only in you-know-where, kids

[pic via stereogum]

I was deciding whether to write about my wonderful weekend with the boy, E (I think the Cute Canadian IBWIMIRLF is now ingrained enough in my life to be referred to by the first letter of his name and not some cutesy acronym,) my not-so-thrilling but still amusing because it happens so often now celebrity sighting of the week (Ray Liotta, outside of Pastis, natch,) or the deer hunting fiasco in my home state, when my interest was piqued by a slew of consultants looking out the window of a conference room across from my cubicle. "Oooh looahk, there's a rahk beeyand playing on the beeyack of a truuck!" proclaimed a sincere midwestern lady. Though it was impossible to discern which rahk beeyand this was from the 37th floor, thanks to Gothamist I alone knew it was U2. I grabbed a cigarette and the iPod (though in hindsight the cellphone and wallet would have been better choices) and made for the elevators.

U2 is and always will be one of my favorite bands of all time. I got hooked on them in early high school, and my trip to Berlin (Achtung Baby!,) arduous college application/persuasion of the parents process (Angel of Harlem, what,) and both boyfriend breakups (With or Without You, sadly I'm not kidding...) wouldn't have been the same without their music. I don't listen to them much anymore since they represent a different and increasingly distant time for me and now I'm mostly into bands that would take a little longer than five minutes to sell out MSG, but when the last boy I briefly dated stated several times that he vehemently hated U2, I just couldn't bring myself to call him again.

So this afternoon in a carpe diem moment, I found myself running in high heels down Seventh Avenue for a mile and a half, just ten feet away from Bono and the boys (all of whom were looking sexy as hell) as they played their next single, "All Because of You," and filmed the video for it (look for the girl with the blonde frizzy hair--it's humid here these days--and the stunned stare.) People were leaning out of high rise windows, Bono was giving shoutouts to foreign deli workers, and I didn't care how far I got from work even though walking perched on little three-inch sticks was my only means to get back to the office. At least, I didn't care until I re-sprained my bad ankle somewhere around 27th Street. I decided my time was up, waved goodbye to the band, and limped back to work while listening to U2 songs on the iPod and thinking. How E would've loved to be there too. How much more awestruck I'd have been if I'd experienced this as a sheltered high schooler and not a semi-jaded New Yorker. And, of course, how I'm never going to be able to leave this city for good, no matter how many midwestern retreats I need to be able to put up with the stress and insanity.

aaaah, now i feel better

[On next shopping trip, must remind self that wardrobe has not been lacking in dusty pink, black, denim, shirts-that-look-good-with-jeans, and sparkly stuff in years. Also, that I am no longer fifteen.]

bikram rock show

I am currently waging a war with my rascally brain chemicals that just can't seem to pick a mood and go with it. Is it too much to ask to feel the same way about anything for more than 24 hours at a time? This past weekend was jampacked with excitement, the internet boyfriend will be here this coming weekend, and progress is being made in My Current Life Plan, or, more appropriately, My Current What To Do For The Next Nine Months Or So Plan. Yet the ol' grey cloud has crept back into my head and I can't think about anything in a positive way. So I'm going to blame the craziness on my recent change of anti-baby pills, spend some quality time this week on spinning bikes and in tanning booths, and write about the good stuff.

The weekend started off with a great but not awesome Interpol show (nice to see you again, Mr. Bowie, though if you really want to be down with the kids you might rethink wearing khaki pants to a concert, but then again you can do whatever the fuck you want and be cool,) a midnight meal at the bar at Cafe Luxembourg while literally bumping elbows with Liam Neeson as he sipped a glass of red wine with ice in it (the weekend celebrity runins have moved up a few letters of the alphabet!) and a crazy series of prank phone calls by which Perplexa and I were both, um, perlexed.

The next day E and I drove up to her new home in Ithaca, because I had yet to experience the oh-so-crazy law school "party" scene, and because my favorite band since my last favorite band was playing a show. A whole awful lot has been said about The Arcade Fire in everyone and their great uncle's blog and even the superhip New York Times, but, I must say, the hype is warranted. Or maybe I just really like energetic Canadians who sing about upsetting things in a way that makes life not seem so bad and, in the process, throw in some accordion, cello, and xylophone action while hitting each other with drum sticks. In any case, their music is weird and complex and pretty and I can't stop listening to it.

The show took place in a tiny cafeteria-type room that was at least 100 degrees Fahrenheit in which kids were packed together in a sweaty, jumping, fist-pumping mass. But despite the the fact that we'd all soaked through several layers of clothing, the acoustics sucked, and the band's keyboard stopped working, it was one of my top five concerts of all time. The next morning, the 20+ person band posse was having brunch in the same little hippy dippy cafe as E, her very cool friend, and I were, and I made the requisite ass of myself by going up to the girl singer (on whom I have a major girl-crush) and having the following deep conversation: "I really loved your show last night!" "Oh thanks! Thank you very much!" "Okay, um, bye!" At least I wasn't sporting my Arcade Fire t-shirt at the time (I really needed a change of clothing after the show. And it glows in the dark. Anyway.)

So yeah, the weekend was fantastic, and this coming weekend should be good too, provided I can prevent myself from going insane in the presence of a guy who really actually likes me a lot. And I may have found a nice neurologist from Lebanon to sublet my apartment for a few months, so my fantasy Wisco retreat is looking more and more like a solid plan. It'll be just like the summer vacations of my childhood, minus the summer school that I used to take for fun, the lack of a driver's license, and the totally overrated ability to go outside for more than five minutes at a time.

oh the weather outside is frightful...

...and my office is freezing and, um, not delightful. But mark my words, it is going to be another good weekend. Not only am I seeing my two very favorite seizure-inducing rocksnob bands a mere 24 hours apart, but a miracle just occured in my blessed cubicle. No, I did not find the visage of Mary, Mother of God in any of my lunch items or free Godiva truffles. Rather, I burped. Now, I'm sure this is an ordinary occurence for most of you, but until this afternoon I had never burped aloud in my entire life. This isn't because I'm shy about my natural bodily functions (as the Fat Asian Baby can surely attest...sorry 'bout that, FAB,) but rather because of some cruel twist of fate that has rendered me biologically incapable of burping. Or so I thought... This wasn't exactly a full-blown normal person burp, but it was definitely audible, and I think I tasted a hint of the Au Bon Pain Corn With Green Chile soup I had for lunch. I can only hope this is the beginning of a new era in my life. Anyway, on to the good stuff...

mmmm interpol...


mmmm weird canadians...

[pic via Stereogum]

drool

Um, will someone please remind me why I'm thinking of leaving my job to become a professional vagrant?

To: NYC PROBABLYSHOULDN'TREVEALTHISONTHEINTERNET Employees

Great news! Godiva will be conducting a "chocolate tasting" session here at 1:00 pm today! No strings attached - just come by the Admin conference room on the 37th Floor anytime between 1:00 pm - 3:00 pm today to sample Godiva chocolate, coffee, biscotti and other products.

Please contact Sally Weisberger at x5182 with any questions. Enjoy!

who took my frog

Him name is hopkin green frog. [via Blacktable] Click the picture and keep on clickin'. This site pretty much mirrors my level of brain functioning right about now.

more yin and yang

This morning I had the official NYC Subway Commute From Hell. All previous Commutes From Hell have been demoted to Commutes From Purgatory. I waited for not one, not two, not three, but SEVEN jam-packed trains to pass me by before I was able to create 6 square inches of train floor space in which I could sqeeze myself. This has to be some kind of world record, and I want a fucking medal.

In other news, this morning I finally grew enough proverbial balls to have a conversation with my boss (of course, she initiated the conversation) about the future of my tempitude. I mentioned to her that I'd been thinking of shacking up with the parents for a few months, and she not only said that I could keep working here and leave when I need to as long as I keep her posted, but that "work sucks" and I should go travel around the world for a while. So that's the plan, Stan. At least, it will be the plan after I shack up with the parents for a few months and stop spending so much goddamn money.

the upper breast side fireworks eggstravaganza, november 2004

In a perfect example of yin and yang, a thoroughly horrible week was followed by a thoroughly awesome weekend. Even the weather went from cold, rainy, and depressing to warm and clear. In addition to a couple friends from law school, my friend E brought down a giant box of fireworks.



We drank vodka tonics and set them off on my roof. There were little fountain-like ones...



And some that shot up in the air and exploded like standard 4th of July fireworks.



And then there was one that also sounded like real 4th of July fireworks, which apparently pissed off a person in a neighboring high rise. Unfortunately, this person has damn good aim and nearly hit us with an egg.



Slighlty fearing eviction (though at least I'd have gone out with a bang! ha!), I went out with them to a bar in Brooklyn. Upon exiting the subway somewhere near Park Slope, E and I were welcomed to the fair borough by a nice gentleman who brushed past us, ran into the street, pulled down his pants, pointed at his (apparently cold) weenie, and said "Yo, ladies!" We see you, dude. And we are not impressed. Anyway, we finally got our corrupted asses to the bar, where this fine gentleman provided us with many rounds of beer and whiskey. Merci beaucoup, A.



