t minus zero days

Today is my very last day at JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsLynchBrothers. I'm so excited/scared shitless about leaving that I can't begin to think straight and will probably be on one constant smoke break all day. Leaving pretty much every other thing I've been involved with for any length of time (e.g., summer camp, rowing, my little coffee shop job, hell...even high school) resulted in a healthy dose of sentimentality and nostalgia, but now I'm just feeling ambivalent. I guess I'll miss the pickles that come with the sandwiches in the company cafeteria. Those are the best damn pickles in the world. Anyway, as I'm sure my final departure at 5:00 will result in no fanfare whatsoever, I feel I should bid farewell to those whom I have been seeing on a daily basis for the last year and 1.5 months and will likely never see again.

*Mainboss. You are a wonderful boss. Your sense of logic and down-to-earth nature (you have a wife. and kids. that you actually like and spend time with!) make me question what you are doing here. Thanks for giving lil' ol' me a chance and a big-ass bonus with which I paid off all of my credit card debt, even though I've since replaced said debt. I'm sure I learned something somewhere along the line.

*Stereotypicalboss. Keep doing your thing at Spice Market, or whatever the new "it" place is.

*Fatboss. While I will not miss your incessant playing of Hamsterdance and similar annoying-as-hell computer ditties, your rightwing diatribes and occasional temper tantrums were quite entertaining. Stay away from those carbs!

*Twirlyman. Thanks for introducing me to a psychological disorder I'd only heard about on Sally Jesse Raphael. There are other ways to deal with your stress and anxiety, and if you seek treatment I'm sure the hair will grow back.

*Mr. Fartypants. You really should see a doctor about that. Or at least stop eating eggs and beans and excessive amounts of vegetables, for the love of all that is holy.

*Person who reads this site and also works at JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsLynchBrothers. You caused me to have a minor nervous breakdown when I was in Wisconsin and discovered that someone had viewed my website from the company domain. I was SURE that it was my bosses and that, upon my return, I would be escorted out of the building by armed guards like Pre-Fatboss Crazyboss was six months ago. I forgive you; you didn't know. Best of luck, and may your bonuses be large.

*Princeton Girl. Please eat a sandwich once in a while. They have these really good ones across the street on multi-grain bread with avocado, cheddar, tomato, cucumber, sprouts, and a little mayo. Deeelish.

Now, who wants to place bets on whether I get my shit together enough to continue paying my rent, or whether I curl up like a roly-poly bug, relinquish my cute and cozy apartment, and hide out in Wisco for the rest of my life?

i feel bad about myself right now so i'm just going to go ahead and make fun of others

I've said it before and I'll say it again. OB/Gyn's need to stop giving crack to parents-to-be. There is no other logical explanation for the travesties bestowed upon so many innocent babies. I've always been pro-choice, but not when it comes to names. There need to be government-sanctioned rules.

This weekend, my dear FAB became an aunt to a little boy with a name that will undoubtedly ensure his intimate familiarity with flushing toilets in the near future. And then I read this. And then I went to the Local Paper to see what the bundles of joy in my hometown are being called. In just one day at the Local Hospital, we have:

*A son, Braeden, joining a sister, Kamryn.

*Twins Roman Kenwood and Olivia Mae. They're joining sisters Adeline and Evelyn and their last name is Paffel. Maybe they'll grow up and make some bizarro Victorian/Wild West/Typical-Wisconsinites-of-Polish-and-German-descent reality show?

*Jaidyn Alexandria joining half-sister Desirae. Vowels are fun to play with!

*Kelvin. I will never understand this name. Why not just go all the way and name the kid Celcius or Fahrenheit? It would be more UNIQUE.

*And finally, the worst of the worst, Kia Lynn, joining sister Kiana Lynn. Why must the kids be named almost the exact same thing? And why must one be named after a crappy car?

Mark my words, should little humans ever come out of my body they may be genetically predisposed to various anxiety and depressive disorders, but they will not have stupid names!

weekend

Hot dogs and beer and rickety rollercoasters.



Risking death and blasting German death metal.



Livin' in the shadoooow, of someone else's dreeeeeam...(Somebody please block my access to the Ashlee Simpson show.)



Calisthenics in a Speedo on Brighton Beach.



I used to beee a little boooy.



I love Hedwig (and I'm a big, shameless dork for celebrities.)



Pink.



VIP

r.i.p.

It was just brought to my eavesdropping attention that the blue-shirted, bekhakied dudes on my trading desk are meeting somewhere on Rivington Street this evening. Goodbye, LES, it was nice knowin' ya. Predictions for the next hipster neighborhood? My vote goes to the Upper West Side. Hey, it sure would be ironic. Just imagine if all the kids grew out their mullets, wore their college sweatshirts with pride, and started using strollers instead of hobo bags?

Wessiiiiiide!

of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages, and kings

Yes, folks, the time has come. Today I was informed that this Wednesday I will be saying goodbye to the World o' Finance so that the eager beaver on the other side of the desk can take my place. You'd think that in the past three and a half weeks I would have found new employment. Well, you'd be wrong.

Part of my lack of aggression in the job hunt has to do with the simple fact that I do not really desire another job. But another big part has to do with all the corporate bullshit that just makes me ill. Sadly, jobs devoid of said bullshit, like, say, playing with rich people's dogs, would require living off of PB&J and denying myself the right to designer denim, simply in order to remain in my beloved 144-square-foot studio in the sky.

Coincidentally, today I received a newsletter from the temp agency I signed up with (and have been blowing off for weeks.) Based on my allergy to words like "team-player," "self-starter," "multi-tasker," and "110%," I don't think I'm what they're looking for:

*Must love project work, be a great team player, have excellent Word, Excel & PowerPoint and be ready to give 110%. This is a great opportunity for someone who really wants to get involved with a talented and driven team.

*Person must be sharp, have very strong PC skills, including PowerPoint, be a successful multi-tasker and know when 110% just isn't enough. [is 115% enough then?]

*Top global marketing technology firm is looking for a dynamic, take charge Executive Assistant to support the VP of Sales and Regional Director. This position is fast-paced, involves heavy scheduling and requires a take-charge assistant. A self-starter with strong written and verbal communication skills, the ability to handle multiple tasks simultaneously and a forward thinking mentality is required. [something tells me they want someone to take charge]

*A sense of urgency, terrific organizational skills and a positive energetic attitude a must. Will also have project work, such as helping with new hire orientations. Super-duper perks, fabulous environment and free Starbucks coffee! $28K [hmm, maybe if it includes free soy lattes]

I can almost feel my hives flaring up. Wait, I don't have hives. But I do have a couple of promising leads. I'm "in the running" for a position at Drone's fancypants employer, and Stereotypicalboss, bless his heart, has connections leaking through his stereotypical dress shirt. Nevertheless, I'll be stocking up on peanut butter and bread, rice and beans, and those microwavable cups of salt this weekend.

alright, already

Lately, sitting in front of the television eating dinner from Burritoville, Subway, or the freezer has replaced going to the gym as my post-work activity of choice. Since there isn't much on TV at 6:00, I've been watching a lot of Conan reruns on Comedy Central. With Dave getting old and tired and Jay's chin more annoying than ever, I've long considered Conan to be the late nite champ. Until I realized, that is, that literally every other joke involves derision of either his appearance or the show.

As you may have noticed, I have a rather self-deprecating sense of humor (see first sentence,) but there is a fine and definite line between funny and fucking annoying. Yes, Conan, we know that you are unusually tall and have (gasp!) red hair and pale skin. And yes, you were once the third wheel on the late nite circuit. But you are not hideous, and, in fact, you are no doubt filthy stinking rich. As for your show, you know it's been extremely successful, and "every aspect of [it] has been praised in the media." Enough with the whining already.

(I must also add, since I know he'll do it if I don't, that Dockgoose's mother was Conan's high school Spanish teacher.)

crap

I think it may be time to pay a visit to an old friend.

civilian concerns: a study in contrast

It has long been said that Marshfield, Wisconsin is the New York City of the Midwest. Both cities have people, and stores, and some grass here and there. But while these cities are indeed strikingly similar, if you think long and hard some differences can be found. For example, here is what locals are most concerned with in their respective cities.

*NYC. On Friday when I left my big banker-type building in Midtown, I was greeted by several machine gun wielding police officers. While I am generally one of the "try everything once" types of people, I can say with certainty that being within touching distance of a machine gun was one experience that was not missing from my life. Also, hearing my superiors discuss who gets sent to our New Jersey offices in late August "in case something happens" just warms my heart. As does returning to the office to see "Terror Threat: Companies Prepare" on CNN along with a picture of the outside of my building.

*Marshfield. An angered citizen writes to the Local Paper:

Fri, Jul 30, 2004

Winner slighted in contest story

Editor: I am wondering why, when Smith Brothers of Colby won the pork cooking contest held during Hub City Days, their name and picture were not in the headline, instead of at the end of the story. I think that was very unfair.

ISABELLE BRENNER
Curtiss

Oh Isabelle, if only I too could be so concerned about the proper recognition of the winners of pork cooking contests...

a weekend in our nation's capital

Given that my ol' team's slogan was "Boozin' & Whorin'," a phrase coined by the coach, I expected that our reunion weekend in Washington, DC would be full of good times. Indeed, upon my arrival at Maj's apartment at 1:00 Saturday afternoon, I was greeted with a glass of gin and juice and was told that everyone had "had a couple shots already."

