in grown-up clothes and commute into the city. I am still quivering from the ordeal."

*Maccers: "Now I am lucky enough to be blissfully happy in my work environment. Until I fuck up and it’s my fault and I am exposed as having an advanced case of Alzheimer’s for someone of such tender skin around the eye area. Then I exhibit symptoms of low self-esteem around the office until the boss rips 10 tons of shit out of me about my new Cruella De Ville hairdo and I can go back to websurfing all day. Yay."

*Lindsay: "Obviously, when it comes to this blog I've been phoning it in lately (in the traditional sense, not in some 'now you can update your blog through your phone' sort of way). So I've decided to get a guest blogger."

*Choire: "Oh, shit! I have a website! I totally forgot. My bad. But when the freelance comes, you say, 'Yes, please, may I have another? Ooh, yeah, you know I like it like that! Whoo! Spank it! Twerk it!'"

*Smitten: "Sometimes I fear that by posting daily, I am exchanging quantity for quality. I often say that I am going to post less, edit more, and spend more time ruminating on the bit parts, but it never works out that way because I always find some juicy gossip I am itching to share with you. However, if you were to see less of me in the coming weeks, understand that I am not trying to disentangle myself from you, Sweet Internet, I simply adore you enough that I want to give you the best."

I'm very happy for all you happy folks, but please please please don't stop! Kind of relatedly, in searching for the link to Smitten's site, I stumbled upon the most pray-to-jesus-it's-a-joke invention ever. Ladies and Gentlemen, behold......the Smitten Mitten!

vodka and spandex

This picture is a shout out to Drone, who always says he wants to pick up fat chihuahuas and sqeeze them until they squeak. In a loving way, of course. I wouldn't mind having this trio of so-ugly-they're-cute things guarding my apartment against future invasions.

Anyway, I had quite a lovely weekend--so lovely, in fact, that I'm going to blather on about it for a while and probably bore you.

On Saturday day Perplexa and I wandered around Nolita, where I failed to find a single thing I wanted to purchase--a rare phenomenon, indeed. I got to live vicariously through Perplexa by being the devil on her shoulder as she decided to buy an overpriced but insanely cute jacket/hoodie thing at the Vice store. After the requisite stop for corn and plantains at Habana, we headed to the Upper East to visit her amazing 94-year-old Austrian grandmother. She gave us cookies, a little German lesson, and stories of her drunken escapades as an 18-year-old in Paris. (I can only hope that in 70 years I'll be regaling my grandkids with the tale of Grandma making out with a hot French chef in a cab on the Westside Highway and then puking out the window.)

Anywho, after a nap and a gross but effective vodka concoction, Perplexa and I met up with our cool job-having friend Jeff for the interesting and awesome Tracy and the Plastics show at the Knitting Factory. You can read a pretentious review here. As the weather was for once not crappy, we walked up to the West Village to the Misshapes party. We danced like maniacs to our favorite music for about four hours, which is probably longer than all the times I've danced in my entire life combined. And we only fell to the floor in a tangled mess once! Just about every blogger in the world was there it seemed, and I managed to hold my drunk ass back and only accost the british brigade. The one I actually know showed up a little later and obliged my request to get drunk enough to dance with me. He took this pic of me and my future bride in civil union.


I made it home for a brief nap until I was awakened with a phone call from last year's team captain. Just like the old days, only this time my still drunk ass was hauled to Penn Station and not the bus to the river (might as well just say that the sport is rowing since almost everyone reading this already knows that.) The weather in the Jerz was beautiful, I saw lots of old friends, and didn't even catch a glimpse of PEG. This probably had something to do with the fact that she completetly avoided our school's tent. I also spoke with one of the Offended Older Alums, who was very nice and even suggested an alumni gathering in the city sometime. Awesome, but I will certainly not be sending out that invite. At least not to PEG. But most importantly, Columbia, totally not true to form, KICKED SOME ASS!!! During the race I was screaming "oh my god oh my god" so loudly that the girls heard me, and I was so happy for them I almost cried. Then I returned home to nurse my atrocious but very worth it headache.

return of the inadvertent guest blogger

I'm not awake enough yet (even though I went to bed at the geriatric time of 9:15 last night) to gush about my delightful, drunken, un-depressifying weekend, so here is another installment from my lil' sis. I think it is pretty self-explanatory.