The next day we left the apartment at the brutally early hour of 12:30 to get to a hair appointment. I thought fat ladies would be singing while monkeys flew out of their asses on a cold day in hell before this would happen, but I really, really want to sleep with my hairstylist. He is very hot and very straight and, needless to say, I will be getting my hair cut on a more regular basis even though he's a senior stylist and I really have no business paying someone that much money to play around with my hair (but it feels so good.) I guess it's the girl version of getting a lap dance.

After engaging in blatantly illegal activity and getting egged and flashed, our weekend was already quite full. But it wouldn't ever be complete without a ridiculous, a propos celebrity sighting. Just days after the infamous nip slippage, we saw Tara Reid hunched over in her chair at Cipriani Downtown (surprise surprise) getting a neck massage from some dude in a suit. When we walked by again ten minutes later (because, um, we really had to go back that way) she was still hunched over and getting the shit rubbed out of her neck by a different dude in a suit. I can only imagine what the cause of her neck pain might have been.

Because we were too tired to do anything else, E and I went home and took pictures of ourselves while sitting in our underwear and watching really bad television.



It proved to be good practice for later in the evening as the bar we went to has a photobooth. God bless black and white and shadowy lighting.

it's a craigslist kinda day

Am I just really easily amused or is this seriously awesome?:

The Storm

Reply to: anon-46815591@craigslist.org
Date: Tue Oct 26 01:40:13 2004

They were together in the House. Just the two of them.
It was a cold, dark, stormy night. The storm had come quickly and each time the thunder boomed he watched her jump.
She looked across the room and admired his strong appearance ...and wished that he would take her in his arms, comfort her and protect her from the storm. She wanted that...more than anything.
Suddenly, with a pop, the power went out... She screamed...

He raced to the sofa where she was cowering. He didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms.
He knew this was a forbidden union and expected her to pull back. He was surprised when she didn't resist but instead clung to him.
The storm raged on...as did their growing passion. And there came a moment when each knew that they had to be together.
They knew it was wrong...
Their families would never understand...

So consumed were they in their passion that they heard no opening of doors...
just the faint click of a camera......

is it friday yet?

Judging by the fact that I'm neither wearing heels nor about to cry, I'd say indeed it is! Thank you know who.

*In the spirit of my last post's brilliant analysis on post-college life, here is a truly best-of-craigslist post that corroborates my feelings, albeit in a far more Asian kinda way.

*If you know what 1020 is, read this.

*After getting bugged regularly for months and months, I finally caved and went to yoga with my buddy D. Now, I am neither flexible nor coordinated nor prone to following trends created by Madonna, but bring on the spandex capri pants and crunchy granola, because for a solid hour and a half I didn't feel like a basketcase. Om.

if you're sad and you know it clap your hands!

You think I'm about to talk about the election, don't you? Well, you are wrong. Ok, mostly wrong. I must just say that I agree wholeheartedly with Cityrag, who finds encouragement in the fact that at least a good hunk of the country showed up to support the dude who thinks countries should be run based on reason and not religion. So congrats to all who tried to get Kerry in (I converted both of my parents in Wisco!) If only the crazyreligious people embraced a little thing called birth control, the numbers would surely have been more in our favor.

Anyway, I'm realizing that, along with yours truly, the vast majority of my friends and my friends' friends are suffering from mildly to seriously incapacitating mental and emotional problems. On lots of meds, incapable of going to class, dropping out of school, quitting/losing jobs, sleeping with too many strangers, making sure the windows in the apartment are shut a few too many times, crying into burritos, and, most disturbingly, losing interest in boozing. But none of us have any actual problems. We've all graduated from "good" schools and gone on to other "good" schools or found "good" jobs. Why do we have to be so sad? What the fuck is wrong? Do the early twenties just suck? Do things just magically get better? Do things not get better but just not matter so much? Do we have to get married and make babies? Do we have to find Jesus? Can someone please please pleeeeease buy me a puppy?

bah humbug?

Since I failed to get into the Halloween spirit this year, save for the many many fun-sized candy bars I consumed in my cubicle yesterday, I feel the need to give credit to my friends and my friends' friends and some people I don't know who dressed in awesome, creative, and frightening ways. Because I do actually like Halloween, I'm just lazy.

First, here is E's friend B as Tippi Hedren's character in Hitchcock's The Birds. Impressively thorough and simply genius.



In the spirit of the standard Sexy Cat, Sexy Nurse, and Sexy Hooker costumes, here is Haenschen dressed as the ubiquitous Sexy Cheese Grater.



Next, via Cityrag, a costume that falls into the "why didn't I think of that" cagegory.



And, last but not least, here's FAB classing it up as a right, upwardly pointing breast.



Nice work, big kids.

you know you are a new yorker when... (#293,847)

you have serviced P. Diddy in some way or another. Drone just gave me an update on his workday (update on MY workday: 2:54 and so far no work whatsoever has been done by me) and informed me that he was just sent on an errand to purchase a designer shirt for the Diddy. This reminded me of my own brief stint of Diddy-servitude at the Doggy Gym, where, in addition to other glamorous tasks, I cleaned up the poo of Sean Combs' pitbull mix, Honey. Honey Combs! Get it? Honey? Combs???

freaky deaky!

In what is quickly becoming a weekly occurence, this weekend I spied yet another C-List reality television "celebrity" (sorry for the mutiple levels of redundance there) less than a block from my apartment. This time it was his royal fugness, Bachelor Bob, strolling down a tree-lined side street with a wee ladyfriend who undoubtedly owns several Juicy Couture velour sweatsuits.


[via Go Fug Yourself]

Apparently the UWS is to reality television stars as the LES is to indie film actresses from Westport and egomaniacal dirty Republicans.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, this year for Halloween Perplexa and I went tandem as post-college lost souls who preferred sitting on a bed watching the Freaks and Geeks DVD and eating freshly made Duncan Hines brownies to actually leaving the house.

get your dork on...

with this NYT article on "little Floresians" and feel utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of the world and the history thereof. These mini people lived on a mini island from 840,000 years ago to at least 13,000 years ago. For the severely mathematically challenged, that's 827,000 years. We each get about 80. Damn. All the more reason to drink beer, eat burritos, and have a lot of sex (or think a lot about with whom you would like to have a lot of sex but you can't because he lives in fucking Canada.)

Look, a cool Russian squirrel! [via Yahoo]

sheena is a punk rocker, and jesus is a marshmallow

Oh golly jeez, I just can't wait to go home and get down and dirrrty with the following Bible recipes! [via Newyorkish]

Baby Jesus Haystacks
Melt choc chips and peanut butter together for 1 min in microwave, stir and microwave for additional 1 ½ min until melted. Add chow mein noodles and stir with 2 spoons/forks as tossing a salad.

Drop onto waxed paper.

Add a marshmallow to represent baby Jesus.

He's Alive Buns
Wrap one biscuit around 1 marshmallow. Dip in butter and roll in cinnamon/sugar.
Bake as directed on the refrigerator biscuit package.
The Marshmallow will melt and the bun will be hollow inside

When Mary told the disciples the stone had been removed from the entrance, the disciples ran to the tomb. John was the first to arrive and look inside. Peter entered and saw the linen that had been wrapped around Jesus lying flat as if the body evaporated. The tomb was empty! (just like the He's Alive Buns are empty)

Resurrection Rolls
Give each child one triangle shaped section of crescent roll. This represents the tomb.
Each child takes one marshmallow which represents the body of Christ.
Dip the marshmallow in the butter and roll in cinnamon and sugar mixture. This represents the oils and spices the body was anointed with upon burial.
Lay the marshmallow on the dough and carefully wrap it around the marshmallow.
Make sure all seams are pinched together well. (Otherwise the marshmallow will "ooze" out of the seams)
Bake according to package directions.
Cool.

Break open the tomb and the body of Christ is no longer there!!
Celebrate God's love!

Now, I enjoy a good marshmallow Bible metaphor as much as the next person, but I think children can learn everything one needs to know about Jesus from the epic film "Jesus of Nazareth." In addition to taking up six hours of classtime during the Easter season every year in grade school, the film was directed by Zeffirelli (arty!), and the Jesus was kind of hot (or at least I thought so when I was 10.) Screw marshmallows and Pilsbury biscuits.

yay fashion

[via Yahoo]

support the troops

You know it's going to be a good weekend when you kick it off with a good C-List celebrity sighting. On the way to purchase Advil (it was Friday) before heading down to Soho for Perplexa's birthday dinner at Balthazar, I found myself face to face with none other than Elisabeth Hasselback Filarski, of Survivor, The Look for Less, The View, and Republican National Convention fame. This supposed style maven was wearing the exact same clunky Frye boots as I've been wearing into the ground for the last couple years, only she was sporting hers over her jeans, Ugg-style. In a few words, oh honey no.