The drinking continued at the train station where we waited for our Duck Tour of the city to begin.



It was windy in the back of that Duck.



Very very windy.



We did our part to annoy the real tourists with incessant use of our complimentary duck calls. They seemed amused. Maybe.



Maj and I always enjoy showing off our abs of steel, and this time they were enhanced by greek food and beer.



I just like this one.



And this one I think speaks for itself.



Next year, we rock the coast of Croatia. At least that's the plan.

let's accessorize!

It's Friday and my brain is fried and totally in the gutter. Via JC Report, a weekly email newsletter on "global fashion trends," comes articles on Chinese luxury goods, the designer hotel boom, Azzedine Alaia shoes, and The Bulge(TM). This latter item is a "very realistic looking, flexible insert [that] sits snugly atop your natural assets and provides significant increase to your manhood." Ummm. Errrr...I mean...uhhh. Ahem. Ok, that rotating picture is strangely captivating. But anyway, like excessively padded bras, this device poses a dilemma. If the purpose of it is to attract members of the sex to which you are attracted, once you've succeeded wouldn't the poor sucker be a little disappointed?

In other news, I just rediscovered this British online shoe store. With a selection more impressive in size than even The Bulge(TM), reasonable prices, and cool stuff for dudes too (Ten-year-old Boy is my preferred style of dress,) I'm tempted to stop resisting and just get a shoe fetish already.

oh baby baby

The Company Computer Nazis have been overthrown! Gawker and Gothamist and precious Blogger are back to keep me company until it's time to blow this popstand. I've expanded the link list with a couple boy blogs that I find highly entertaining (and, most importantly, extensive and frequently updated.)

*Thighs Wide Shut. Fills the hole left by the blockage of Whatevs, over which the CCN have not yet relinquished control. Also, this picture is hilarious.

*My Blog is Poop. Rivals the tastelessness of my own title. This post, using baseball as a metaphor for hooking up, is particularly thought provoking. After hearing both sides of the argument, I'm still not sure where I stand on the Home Game vs. Away Game question. Perhaps it would be more cut and dry for me if I didn't sleep in a twin-size loft bed.

i love the new britney

If you haven't already, go to Stereogum immediately and check out the best Brit Brit pic ever. It is amazing on at least ten levels. And don't miss the comments--especially the one by "Gluehead." I burst out laughing and drew ire from Big Important Chicago Boss Who Is Actually Very Small as he walked behind me, but I don't care because I'm leaving soon! Muahaha.

the relay from chile

The one thing I regret not doing in college is a study abroad program. I was too busy injuring muscles I didn't know existed. My little sis, however, is taking the opportunity to immerse herself in the words and ways of a foreign culture by spending six months in Santiago, Chile. Just days into her trip, she is having new and exciting experiences. Behold the email I received from her just this very morning:

Hey, just wanted to let you know that last night I experienced what I may have to label the most awkward moment of my life--and there have been many candidates for this honor. I don´t know if I mentioned that my host sister, Monica (aka Kiki) got a boob job yesterday. This seemed weird in itself because I would love to be so small and pretty and cute and I don´t think her looks need to be improved in the slightest, but I guess she always dreamed of being more chesty so whatever.

Anyway, she came home around nine last night and I was told to go up and visit. So I did, and she was very tired and in a lot of pain but apparently quite happy. So I asked her if it hurt a lot and such and then couldn´t think of anything more to say, so I stood around until my host mother, Monica the Elder, exiled me and Pablo the bf from the room so she could change her newly enhanced daughter´s clothes. I hung out in the hall trying to decide if I should go downstairs until finally M the E came out and invited us to re-enter the invalid´s room. Kiki was lying in bed with her eyes shut, smiling beatifically, and Pablo got onto the bed with her and my host mother cleaned off a chair and told me to sit down. So I sat there, staring at Kiki and trying to decide if I should say something. I could almost feel Pablo wondering why the hell I didn´t leave, and I was certainly wondering the same thing myself but I couldn´t figure out how to gracefully make my exit. Finally Kiki´s older brother Cristian walked in, and when he left I hopped up and followed him.

Honestly, I never thought I´d find myself hanging out in a room with somebody recovering from a boob job and said somebody´s scary boyfriend. Incidentally, Kiki doesn´t look all that different. Maybe it takes a couple days to reach full effectiveness. Or maybe you have to add water or something.

Thanks, kiddo. You just keep on learnin'...

temper tantrum time

I want one of these.

I do not want one of these.

I feel like a two-year-old. A two-year-old who can drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, and consume five-pound burritos.



Actually, I think I had more drive as a two-year-old (no pun intended.) According to my parents, this picture was not staged as I was determined to drive the car. In grade school, I took summer school classes for fun. In high school, I took more Advanced Placement tests than anyone else in the entire fucking state. In college, I woke up at 6:00 am, six days a week, nine months a year to haul a 200 pound boat around the Harlem River. All because I just felt like it. Now, I continuously dent my futon watching television shows with titles such as Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Mommy.

Alas, I am no longer a two-year-old. It's time to stop the whinin' and do something (really, anything will suffice) with my ooooh so tragic life before I annoy the crap out of myself. I simply need to find a healthy balance between the masochism of my past and the hedonism of my present. Now that I've fully experienced both, how hard can it be?

weekend (not so) craziness

Ahhh New York...so much to do! But this was one of those weekends in which I didn't want to do any of it, and it was fantastic. On Friday I was planning on having a roof party, but the weather gods weren't havin' it. Plus, as you may have noticed, I wasn't really in the mood. So I went out with a few good friends and drank lots of Brooklyn Lager. In the timeless words of the Cars, it was just what I needed.



On Saturday I stayed in bed until sometime in the late afternoon and had a chat with Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met In Real Life First Thank You Very Much. After discussing the nerd factor of our fling (seriously, what’s the point of a fling if you can’t make out with the person? yet I’m so drawn to that little MSN bubble man,) I left CCIBWIMIRLFTYVM for a dinner of Ethiopian delights with Perplexa. Why mushy vegetables eaten with bread that’s spongier than that lo-carb crap is so transcendently good is beyond me. It’s definitely worth that special feeling you get in your stomach afterwards, which we nursed by reading Us magazine (Justin is soo not cheating on Cameron, I’m serious guys) and watching a National Geographic special entitled “Girl Power” which featured promiscuous female macaques, bisexual bonobos, and spontaneously sex-changing fish. Then I continued to rot my brain whilst Perplexa went off to some torturous sounding seven hour production at Lincoln Center armed with a little treat from my medicine cabinet.

Sunday was all about napping and laundry and television so I won't bore you with the details, but I must just say that I want to marry Sacha Cohen.

blue and gold

[Memo to the City of New York: It's neato that Midtown is all shiny and clean and ready to host hoardes of fannypack-wearing/overly-but-strangely dressed tourists. All those smooth, marbled sidewalks look purty and all, but they are so damn slippery when wet--especially for those wearing flipflops or similarly-soled footwear. I am now suffering back pain from tensing up during the fifteen or so times I nearly fell while walking five blocks to the subway. I'll take the old school gritty concrete, thank you very much.]

Today is dark and rainy and all around disgusting. Oh yeah, and it's my birthday. Happy birthday to me. But not only is it my birthday, it is my GOLDEN birthday. For those who did not consider this a momentous occasion as a child like I did, this means I am turning TWENTY-THREE on the TWENTY THIRD. I've been in one of my mini-depressions since last night but am slowly snapping out of it, thanks to some kind words from friends and...the package of cookies from my mom that the UPS man just brought to my door during that ellipsis.

In what I just know was a tribute to me, today good ol' Pitchfork posted some lyrics from a lovely My Morning Jacket song that is coincidentally entitled "Golden." Like my mood, it is melancholy and kind of sad but not hopeless. If I were more skilled I'd post the mp3, but I am not so I will be a chopped nut covered cheeseball and post the lyrics.

Watchin' a stretch of road,
Miles of light explode
Driftin' off a thing
I'd never done before
Watchin' a crowd roll in
Out go the lights it begins
A feelin' in my bones
I never felt before...

Mmm...people always told me
That bars are dark and lonely
And talk is often cheap
And filled with air
Sure, sometimes they thrill me
But nothin' could ever chill me
Like the way they make
The time just disappear

Feelin' you are here again
Hot on my skin again
Feelin' good's a thing
I'd never known before
What does it mean to feel
Millions of dreams come real
A feelin' in my soul
I'd never felt before

And you always told me
No matter how long it holds me
If it falls apart
Or makes us millonaires
You'll be right here forever
We'll go thru this thing together
And on heaven's golden shore
We'll lay our heads

is it friday yet?

*He told me he was 18, I swear. [via everywhere by now]

*It's people like the woman so excellently panned in this Salon article that make me want to retreat even further into my little liberal NYC/blogland bubble. Or, like, change the world or something.

