i'm confused

*Why, why why why why WHY does this exist?

*Why did the security people at Central Wisconsin Airport confiscate my bottle of water, mascara, deodorant, Kiehl's lip balm, and complimentary toothpaste from the dentist when I passed right through security at LaGuardia with all of those items (sans toothpaste)? I love that the toughest airport security I've ever encountered is in the most unlikely-to-be-terrorized place I have ever been to. And even more perplexing--are we really supposed to believe that taking away people's NyQuil GelCaps is going to prevent a terrorist attack via liquids? They didn't take away my ballpoint pens. Those have liquid. Morons.

*Why are drinks at the Dollar Bar $1.75? The establishment was true to its name when I was home last year. Those money-hungry capitalist pigs!



*When did I become one of those people that thinks everything their pet does is the most brilliant, endearing thing that ever happened in the history of the universe? But seriously, check out this awesome video my dad took of my dogs! Every night before he goes to bed he lets them out so they don't poop on the carpet in the morning, but Babe's getting up there in years, you see, so she goes to bed (on a beanbag in my sister's room) early. So Dad tells my other dog, Daisy, to "go get Babe," and then Daisy goes into my sister's room, barks and growls, and then leaves, and Babe, without fail, emerges sleepily shortly thereafter and makes her way to the kitchen for a sip of water before joining Daisy to do their biznass. I've watched this video, and the live act, approximately 50,000 times.

animals of the fair

Almost enough to make me go back to vegetarianism.



Crazyass rabbits!



Sometimes I wish...



that I'd been less shy in high school...



so I could've had myself a nice farm boy.



Llama staring contest.

the fair

I hadn't been to the Central Wisconsin State Fair in at least eight years. It is exactly the same as I remember it, only everything seems a lot smaller. In lieu of human accompaniment, I took my camera. With writing I'm all about concision, but I have an extremely hard time editing a group of photographs. These are my favorite six. And I'll probably post the rest later, because I have no self-control.

Here we have your typical group of fair-goers. Note to self: have Bud Light pitcher attached to belt loop at all times, in case of emergency.



Everything seemed so much fancier when I was 10.



Sometimes I miss the element of surprise inherent in shooting photos on film. But there are still surprises to be had with the digital medium, especially when you can't take your eyes off a bulging, lactating udder.



Reba, Clifford, and Mercedes.



The Marshfield News Herald--at least 78 years of grievous typos. (Read the first sentence.)



Always and forever, my favorite building at the Fairgrounds. No offense, World's Largest Round Barn.

danse macabre

Since it brought such joy to Ellen's workday this afternoon (and since I've had half a bottle of "Mystery Red" that my parents got from the local food co-op,) I thought I'd share with all of you--friends, blogfriends, stalkers, and potential future employers--a photographic history of my dance career (and bangs).

2nd Grade


My first dance recital at Tricia's School of Dance. I started with ballet, and I can recall neither the theme of this recital nor the song to which I plie-ed. I remember my song was Irish, though, and I have a vague memory of singing "We Are the World" with all the students in the grande finale.

3rd Grade


The theme was "Broadway," and I added onto my repertoire with jazz. My class danced to "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile" from Annie. Clearly, I've carried this philosophy with me throughout life. (I don't know what's up with those nylon stockings, but I was obsessed with the little white foldover ruffle socks.)


Sadly, no photographic evidence exists of my ballet performance to Barbara Streisand's "People" from Funny Girl. My dad made fun of me for having to dance to that song, and I remember seething with envy towards the older modern dance kids who got "Age of Aquarius".

4th Grade


"Under the Sea" from The Little Mermaid! Score! The theme was "Disney," and I thought this outfit was bangin'. Teal was totally my favorite color.


I replaced ballet with tap after that Streisand debacle. Our song was "Supercalifragilous" from Mary Poppins. I thought that was pretty darn cool. What wasn't cool were our costumes, specifically the white leotard part. I needed a little extra coverage in the chest region, but I had yet to wear a bra. My dance teacher had to show me how to make one out of nylon stockings. Oh, the shame.