The next morning I arose nice and early to hitch a ride to Boston with a taller, blonder, and crazier crew friend. The drinking commenced immediately upon our arrival six hours later (there were a few accidental highway exits and a pit stop at the ex-boyfriend's house (surprise, ex-bf's parents!) along the way.) Ever the competitor, I insisted on keeping up with her one Red Stripe every ten minutes pace, which resulted in a couple of puking incidents at bars later on and us getting hopelessly lost in Cambridge when stumbling home from a bar approximately two blocks from where we were staying. Where are the numbered streets that are not all crooked and full of dead ends?

Somehow I survived to see another day, which turned out to be a little on the cold and miserable side, but it wouldn't be a proper crew race any other way. I got to see my favorite light blue boys and girls race, pet tons and tons of dogs and puppies, and harrass some jackass carrying a Bush/Cheney sign whose ass TBC pretended to bite as I took a picture, and as he turned around to ask what was wrong with us. Heh. Time to drink again! We curled up on the couch at TBC's friend's apartment to watch some TV and drink some White Russians. If your cable lineup includes the Travel Channel, I suggest you watch the show Million Dollar Boats. Nothing like an overtanned, oversteroided man wearing nothing but a leather vest commanding a 150 mph speedboat called The Love Muscle to brighten your day. Drinking continued well into the night at the official regatta after party, which was a big mess of drunk sweaty athletes and a couple drunk but not as sweaty former athletes getting stuck in an elevator and climbing over a waist high pile of furniture to escape.

The ride home on Monday necessitated so much caffeine and water that we took about six pee pit stops, but the drive was lovely. I'm not a big Connecticut fan, mostly because I'm just jealous of all the rich people, but I must say the Merritt Parkway is gorgeous, especially on a sunny fall day. And now it's back to work and my head still feels a little funny, and I need another weekend to recover from my weekend.

noticing a pattern here (also noticing that not a single sentence in this post is, in fact, a sentence)

So apparently when I'm down in the proverbial dumps I have nothing at all to say. But I'm trying to think positively and will not dwell on said dumps. Because things are just great! Like the fact that the cafeteria in my building has had yummy squash two days in a row (acorn and spaghetti...crossing my fingers for some butternut.) And this morning I pulled a cute outfit out of my ass when I thought I had nothing at all to wear. And I've gotten away with wearing jeans to work every day this week. And the Cardinals (my original home team) and the Red Sox (Yankee superiority is beyond old) are in the World Series. And Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend said, without encouragement, that he really likes my thighs (which I'd always thought were disproportionately large.) And today's Dog of the Day is totally ridiculous. And this weekend I'm going on a bender in Boston with my crazy-in-a-good-way girl friend and various members of the rowing elite. So, you see, things are just peachykeen. Now if only I weren't literally bored to tears and utterly bereft of motivation to change that. And, most importantly, if it were warm enough in my office such that my fingernails would stop being a lovely shade of mauve.

"And one thing I will say for George Bush, he has disabused me of my old belief that it doesn't really matter who's President"- a blogger named Barlow

Aside from the report I had to do on Millard Filmore in third grade (when the assignment was states, I got Delaware, so, yeah,) I don't remember thinking about politics until grade five. The year was 1991, and Bill Clinton and a bunch of other guys whose names still escape me (Dukakis? Buchanan? James K. Polk?) were in the running for President of the United States. One day, the third most hated teacher in the course of my plaid, pleated skirt-wearing career wrote the names of all the candidates on the blackboard. She then proceeded to ask each student for whom he or she would vote if 10-year-olds could, in fact, vote. I calmly and confidently replied, "I don't care." Scary old Mrs. Kraus bellowed "You don't...CAAARE?" in front of the entire class, and being the stubborn bastard that I was and am (now I REALLY wasn't going to care,) thus began my legacy of political apathy, ambivalence, and plain old unawareness.

Though I was an excellent history student and even eeked out a 4 on the American Government AP exam, my interest didn't improve much over the years. I can't say I remember a damn thing about the 1996 election, and though I filled out a voter's registration form in 2000, my first eligible election, I never bothered to ensure that it was processed (it wasn't, but I was in New York and Wisconsin went Democrat, so it was not my fault, ok?). But then, by the grace of Jon Stewart, my amateur political analyst pal Perplexa, and my extreme distaste for all things fanatically religious, I have become a person who not only registered to vote after minimal (ok, a few months of) prodding by friends and family, but was able to hold my own in an hour long, albeit very drunken, debate with my boss' Bush-supporting boss.

And now, with my newfound political fervor (we're talking in relative terms, here,) I bring you a couple of articles that are so good and persuasive that 1., even I was able to complete them and 2., they are going straight to The Parents in Wisconsin who are still, for some ungodly reason, undecided. So, Mrs. Kraus (are you still alive?), I CAAAARE. Happy now?

*NYT mag's Without a Doubt: "What makes Bush's presidency so radical — even to some Republicans — is his preternatural, faith-infused certainty in uncertain times." Do take special note of the part about the Swedish army. Yeeeikes.

*John Perry Barlow's October 3rd Post, Supporting Kerry Anyway [via Gregtheboyfriend]: "Gradually, I have watched the steam go out of the Anybody-But-Bush crowd as we realized that anybody, in this instance, was the increasingly irksome John Kerry...Against this backdrop of Bush-driven national emergencies, I've been allowing John Kerry's accent to diminish my sense of commitment to his election, I can't do this any more. Neither can the rest of us who have any regard for the well-being of our descendents. Yeah, John Kerry makes a lousy candidate for Prom King. But that isn't what he's running for." Booyah. Great article, but the comments scare me.

i have a giant mayonnaise stain on my shirt

A big shout out to the parents for providing me with the nature and the nurture to grow up and not find the following email forwards clever and/or inspirational [via Perplexa's Unsolicited Advice Cousin]:

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree.

Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they just take the rotten apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy.......

The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing.

They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who's brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Share this with other women who are good apples, even those who have already been picked!

Now Men....

Men are like a fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the crap out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

and

Today is International Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman's Day, so please send this message to someone you think fits this description.

Please do not send it back to me as I have already received it from a Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman! (fill in - Matt's aunt Diane)

Good motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOOHOO, what a ride!"

Have an amazing day!

Fortunately for my keyboard and proverbial TPS Reports, I don't throw up easily.

new york to the rescue

I'm so hungover I can barely walk, or maybe I'm just still drunk. But praise be to Jesus, this otherwise miserable, dreary day has been saved by none other than Rod Stewart, whose hair I just saw in Rockefeller Center bopping along to "Maggie May" with hundreds of overweight midwestern housewives in ill-fitting jeans. If I'd been stoned instead of drunk I think the surrealness would've made my head explode.

tressler tressler bo bressler banana fana fo fressler me my mo mressler, tressler!

If President Monkeyface wins again, I am moving to Denmark. It is home to beautiful coastline and people that make me feel small, Surreal Life 2's Brigitte Nielsen (i.e., she who lumbers around the house wearing nothing but a cook's apron and has beer for breakfast,) and my dream occupation, Baby Naming Policeperson.

At its heart, the Law on Personal Names is designed to protect Denmark's innocents - the children who are undeservedly, some would say cruelly, burdened by preposterous or silly names. It is the state's view that children should not suffer ridicule and abuse because of their parents' lapses in judgment or their misguided attempts to be hip. Denmark, like much of Scandinavia, prizes sameness, not uniqueness, just as it values usefulness, not frivolousness [ok, so maybe there are some problems with Denmark].

In some cases, Mr. Nielsen [my new mentor] says, he believes he is performing a vital public service. He advised the Ministry that Anus and Pluto be rejected, for example. He also vetoed Monkey. "That's not a personal name, " Mr. Nielsen explained. "It's an animal. I have to protect the children from ridicule."

I'm all for free speech, and I'm even for abortion, but, hypocritical or not, I think some people must be stopped in order to help the defenseless. Like this poor brood [courtesy of the Local Paper]:

A daughter, Emberley Therese, was born Oct. 9, 2004, at Saint Joseph's Hospital to Rhonda and Kenneth Hill of Marshfield. She joins siblings Makailee, 10, and Tressler, 2.

get on top. shaboogie.