*Like statistician Dorothee Fochs, I too was unaware that chimps were hunted for meat. I'll eat just about anything (kangaroo, unidentifiable soy products, brussels sprouts--only with a lot of butter) but that's just a little too canibalistic.

*Further proof that Canadians are weird. Gotta love 'em though. [via Newyorkish]

ain't nobody gonna burst my bubble

Project Don't Get Deported to Wisco began officially today with a trip to an NYC staffing agency. I was a little concerned about going in for an interview and computer testing given that I slept all of five minutes last night. (Note to self and others: Do not spray half the contents of a can of Raid inside a 144 square foot space. Carcinogenic fumes are not, in fact, preferable to one measly cockroach.) However, the woman I met with (who assisted Drone in his "industry change" as well) was very friendly, gave me resume-spiffing suggestions, and said I "presented well," dark undereye circles and all.

Next was the testing. Three 30-minute exams on Word, Excel, and Powerpoint followed by a typing exam. These basically confirmed what I've known all along--I should be a professional test-taker, if only such a thing existed. Eighty-one words per minute, baby, with zero errors. Boo. Yah.

So then I get on the elevator all pumped from my proven (but feigned) computer expertise. A man, presumably from the agency, noticed that I was carrying a score report. "Don't worry," he said, "people who do really well on tests suck at actual jobs."

Fucker.

i <3 nyc

I just had oysters, foie gras, cheese, and wine for dinner. Shortly thereafter, I saw a cockroach and doused my little abode with Raid. I don't know if it's the fat or the fumes, but I'm feeling too woozy to go to bed.

budduppa parking light

I don't really feel like writing cover letters at the moment, so I'll tell you about the crazy ass dream I had this morning in between smacking the alarm clock and finally waking up five minutes after I usually get on the subway. Also, thanks to Drone for his little update, as I know he is a very busy bee over at Better Than That Other Guy Who Has a Similar Business Headquarters. Pure Protein goodness is forthcoming.

As Joni Mitchell (or was it Carly Simon? are they really different people?) so astutely pointed out, you don't know what you've got till it's gone. I've learned that this is especially true of regular sex (well, to be honest, I've been learning this one the hard way for the last three years,) the ability to use hands painlessly for things such as grasping a pen and washing one's hair (despite its snooty reputation, rowing is quite a savage, bloody sport,) and sleep, including all the good things that come with it, like white eyeballs and coherent thoughts (I am no stranger to sleep deprivation, the degree of which, apparently, is highly correlated with my parenthesis and comma usage.) An insomniac extraordinaire, I rarely enter into the REM stage, much less remember the dreams I have when I happen to get there. This morning, however, I had quite an excitingly strange dream that I only remembered once E mentioned her dream about copulating with Lance Armstrong in a grocery store parking lot.

Basically, the dream got good and memorable when I received an assignment from an unidentified old man to go to outer space. With the assistance of an unidentified older woman and my little sister, I was to fly to Venus in a little red two-door sedan (not a Corvette, sadly) and secretly plant a computer chip inside of a yellow sportscar that was parked there. If my unconscious experiences are any indication, flying into space in a small gas-powered vehicle is at first terrifying and then fun once you realize you aren't going to die. So we arrived on Venus after bypassing the sun (naturally,) and I put the very important computer chip in the car. It started emitting a pulsing light and we were detained by some celebrity who I think was Star Jones. Turns out, Venus is home to hoards of B-list celebrities who are fed up with earthly craziness. Jared Leto was there too.

According to a handy online dream dictionary, "Celebrity dreams show the strong urge to find a place within a group that is emotionally secure and creatively satisfying." Furthermore, "Seeing Venus in your dream, [sic] symbolizes love, desire, fertility, beauty, and femininity." Yes, Online Dream Dictionary, I do desire emotional security, creative satisfaction, and, um, desire. As does everyone else in the freakin' universe. I blame my haywire brain on the single most disturbing 30 minutes of television I have ever experienced--last night's episode of Six Feet Under.

Wow, I'm Fillin' In for her "G"-ness (AKA Please stand by...)

Hola, Blogers. This is Drone, here (shameless plug). Gina has authorized me to publish her official daily statement on her behalf, as her work folk have digitally barred her from posting. Hot off the presses from Gina:
 
...[T]he company computer nazis took away blogger, gawker and gothamist, and I'm very sad but will blog from home (when i'm not out on hot dates, of course.) 
 
Gina has promised me a protein bar for this favor. We shall all chase her with sticks in the event that she does not make good on this guarantee. Oh yeah, Gina's birthday is this Friday! Happy two three, G. 

at least he didn't do the running man

I don't know so much about drugs.  I know what chemicals are doing what in what part of the brain, but as far as how they feel or what they make people do I'm fairly clueless.  However, I recently learned that using eight different drugs simultaneously and going out in public is not such a good idea. 
 
It wouldn't be a Gina/Perplexa night at Mercury Lounge without something weird happening.  Last night, the Delays played their first show in NYC.  Their album reviews are less than stellar, but, derivative schmerivative, they have some damn good songs, and the lead singer is so itty bitty and cute and British with a voice that alternates between low and raspy and crystal clear falsetto, and I wished I could wrap him up, stick him in my pocket, and pull him out to sing for me anytime I'm feeling sad.  For a Manhattan show the audience was fairly enthusiastic, but one gentleman stood out, to say the least.  
 
If you've heard the Delays, or you listen to the songs on their website (do it!), you will see that, while upbeat, they don't exactly inspire bouncing-off-the-walls dancing craziness.  The non-descript backpack-wearing dude in front of me begged to differ, as he moved spastically the entire time and created a three foot radius of empty space in which he flailed about.   Here are just some of the dance moves performed by this guy to the confusion, delight, and horror of those around him:
 
*The Robot
*Overhead clapping at inappropriate times
*Pretending to shoot heroin into his arm with his finger
*Pogoing, lots and lots of pogoing
*Ballroom dancing with an imaginary partner
*The dance the undead do in the Thriller video
*That thing where you wrap your arms around yourself so that from behind it looks like someone's making out with you
 
I hope he made it home ok.

what day is it?

For some reason I have not been able to go to bed at a reasonable hour since getting back to New York. I don't know if it's excitement about new boys (who, refreshingly, are my age, unaware of the blogosphere, and willing to admit an unironic love of cheesy music) a plethora of upcoming social events (most of which I'll probably be too lazy to attend but, hey, it's nice to have options,) or finding a new job (yeah, um, i'll get on that right after lunch...) Or maybe it's just because I'm smoking too much, not exercising, and dozing off after work. In any case, I think my point is that I'm tired and you should amuse yourself with things other than my blathering:

*BLT candles. [via numberonehitsong]

*Silly laws, including a not so shocking one (#10) from The Second Fattest State in the Union.

*I'd pretty much forgotten about Delia's (sorry...Delia*s) after it was replaced by J. Crew in 10th grade as my source for clothing that was unavailable at the local mall. But now that I will no longer be overpaid for being underworked, I think I might just start buying stuff from them again. It's like Urban Outfitters, only priced more appropriately for the quality (or lack thereof) of the goods.

*See if you can tell the difference between these two photos. This mental exercise will surely help wake you up should you find yourself nodding off at work. [via Cynical-C, hate him not me]

has anyone ever told you you look just like...

Well whuddya know, my doppelganger is on the cover of my favorite magazine. Favorite largely because the writers don't seem to have a stockpile of unclever euphemisms for male body parts, and it features interesting clothes that one might actually afford. Not that I need any encouragement in that department. Anyway, ol' Jules is "talking about British dudes." Oh I could say a thing or two about British dudes, but I'll leave that to my dear Fat Asian Baby. Hehehe.

very important news roundup

*Stoned Delaware Student Gets Lost in Connecticut: "Police said Cunningham, of Dover, Del., confessed that eating an entire bag of mushrooms, 'probably wasn't a good idea.'"

*NYT explains my most recently acquired vice: "Ultraviolet rays can make the time spent on a tanning bed more pleasurable, a study has found. 'These people are getting their little hit of UV,' one researcher said."

*Gawker is right on the money: "Morgan Stanley is the third Wall Street firm to pay big bucks [to sexually harassed female employees] -- Smith Barney and Merrill Lynch have previously paid out more than $100 mil combined. This pattern could very well lead one to believe that Wall Street boys would much rather be assholes and pay out millions of dollars than keep their money by merely not behaving like retarded frat boys while at work."

*The Morning News describes various dog breeds. And now I so want a pit bull named Mandy.

jesus <3 marshfield

During my senior year of high school, there was a big time controversy going on in lil' old Marshfield. There had always been a big statue of Jesus in this public park on the highway on one end of town, but one day a man reported this breach of the Constitution to the Freedom from Religion Foundation and all hell broke loose, so to speak. The man's name was Clarence Reindeers. Clarence Reindeers' argument--that seeing the religious imagery made him physically ill--didn't hold much water, sadly, as he lived across the street from Saint Joseph Hospital and cemetery. So the city did what any law abiding entity would do and sold the patch of land on which Jesus stands to a private party, put state and national flags next to it, and painted it bright colors.



Meanwhile, on the other end of town, another Jesus watches over something very special.