5th Grade


In 5th grade I was down to just tap and fully covered in a yellow rain slicker. My class time-stepped to BJ Thomas's "Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head," and I'm pretty sure the recital's theme was "The Newspaper." I was somewhat jealous of the girls who got "Nine To Five" by Dolly Parton (classified ads, get it??) and wore French maid porno costumes, but I had a red, yellow, blue, and green umbrella to twirl. And I got to keep it! Though I still dry heave every time I hear that godforsaken song.

6th Grade


The theme was "Christmas", I tap danced to "Sleigh Ride", I wore a candy-striped tutu, and you can shut the fuck up. By the ripe old age of 11, I had grown too self-concious to continue my hobby. It wasn't so much that I really, really sucked at dancing (I really, really did), but that I was the only one in my school who took dance lessons, and therefore it was patently uncool. By some cruel twist of fate, my mom decided that this picture belonged on the wall in the entryway of our house and would not remove it despite years and years of pleading. It was only when I'd gotten over my adolescent suicidal tendencies that she moved it into the master bedroom. Thanks, Mom.

So there you have it. Anyway.

mexico midgets!

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

inspired by ephesians

It is good to have friends with day jobs.

Thanks, Ellen.

the holy trinity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

s.o.c.

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

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

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

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

Bellevue here I come.

i love dorks

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

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

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

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

oink

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

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

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

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

we have the same coffee order

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

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

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

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

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

like a moth to a flame

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

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

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

My GOD I love television.

damn, you-know-who!

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

signs

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

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

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

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

As usual, my intentions were good.

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

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

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

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

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

updates

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

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

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

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

That is all.

Over and out,

Gina

round things, fried things, and really ugly dogs

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

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

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

happy birthday to me

Take a wild guess!

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

my not so slow descent into alcoholism

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.

my god i love ebay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

episode 1: landing that job!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The truth, it hurts.

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

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

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

Editor: Okay, 10-5 is fine.

Gina: Okay.

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

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

happy birthday to my stomach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pilot

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned for Episode 1: Landing That Job!

New Episodes: Whenever I feel like it.

work, sex, or just plain drunkTM

Hey, kids! I just invented this superawesome new game! It's called Work, Sex, or Just Plain Drunk^TM!

It's quite simple, really. The only supplies you need are a physically demanding job, a healthy amount of horniness, and at least a borderline level of alcohol dependency. I like to start playing Work, Sex, or Just Plain Drunk^TM when I wake up in the morning (that's sometime between 12 noon and 2 pm) and continue throughout the day. So what you do is you wake up and go about your morning rituals (mine are drinking coffee, doing the crossword, and eating half a box of hemp granola, but that's neither here nor there.) As you do these things, take note of all the new bruises, scratches, or other abrasions located on your person. Then you try to figure out whether they happened at work, while having sex, or when you were just plain drunk (obviously you are generally drunk at work and while having sex, hence the "just plain" qualifier.)

I'll give you a few examples of just some of the many injury types you'll encounter as you start to play this game.

The Stumper

Evidence
The two-inch diameter multicolored oval-shaped bruise smack dab in the middle of my right thigh.

Analysis
My work bruises are usually around my knees from running into the outside planters or on my hips from hitting the standing bar. I'd just had sex with Bartender, and he's definitely starving and my thigh is quite muscular, but I don't think he'd try to eat it. Two nights before I'd been out drinking and a work regular said he saw me run into a parked car, but the friend who was with me could not confirm this tale. This is a toughie.

Conclusion
Four days later I had my epiphany. I noticed that the corners of the tables at work are just at mid-thigh height, and the corner would explain the oval shape of the bruise. One point!

The Imposter

Evidence
A set of five long parallel scrapes on the back of my left shoulder.

Analysis
The shape, number, and location of the scratches would certainly suggest sex, and I did indeed pay a visit to the Bartender's basement apartment the night before; however, he was half asleep and more subdued than usual. Before that I was skipping stones and drinking a 40 down by the river, but all I remembered was getting my hands really dirty and wishing I'd had my camera because the lights in Manhattan reflecting on the river sure were pretty.