Last night I consumed: unknown quantity of Grey Goose, a few glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, four giant New England oysters, asparagus with lumps of crab meat swimming in butter, two kinds of mashed potatoes, half of a filet mignon, half of a lobster, creamed spinach with about an equal cream to spinach ratio, pecan pie smothered in whipped cream, carrot cake with cream cheese icing, and a $20 glass of port wine. If heaven were Ben Benson's steak house I would break out the rosaries and start going to church again.

reason #329407 why my new job ain't so bad

As I sit in my new cubicle on the other side of the office, wearing my new favorite jeans (seriously, they are the shit, and less than $150!) and gazing out at the sparkling Hudson (in a few hours the sun will begin to set--beyootiful,) I'm realizing that things could be worse*. Sure, I have to get up for a babysitting gig at 6:30 every morning to make ends meet (and by ends, I mean money for booze and expensive clothing--thanks, z!) and I'm not any closer to finding that elusive sense of meaning and purpose in my life, but the following conversation with my boss indicates that I am in an environment more suited to my personality (at least for the one more month I'm a temp during which I'll be crossing my fingers that I get hired for real and get me some stock options, whatever those are.) So I had to make reservations for my boss and other work people, myself included, at a famous NYC steakhouse. The only time available was for 45 minutes after my boss wanted the reservation and, as she is not superduper important like Drone's boss, I had to take it. So I called her (she works about 20 feet away from me, but it's aaaall the way around the corner) and said, "So I guess we'll just hang out here until then." She replied, without hesitation, "No, we will just go there and drink." Right-o, boss.

*Yes, I went to the gym last night. Amazing what a lil' serotonin will do.

the sun'll come out, to-mor-row

Despite some meager attempts to have fun this weekend, I am suffering from a major case of the blahs. This is my own damn fault since I haven't touched anything made of spandex in two weeks (except to shake the dustbunnies and hairballs off a pair of shorts and shove them back in a drawer.) As recent medical research suggests, exercise is about as effective as Prozac at raising serotonin levels and, hence, one's mood. So tonight I'm going to spinning class, because the dry mouth and sexual side effects of the aforementioned pill are just not ok. That, and I have no health insurance and am too lazy to go to doctors. I'm also a fan of good old fashioned positive thinking when I'm feeling craptacular. For example, I'm happy that, though far from perfect (or even mediocre, for that matter,) my skin is much better than Brit Brit's. And despite my problems with the little bastards, as far as I know there are no cockroach colonies shacking up in my kitchen appliances. And if I have enough money to pay off enough of my credit card debt to max it out with a plane ticket, I'm going to visit my lil' sis in Chile--land of the really hot people.

oh shandi, you came and you gave without takin'

Leave it to dear friends and reality television to make my day. Drone and I followed through on our Shandi-stalking plan and paid a visit to the Wallgreens on 33rd and 5th. After scouring the main floor and the lower level, I was convinced it was a bust. But there, there in the last aisle we peered down was Shanthrax herself, stocking cosmetics on a shelf overhead. As I am socially inept and prone to giggle fits, I hid around the corner while Drone went up to Shandi, engaged her in conversation, and asked to take pictures. She was nothing but sweet, if not totally freaked out, and told us about signing with an agency and living in New Jersey. (Are there no Walgreenses in Jersey?) Then her manager came by and asked her to go stock something in Aisle 6.

[Note: Despite the disturbingly large difference in head sizes, I do not suffer from encephalitis.]

crap

I'm feeling depressed again. And I can't poop. And I'm seriously pissed off that some women in this office think it's okay to use those ridiculous toilet seat covers that would be unnecessary if everyone would just quit it with the sprinkle-causing hovering and then leave them on the toilet seat so that the next person has to remove them with their bare hands so that the first person's precious back-of-the-thigh skin is spared from germs that wouldn't exist if everyone would just fucking sit down in the first place. Damn, and now I have penis envy too.

my mom said "warsh" once

...as in, "Are you going to warsh the dishes?" Even though my daddy wears a tie to work and I was ordering from the J. Crew catalog as soon as I hit high school, I feel that this shred of white trash heritage and the locations of my birth (Missourah) and childhood (Wiscaansin) qualify me to make sweeping judgments and use slang terms to make fun of my redneck and Midwestern brethren. So here we go...

*Perhaps even more than cheese curds, the Green Bay Packers are Wisconsinites' greatest source of pride. Apparently they have not been playing up to par lately (hell if I'd know,) and my Dad informs me that a wave of depression has hit the state. Good thing fullback Najeh Davenport is around to restore their faith. [via Thighswideshut]

*What's wrong with this picture? And the person who took it? And the person who wrote the caption? And the person who ok-ed it for publication? The Local Paper has some serious catching up to do. [via Newyorkish]

*Suicide bombers at the Jerusalem Sbarro...fake bomb threats at the local mall. I think the Blacktable is onto something. [via FABolis]

at least i'm not married and working at blockbuster

...is my new motto. Because I'm a glass-is-half-full kinda gal. Say it, and just try not to feel better about whatever existential crisis you're having. Thanks, sis. And thanks, sis' friend who is indeed married and working at Blockbuster.

just can't get enough

It's an ANTM bonanza in this city! First, I walked past America's Last Top Model looking pale and sad just a block from my apartment. Then yesterday morning Drone and I made plans to go Shandi-hunting on Thursday evening at the Walmart on 33rd and 5th. THEN last night as I was leaving the office, I crossed paths with Xiomara (my current place of employment hosts celebrities on a daily basis, though usually of the C/D-list variety, and they usually never come up to my floor.) After we passed each other I totally turned around to check her out, and I am pleased to report that her thighs are larger than mine. Given my profound excitement over these encounters, god help me if I ever come face to face with Tyra or Janice.

invaluable impact

I just received the following email from my soul mother's alumni association:

CCW Mentoring Fall 2004 Program Launches in November
Greetings,
Columbia College Women is proud to announce another year of the CCW Mentoring Program! Your involvement in CCW's Mentoring Program will make an invaluable impact on a student's life...You will be notified during the week of November 1 whether or not you have been assigned a protégée, but we would appreciate your participation in the kick-off event even if you are not assigned to a student. To be assigned to a protégée in advance of the kick-off event, you must register by Wednesday, October 27th.

While at first I read this and laughed at the prospect of having a protegee (what a lucky one that would be,) upon further consideration I realized it might not be a bad idea. I wish someone had told me earlier on that if you go straight to school after college you will wish you hadn't and don't let your parents tell you otherwise, if you don't go straight to school you will become seriously lost, depressed, and/or confused for at least a year and remain moderately so for some time thereafter, and if you stick to vodka tonics and eat a substantial meal you will probably not puke, break too many things, or blackout and sleep with men of questionable location on the human-ape continuum. Then again, perhaps there are some things you just have to learn for yourself.

[oh, and in case you care about such things, my weekend was weird and great and CCIBWIMIRLF is awesome]

so...

Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met in Real Life First is coming to visit tonight, and therefore I have spent the day smoking, running to the bathroom, and contemplating what kind of alcoholic beverage I'd like to load up on before he gets here. Here are some insanely cute, awesomely absurd [via cityrag], and fuggily fugly pictures of dogs.

reason #2364 why my new job is better

At the request of my boss and my boss' boss' boss, I just spent the last 30 minutes scouring the internet for a diecast model of a Short Bus. As a dutiful, responsible employee (ha, hahahahaa), I sifted through countless webpages for jam bands called "Shortbus" or some derivation thereof, and finally completed the task. I will be patiently awaiting my promotion and raise in hourly wages.

This little assignment reminds me of one of the first blogs I ever read (a tear...), The Tard Blog. Www.tardblog.com (how am I supposed to capitalize that?) has apparently been taken down because I guess for some ungodly reason a few people found it offensive. Well, someone has mirrored it for you to enjoy in its glorious, hell-in-a-handbasket entirety.

$16/hr

Lately, during the course of my daily blog reading, I've noticed a lot of comments popping up from a guy who signs off as "Jason Mulgrew--Quasi-Internet Celebrity." I thought that this was annoying (still do, actually) and wanted to hate him, but then again I've commited such cardinal blog sins as posting IM conversations and song lyrics so I'm not one to talk. (Only once each though. So sue me. Oh, and just assume that anything cheesy or lame that I write is meant to be tongue-in-cheek. Right.) Anyway, I'm going to be spending the rest of the day reading Mr. Quasi-Internet Celebrity's archives because he's hilarious. Read it all, but if you've ever been a paralegal or have ever known one, read this first.

fucking genius

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haute couture invades the UWS...or not

As FAB pointed out, a brand spanking new Barney's Co-op has arrived at the edgy fashion mecca that is the Upper West Side. While I am thrilled that one of my favorite stores is a mere several blocks from my place of residence, I am more than a little mortified. Ever since E introduced my to Barney's back during the very first Marc by Marc collection, I've suffered a crippling addiction. A little J. Crew here and there just doesn't do it for me anymore. I'm now the type of person who will spend an hour on public transportation to get to a cheap-o Cuban restaurant but is excited that her latest jeans purchase was ONLY $140. (Real World Melanie would soooo never do anything like that.) Oh well, at least I'm not addicted to crack. Anyway, I checked out the store this weekend, bought the aformentioned denim, and made an unsurprising demographic observation. Unlike other Co-ops, which are aimed at the younger, "poorer" crowd, the average client age in this one was about 50. There was even an elderly habit-wearing nun perusing the racks of $500 tweed blazers. We'll see how long this one lasts...