Here are some other pics from my impromptu vacay that having nothing to do with Jesus:

At least Daisy the Dog thinks Mom's hemp clothing is hot



In Madison we sat by the lake and watched kids race canoes. All three canoes sunk and it was really funny.



My baby, Babe



Daisy, who was six months old when we got her because nobody wanted to take the puppy with the underbite.

:)

Sorry if I've scared anyone with the moroseness in some of the latest posts. While I may only be able to chew with one side of my mouth until at least Wednesday, I am, in fact, quite relieved and happy now. The prospect of just going to a different place every day, and perhaps (oh please, God) having a job that commences later than 7:45 a.m. is quite exciting. (And a cute boy is taking me to dinner tonight. I didn't think people did that anymore. Hope the food is soft...)

i have no job and a hole in my tooth. this "adult" thing is just not for me.

I have safely returned from the land of unironic trucker hats. For the first time in the eleven years that I've been coming to New York, seeing the skyline from the plane made me neither warm nor fuzzy. I took one look at it, snarled, and turned my attention to the Queens side. There are lots of houses with those round backyard swimming pools there.

As anticipated, getting to work this morning was a task completed only with constant pacifying, in the form of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to get out the door and to Starbucks, and iced grande soy latte (grande soy iced latte?) on the train, and a cigarette from the train station to the building. I thought I'd be sitting around all morning terrified, but around 10:00 I heard the magic words: "Gina, follow me to the back." Except for the nasty HR lady who said that if I were her daughter she would have smacked me silly for running off like I did (I'm no parenting expert, but I doubt that technique would work very well on lost/confused 22-year-olds...bitch) the conversation went very well. Mainboss is simply a wonderful human being, and he was very understanding and sympathetic to my unhappy state and the fact that I am not the kind of person who does well here. I decided against continuing to work on a scary warning/probationary status, and now I have two weeks to find someone who wants to pay me. And to go to the dentist, finally, before I lose my health insurance.

I'm daunted by this task given my pathetic lack of job-hunting and interviewing experience, but right now I feel so much lighter, and not just because I've lost about five pounds on the Mom's Wholesome Cooking/Scared Shitless About How To Make Money and What To Do With My Life Diet. Hmmm, perhaps I could devote my life to eradicating that Atkins nonsense...

at least there aren't so many bugs in nyc

I was going to post some self-indulgent drivel about how utterly hopeless I think my life may be, but I kind of got it out of my system while out mowing the lawn and getting mauled by mosquitos on every non-DEET-slathered patch of skin. Plus, no one needs another Gloomy Gus.

*The first sentence says it all. "The beer gods were looking after Patrick Troyer on Wednesday when three kegs of Wisconsin Amber lager crossed Troyer's path on his way to work."

*Reason #2938470239 why I love my sister. While out walking the dogs today, she told me a story: "Earlier when I was walking to my haircut, I passed by a big old guy with three girls, and they were all carrying stacks of paper. They handed me a piece and said they were opening a new Baptist church and that I should come check it out. I didn't know what to do with the flyer, and there were no garbage cans around. I was passing by the Presbyterian church, and I hung it on their door." [I am now in possession of said flyer, as it was hanging on the Via Family door as well. Just to warn you heathens out there, if you do not know for sure that you are going to Heaven, then there is a good chance that your eternal home will not be Heaven.]

*Oh goody, an inane patriotic poem. This must get an entire page in the newspaper!: "Jim Schecklman woke early one morning with words flowing through his mind. Within about 20 minutes, Schecklman composed, I, American, a poem to honor the troops deployed around the world." [I wonder if he was inspired by the upcoming Will Smith blockbuster, I, Robot...]

*You know those heinous scrunchies with fake hair on them?



People wear those here.

Alrightie, time to go shower. My DEET grease-perfume is making me a little woozy. Guess I'll post again on Monday. If my parents manage to drag me kicking and screaming onto the plane, that is.

i like music and writing and clothes and food and aminals

Today I took a little roadtrip to Madison with Katie, the best friend from high school. We sat outside by the lake and ate (well I did at least) an absurd amount of ice cream with our friend Dustin, whom I hadn't seen since the 90's. He is about to head off to Berkeley to get a Ph.D. in chemical engineering. Hot damn. Dustin's that winning combo of extremely smart, extremely hard-working, and extremely down to earth, and I'm so happy for him. It feels good to know that some people have their shit together, even as I'm still contemplating picking up shit for a living. This brings me to what I've been thinking about in the car all day, which is how to make enough money to stay in New York. Wisconsin's Best Small City! will always be here, so I might as well give it the college try. Here's the list of ideas so far. Further suggestions are more than welcome, but keep in mind that my goal at this point is simply to have an occupation which does not make my brain drip out of my ears.

*Temping. I'm not a big fan of office jobs, but at least the office would be constantly changing. Plus, it pays well enough, and I can type and do mindless, repetitive tasks better than the average monkey.

*Dog-walking/Rickshaw-driving. These go in the same category because they're both the same kind of subservient. Bonus points for the inherent exercise, as I'm sure as hell not going to be able to afford my gym membership.

*Selling my body. No, not like that. There's a lot of research going on in ol' New York, and subjects are always needed. I once got 60 bucks to lie in an MRI thingy for 20 minutes. Also, I saw cold hard proof that I have no major brain deformitites! Only problem with this is that the big bucks go to the druggies, and I've yet to acquire a coke habit. Darn.

*An obvious choice to make some decent interim money is the food service industry. Fancy restaurants are out. Been there, done that. I am not hostess/waitress material. I worked in a little coffee shop once and liked it, but the pay is not so good. Then there's bartending, which I think I could do, but I have no experience and stupidly neglected to take the Columbia University Bartending Course when it was so convenient.

*Tutoring. Small children scare me, so babysitting is not an option, but I have a small, exaggeratable amount of tutoring experience. I was good at school, and my love for multiple choice tests is a little beyond normal, the evidence of which I will shamelessly waive in the face of anyone considering hiring me. Problem with this is finding work independent of an agency. There is no room to share the wealth right now.

Okay, that's about all I've considered much as far as temporary work goes. Oh, I also like to paint--walls, not canvases. Hmm. Anyway, it would be neato to have a real job, or go to graduate school, but if I'm going to spend any more large blocks of time somewhere I'd want it to be leading to something. And I HAVE NO STINKIN' CLUE what that something could be.

it's half-full, damnit

I could go on and on about how my life's been turned upside down (cue early 90's rap beat--nooow this is a story aaall about how...nevermind,) but I don't have any energy left for pessimism. Here are the things about yesterday that were awesome:

*Lunch with my best friend from high school at Applebee's. We both ordered wraps off the "Weight Watchers" section of the menu. Then we devoured a gigantic hunk of apple pie smothered in ice cream and caramel sauce.

*Finding a cute, bar-worthy shirt at Target for $2.24. Good to know that I can still shop when I'm sans income. Elisabeth Hasselbeck ain't got nuthin' on me.

*Taking Mickey the Horse out for a spin after picking up my sister from her riding lesson. Like any sport, watching people who know what they're doing makes it look so easy. However, riding requires just as much precision as, say, rowing or perhaps even more since your vehicle is an independently mobile animal. (Though for those who've rowed on the Harlem River, I think it's an even comparison.)

*Mom's foccaccia pizza. It's so simple--pizza crust, sliced potatoes, crispy onions--but for some reason it's one of my favorite meals ever. Carbalicious!

*A fireside chat with Dad about life 'n stuff. Though I should mention that while it was indeed near the fireplace, there was no fire, and we realized that the same two birch logs have been in that thing since we moved in 16 years ago.

*Falling asleep with my Babe curled up behind my knees.

if only the real world were like "the real world"

So bossman is not happy. In fact, he is quite pissed. As he should be, because I seriously fucked up. It's not that I think that I should know what I want to do with my life at this early stage, but it doesn't make having no goals and purpose whatsoever any easier. I'll be back in NYC next week, and let's just say there's a good chance I'll be back in good ol' Marshfield not long after that.

crrrack

Whew, that was a close one. I knew I was a goner after I got in the family minivan, had trouble adjusting the steering wheel, and required tremendous restraint not to chew off parental heads because of their retardeduselesspieceofcrapsteeringwheel!!! That drama was soon under control, and while rocking out to Matchbox Twenty and assorted Top 40 Hits on the way to the Wal-Mart Supercenter, the only thought in my head was of how nice that first drag would feel. Then I almost hit another minivan, and the admonishing honk snapped me out of my daydream. But just for a moment.