Mr. Rogers + Bloody Grocer = Marshfield, Wisconsin

Normally I resist the urge to mass-email [Ed: be careful with those mass-emails, little one] articles from my hometown newspaper. But this one is special (special enough to give me a nervous twitch), and I really felt it needed to go to everyone I know.

I now know why I've suffered from shyness and maladjustment these twenty years. You can't grow up in Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood and be entirely stable.

For those of you lucky enough to read previous articles, know that this (almost) trumps Carol Nutter Engelhart's Encounter With Boy Scouts At Lake Okoboji.

Behold "Neighborhoods are source of neighborliness," brought to you by the editors of the Marshfield News-Herald.

PS. To my fellow Marshfieldians: Ask for me this summer, and you shall find me hiding in my basement with a candle and a shotgun.

please forgive me for what i'm about to do

I'd never posted about the Olsens at all and now twice in one week. It will never happen again, I swear. Anyway, I just have to point out that if Mary-Kate wants to major in culinary arts and open a restaurant, she might want to, i dunno, EAT once in a while. Sexy ribs, MK.

by george, i think i've got it!

There is really not enough space on this thing devoted to boys. And I certainly don't want to give anyone the wrong idea--that boys are not, in fact, what I think about 85% of the time. (The other 15% is split 14 to 1 between eating and miscellany, respectively, in case you were wondering.) So anyway, the last three years have been filled with an almost endless string of extended flings (except for that 6-month dry spell junior year, but let's just forget about that.) Generally, I'll make out with a cute guy the instant I decide I like him, and then continue to do so periodically for anywhere from one to four months until one of us (usually the guy) realizes there's really not too much there beyond the making out part. Then, to get over that one, I line up a new one, realize that I was deluded in thinking the last one ever would have gone anywhere, and the cycle continues. All of this hasn't turned me into a total pessimist, per se, but I'm definitely a little emotionally hardened. Nevertheless, what happened yesterday turned me into a big, warm 'n fuzzy bowl of mush.

The main reason Perplexa and I decided on Montreal as a weekend getaway locale was because she has a friend, who is a boy, there from her study abroad summer in Spain. They've kept in touch for the last two years, and now, after graduating from some big college in Canada, he lives in Montreal with his cousins. Basically, he is tall and cute and has the nicest sounding voice. If there's one characteristic that's an instant "turn on" (sorry, don't mean to get all Cosmo up in here) for me, it's a nice, soothing voice. And he speaks French. And some other things that I find appealing, like a love of television and the ability to spell "definitely" correctly. So obviously I really wanted to make out with him. Logistics (i.e., sleeping on the floor of his cousins' apartment, although, as FAB can attest, such inconveniences have not stopped me in the past) didn't allow for that this weekend, however, but I confessed my desire to Perplexa upon our return. Then yesterday she received the following in an email from him:

i like your friend, do you think it's reciprocal.....things were simple in 6th grade when you passed a note to your "love interest" and asked her to profess her interest by checking the "yes" box.

Genius. I like a boy, he likes me, and there's no way I can fuck anything up, because he lives in another country. Why did it take so long to figure this out?

not bad. not bad. not that good. but not bad.

Granted, most of my 10 correct answers out of 16 were lucky guesses, but I did actually identify a couple of the works on this Art or Crap quiz. [via Catherine's Pita] I attribute this knowledge to extensive TV watching, and nothing more.

doo bee doo bee dooo

Feeling too discombobulated to post anything substantial (as opposed to....), but here's what's on my mind today:

*Now that I'm in the market for a new computer, I'm thinking about joining the Cult of Mac. These are just so cute, and if I got an Ipod I could have such an extensive and organized music collection, which is really what I'd mainly use the computer for in the first place. If you have any strong opinions one way or the other, please let me know.

*I used to wear almost exclusively J.Crew, but then they started doing things like this. Well, that, and I discovered the wonders of the Barney's Co-op and independent (and almost affordable) downtown designers. Anyway, what are they smoking?

*Last night at my daily dinner supplier, a middle-aged, well-dressed white woman asked, "What's the difference between a burrito and a tortilla?" She looked perplexed when the cashier replied, "A burrito is IN a tortilla," and just ordered a burrito.

*Because I am not one to back down from a challenge, I have emailed a response to PEG. Hopefully her reaction will not be blog-worthy.

the beginning of the end?