In other fashion news, while rounding the corner on my way home from the 'Ville last Friday, I found myself staring into the shockingly large and pale face of none other than Yoanna House, America's Next Top Aqua-Drops Commercial Actress and Psychology Today Cover Model. Before calling Drone and screaming with glee, I noticed that ANTM totally lies about the girls' heights (5'11" my ample ass,) she was wearing neon green pajama type pants (which leads me to believe she either lives in the area or was going to the Bikram yoga place nearby or something,) and she looked...not so happy. I should've given her some of my burrito.

gina's apartment

Aside from one scream-inducing incident on Dockgoose's bed back in '00, I managed to live in New York City cockroach-free for a good four years. Given that the majority of the places I lived during that time were not exactly new and/or clean, I thought the whole cockroach thing was just a myth. This notion pleased me greatly, since, after large moths and these big black Wisconsin spiders that can jump and run 10 miles per hour and hide in your bed forcing you to sleep on the living room couch for a week, cockroaches freak me out more than anything. (They'd probably be number one or two had 10-year-old me not gotten a moth caught flapping around in her hair, then proceeded to watch Silence of the Lambs at a slumber party, and then suffered a moth infestation in her bedroom fostered by the apparent moth breeding ground that is hamster food.)

Logic once led me to believe that living on the 10th floor of a building would reduce the risk of vermin invasion, but, as I quickly learned last summer, this is not the case. I was welcomed into the wonderful world of roaches when I sat down to pee one night and noticed that my toothbrush had grown moving antennae. Despite nearly passing out from the ensuing sympathetic nervous system spasm, I collected myself enough to grab a magazine and send the cockroach scurrying behind the sink cabinet. After a new toothbrush and a couple more bathroom appearances, I bought myself a can of Raid and used it liberally (I'm waiting patiently for my cancer diagnosis,) as I was still unable to kill the speedy fuckers on my own.

This summer's cockroach experience, though topping out last summer's count with a record-breaking six, has been more positive. The first one helped me with a dating decision (I'm sorry, but failing to stomp on a cockroach that is just waiting for you in the middle of the floor is sooo not manly,) the next three improved my hand-eye coordination and ability to use Frye boots, Listerine, and hand lotion as weapons, the fifth taught me a biology lesson as it flipped over immediately upon Raid exposure, and the sixth just didn't bother testing my master level skills and positioned itself directly in the toilet bowl. I never thought I'd see the proverbial day, but my screams of horror and disgust are slowly being replaced feelings of resourcefulness and power.

However, though thankful for the pride I've gained from continuing to win my own little war on terror, I'm pleased that the summer is almost over and the infidels will (hopefully) soon be leaving my otherwise lovely home. Unless, of course, they learn how to sing and dance. That would be cool.

friday i'm in love

Or not. True to my (self) title as the Queen of Procrastination, I don't do any work all week and then do it all on Friday. While I'm busy logging data into various spreadsheets, read some other stuff:

*Hallelujah, praise the Jesus, liquor and wine can now be sold in NY on Sundays! [via Gothamist]

*Speaking of the son of God, there's this haunted house set up by one of those born again type Christian churches in my ol' hometown. While it's designed to deter the kiddies from destructive behaviors (gag) the special effects are actually very impressive. However, the Local Paper fails to mention what the church clearly considers to be the greatest teen travesty of all (suicide schmuicide.) At the end you're shuffled into a dark, empty room, and a big screen comes down showing the Pastor's head (Heaven's Gate, anyone?) which proceeds to inform you that if you lack a personal relationship with Jesus you are going to hell. Sorry, Jews and, like, several billion other people.

*Speaking of floating heads, here's why I need to learn me some Photoshop. [via Blacktable]

patent pending

After spending some quality time in the real world (sadly, not in the Real World) I've learned that just about anything good that happens to anyone is almost purely a result of prestige and/or connections. Examples include my last job (um, Boss, what's a bond?), Drone's boss' ability to secure a restaurant reservation anytime, anywhere while fabulous FAB can't get a resy at Per Se at 11:00 pm on a Monday, and the fact that Lindsay Lohan has been allowed into a recording studio. Clearly, many new products to be purchased by you, the consumer, are also a result of such insider connections. How else do you explain the existence of UGG clothing (unlike the boots, unflattering AND impractical,) and Febreeze Scentstories, the air-freshener that lets you "play scents like you play music...a new scent every 30 minutes...a new experience on every disc!" While I'm a major devotee of the signature Febreeze product (laundry and dry cleaning be damned,) this has got to be the single stupidest invention I have ever heard of.

if you want to live low, live low

*WTF? Despite having visited New York in May for a charity event, Cat Stevens was recently deemed a terror threat on a flight from London to DC. The flight was then diverted to Maine so that he could be removed from the plane and shipped back across the pond. Two questions: 1. Is Mr. Peace Train a threat just because of his relgious beliefs or is there some dirty secret? 2. If Yusuf is really believed to be a threat, why was he allowed to get on the plane in the first place? Makes me feel real safe.

*My little honorary Chilean sister just sent me a link to the best Onion article in recent memory, and it pretty much sums up the state of popular music. Please read this, Maroon 5.

*And now, the moment we have all been waiting for! Well, at least me, one or two of my friends, and Midwestgrrl. Round three of America's Next Top Aqua-Drops Commercial Actress! UPDATE: It appears that someone is even more excited than I! Drone has already expertly analyzed each shining star and given his final predictions. Now who's going to make a betting pool?

*POP!*

All major decisions I've ever made in my life happened in a split second with minimal to no deliberation. After having the taco salad hot lunch on my first day of high school I stopped eating meat and didn't do so again for eight years. When I was 14 and passed ol' Corrumbia on a tour bus I declared to my dad that I was going to go there for college. And my most serious relationship thus far commenced with the question "What's your name again?" after my first drunken blackout. You may be shocked to learn that lately I've been a little stressed and preoccupied with the idea of finding, like, a meaning and purpose in my life. I should have known that all the worry was for nothing, and that such an important decision simply could not be made through research, evaluation of options, or trial and error.

This morning it was decided definitively that I am going to get a PhD in Clinical Psychology (that's research, not necessarily shrinking.) This was not a new idea, but I'd always thought of excuses, like the fact that psych people are all crazy (but who isn't, really,) or that NYC is full of fabulous artsy fartsy jobs I'd be missing out on (but wouldn't be good at anyway,) or that I got a C in a psych class...and a mediocre GPA...and never made myself known to any professors (but the jock life was so worth it.) However, while failing to pay attention during today's Monday Morning Marketing Meeting, my graduate school application essay quite literally wrote itself. Also, I am the queen of filling in bubbles with Number 2 pencils (or with mouse clicks, now that we're so technologically advanced and all.) Best of all, the weight of having to sift through this incredibly complicated and daunting process pales in comparison to the complete lack of weight I felt in the lost bubble in which I've been floating around for the last couple years.

Okay, enough about me. Here's a little service journalism for y'all:

*If you live in New York City and enjoy food, go to Cafecito as soon as humanly possible. Order a bunch of appetizers and a pitcher (or two) of sangria. You will leave very happy and with plenty of cash left in your wallet.

*If you like vintage clothing, go to Kakkoii Mono and mention my site. You will get 23% off (thanks, KM!)

is it hazy out, or is that just my eye gloss?

Well well, what have we here? Another 'osphere-wide blog slump! Given what happened when spring turned to summer, I am not surprised by this as it is far too quickly turing from summer to fall. I've tried to write something every day, much like when I continued to compete in crew races on top of crippling insomnia, bronchitis, and a torn rib muscle. Okay, maybe not like that, but the point is I've tried and failed miserably to construct anything longer than a paragraph for no tangible reason. Things I have attempted to write about this week:

*The tragic corporatization of my beloved alma mater, as evidenced by the fact that almost all of the old staples, like little independent delis, bookstores, and best bagel places in the entire fucking city have been replaced by shiny, expensive boringness. Also, this photo I found on 114th of FAB's old flame looking a little too excited to get an autograph from the cutie patootie Hanson brother.

*The slippery slope into high maintenance girldom, as evidenced by my rapid trajectory from being an eyeliner and pedicure virgin to one who has a bikini wax appointment tomorrow at the place Gwyneth goes, and will not be getting a landing strip because that is sooooo passe. Also, the fact that I have kept one nausea-inducing girl on my AIM buddy list, simply so that I can read away messages like "At home in the Chi! Laying out and then getting mani's and pedi's before tonight!" to remind myself that I will never, ever, for the love of Jesus reach the bottom of the slope.