I was forced to explore the Wal-Mart while waiting for a prescription to be filled. (Just 15 minutes! Take that, Duane Reade!) Man that place is enormous. There were more mullets and cameltoes than I'd care to mention to distract me from my nicotine fantasies, but I was still sure I'd be buying a $3.20 pack of Marlboro Lights in a few minutes. On the way back to the pharmacy, I noticed a lack of cigarettes at the checkout counters. Guess I'd have to drive up the road to Weiler's Convenience Store. Then I paid for the prescription (just some zit creme, no worries,) which cost the exact amount of cash I had in my wallet. Now came the big decision. Pay with credit card to save the cash for the Marlboros, or pay with cash and feel special for having the best willpower in the world? Since I've been reading Lolita all day, I asked myself, What would Humbert Humbert do? I don't think it's the best idea to adopt the thought processes of an insane murderous pedophile, but, nevertheless, I took the routine coincidence as a sign of something greater and emptied my wallet. Then I drove home about 20 mph over the speed limit and made a beeline for one of Dad's local microbrewery beers. It is delicious and refreshing, but it would be even nicer with a cig.

quaker oat squares topped with "rainforest granola" and soymilk for breakfast

All of a sudden I'm out in Dairyland at a rehab center in the form of my parents' 1960's three-bedroom ranch-style house. I woke up in NYC Saturday morning feeling like utter crap after yet another night of having a little too much fun for my own good. I started to think about all the people who were away for the holiday weekend with their families and friends. Rather than planning some elaborate vacation as I'd previously intended, I decided it would be nice to spend some time at home this summer relaxing. Then I remembered that my sister will soon be departing for the other end of the world, and there is no way I would spend a week in Wisconsin's Best Small City without a partner in sarcasm. Three hours after a little visit to Orbitz, I was on a plane.

My return flight isn't until this Sunday, so I'm taking this rare time of zero responsibility to do a little physical, mental, and emotional detox. Step One is to kick the nicotine addiction. I'm approaching Hour 50 right now, and, well, it sucks. Despite the profound fatigue, dry mouth, dizziness, headaches, and extreme bloatedness, I've managed to get into a good book (haven't read one of those things in over a year, and, surprise to no one who knows me, my first venture back into the world of literacy is by a dead Russian guy) watch a very dated but entertaining Clint Eastwood movie (hot damn, they just don't make men like that anymore) and take my girl Babe out for a walk (she is a certified doggy senior citizen but was dragging me through the woods like a hyperactive puppy.)

So, given my rather catatonic and uncomfortable state (yes, Mom, I'm just tired from traveling,) my goals for today, Day Two, are to ride the stationary bike, make more progress in the book, compose a compelling e-mail to my boss such that I don't get fired for my sudden departure, and not be too unbearably cranky. That is all. Perhaps in a day or two I will be able to put on non-pajama pants and leave the house for a little bowling or shopping extravaganza at Target.

Alrightie, I'm off to the basement gym. Since I hardly packed anything, I'll be exercising in my mom's t-shirt and shorts. They are both made of hemp.

bye bye, NY

Mary-Kate totally should have come here instead. I don't know what they're giving her in Utah, but it can't be better than doggy kisses, backrubs, and homemade oatmeal pancakes with fresh-picked strawberries and maple syrup from, like, an actual tree.

sausage and ponies

The weekend is so close I can almost taste the beer and various grilled meats. I'll be spending it on the island of Manhattan, which, save for a couple trips to Brooklyn, I haven't left in months. This makes me sad, but at least for a whopping 3.5 days I will be free from balding middle-aged white dudes who call each other "brother" with a straight face.

Also, I just found this link and thought I'd take yesterday's nostalgia kick back a few more notches. As a kid I was a bit of a tomboy--never wore dresses (except the plaid jumpers I was forced to wear to school every day,) played lots of sports, and most definitely was not a Barbie girl, nor in a Barbie world. But I fucking LOVED these things. My favorite was made out of orange glittery plastic, and my mom bought it for me at ShopKo after I got my blood drawn for the first time and only kicked ONE of the four nurses brought in to hold me down.

sex and the city: the fake ID edition

Once upon a time, the Summer of 2001, to be exact, my home was below 14th street. Ellen, Chef Steph, and I lived in a prison-like NYU dorm called Third North, while FAB lived above the Subway (the sandwich shop and the train) on 14th and 1st. Dr. Dre's Chronic 2001 was our soundtrack as we lived, we learned, and we drank. A lot.

*The Alannas. As I said, three of us lived in the dorm. The dorm's suites, however, were for four people. I pitied the fourth girl before I even met her, as I sure as hell would not want to share a small living space with three girls who are already tight. But I didn't have to pity her for long. Alanna Number One had dyed platinum blonde hair, was in a sorority at one of those big southern schools, and wore hot pink thongs that "accidentally" peeked above her jeans. She was in New York to study acting, and study she did, by watching movies on the common room couch all day while eating her diet of raw mushrooms with ketchup. She moved out at the end of the first summer session and was replaced by, I kid you not, another Alanna. Alanna Number Two made me long for Number One. Number Two epitomized the Upper East Side JAP stereotype: she had her name monogrammed on her towels, wore Marc Jacobs, not Marc by Marc, and criticized the clothing choices of the attendees at her father's best friend's funeral (click that link--I am so not kidding.) Her finest moment came when, after being away for the weekend, she found a brand new box of Cinnamon Life cereal on her desk (Steph had consumed what she'd had and replaced it with more than she'd had to begin with) and a rumpled comforter on her bed (I'd slept in her bed drunk and naked, but as far as she ever knew I just sat on it.) I believe her response to this was, with classic bitch inflections, "Don't TOUCH...my STUFF." Sadly, Alanna Number Two moved out before Steph and I could carry out our plan of mashing up Life cereal in the pockets of her Marc Jacobs pants.

*Finance 101. The world was my proverbial oyster, as I had just gotten my first cell phone and my first credit card. Surely my lucrative job at the Doggy Daycare and the parent-paid rent would allow me to use both with abandon. Gina, meet Insurmountable Debt. Insurmountable Debt, Gina. (Three hundred minutes divided by twenty weekdays equals only fifteen minutes per day, and college sophomores who need to pay for their own books and food have no business going to Bergdorf and Barneys every weekend. Nineteen-year-old Gina, you are a moron.) But I'd deal with the crippling anxiety attacks later. Nothing a little Wisconsin R&R and Mom's homemade raspberry crisp couldn't take care of!

*Team Rockstar. Now for the drinking. There's just too much to talk about in one paragraph, but most of the drinking can be put into two categories: The W Hotel Union Square, and Danny Kane. Aaaah the W. I could write a novel about the drama that transpired at this place for all four of us, both together and individually. But I am not exaggerating when I say that careers were made, hearts were broken, and free cosmopolitans (apple martinis when cosmos quickly became passe) flowed like water. Then one fateful evening...somewhere, Steph and I were pulled into a basement kitchen by a man named Danny Kane. From then on, we were on Danny Kane's List, velvet ropes meant nothing, and we thought we were the shit, er, shizzle. Michael Musto summed up that scene well.

Yesterday I received an email from Danny:

Subject: your birthday

Please let me know if you want to have a birthday party.I know it's comin up this month.It won't cost you anything and I will give you drinks,and a free guest list.Please let me know by email or call me at 212-229-XXXX if your interested.

Thanks,
Danny Kane

Thanks, Danny, but no thanks. It was fun, but I think we've all moved onto *ahem* the next episode.

once a drone...

Hooray! Drone's back! And he's got a really cool job, though it's not without certain drawbacks. Let's just say that he's not so much a "drone" anymore as a "bitch." And his boss isn't so much a "robo" as a "queen." Read his hilarious tales of shopping for very specific hardware and feeding his superiors yogurt with a diamond encrusted spoon over here.

if you see my self gathering dust in a corner somewhere, do let me know

My cute Canadian e-mail buddy just sent me a link that is quite relevant to what all us post-college kiddies have been belly-aching about since, well, college. According to the Vice Guide to "Finding Yourself" all I have left to do is backpack through Europe, do all sorts of drugs, dye my hair, and go to therapy and then my soul will be at ease. A FAB-style stay across the pond is in the works, but the drugs might have to wait as I already have more than my fair share of addictions. And I do dye my hair and get therapy, though the former is in the form of golden blonde highlights from a schmancy salon, and the latter is free (you know who you are.) It seems like I'm getting close though. I wonder what my self looks like.

blogger's block

"Sancho in Doorway"
by Via Carrie
Mexico, January 2004

the super deluxe music edition

*Best part of a VH1.com interview with Ambulance LTD [via Stereogum] (whose album is lovely, by the way, though I must warn that my mom liked it too, but the lead singer is gorgeous...anyway):

VH1: Is Avril setting a good example for girls?
Matt: Yes. Why? I'll tell you. Because in that song she's kind of mad because her boyfriend thought she was gonna have sex with him. I think that's nice. Chastity is a good quality. I think it's good. Especially when you're Avril Lavigne and you're ... how old is she? Like 12 or something?
VH1: She's 19.
Marcus: She should give it up by now.

*While watching some quality television programming last night, I saw a commercial for Coors' new low-carb abomination Aspen Edge. I spent the entire commercial stewing over where for the love of God I'd heard the song before, then realized it's on my favorite lying in the hammock while smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone album, My Morning Jacket's It Still Moves. I've been intrigued by this good indie music as background phenomenon for years, of course on car commercials but especially on MTV. The music for all the non-music shows is almost always whatever really good indie or electronic or underground hip hop is going on at the moment. So somebody out there knows what the good stuff is, but for whatever reason the kids these days just aren't ready to hear Spoon without Nick and Jessica running around on the screen.