The Company Computer Nazis have really crossed the line this time. I'm okay with not being able to use AIM. Surely if I had access to this fine program I would have been fired long ago, and rightly so. And I can kind of understand being blocked from web-based email. Actually, no, that one really doesn't make sense, and I'll be damned if I'm going to alter my emailing habits in the off-chance my work account will be screened. In any case, I can live without my hotmail during the day. But what just happened to me is so unsettling I can barely type the words. I have been blocked....from....a...............bl...blo........BLOG!

Seeking my daily dose of Olsen twin buzz, I just typed www.whatevs.org into my browser. A white screen appeared that said the following:

The site you have requested (http://www.whatevs.org/) is unavailable as a non-business related site.
Forbidden, this page (http://www.whatevs.org/) is categorized as: Chat.

I fear for the future. The day the word "chat" is replaced with "blog" is the day I say sayonara to my dreams of a lifetime of corporate servitude. Hmmm, come to think of it, perhaps this blog blockage is not such a bad omen after all.

life lesson #2349823975 -- DO NOT TALK AND DON'T NOT TALK TO CRAZY PEOPLE

What I'm about to post probably crosses some kind of ethical boundary, but I'll change the names, and gosh darnit it's my bloggy and I'll post if I want to. (Yes I just said that.)

So there's a big ol' college sporting event coming up, and seeing as how I was on said sport's college team for four years and want to support my former teammates, I thought it would be nice to round up the alumni troops to cheer on the kiddies. I found an old mass email sent out by an alum three years my senior, who shall from here onward be referred to as Psychotic Evil Girl. This was a sport-related blurb about upcoming events PEG had planned, none of which ever transpired, but that's beside the point. What follows is a series of emails, beginning with mine--The Rudest, Most Offensive Email in the History of the Internet:

Hey there, alumni (alumnas?)-

I'm just sending out this little email to remind everyone that [event] is next weekend, specifically Sunday the 9th. I know it would mean a lot to the [athletes] to have as many of us there as possible, and of course it would be awesome to see old friends and meet fellow survivors of the wrath/bad jokes of [our coach <--this is a joke (hee hee) which said coach did not find offensive]. Anyway, it will certainly be an exciting couple of [events], as they're ranked 9th going in and, in my humble opinion and results analysis, could finish significantly higher. So there are several of us in NYC planning to either take a train down or rent a car. If anyone is in the area and either needs a ride or has a ride with space for someone else, please email me and we can coordinate everything. Hope to see you next weekend!

-Gina ([College] '03) [oops, you already know where I went to college...so much for anonymity]

This was followed not five minutes later with two emails from PEG. The first used the same list of addresses to plug the team she currently coaches:

Hi all,

You can also come and see my freshman [compete] at [event]. We have won all but one [event] this season, along with being the BIG EAST Champions.

Go [lesser school]!

Coach PEG

Then an email specially written for yours truly:

Gina,

I would appreciate it if you did not mass email my friends/alumni who dont know you. They are not happy about it. Below are the email addresses that you should take off your list. If you do have some important Alumni information, I can pass it along to them for you. Please respond to this email so I know that you received it.

Thanks,

PEG

I was quite surprised by this harsh, perplexing reaction, and I replied in an equally curt tone:

Ok. [Coach] wanted me to encourage people to come, so I just replied to the old group email. Sorry that an email from a fellow alum is so offensive to people.

Gina

This viscious attack turned PEG into a fire-breathing dragon, and she sent me the following and CC-ed some of her friends, a couple of whom are also my friends:

Well there is a long history of [College sport] prior to your experience that is very negative. Before the [Coach] "era". These alumni keep in touch with me because they are my friends, not because they have fond memories of their team. I have worked too hard to get them involved for you to piss them off.
You should respect that. If your email has even one bit of attitude. You know that I will not hesitate to tell you what I think, so I sure hope that you apologize to me.

Grow up.

[PEG's full name, which I have never heard anyone refer to her as]

At this point, I was stunned, stressed from both this and being robbed the day before (i.e., near tears,) and unsure how to proceed. I forwarded the exchange to one of my best team friends who was very active on the team and knows both of us well. Then, without being asked by me, Best Team Friend sent PEG an email defending my intentions, to which PEG responded pretty much as one could expect:

Hi BTF,

Thank you for the email. I wanted to let you know that I appreciate your thoughts. I trust what you have to say and will leave it at that.