*The state of this season's fashion, including the rash of annoying articles about how slut clothes (i.e., low-slung jeans that when worn properly are highly flattering) are out and modest clothes (i.e., formless tents that only look good on supermodels or people who actually lived in the 1940's) are in. I'd link to an article but I've come across about 2,938,423 lately. Also, a corollary to this phenomenon--Gina's Ugg Theorem, which states that a., Uggs are ugly and unflattering, b., the reason Uggs became so popular is because they look cool on hot celebrities and supermodels, c., the reason they look cool on hot celebrities and supermodels is because they look gorgeous IN SPITE OF what is on their feet, and their gorgeousness is perhaps emphasized by the fact that they can get away with this, and d., Uggs on pretty much anyone else look ridiculous, making for a slew of fashion victims of a magnitude unseen since permed, poofy bangs and Aquanet. (Note, Gina's Ugg Theorem also applies to those flouncy little mini-skirts that should only be worn by those with no hips, ass, or leg muscle/fat whatsoever.)

Holy shit, I wrote something. Also, in case you'd given up on my dear friend Drone, he is back in full, hilarious form.

bring on the googlers

One thing I love about my new job--after Casual Fridays and free Snyder's Pretzel Rods in the break room--is access to Instant Messenger. May the Company Computer Nazis never penetrate the west side of Midtown. Yesterday's enlightening conversation with bored-in-class law student:

RaeganJ: so did you get the dolphin sex website that i sent you?
gina n betweena: yes yes
gina n betweena: where did you find that?
RaeganJ: how fucking creepy was that
gina n betweena: i know
RaeganJ: my freind justin
gina n betweena: for some reason this year i've learned several times that people allowing their animals to have sex with them is a very real phenomenon
RaeganJ: yeah. who knew
gina n betweena: i'd never thought about it before
RaeganJ: but apparently there is this whole zoophilia subculture
gina n betweena: but apparently there are people who will let their dogs/parakeets/whatever hump them until they, um, finish
[great minds...]
RaeganJ: yeah
gina n betweena: exactly. at least it's not the people having sex with the animals, but still...
RaeganJ: the thing i thought was funny was that the dolphin/parakeet/dog actually does finish
gina n betweena: i know. so weird. i also saw a thing online about a thing that horses hump so that breeders can collect sperm
RaeganJ: i knew about that
RaeganJ: cows do it too
RaeganJ: cause boy cows will only have sex with a girl cow once
RaeganJ: after that they refuse
gina n betweena: really? i had no idea...
RaeganJ: new cow or bust baby
gina n betweena: they didn't teach us that on our school field trips to the dairy farm
RaeganJ: you have to stick around a little longer for that one
RaeganJ: they also don't like the cows/horses/pigs to have actual sex because they can hurt one another
gina n betweena: ah. interesting. guess they wouldn't do well in the wild
RaeganJ: not so much
RaeganJ: apparently, modern breeding techniques have made the animals so different that they can't even make out with one another
[I love how Raegan refers to any and all sexual activity as "making out." Makes it all sound so innocent...Also, what did people do at work before the internet? Anyone?]

fan-fugging-tastic

It's been a long time since I've found a new (to me) blog and felt compelled to spend hours upon hours reading every last bit of the archives. If you haven't already stumbled upon this delightfully sarcastic gem of celebrity Schadenfreude, I present to you: Go Fug Yourself [via Stereogum.]

ground control to moronic bouncers

Thank you, Karenplusone, for confirming that the man at whom I stared with my jaw hanging open and drool running down my chin, was, in fact, David Bowie and not Robert Plant, as the friendly keeper of the Roseland balcony VIP rope insisted. Maybe Robert Plant was there too, but who's going to notice him when you're standing next to fucking David Bowie?

I <3 NYC

[Note: this post will go wonderfully with a nice bottle of Cabernet and some Carr's Table Water Crackers]

First of all, has anyone else noticed the proliferation of tourist t-shirts saying "I [heart] NYC" instead of "I [heart] NY?" Lame.

Anyway, sometimes I really do [heart] the City of New York. Like last night, when Perplexa and I bounced around at the Franz Ferdinand show (over schmover, they were fun,) saw David Bowie exiting the VIP section which we so sneakily penetrated (ok, I'm not 100% sure it was David Bowie, but the dude really reeeeally looked like him, and another girl said "I think that was David Bowie," so for all intents and purposes we saw David Bowie,) went to the supposedly cool afterparty and before entering realized it was decidedly not cool, then walked into another bar passing Chloe on her way out for a cig, scored free shots at the next bar after a cane-using crack addict did a jig for us in exchange for a cigarette (as we had no crack to give him,) and capped off the night at 2 a.m. with grilled shrimp cocktail, homefried potatoes, and petting of the cutest puppy I've ever seen. And then when I got home, I successfully ended the life of a monstrous cockroach with a whack from my family size bottle of Listerine and a swift flush down the crapper.

The best part of all this is that after five years in this city I still appreciate the little things. Like the fact that if one place doesn't work out there are countless other options, that if you get stupid drunk cabs will be lining up to take you home, and that one can roll into a cafe at 2 in the morning and be served hot, fresh food surrounded by people spastically dancing to Beatles songs and crazy puppies with really sharp teeth. We talked to one guy at the Chloe bar who was so pissed he didn't get into the not cool party, and all he had to say was how much that sucked (getting in would've sucked more, in my humble opinion,) and how much the current bar sucked (in which we managed to have fun,) and how cool the bar across the street is but it's so dead that it sucks (in which we later went and had fun.) And I really just felt sorry for him, because as long as you've got some friends you can make things not suck.

odd jobs

*This heartwarming tale of the occasional triumph of beast over man has been making the blog/email rounds today. It reminds me of a story my physical therapist mom told me many years ago about a patient of hers who slaughtered beef cattle for a living. One day the patient put down her rifle, and a cow stepped on it and shot her in the back.

*I've learned that I would make a horrible gold-digger, which is quite tragic because I'm not a big fan of working. This summer I briefly dated a guy who works at this newly crowned four star restaurant that has FAB's undies all in a bundle. Before I got a chance to dine there, I pulled the ol' disappearing act (according to the column this is a guy thing, but what can I say, I'm highly impressionable.)

*Another stereotypical NYC man characteristic I've adopted is fear of commitment. Not in relationships, but with jobs. How can I settle down with one, when there are so many attractive options? Such as these two positions, courtesy of the Local Paper.

sentences schmentences

Sorry, FAB, but this one's gonna be in list format, just like the massive, undone "to do" list helpfully propping up my left elbow as I type this at work.

Things I Enjoyed This Weekend (Note: All activities enjoyed with Perplexa unless stated otherwise)

*Discussing girls with P's 19-year-old brother over pasta and ice cream. The boy's got some stories...

*Waking up in Jersey and being served french toast by P's mother, which compensated for waking up on a pull-out couch from 1942 with spring shapes imprinted on my back. Also, discussing the un-French-ness of said toast with Cute French-Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met in Real Life First (Perplexa was not present during this two-hour instant messaging love session.)

*Being asked if we could, like, go back wherever we came from by the poor vertically challenged girls stuck behind us genetic mutants at the Stellastarr(*...I just can't type the asterisk in seriousness) show. They were good though.

*Having a drag queen tell me he wanted my shirt and then touching his "boobs." They were made of birdseed packed into nylon stockings.

*Purchasing a $250 sweater at Intermix in celebration of the fact that I barely have enough money to buy bologna for my homemade lunch sandwiches but by golly I have a credit card that is not quite maxed out yet.

who will say-ee-ave our souls?

Last night, Perplexa and I decided to check out the Billionaires for Bush party at Chelsea Piers. It was interesting, to be sure, but not remotely as interesting as what occured afterwards.

We returned to the 'hood around midnight, drunk, tired, and hungry. We stopped by Haagen Dazs for cups of the best cookie dough ice cream in the history of the world (flavorful vanilla, generous balls of dough, big hunks of dark chocolate...mmmmm.) Anyway, we sat down on the bench outside to revel in the deliciousness. As we were both drunk and suffering from critical cases of sexual deprivation, the conversation quickly turned dirty. Very dirty. I'd tell you more but I don't even want to imagine the Google hits I would get if I did. So as we were finishing up our ice cream and talking about eating other things (har har,) two people--a small housewife-ish woman and a tall young man clad all in black--asked if they could ask us a question. Well, they'd already asked one question, so we said sure.

What role does Jesus play in our lives, they asked. Well, he doesn't, we said. The woman proceeded to tell us all about the Bible, to which I replied that after having gone to Catholic school for eight years I knew plenty about the Bible, thank you very much. She retorted that she went to Catholic school for 20 years. Damn, she won! She also told me she was from Wisconsin. Oh the coincidence. Anyway, she then grabbed our hands and said a prayer. I was so on the verge of a laughing fit that I bit down on my plastic spoon as hard as I could. After the prayer was over I thought their mission would be accomplished. Oh no.