*Perplexa and I finally came up with a name for our band. I can't share it with you because it's so hot someone would surely steal it, but I will say that it neither starts with "the" nor has ever been done before, guaranteed. Now we just have to, like, learn how to play instruments other than the clarinet and the flute and we're in business.

hrmph

If I attempt to say anything remotely serious today I'm afraid I'll be shipped off to a padded room somewhere, so until my neurons calm the fuck down, you can read this gripping article about the McDonald's Olympics [via where else?]:

"Behold the perfection of an order of French fries served up by Luis Casanova. The crispness, the hotness, the just-the-right-amount-of-salt-ness. And don't forget that smile when he serves up that tasty bag of McDonald's potatoes. Casanova, 39, has worked hard to perfect his technique."

"Participants are paired up with a judge and scored on things like hand-washing and how long it takes to assemble an order."

I'm convinced that the Local Paper is secretly an Onionesque parody and somebody somewhere in Central Wis is laughing his or her ass off.

And, now that I've finally got a shiny little Mac that holds eighty bajillion songs, I can play the ITunes shuffle game, which turned out to be far less embarassing than it could have been (plus, the juxtaposition of the last two is just brilliant):

Television - Elevation
The Cure - Boys Dont Cry
Delays - Zero Zero One
Kiss - Back In the New York Groove
The Lemonheads - It's A Shame About Ray
Black Sheep - This or That
Monaco - What Do You Want From Me
The Smiths - Shoplifters of the World
The Velvet Underground - Who Loves the Sun
Bjork - Big Time Sensuality
Elvis Presley - Suspicious Minds
Dido - Thank You
REM - The Great Beyond
Madonna - Ray Of Light
Jagged Edge ft. Nelly - Where the Party At
Cat Stevens - Father and Son

hot town

Yesterday I walked home from work, as I tend to do when the weather is at least semi-nice and I want an excuse not to go to the gym. I'm always in love with the city no matter what it does to me, but sometimes there are just these moments when things seem so perfect they could only happen here. And it's usually when the everyday experiences become special, like my commute home last night.

*Just two blocks from my building I spied my old buddy Jacob the Cute Rickshaw Driver. Since he was on the job and couldn't stop for long, he offered me a ride to Central Park, as he was headed there anyway to pick up some tourists at the Plaza. He pedaled, I sat, and we chatted about jobs, friends, plans, etc. Except for the fact that you feel like you're going to fall forward into a sea of concrete and cars, this is not a bad way to travel.

*While walking up the Center Drive with my headphones on full blast I heard a car honk and a "Hey" and turned to see a large, nice-looking black man leaning toward the passenger-side window.
Man: Where'd you get your sneakers? I can't find them anywhere!
Me: Oh I'm sorry! I got them in LA. ["I got it in LA" is a phrase that would normally cause me pain, but, well, I did get the limited edition Starsky and Hutch Adidas in LA]

He smiled and drove off, and I put my headphones back on. Then came another honk. My new friend had a huge grin on his face and held up a black hightop Adidas sneaker. I gave him a thumbs up and a "Niiiiice." Big black man and little white girl bond over their sneakers--a little music in the background and this would've made a great commercial.

*Still laughing from that interaction, I approached the sand volleyball court where, apparently, the Gorgeous Shirtless Man Coalition was playing a match. And we're not talking two or three cute guys here. There were about twenty...all shirtless, all hot. Note to self: take this route more frequently, and carry your camera at all times.

*Finally, at long long long last, it's Friday!!!! Rock on. Sleep. Tell your psycho-conservative boss you're seeing Fahrenheit 9/11 this weekend and watch him explode.

beerr and paahp

Since I'm such a fuckin' rockstar and went out two whole nights in a row and stayed up till *gasp* midnight on both of them, I'm too tired/uninspired to write anything of my own. Please allow me to direct you elsewhere:

*I am in love, and his name is Buddy. The non-canine pics on this new site are great too, but seriously, what in the world is better than a little smiling mutt with crooked ears?

*Newyorkish is back in business and has lots of fun time-killing links, but the Skanky Bizarro Olsen Twins take the cake.

*"While seated on the bench, an Oklahoma judge used a male enhancement pump, shaved and oiled his nether region, and pleasured himself, state officials charged yesterday in a petition to remove the jurist." [thanks, Ellen]

*I don't think I'll ever get over being amused by the dietary habits of my people. My favorite quote from a Local Paper front page news article on the 30th Annual Polka Fest: "On the menu are brats, chicken, roast beef, cheese curds and french fries. 'Plus we'll have plenty of beer and pop,' Perko said."

*Gag me with a spoon.

how to crush my heart into itty bitty pieces

As many of you may be aware, I like eating. A singing fat lady will fly out of my ass before I ever utter the phrase, "Oh, I forgot to eat." I just cannot relate to people who say such nonsense, as food is at the forefront of my consciousness pretty much all the time. It gets me to work in the morning, keeps me company in my little multi-monitor pod, and when I'm running or biking or ellipticalling at the gym I'm also visualizing the burrito I'll be having immediately afterwards. So, naturally, when something gets in the way of my carefully thought out eating plans I get a little *ahem* cranky.

Today I waited patiently all morning for the clock to strike 11:30, which I consider to be the earliest acceptable time to eat lunch. I rarely hold out that long though, so my stomach was extra talkative. Before I even returned to my pod with the precious food--I don't get one of those fancy hour-long break things I've heard talk about--Stereotypical Boss said, "You need to fill out a Patriot Act form for blah blah billion dollar account right away [and I don't have any information on the account whatsoever so you'll have to go downstairs to get the file which is thicker than Fatboss' thigh and page through all of it to find the necessary information and then collect some signatures and go back downstairs with the form filled out.]" First, screw Dubya and that silly act. Second, I think it is a testament to my maturity that I completed this task as my pesto pasta with tomato and giant mozzarella chunks called my name without crying or seriously injuring someone.

I'm going to have to conclude this one, as Fatboss is currently dancing to Big Important But Actually Very Tiny Chicago Boss's "In Da Club" ringtone and Mr. Fartypants at the end of the desk is working up a storm, so to speak. There has never been a better cue to leave for a little coffee/chocolate break.

two things that are unrelated but funny (to me)

*Sorry, guys, but Britney just ain't lookin' so hot. I have to agree with Ellen though--ugly Britney is way more fun. Now that she's got skin problems, noticeable body fat, and a penchant for booze and cigarettes, I can actually relate to the girl. Go Britney.

*The Television Without Pity Real World recaps are always delightful if you follow the show. This week's had me laughing out loud by repeatedly referring to Jacquese's parents as Macquese and Pacquese (just say it out loud.) I also especially enjoyed the following paragraph, as I had the same feelings while watching the show: "The roommates arrive at work. Robin interviews that they got there at 10:45, and that Troy wasn't very happy. Troy tells them that they were close to being on time, but that they were still late. Cameran asks sadly if they lost their bonus for the day. Troy says that it's 'like a normal job,' and that 'bonuses are for excelling, not just meeting.' So being late is meeting expectations? And being on time would be exceeding expectations? What the fuck? Where do I get one of these jobs?"

connect me, baby

I used to kill many an hour at work with Craigslist, until, as you may recall, the Company Computer Nazis took it away from me. This is probably for the best, as it's purely mindless entertainment--the internet equivalent of reality television. I hadn't read the Missed Connections much at all lately, since it's just not as exciting when you have better things to do (i.e., just about anything.) Last night, however, I found myself starting to watch the two most upsetting and unnecessary reality shows yet--The Ashlee Simpson Show and Who Wants to Marry My Dad Season 2--and Craigslist seemed like a bastion of intellectual stimulation. And, lo and behold, what should I find?


Mercury Lounge on Saturday - Tall Blonde - m4w
Date: 2004-06-21, 12:38PM EDT

We were there most of the night. Dirty on Purpose. Benzos. The Bravery.

You're tall, short blonde hair, had on a white t-shirt.

I'm 6'2", had on a short-sleeve blue shirt and jeans, reall short dark hair.

The girl I was with wasn't my girlfriend. But I don't usually pick up
on women at clubs.

Wished I went up and talked to you.


I can't say I'm overly impressed with the fact that he didn't bother to talk to me in a BAR while I was very obviously drinking lots of BEER, but details schmetails--I got a Missed Connection!

the weekend update

I don't know if it's the weather or what, but lately I haven't been feeling like going out much. (Or else that's just what I'm telling myself to cover up the fact that I'm a lame-o.) In any case, my weekend was relaxing and lovely.

*Friday. It was hectic for all in Manhattan Corporate Whoreland, probably because the bosses were off watching golf in the Hamptons. You couldn't have paid me to go out to a bar or a party or a show, so Perplexa and I went to Ellen's for an evening which, aside from the three bottles of red wine we had no problem consuming, became a return to junior high sans acne and crippling insecurity. Pizza, Ben & Jerry's, DeGrassi, My So-Called Life, Basketball Diaries, Ace of Base sing-a-long....yeah, as VH1 knows, the 90's nostalgia is back. Somebody please give me a good beating when I start wearing oversized flannel again.