About Gina's email...
Most people, including myself, respond well to emails that start with a "hi___," and end with a signature. If Gina really does regret offending alumni, I don't believe her email would be as short as it was. I do want to let you know that I did not CC you on my email, so I know that means Gina forwarded it to you. I am fine with that. I openly CC who I want and let people know it.

I only responded harshly to Gina's email because I felt it was rude. If she wants to help with Alumni relations, she has to start with expressing herself better over email. And she has to realize that no matter who her friends/teammates may be, she has to respect other alumni especially those who are older. There are 2 reasons why we dont support the team as much as we should. 1) bitter experiences that you guys will never understand and 2) for rude people like Gina, why should we help her out? we need to feel like we are giving back, not being treated like assholes.

Please do relay this message to her and let her know that again, it is childish not to deal with me and to have to cc you to talk to me. But, I prefer to deal with you anyway. I think the both of us can have a working relationship.

About alumni, I know that there are a lot of people interested in [competing] at the [non-college event]. let me know what your ideas may be.

Thanks again,

PEG

I am seriously at a loss. This girl is crazy. I've never been the chirpiest, friendliest person on the planet as I am on the shy side, but I am certainly not planning a team relations sabotage. She's construed some kind of sinister motivation on my part, when my motivation was as simple as "alumni at event = good." All I think I'm guilty of is being ignorant to all this manufactured drama. Getting to PEG's finer points, I've re-read my initial email, and while it may be casual, I included a greeting and conclusion as PEG seems to have forgotten, and I don't see where the extreme rudeness comes in. Also, PEG is hell-bent on calling me childish, yet she uses such tactics as CC-ing her friends and signing her full name. I have not responded to her (how childish of me!) because a.) her attacks against me don't make sense, and b.) because at this point anything I say will most certainly be wildly misinterpreted and used against me. And now that I know my apartment is so break-into-able, I really don't need any enemies. Boy oh boy, I can't wait to see PEG this weekend!

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.

quote of the day

My work philosophy in a sentence: "The most time-efficient way to say no to something is to say yes, and then never do it." -Scott Adams- The Joy of Work [via Cup of Chicha]
Nod and say yes. Just nod and say yes...

Runner up from the same source: "He gave me a look, a kind of wide-eyed, reproachful look, such as a dying newt might have given me, if I had forgotten to change its water regularly."
-P.G.Wodehouse
Can't go wrong with newt references...

serendipity-doo-da

There are only three paths I take to work in the morning: subway, subway, walk five blocks; subway, subway, underground tunnel into my building (needless to say, I did not see the sun much this winter); and good old fashioned walking through The Park. Oh, and when I'm really ridiculously hungover and sleep through the alarm I'll take a cab. Today, however, was different. The unfamiliar presence of sunlight this morning tricked me into thinking it would be warm enough to wear a skirt and flipflops. Unfortunately, the 40 degree air kept me underground all the way to Grand Central, where I would normally proceed to the tunnel. But it was just so purty outside that I decided to shake things up a bit and go through the Metlife building, which is two blocks from the office--short enough distance to retain the feeling in my legs, long enough to remind myself that there exists light of a non-flourescent variety.

I emerged from the building facing a tall, lanky boy with a Jewfro handing out free copies of the Financial Times. One look at his feet--grey New Balance running shoes--and I recognized him instantly. I "dated" the boy (let's call him Jacob, because that's his name) on and off for about a year in college. He was always off on some bike trip across the country or a trip to Mexico or god knows what else, so it was never a full-blown relationship. At least that's what he said until he got a real girlfriend at the end of said year.

Anywho, of all the quasi-relationships I've had (and I've had enough to swear off boys forever about eight times), this has been the one that stuck--the one that proved itself to be more than an initial physical connection that fizzled when it became clear there was nothing behind it. Nevertheless, given Jacob's free-spirited nature, I hadn't heard from him in months. So I went up to him and burst out laughing, partially because it was just so surprising and, and at the same time, not at all surprising to see him there, and partially because he was wearing a dorky Financial Times fleece baseball cap and trying unsuccessfully to get the dudes with suits and zhuzhed hair to take the paper.