The woman still wanted to know why we didn't have close personal relationships with Jesus. Perplexa replied that she was Jewish. The woman pointed to her cheeks and said that she had spent the entire day downtown weeping for the Jews. She wept and wept, she said. With her focus solely on Perplexa now, the tall scary goth-ish manchild decided to save me. After asking why I'd cut the lord and savior Jesus Christ from my life and not listening to a word of my response, he proclaimed that I must not have been welcomed by my church. He took my hand and said another prayer, I turned to Perplexa and saw her receiving the same treatment from the woman, they finished the prayers, I said we had to go to bed, and Perplexa and I ran home faster than I ever imagined possible in our 3 1/2 inch Miu Miu and Marc Jacobs heels, respectively. And I'm sure they walked off feeling like they'd just done God a very good deed, indeed.

I think what I garnered from this whole experience is that people's views on these matters are not going to change. The Billionaires for Bush are not bringing any right wingers to the left with their slogans and outfits, clever as they may be. And the missionary Christians aren't about to turn a non-religious Jew and a Catholic atheist into Jesus freaks. But the difference between the two camps is that A., psycho-religious people (I'm not saying all religious people, just the psycho ones) are just plain WRONG and, most imporantly, B., the non-believers don't go around trying to convert and/or blow up those who hold different views.

bring on the botox

I don't have wrinkles, I still get carded when buying cigarettes, and I only wear a bra when I feel like it, but, alas, I am getting old. Several months ago I kind of sprained my ankle, and it kind of still hurts. I've dismissed this lingering pain as a result of dancing on it later that night and going for a run the next day, not as a sign of deteriorating cartilage and other things that are less resilient as one gets older. Last night, however, I received a sure sign that I am officially in the adult category.

It may come as a surprise to many of you, but when I was a kid, I was not exactly "cool." I nodded cluelessly in agreement when my friends talked about the rad-ness of pop icons like Michael Jackson and the cast of Full House. While they spent their evenings watching MTV and TGIF, I was glued to Nick at Nite. Maxwell Smart, Agent Joe Friday, and Dick van Dyke were my heroes, and I marveled at the fact that my parents were alive when their shows were on regular TV. One contemporary show that did manage to penetrate my shrouded worldview, however, was the Fresh Prince of Bel-aire. I've seen every episode at least three times, I still know every single word to the theme song, and damn if that Uncle Phil wasn't just hilarious! And Cousin Hillary, what a valley girl!

Anywho, last night I was flipping between the Republican National Convention coverage and Fox's Trading Spouses: Meet Your New Daddy, when I heard a familiar beat and the words "nooow this is a story all about how my life got twist turned upside down and I'd like to take a minute just sit right there I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called..." Um, sorry bout that. Point is, these words were coming from Channel 6, which means that episodes of my beloved Fresh Prince will be aired on none other than Nick at Nite this fall. It's all downhill from here...just put Snoop Dogg on the oldies station already and get it over with.

they ain't too sma-art

I just got reprimanded by two different cops on two different intersections for improper crossing of the street. The streets I cross (improperly) every day.

At least I wasn't detained. [via Cityrag]

shiny happy

better than prozac


Seeing the above two weekends ago in between swimming in a torrential downpour and smoking...stuff in a canoe has completely cleared my head (except for last night when I couldn't sleep at all and got out of bed at 3:30 a.m. to watch a Tony Robbins infomercial and eat crackers, but I always sleep like crap on Sundays.) Anyway, my weekend was quite lovely, starting on Friday with my final review and approval of the advertising banner my boss designed. There was a glaring grammatical error that the boss, the graphics person, and the proofreader had missed, but guess who caught it? Who, you ask? ME! Then my beer and sausage extravaganza was quite fun, and when I came home from grocery shopping on Sunday to clean the zillions of bottles and grilling paraphernalia off the roof (I was far too hungover to do it on Saturday) I found it all neatly lined up in boxes and bags in the hallway for the super to take away, and my wonderful gay neighbor was out on the roof shirtless hosing everything down and sweeping up. He said not to thank him because he was just out getting a tan. I love him.

Speaking of girls who love men who would never sleep with them, Perplexa and I went to see Margaret Cho at the Apollo on Saturday night. I got a nice ab workout from laughing so hard as Cho brilliantly transitioned between rants about political inequality and stories about giant dildos. Feeling better about the world, Perplexa and I decided to walk home through Harlem. Beer was still the primary liquid in my bloodstream, so I stopped in a rundown bodega to get a bottle of water. Five large men were carousing by the fridge, and when I looked at it longingly they asked what I wanted, Miss, and handed me a mini Dasani. The man behind the counter said 50 cents for me, and I handed him a $10 as it was all I had. I started looking for enough change, but another man came up behind me, said he got it, and handed a couple quarters to the cashier. A little stunned, I left the bodega and told Perplexa the story as we walked away. It must've been the shirt, she said. (Thanks, Marc!) About a block away we hear someone behind us saying the usual "Hey baby, hey mami!" We of course barely noticed this and kept on walking, until I finally turned around to see the cashier holding up my $10 bill that I'd forgotten to take back. Had I been in his position, I probably would've just pocketed the $10. My faith in humanity was officially restored. At least until a few blocks later when we were called fucking bitches for not responding to some dude screaming at us out of his projects window. Anyway, here are a few of the 182 party pictures. (Don't drink and digital camera, kids!)

FABulous


party people


perplexing


cousin it


cuter than puppies


look through my window


why i don't feel a pressing need to move downtown

mmmeat

Why do Fridays at work, the days in which you just want to do nothing and go home early, always involve the most work and staying later than intended? Oh, right, because I'm a lazy sack of poo and don't do anything during the first four days of the week. In any case, I just spent the last hour calling gas stations from Tallulah, Louisiana to Ogallala, Nebraska in the hope of obtaining street addresses for a brochure mailing. You'd think this would be an easy question for employees to answer. It is not. Next, I am to review and approve advertisement revisions from the graphics department so that they can be sent off to whoever makes them. I have no qualifications to do this whatsoever, and Newboss is still on jury duty. Um, they look good to me!

But all of this means nothing, because I'm having a sausagefest...er, party on my roof tonight. And lots of people I know and love are actually in town and coming. My dearest FAB even changed her flight from Hotlanta so she could join in the sausagey fun. Can you feel the love???

late december back in sixty threeee

*Kidman Schmidman. Last night at dinner with work people we dined on caviar mousse, fried cheese, and baklava within close proximity of Frankie Valli. Take that, Drone! Despite the fact that I grew up listening to Oldies and am familiar with the bulk of the Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons catalogue, I was not the person who called out this one. Rather, it was the client/friend of my boss, who regaled us with stories of drunken carousing involving her extremely well-adjusted child, elevator operators as an au pair on the Upper East Side, and Italian male models she and her friends kidnapped in Napa. I want to be her when I grow up.

*This NYT article on the perplexing nature of the Ipod shuffle feature has to be one of the most retarded things I've ever read. Bob--if you don't want the Beastie Boys coming on when you're gettin' jiggy with your girlfriend, make a freakin' playlist! Bicycle dude--your Ipod does not know when it's time to "hit you up with 'In Da Club,'" and hence make you "all of a sudden in da club." Slow news day?

*Yes yes yes! My first blogger idol has a second blog, to which us cityfolk can all relate. I wanna be Eurotrash when I grow up, too.

*The Blacktable describes New Yorkers to a T in two brilliant paragraphs:

First off, the foot speed of an average New Yorker is approximately 447 miles per hour. Please adjust your walking habits accordingly. You cannot walk six abreast on the sidewalk here like you're in the opening credits of 90210, eyes aloft toward tall buildings above. We don't say hello to people as we walk by, either; there are eight million people in the street. It's nothing political, you see. You're just getting in the fucking way.

We're a friendly people. It should be noted that we're especially helpful when being asked for directions, because we like to show off how smart we are. The correct response to directions given generously, however, is not, "Oh, 11 blocks, huh. Should I take a cab?" No, you should not. Anything short of a ride to the airport demands another type of transportation, unless you're completely wasted and navigating that special area where 4th Street crosses 12th Street. Please, try to pay attention.

blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

I was starting to write about my new job, but as my boss has been on jury duty since I started there's not much to say about it just yet. Though I must mention that I love that I get to wear jeans on Friday and pretty much anything but jeans during the week, there's free good coffee, Pepsi products, and Snyder's pretzels, and I can use instant messenger and listen to the radio in my very own cubicle.

Things continue to be weird though. Yesterday I got to work an hour early. By accident. Actually, it was only 45 minutes early because I was "late." Then after work Perplexa and I went to our first Pilates class. It was alright I guess, but the amount of actual exercise would take me about 10 minutes to do on my own. The other 50 minutes included a lot of talk about how to breathe (um, duh,) how to engage the muscles of one's pelvic floor, and the importance of proper pubic bone alignment. I think I'll stick with the treadmill. Perhaps the weirdest thing of all is that, though I still don't do anything at work, I don't read the blogs much anymore. Not even Gothamist or Gawker. Has my ADD really gotten THAT bad?

hateration

I want to go back to New Hampshire!!! Just two days removed from the wide open spaces of air filled with actual oxygen and strange things are already happening, the least of which being the moronic, over-cologned IT guy named Luigi who just restarted my computer and hence deleted an epic blog post after I specifically told him to tell me if he needed to restart my computer. I can still smell him.