*Saturday. After a day of bonding with my futon, I decided to rejoin the living and went to Mercury Lounge with Perplexa. Every single time we go out together--when it's just the two of us--we have strange interactions with strange men that end when one of us rescues the other from some ridiculous conversation. Fortunately, Saturday's strange man required no conversation in exchange for drinks as he bought them anonymously through the bartender. I didn't think that actually ever happened--he must watch a lot of movies. Anyway, this freed us up to talk to the boys in the bands. Speaking of which, if you like music that's pretty yet rockin' and a little shoegazey, I'd highly recommend Dirty on Purpose. If you like cute boys, I'd recommend Benzos.

*Sunday.

PUBIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

I know none of you need another bikini wax story. It's been done. But let me just add this:

Ladies, do not assume that your waxing technician speaks English just because she smiles and nods and says "okay" when you give her instructions. If you're going Brazilian, I'd even suggest you bring along a Sharpie marker to outline restricted areas. That is all. Thank you.

verna's "box of goodies"

The goods have arrived. Waiting outside my door when I got home yesterday was a big box, courtesy of Ebay and a nice old lady named Verna, who lives in Alberta. (I feel a limerick coming on. Anyway.) As my parents are too quick to point out, I am not at a loss for stuff, so lately I've been trying, with marginal success, to limit my purchases to things that are either essential (new computer,) so mindblowingly awesome I want to marry them (Levi's 1970 684 Big Bells replica,) or utterly ridiculous (Verna's goodies.) The gas pump shaped liquor dispenser certainly falls into the last category, and I think this item is somewhere between the second and the third:



After removing the vintage "shirt" from it's protective Ziploc baggie, I admired it's shiny smoothness for a good ten minutes. Then I went to the gym.

free image hosting sucks, apparently

But this cab story on Lindsayism does not suck. Neither do the latest two Blacktable links o' the day.

attack of the park avenue and los angeles aliens

Check out today's slower.net (my favorite photoblog--not that I know much about photoblogs--now linked on the right) for evidence as to why I will never get plastic surgery (except for maybe a little thigh lipo down the road--thanks, Mom.) There's just something creepy about older women all tightened and tarted up and the way they end up looking almost exactly the same. I think it's the super-slanty eyes and permanent Joker grins.

beauty's where you find it, not just where you bump and grind it

Awwww sheeit, this is too funny. And since it's all going down mere steps from my abode I feel obliged to do some crashing. Via Gawker:

"BREAKING! The Vogue vs. Teen Vogue soccer match has been postponed

'Due to impending inclement weather and pre-release tomorrow, the soccer match scheduled for tomorrow will instead be played: MONDAY, JUNE 21. Riverside Park and 70th St. 7 PM. VOGUE vs. TEEN VOGUE. Riverside.'

Oglers, latent pedophiles, and lovers of hilarity, please mark your calendars."

Incidentally, I'll be rooting for Teen Vogue, the publication of which I get just a little too excited about each month. Grownup Vogue went downhill ages ago, in my not so humble opinion, and after ignoring about 800 "very special deal if you renew NOW" cards, I have been freed from its grasp.

very important news roundup

*Aaaaaaah white trash drama. This little police blurb courtesy of the esteemed Local Paper is special on oh so many levels (I've counted five):

Battery
A 30-year-old Marshfield woman reported an unknown woman in a bride's dress picked her up by her hair at 1:30 p.m. Sunday while she was dancing at Elixir Lounge and Nite Club, 434 S. Central Ave. After getting away from the bride, the 30-year-old woman said a man she identified as the groom pushed her down a flight of stairs inside the establishment.

*Also from the Local Paper is the announcement of the birth of little Kalob Mykal Yeager. Something tells me this poor kid won't be winning spelling bees anytime soon...

*Like the Local Paper but for the opposite reason, Pitchfork is a news source that is frequently just too easy to make fun of. However, despite the incomprehensibly haughty writing, it points me in the direction of good, new music, and sometimes it's so spot on I cry tears of joy. If you've seen the latest Lenny Kravitz video, which "finds everyone's favorite half-Jew waking up with approximately 12 naked models, partying on a private jet, passing out backstage, waking up to shake around more frills than a Roger Daltrey montage, scratching his bidness on a piano, then running backstage again to stare introspectively and drunkly into a mirror," you'll know what this guy's talking about (scroll to bottom.)

*Last but not least, some news commentary via my friend E's boss' friend in Hong Kong:

"Factory workers mangled by machinery. Exploding gas wells poisoning villages. School-fireworks factories blowing up. The glorious motherland consolidates its global leadership in imaginative industrial safety mayhem, courtesy of the Great Garlic Disaster of 2004:

'30 in China Buried in Garlic Pile; 11 Die
BEIJING (AP) - Storage shelves stacked high with garlic collapsed in central China, burying 30 workers and killing 11 of them, state media reported Thursday.'

The accident Wednesday morning in Henan province prompted a large rescue operation to dig out workers weighed down by the massive pile of garlic shoots and broken shelving, the Beijing Times and other newspapers reported. What a way to go. The death toll from the Great Garlic Disaster of 2004 has risen to 15. Clearly, we must treat this substance with more respect in future. Many are the times I have crushed cloves of garlic totally oblivious to the possibility that they can do the same to me."

hot fun in the summertime

Such a good weekend. Oftentimes, days and days will go by in which nothing notable happens, and then people ask what I've been up to and all I have to talk about are burritos and reality television. Well this weekend was the opposite of that--nothing mind-blowing or anything, just good times with good people. Rather than blather on endlessly, I think I'll break this up into little episodes (who needs those pesky transition sentences anyway?) and throw in some purdy pictures.

*The Heights. Ahhh The Heights. This is one of the two college bars in which I spent way more time than class. For happy hour on Friday, I met up with L, who is getting up at 4:30 a.m. six days per week this summer to row, and another L, who just returned from far off lands. The man who mixed me countless Long Island Iced Teas freshman year is still bartending so I felt at home, and thanks to a couple of his margaritas I was wasted by 8 p.m. After a regrettable drunken email or two and a bag of tortilla chips with salsa and cream cheese (it seemed like a good idea at the time) I had to call it a night.

this girl has the best laugh in the world


*Laicale. It took me five years to do so, but I've finally found my hair place. Bumble schmumble, Laicale is so much more sane and favorably located. I also have a weird fascination with my stylist, Brian. I'd never had a guy cut my hair before, but the first time I went there he was wearing the coolest boots ever and I had to have him next. We've hardly spoken because I'm all shy and awkward sometimes and he's all sweet and quiet (also, it just seems weird to chat it up with someone who's got a sharp object near your head,) but I know we could be buddies if we, like, talked or something.

thanks, laicale brian


*Afternoon with Drone. Great minds do, indeed, think alike. With no prior consultation, Drone and I booked appointments at Laicale for the same day, around the same time. We walked around Soho in between appointments and the East Village afterwards. The weather Saturday was simply perfect, and illegal to go margaritas combined with the informal dog show in the park made the day even more perfect. Except for one minor detail...

isn't she lovely?


*El accidente. After the dog show, I was hungry as usual, so Drone and I went to Esperanto for a cuban sandwich and more margaritas. While getting up to use the facilities, I sprained my ankle Susie-style (i.e., tripping over nothing while attempting to walk under the influence of not that much alcohol.) It's not as severe as her sprain was, but I have a sexy limp thing going on. I'm usually quite resposible when it comes to my health, but sometimes I'm like the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, who, in case you don't recall, shrieked "it's only a flesh wound!" as his limbs were being lopped off. As such, I treated the injured ankle by dancing on it for five hours straight...

dancin' fools


*Misshapes. Like the last time I went to this party, 5 a.m. came upon me with no warning. The night was full of friends making out, friends doing things even I am too prude for, friends running into long-lost friends, and a sleazy Spaniard whose hands kept finding their way up my skirt until said friends thankfully intervened (see if you can find him in the photo below.) Also, I could not hold onto anything. I remember sending four vodka tonics flying, which means there were probably more than that, and I dropped my 5 a.m. hot dog on myself and woke up Sunday morning smelling like a vodka, mustard, and sauerkraut cocktail. Yum.

where's waldo?


*Hungover afternoon with Drone. Miraculously and after much prodding, I managed to drag myself outside on Sunday for a stroll through the West Village. I'm so glad I did, because not only did we witness a hilarious interaction between a group of homeless men and unfortunately-dressed tourists, but I had one of my best celebrity sitings to date. Walking near the Marc Jacobs store with a nondescript B-list actor boy in tow was none other than Nicky Hilton. I gawked for a little too long as she walked past me (had to get a good look) and she glared. She had stringy, jet black hair that was all matted in the back and absurdly tan skin, and, of course, she was way shorter than she looks on TV.

not nicky hilton

afternoon ramblings

*I will never complain about my name again. Behold, Professor Chew Shit Fun [thanks, E] and her colleagues at Dream Team University.

*At long last, there is a cute boy in my office. Tall, dark, curly-haired perfection. Hooray for summer interns. Today I held the door for him, and he said, "Thanks." I'll keep you posted on the developing romance.