As a pretty logical, scientific thinker, I don't buy into religion or spirituality or fate or any of that, and I know how to recognize a good old coincidence, but isn't it just so goddamn weird that the one day I veer from my usual path, I run into an elusive friend on a two-hour, one time temp job? And it's all just so typically Jacob. Anyway, turns out he's been accepted to grad school in NYC (yay!) and is continuing to drive a rickshaw (clearly, I'm not exactly a gold-digger) in Midtown until the fall. So if you see a skinny, pretty-eyed, fluffy-haired boy hauling some tourists around behind a bicycle, throw him a buck or two so he can buy dinner instead of stealing olives from the cart at Fairway.

everything's better with bunnies

I've been in a good mood since I got to work today (more on why in a bit), but this cartoon bunny version of The Exorcist makes me even happier. [via Blacktable] I can't get enough of the Blacktable links, and whenever I'm having a bad day, my favorite link of all time is always there to cheer me up a little. Thanks, BT.

links for lunch

As I've done nothing of late remotely warranting being written about (unless you really wanna hear about the awesome episode of Made last night, or Fantasia's best American Idol performance ever, or how I successfully installed ink cartridges in my new printer), here are some links:

*This article explains why I was about 10 times smarter before college. Woops. [via Here I Type]

*These Bush magnets are kind of fantastic, but I wouldn't want to see his monkey-face on my fridge every day. I tend to prefer not thinking about upsetting things over which I have no control. Like my job. Or junior high school. [via The Voice]

*For the love of Jesus, can parents stop projecting their own perfectionistic tendencies on their helpless kids already? I could go on and on about this, but see the comment about upsetting things above.

*I'm not much of a cat person, but whenever Bluejake posts pictures of Thompson I get all mushy inside. Oh my god that face...

as long as we're bashing bushie...

...check out this website [thanks, MEH], which allows you to construct a speech for the prez that will probably be better than anything he'd "think" of himself. I, unfortunately, can't hear my speech since I don't have that fancy sound mechanism on my work computer. (Incidentally, Fatboss does have sound, and he feels the need to play the Hamsterdance song fifteen times a day at decibel levels audible by a deaf person. Must remember to bring Advil to work tomorrow...)

so so sorry, i just couldn't resist...

Baby One More Time - You're basically a sweet high
school girl still caught up in the world of
crushes and passing notes in third period.
Enjoy being young while you can cause it only
gets harder as an adult. Oh, and good luck with
the boob job.


Which Britney Spears single are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

[via Newyorkish]

"my views are one that speaks to freedom"

Thanks, Sis, for sending me this excellent page of Bushisms. The sheer length of it alone should deter anyone from voting for Bush. With this in mind, I forwarded the page to Fatboss, who is militantly right-wing. He read about two sentences, closed the page, and said nothing (he sits an arm's length away from me.) Despite my initial excitement at having a new boss--more things to do, bigger bonus, greater chance of getting a day off here and there, maybe--I am starting to wish it were just me, Mainboss, and Stereotypicalboss. Fatboss criticizes my sushi lunches for being too full of eeeevil carbohydrates while stuffing his face with meat and cheese slathered in mayonnaise, he whines incessantly about paying for his kid's impending Ivy education despite making over a million dollars a year, and, worst of all, his favorite phrase when upset (which is often) is "fuck me!" This does not conjure up a pleasant image in my head. If I were ever to think about sex at work, I would want it to be on my terms. This means either whoever I have a crush on at the moment or rockstars. Like Jim, or Michael, or Jeff, or Kurt, or even ones who haven't died tragically, like Brandon, or Pelle, or Fab... Perplexa and I played this game via email yesterday and have only scratched the surface. Who would you do? (And how did I get from Dubya to sex with rockstars?)

leave it to daily candy...

...to solve all of my problems. As I accidentally sported inside-out undies yet again yesterday, perhaps it's time to invest in these. (Though they could pose a problem for when I forget to zip...) According to the aforementioned service website: "Behold the future: the Antipanti. Designed for lowrider enthusiasts, panty-line haters, and, well, anyone yearning for a little more freedom (who isn't?), it's a disposable patch of cotton flannel that you stick to the inside of your jeans when you're going commando, thereby protecting both the crotch of your pants and the crotch of your, um, self." While this is an interesting idea, to say the least, would the kind of girl who goes commando in the first place be anal enough to purchase and affix a camouflage disc to the inside of her pants every day? Weird.

best. weekend. ever.