The strangeness began as soon as D and I rolled back into the city in our rented Corolla. A proverbial black cat in the form of the last boy with whom I had a "constant non-committal make-out session (NCMO, pronounced 'nic-mo')" crossed our path somewhere around West 43rd Street. As I just recently did the stop calling thing this was rather startling.

After shaking that one off, I returned to my humble abode all ready to begin a stoned slumber. The elevator light was on number eight, and no amount of button pushing would make it budge. Since I moved in over a year ago, said elevator has been out of commission just two times, and one of those times was The Blackout so that doesn't count. Needless to say, walking up ten flights of stairs while exhausted, carrying luggage, and needing to pee sucks.

If that wasn't enough, I decided I just couldn't wait the nine hours until I'd be at work to check my email. Lo and behold, I was greeted my very first piece of blog hate mail! And this is not just any old hate mail, but a 1,678 WORD PIECE OF HATE MAIL. Sandwiched between blurbs on new-wave Christians and fake-hair scrunchies was this run of the mill Local Paper joke: "Oh goody, an inane patriotic poem. This must get an entire page in the newspaper!: 'Jim Bob* woke early one morning with words flowing through his mind. Within about 20 minutes, Bob 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...]" So Jim Bob Googled himself one night and was offended. I do feel bad for being a bully, but if ever there was evidence that there is not enough to do in that little town it is that one thousand six hundred and seventy eight word email. (Incidentally, this is my favorite line: "I will say this…'I, Robot'…you are 100% correct." Right on.) Anyway, sorry Jim. My snotty sarcastic ass is really not worth that many of your words.

And, last but not least, when I returned home last night and turned on the TV, the guy from three NCMO's ago (who is physically old enough to be my father but has the sweetest face ever and the loveliest leather/booze/smoke smell) was on the screen in a VH1 documentary entitled "The Secret Lives of Swingers."

*Name has been changed here, although you could go back into the archives, but I know you're not going to do that, so I think this is sufficient.

oooh baby do you know what that's worth?

Heaven schmeaven. When I die, I want my soul to rest in New Hampshire for all eternity. Specifically, it will reside at Pleasant Pond accompanied by FAB's old roommate D's wholesome extended family and their giant poodle (who had quite the affinity for me, if you know what I mean,) and it will subsist on blueberry pie and weed. My hair still smells like a woodsy fireplace. Mmmm. Here is my new boyfriend, with more pictures to come.

more baby-naming fun

Thanks, Newyorkish, for enabling me on this fine Friday to make fun of idiot parents, one of my favorite hobbies. Rather than choose their own unique, oh so very full of meaning, and more special than all the other kids name, one nice wholesome couple decided to let the internet do it. There's even a picture of the ultrasound for inspiration! And, thank the lord, a comments box:

Strong Welsh name for males or females. From the Old Welsh masculine name Morcant, which was possibly derived from Welsh mor "sea" and cant "circle".

Give him something original. You don’t want your son walking around thinking “They didn’t care enough to put any thought into my name” or always comparing themselves to kids with the same name. Think outside the box give him something unique and meaningfull.

Lucian the Eater of Souls is a very old name, and really gives the impression of a strong and powerful man.

He looks like an Oliver.

Lance Berg would be be great beacause then he could have the nickname "Ice" making him Ice Berg. That would be cool, pun intended.

My ex husband's middle name. If I had had a son I would have named him that and called him Win. I like the positive thought of the name.

I can't even begin to comment, so back to work. There are people in Indiana patiently awaiting a shipment of Beer Koozies from yours truly.

say cheese

No matter what certain people may say, the fact that I now have a job that so far has given me nothing and no one to make fun of does not mean I am going to succumb to such craziness as working weekends. Puhleeease. As a matter of fact, this weekend I am road-tripping up to New Hampshire with people of questionable morals and penchants for mind-altering substances/gourmet cheese. I have not had a real vacay this summer (home does not count) so I am beyond excited.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm liking the new Gawker editor, largely because she wrote this: "People magazine has scored photographs from socialite Nicky Hilton's plebeian Vegas nuptials and, surprise, sister Paris is performing her signature Face At Just The Right Angle So You Don't Notice My Wonky Eye pose."

this is how you remind me

I don't know if it's the Poverty Diet of oatmeal, tuna sandwiches, and microwave dinners, the stress from switching jobs, or the flight of several beloved friends from NYC (come back guys! you don't need advanced degrees!) but I've been quite lazy/uninspired lately. Yesterday I was so numb that watching Bob Costas' Olympic coverage for more hours than I'm willing to admit was only minorly nauseating. But leave it to the Local Paper to snap me out of it.

Hi, my name is

Kristine Hampson

Age: 17
Home: Marshfield
Occupation: Student

What's the last thing that made you laugh?
We were looking for one of my friends in JC Penney and I yelled (his name), and everyone stared at me.

Which song would you choose as the theme for your life?
'Feelin' Way Too Damn Good' by Nickelback, because every time I start feeling good about something, something goes wrong, every time.

What's the worst advice you've ever received?
Don't get pregnant. Then a week later it happened.

If you could switch places with anyone in the world for one day, who would it be?
Jennifer Lopez. She's so lucky. She has the nicest (butt) ever.

When do you feel the happiest?
When I'm with my friends.

-Alyce Yorde, Central Wisconsin Sunday

I am now ready to take on the world, one FedEx-ed box at a time.

let the fun, alternative modes of income begin

Given my aversion to hourly wages, I am not too keen on acquiring another "normal" job. So I took a peek at good ol' Craigslist and found a post looking for subjects for a brain imaging study. $350 for one day of guinea pig-itude, which simply involves radioactive materials being pumped into one's arteries (not veins, arteries) and lying in a claustrophobia-inducing chamber with horrendously loud pounding noises. Sounds good to me! Anyway, a study recruiter called today and went through my life medical history. It was all a lot of "no. no. no's" until he got to the drinking. To make myself look like less of a lush, or so I thought, I told him I consumed, on average, 5-10 drinks per week. (In truth, it's 5-10 drinks per night when I go out, which is actually not that often right now, but 2-3 times when I'm in better spirits.) This causes him to delve into a series of at least twenty more questions, clearly hinting that I must be an alcoholic ("Do your family and friends say you drink too much? No? Really???") culminating with, "Do you really think you can stop drinking for an ENTIRE WEEK before the study?" Yes, Juan, I can. Now give me my $350. That's almost 50 burritos!

adventures in poverty

Sorry for the blog-slacking. Due to a 55% cut in pay (but now I get to wear jeans on Friday!) my life has taken a very sudden turn for the boring, and I've been preoccupied with figuring out how to go from leaking money out of my pores to being, like, financially responsible. There have been many sobbing phone calls to the parents lately, who, while of course concerned, are of the "well back in MY day" type. Nevermind that back in his day, my dad's rent was $57 per month. As the only help I could squeeze out of them is the promise of a shipment of Clif Bars, I am forced to make some changes.

On Friday I made a list of my current rent and monthly expenses, which, by some annoying act of god, turns out to be the EXACT amount I will be making at the new job. Because I prefer eating food over not eating food, this means it's time to prioritize. Moron that I am, this is a foreign concept, but so far it's been easier than I thought. Rent, utilities, cell phone, and subway are clearly essential. The gym membership, tanning, anti-baby pills, and Brazilian bikini waxes, not so much. I'm not particularly looking forward to being flabby, pale, crampy, and hairy, but as my only romantic interest at the moment lives in Canada I figure I can sacrifice a little vanity. Now the only remaining question is TV and internet. I suppose I don't NEED digital cable and a high-speed connection, but given that my two major hobbies are watching the channels numbered above 100 and illegally downloading mp3's, I'm having a hard time with this one. Also, I have somewhat of a burrito "problem" which peanut butter and jelly sandwiches just can't help. Onto finding Job #2. Wonder if Burritoville is hiring...

aaahhhh life

The Procrastination Queen (that would be me, of course) strikes again. Thirty minutes after ending my reign as Bond Sales Assistant Extraordinaire I was informed that I'd been hired somewhere! To start the next morning! So now I have a neato new job for a cool, creative company. Of course, this means that I'm being paid exactly enough to pay my rent and monthly bills. Not eat. Not drink. Nor generally take care of myself (or not take care of myself, as the case may be *coughcoughhack*...damn cigs.) So, it seems I either need to sell my body or move to a much cheaper apartment. If anyone reading this knows of anything in or near the city that isn't too scary, please please let me know. Likewise, do inform me of any rich old men who want to pay me not to have sex with them.