*No work tomorrow. Thanks, Ronald! I'm very much looking forward to my long weekend. Not sure exactly what's going down yet, but you can rest assured that I will be here trying to resist the urge to slip a few puppies into my tote bag.

comin' down is the hardest thing

It has been almost exactly a year since I began my employment at JP Morgan Stanley Goldman Stearns Lynch Brothers. Weird. The sizable bi-monthly checks and complete lack of any responsibilities save for sitting relatively still in front of a computer for 9.25 hours a day have made it one of the easiest. The complete lack of goals or purpose or meaning or convictions (is this steak vegetarian?) or anything at all for my poor young soul to cling to have made it one of the hardest. It may seem as though I haven't really done much of anything, but, as a matter of fact, I've learned quite a few important things. Now maybe THIS year I'll be ready to, like, get a legitimate hobby. Maybe even one that doesn't involve drinking, blogging, and making out. Anyway, behold my newfound wisdom:

*No matter how many baby strollers patrol the sidewalks near your apartment, do not fail to lock the door to your terrace, especially when the window leading from your apartment to the terrace has been left wide open. My replacement computer and undies are super cute, but the old ones did just fine, thanks.

*If for four years you worked out twice a day, five or six days a week, and then you become almost completely sedentary, you cannot maintain the same caloric intake and be utterly shocked when you go up a pants size or two and finally start filling out your bras.

*Tanning beds feel good and they make you look better. If you are fair-skinned and have not been going to nude beaches since childhood, do not use them without wearing undergarments. There are some things that have never seen the sun, and when subjected to direct ultra-violet rays they will get angry and make you think you have all kinds of crazy diseases.

[these last two bear no mention of underwear of any sort--sorry]

*Los Angeles is not the hell hole New Yorkers make it out to be, and I’ll freely admit that I do not hate it. In fact, I kinda like it. A lot. But not as much as New York. Please.

*I’m still a retard when it comes to the boys. Relashawhat?



For some reason, this picture really resonated with me today.

a story for the ages

Once upon a time, I filled out an online survey in the hopes of earning myself a free Guinness towel. Yesterday all my dreams came true, and I am now the prowd owner of an approximately 8 by 12 inch piece of cloth. You too can fill out the survey, which requires you to estimate the number of drinks you have per month (quite a sobering task,) and get yourself a free Guinness magnet. Please allow 1-2 years for delivery. Offer not valid in all states. Sorry, Tennessee.

new pants and cardigan sweaters = success

Yesterday at about 4:55 i had a little come-to-Jesus talk with my boss. (I don't know if "come-to-Jesus" is an established phrase or if my friend Raegan just made it up, but she uses it all the time and now I do too because I like it, along with most transgressions of the Second Commandment. Anyway.) I had a minor heart attack when he summoned me over to his three square feet of desk space and said "well you've been here a year now..." but chilled when it was apparent I still had a job and that he really wants to help me do well. Essentially, he recognizes that I'm not always gung-ho about work, and now that it's been a year and I know how to take care of all the mundane secretarial type crap, it's time to "learn the business." And how do I do this? Brown-nose more. That's it, really, and in his words. Like the other youngun on my desk, I should stand up and ask Ol' Sport inane questions until there's bullshit coming out my ears. This fake, schmoozy behavior pretty much represents the polar opposite of my personality, so I've got quite the challenge. Honestly, I'm doubtful that I can hack it, (and if I can't Boss will help me find something else to do, which is fuckin awesome and generous of him,) but what can you do in such a situation besides give it the college try. My transformation commenced with the one thing I do know how to do: buy clothes. I even braved the royal bitches at the Theory store on Columbus Ave. Now that's dedication.

i <3 ebay

Where else can you find--and decide that you NEED to own--something like this?



For the record, it's a liquor dispenser in the form of a 1920's gas pump. You make drinks (or drink directly) from the gas nozzle. It also lights up.

oh-so important mid-day updates

*I just accidentally found the Friendster profile of the serious girlfriend of one of my all-time favorite Boysivesleptwith. She looks nice and cool. Good for them. After a cig to recover from the little punch in the tummy, I returned to find this email from E: "well, you're hotter but she's jewish. what can you do." And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what friends are for.

*Fatboss is currently purchasing a "Peace Through Superior Firepower" T-Shirt from this website, purveyor of "pro-gun and pro-liberty products for fellow gun-owners and conservatives!" He offered to buy me one, but I had to decline.

*Speaking of shirts, I am about to break into virgin fashion territory. The most risque I get is a cute tube top with a pair of jeans and big ol' boots. But something is compelling me to buy this shirt (if you can even call it that) which I've found elsewhere in a demure silver color for only $20. I will, however, only wear it out late at night with a pair of jeans and big ol' boots.

what would jesus eat?

I didn't do much this weekend of note other than eat lots of yummy things (Max and Haagen Dazs and Bacos...oh my) and watch some good movies (Kill Bill, What About Bob, Saved.) However, I've recovered from last week's mystery disease and plan to spend less time bonding with my futon this week. Until I have something vaguely interesting to say, behold:

*The Hallelujah Diet. Like rock music and brightly colored woven lanyards (??), the Christians once again demonstrate their hipness to the country's trends.

*I doubt Jesus ate much cheese, but oh my gosh the Marshfieldians do. This past weekend was Dairyfest, which is by far the biggest event of the year. The whole town becomes consumed with dairy fever. My sis, who is living at home for a bit--bless her heart--went to the roller rink where there were people designated to skate around and hand out free cheese. Wisconsin is the second fattest state in the country and darn proud of it!

*Speaking of fat, here is an amazing scientific discovery courtesy of the news pioneers at msn.com. I made this discovery all by myself last summer, and now, with the problem semi-rectified, all my expensive work pants are too big. [via My Friend Ellen]

*Vintage Cool Things. This post has inadvertently become all about food (as they all should be, really), but I have to mention this website I just found, which I could call yummy if I wanted to be annoying. The site offers high quality vintage goods (including stuff for boys!) at very affordable prices, most notably, some gorgeous shoes that my clodhoppers don't have a prayer of fitting in. I did, however, slamdunk that whole multistrand necklace trend for a mere $30.

*Last but not least, thanks to Ronald (not MacDonald,) I may have half of Thursday and all of Friday off work (almost like last week!) At least that's the word on the street. Hahaha, get it, STREET?

tidbits

*The Spelling Bee yesterday was excellent. Perplexa called during the last round, and I couldn't stop talking about the "extreme spelling" (they actually said that) and cheered when my favorite kid won. I think she thought I was insane, but she already knew I'm a big nerd--high school math team, anyone? Anyway, nerd or not, you'll probably enjoy this video of the 1997 Bee Champion, who is supposedly the basis for Molly Shannon's Mary Katherine Gallagher character on SNL.

*THANK GOD. [via Stereogum]

*I'm so lightheaded right now that I think I'm going to pass out like one of the kids in the Spelling Bee yesterday and I'm kind of crying so I think it's time to go home (in an expensed Towncar...mmm.) Have a lovely weekend.

good news

First, a big fat congratulations to my main man Drone for rocking his big important interview. He certainly deserves a good break after putting up with Robo for so long.

So I had my licensing exam this morning. Apparently, my test-preparation method of not reading the study materials, a couple days of excessive drinking, a couple nights of not sleeping, and going to a rock show last night was adequate to pass the exam. It has, however, left me with a nasty cold/flu type illness. When I called the bosses to report the news, Stereotypicalboss answered and was delighted because, as banker types do, he and Fatboss made a bet on the exam outcome and now Fatboss owes him lunch. Nice to have their full support. But STBoss let me have the day off, so now I'm chugging diet ginger ale and watching the 2004 National Spelling Bee LIVE! on ESPN. Aside from the whole wanting to dissociate from my body thing, I really couldn't be happier.

aqui esta ella

Lately, Tuesdays have been my favorite TV-watching days as they're loaded with gems like Next Top Model, Showbiz Moms and Dads, American Idol, Queer Eye, and the Real World. Since most of the aforementioned shows have recently left us, I was worried that spending yesterday evening hungover on the couch would be sadly unfulfilling. But oh was I ever wrong. I'm not usually the laugh out loud at the TV type, but one very special program had me in constant tears of joy. Miss Universe Pageant, I salute you. The highlights:

*The glitch in the opening scene that caused the introductions for Miss Geor-gee-yaaaaah and Miss Germany to repeat no less than eight times.

*Hoping that cohost Billy Bush was related to George W, thinking that it was too good to be true but that they do look eerily similar in that chimpanzee kinda way, and finding out via Google that he is indeed Dubya's nephew.

*The litany of esteemed judges, including the two Apprentice finalists, "supermodels" who are not in fact supermodels, and the World Speedwalking Champion. Of course.

*The lone circus performer doing tricks on a rope BEHIND the audience during the evening gown montage. Wha??

*Gloria Estefan's first performance, in which her microphone was not working properly and all you could hear were the band and the pre-recorded vocals.

*Gloria Estefan's second performance, in which one of her large, gold earrings fell out and she tried unsuccessfully to turn her head to the side so that no one would notice, and then gave up and pretended that she did not look absolutely ridiculous. (Note: it appeared that ol' Gloria may have been on a large dose of narcotic painkillers, so it's quite possible that she really did not notice.)

*Being told by Miss Universe 2003 that MY dream in life is to be Miss Universe. If you too are a girl, don't hesitate to enter next year's competition, as this is apparently your dream as well.

so proud

Ladies and Gentlemen, the other half of my most (i.e., only) serious relationship thus far.