Going to LA for the weekend was certainly not the most rational thing I've ever done. My thought process in purchasing the expensive last-minute ticket was pretty much as follows: "NY weather sucks. NY boys suck. LA is warm. My sister lives there, and she does not suck." Fortunately, the trip was worth every goddamn penny, down to the $34.16 tank of gas.

When I rolled into Dollar Rent-a-Car on Thursday evening, I was informed that I had a choice between a Dodge Neon and, for five dollars per day more, a Jeep Liberty. I inquired as to why the rates were so much higher than what I'd seen earlier on the internet. Turns out you need to "book in advance" to get the cheapness. Interesting concept, indeed. Since I was spending a lot regardless, and since the apparently clairvoyant Drone suggested it specifically the day before, I went all out with the cooler car. Despite having to navigate three freeways, I arrived at my sister's suburban utopia called Pomona College in a speedy 45 minutes. There, I proceeded to sleep soundly for the next 11 hours, which, as those who know me know, is no small event.

In remembrance of Jesus Christ Our Lord's death for our sins, my sis and I spent Good Friday shopping on Melrose. The first stop was a women's only sneaker store I'd read about in Nylon on the plane ride, where I finally found a suitable replacement for my poor old beloved Pumas. Next, we actually walked (apparently this is not done in LA) to the cavernous thrift store Jet Rag. We were greeted by my first LA star-sighting, who I of course stared at like an idiot, walking down the stairs. After taking the requisite photos of ourselves in silly outfits, which I'll post if I figure out how (anyone??), I bought some very Gina items (i.e., most suitable for a 10-year-old boy in 1973), and my sister found a vintage dress deemed "awesome" by the trendy checkout girl. How proud I was! Then it was down the road--in the Jeep this time, natch--to where the beautiful people are. Good little liberal arts student that she is, my sister's first reaction upon entering Fred Segal was to note, "This place is so post-modern." Before she could explain this statement for me--I have become certifiably retarded post-college--a force of heretofore unknown strength pulled me into the corner. There, gleaming like an angel sent from Above, was my holy (or hole-y, as it were) grail. The. perfect. jeans. Ever since Perplexa's thrift store Levi's became too scandalous to wear, I've been on a mission to find some faded, paint-splattered, tight ass, buttcrack-covering jeans of my own. I am now the proud owner of a replica of the 1970 Levi's 684 Big Bells, with strategically placed holes and stains and a pricetag about 40 times that of Perplexa's. Sis proclaimed these post-modern as well. And I fucking love them. We declared the day a success and returned to campus. The boyfriend-in-law joined us for a trip to Pitzer, the neighboring crunchy hippie school, where we stumbled upon a Pretty Girls Make Graves concert. If only Columbia's concert planners could be so indie... Then I took the kiddies to dinner in The Village (not anything like my The Village, as it's basically a retirement community.) After dinner, our cute-ish waiter overheard our conversation about shots, and offered us a free round of some damn good whiskey. My sister took it like a champ, and, once again, made me beam with pride.

After another 10 or 11 hours of sleep and a consultation with the internet weather gods, we determined Saturday was park day. Sis and I drove the Jeep out to the ocean and up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. As it was too cold for the beach, we headed straight to the Palisades for a picnic of avocado and white cheddar on a baguette and tangerines and strawberries. We worked off the yummy fat bomb with a relatively easy hike that my measly schedule of two spinning classes a week failed to prepare me for. The ride home took us through Brentwood (OJ!) and the v. v. gated Belaire. During the many hours spent driving over the course of the trip, I learned I have a minor obsession with really old light blue cars. I want one, preferably parked in the driveway of my house in the Hollywood Hills. (Someone remind me not to quit my job.) Back at school, my sister had to go to a play for her theatre class. Pomona really hearts queers and really really hates hate, so it was not surprising that they were showing Bent, a play about the treatment of gays during the Holocaust. The actors weren't amazing, but they certainly surpassed the William Hungish kid who had to read the orgasm scene in my college creative writing class. Then I packed, said goodbye to my sis and her friends I've come to know, and drove off into the night feeling all profound listening to Modest Mouse's Moon and Antarctica, as it was just made for driving on a dark highway by yourself.

After one miserable flight and one pleasant one, on Sunday morning I was welcomed home by a panoramic view of the city from the plane, a delicious three hour nap, and an even more delicious dinner of homemade bacon-wrapped lamb and blueberry cheesecake, courtesy of two old (not old old, Z) friends. While the weather still sucks, and boys still suck, my existence here is suddenly both fresh and comforting again.

linktastic

So much blog goodness today! Here are some links for now, and I'll write about my excellent trip (and consider doing some work...oh and my taxes...shit) after lunch.

*Play with the Subservient Chicken. He'll do whatever you tell him to, except anything naughty or involving bending too much at the waist.

*After winning an Ebay auction for rocks from the hometown of Avril Lavigne, Stereogum created a shrine to the punk heroine in his office. I'd love to do something similar here, but for some reason I don't think the irony would be fully appreciated.

*This story about a child prodigy is kind of disturbing. Is taking chemistry and abstract algebra at UPenn as a 12-year-old really such a good thing? And doesn't the last sentence ("a collection of four chicken pieces. In the classical style.") sound more like a KFC entree description?

*By some cruel twist of fate, the one weekend I leave NYC, America's Next Top Model herself invades my neighborhood. Yoanna House was a mere half a block from MY house!!! [many many thanks, Midwestgrrl]

Woah, I just noticed that three of these four links in some way involve chicken. And I plan on having chicken tacos for dinner tonight. Coincidence? Evidence of an impending chicken apocalypse??

(hel)L.A. here i come!

In approximately thirty minutes I and my corporate expense account car voucher will be on the way to the airport. Because I clearly have an aversion to exhibiting any semblance of financial reponsbility, I decided on a whim to go to LA this weekend. What a fabulous excuse to buy some new (and not so new) CD's, increase my chances of skin cancer, and reminisce about the Vaterland with my sister. In my absence, I recommend amusing yourself with the following:

*From NITBC: "You know its bad when an infant is more A-List than you can ever hope to be. Check out Who is that with Jeremy for the newest trend in child exploitation. Babies aren't just for sewing clothing in third world countries anymore!"

*One of my old favorites that you've probably seen, but there are new prinsoners to write to nearly every day! This one would actually be kinda hot if he cut his hair...

*Figure out what to do with your life. According to this test, I, being Introverted, Realistic, Intellectual, and Easygoing, am supposed to be a surveyor, fire fighter, private investigator, pilot, police officer, purchasing agent, chiropractor, medical technician, securities analyst, computer repair person, race car driver, computer programmer, electrical engineer, legal secretary, coach/trainer, commercial artist, carpenter, paralegal, dental assistant, radiological technician, marine biologist, software developer. I'll take race car driver. The rest sounds like a Sally Struthers correspondence school commercial...

it's like a black fly in your chardonnay

According to the ABC Bizarre-chives [thanks, Fark], "the mourning dove -- the brownish and gray bird designated during the Vietnam era as Wisconsin's symbol of peace -- can be hunted like any other wild game, the state Supreme Court ruled Tuesday." As you can see here, the mourning dove bears not a small resemblance to the official bird of NYC, the beloved pigeon. "Gross! Who would want to eat a pigeon?" you may be saying to yourself. Well, after dining at Blue Ribbon, which I very highly recommend, I can attest that pigeons are absolutely delicious. And, symbol of peace or not, I have not had much sympathy for the flying vermin since one dive-bombed me in the back of the head one morning on the way home from crew practice a couple years back.

a very special episode

This season of the Real World, I gotta say, has been a little lackluster. Other than acquiring disorderly conduct arrests here and there, this cast does nothing but get trashed and bitch about having to be at work by noon. Cry me a river. However, last night's dramafest was simply hilarious. With maybe an exception and a half, these people are so vacuous that you can almost see the proverbial wheels turning while they try to comprehend a serious issue like self-mutilation, and they ain't turning very fast. In case you may have missed it (God forbid!) this episode revealed that Frankie, along with suffering from cystic fibrosis, cheating on her boyfriend, and having a crippling fear of large sea-faring vessels, is.....a cutter! I don't think the producers could have found a more animated character (and I don't just say this because she frequently resembles a Thundercat.) While I particularly enjoyed the forced display of tenderness from Randy the Meathead and the fact that Jaime sounds and looks uncannily like the Asian Fashion Club girl from Daria, the highlight for me was a quote to Frankie from Robin, whose fake boobs seem to grow larger with every passing episode: "You don't, like, wanna die do you?"

tidbits

*This is just plain wrong: J. Lo's Mother Wins $2.4M at N.J. Casino

*Today I'm wearing a skirt, so, for once, there are no open zipper or button issues. I did, however, just discover that my undies are on inside out. It's time to join Beltless Andrew in starting a nudist colony for those who are incapable of dressing themselves.

*This Times article is kind of annoying. Is it really shocking anyone that some college kids work too much at the expense of their mental health? How do you think they got into college in the first place? Most students learn how to deal with the requisite stress and needn't be coddled. Those who do lose it would probably not have been saved by attending more massage study breaks. Though I must say, I wouldn't have minded if my school, a la Bowdoin, had provided me with a puppy to cheer me up during reading week.

*Lastly, is my apartment's terrace more Evening Serenade or Summer Island?

central wisconsin learns about them jewish people

Until frighteningly recently, all I ever knew about Judaism I learned from my favorite Judy Blume book. There were no Jews in my Catholic grade school, of course, and I recall being shocked to learn that the two Goldbergs in my public high school were Jewish. Before being enlightened by my darling college roommate (ummm, Perplexa, what's a seder?), "jew," for me, was equivalent to "hannukah." Therefore, I am delighted to see that the Local Paper is making an effort to educate the ignorant readership about Passover. I'm sure you will find this article to be as comprehensive and informative as I have. They even found one real live Jew to interview! And, I must say, that last sentence really just captures the spirit of the holiday.

aaah, nothing like a little mexican dude coming on your leg in the subway car after a miserable day at work

Yep, pretty much sums up my day. Moving on...

who reads this damn thing anyway?

Now that I've had enough blog posts to garner some Google hits, I thought I'd share them with you. Thanks, BlogPatrol! There are many many hits for both Yoanna House and Ultragrrrl, the latter of which I had the pleasure of meeting at about 3 am this Saturday night, shortly after Mike Joyce of the Smiths grabbed her ass. Then there are a couple of folks just trying to realize their life goals: "johnny depp needs 300 naked extras auditions" and "i want a famous face audition." The rest I could've seen coming from a mile away: "female viagina," "overstimulating viagina," and, my personal favorite, "what is safe to put in your viagina." Really I'm just amazed that some people have such poor spelling. (Don't worry, RJ, I love you regardless)

blah

I'm feeling far too uninspired today to write much of anything, as work has been unusually busy (i.e., I've actually had to do more than five minutes of actual work) and I'm in one of my delightful ~24-hour depressive states. After tonight's lineup of spinning class, Burritoville chicken tacos with extra guac and no pico, and a cat fight-filled episode of The Inferno, I should be back to normal by tomorrow. In accordance with my mood, here is the only thing I've read today that's inspired any emotional reaction whatsoever. I'm not veg anymore, and I can handle that we omnivorous humans kill animals for yummy food and the best boots ever, but I can't help but wonder who the hell could club a baby seal to death?

you know you've eaten too much when...

Your 300+ pound boss proclaims "Oh my God, you ate all those fries?"

I will consume anything that ketchup can be put on until the ketchup is gone. And since Burger Heaven sent about 30 packets along with the office's Friday meat extravaganza, I was a lost cause even though I was already full post turkey burger. Apologies in advance to anyone I whine to about feeling fat this weekend.

Speaking of turkeys, I thought this blurb in the local paper was rather amusing:

* Animal problem
A 49-year-old Marshfield woman reported a wild turkey was causing damage inside her house at 3:02 p.m. Tuesday in the 800 block of West Omaha Street. The turkey apparently broke a living room window to enter the house and broke another window on the opposite side. The bird was taken to the McMillan Marsh and released.

Speaking of wild turkey, my main boss just returned from a nap downstairs in the nurse's office. Apparently he had a little too much to drink last evening at oh-so-trendy Spice Market, spent the night at the Palace Hotel because he was too trashed to make it home to Westport, and required a wakeup call from yours truly to get to work this morning. I would not be so annoyed at all of this if 1. I was fucking invited and 2. I got to take a nap in the nurse's office every other day when I'm hungover at work.