Conclusion
Upon noticing a similar scratch on my calf when I showered for work several hours later, I recalled that it kind of hurt when I crawled through the hole in the fence that is supposed to keep drunken fools from playing around down by the river. The direction of the scratches corresponded to the side-step motion I'd used to get through the hole. Another point for me!

The Obvi

Evidence
Ellen: Um, Gina, you have a hickey on your neck.
Gina: Oh, shit.

Analysis
Sure enough, Roommate's Friend had gotten a little carried away the night before. The small size and long, narrow shape of the abrasion were atypical of a hickey. I'd put the breaks on the hickey development process early, so it would be just a litte one. (As an aside, my expensive Bobbi Brown concealer failed to cover the telltale spot, confirming that God hates me.)

Conclusion
Duh, it's a hickey, and for the teasing I had to endure at work for this one, two points!

And, last but not least, there is no cheating. Tonight it was this backwaiter's first day on the job, and when I was entering an order into the computer he shattered a big handful of wine glasses on the shelf below. I felt a slight sting on my legs but was too busy to notice or much care. When I got home and saw bloody streaks across my calves, I knew the source immediately. If only I'd not been sober at work tonight...

Now that you know the rules of Work, Sex, or Just Plain Drunk^TM, good luck playing it against yourself! May the best man win!

pitter patter goes my heart

Behold, my one shitty picture from the Broken Social Scene concert in Prospect Park:



I've gotta hand it to the happy hippy couple that puts on these free and benefit shows. I very much appreciated the folding chairs (no one wants to stand for the opening act,) the abundance and proximity of port-o-potties, and the semi-reasonable beer prices. The airplanes flying low overhead every two minutes were also an unexpected bonus.

As for the band, they kicked ass as usual, and for the first time in the last three shows of theirs I've attended I got there on time to hear the full two hours of Canadian jammy rockness. I love how their songs are all so different, and how everyone plays five instruments, and how the lead singer Kevin Drew "really really really really" wants us all to "enjoy our lives," and how I want to have sex with pretty much every band member (and as you can see, there are a lot of band members.)

Ooooo Canada...

my fourth of july

by Gina

This morning I woke up after a night of wine, beer, and whiskey revelry and went down to my deli to get coffee, the paper, yogurt, and hemp granola (which is the fucking bomb, by the way.) On my way back up I passed by the homeless man who hangs out on our stoop. He was wearing hospital scrubs (clearly he'd spent the night at Bellevue), the bottom portion of which was covered in poop. As was our stoop. A fellow vagrant shouted "Dude, you're a mess!" and he said, "Yeah, I need to find some sweatpants." I went upstairs, scarfed my hemp granola, and went to work the lunch shift for five hours.

Work was busy, and since I had to work the night also I got a break for an hour and fifteen minutes. I came home, and the homeless man was clad in civilian clothes and was no longer covered in his own feces. Congrats, dude. I then did the Fourth of July in New York party thing complete with kebabs, potato salad, beer, and setting off fireworks on the rooftop in 45 minutes and sprinted back to work.

Work was dead. I had one table that ordered the $65 bottle of Franciacorta (the Italian champagne) and when the bartender gave it to me and put the replacement on ice to chill, the bottle exploded, sending shards of glass into the face of our friendly Bangladeshi backwaiter. He was a little peeved. The night proceeded to get even slower when the fireworks started. We'd had the go ahead to drink whatever we wanted so we all ordered our wines (Langhe Arneis - a white from Piemonte, the land of Barolo, for me.) The manager put on some Black Sabbath which was a perfect complement to the sounds, smoke, and light of the fireworks. I love work the most when it's abnormal and surreal like that. And when I can drink expensive wine for free. Anywho, I got to leave early and proceeded back to the party on my roof.

Things were still semi-raging, and I found a half full (always an optimist!) bottle of warm Two Buck Chuck, poured myself a glass, and added some ice cubes. (Just like Liam!) Then Ellen and I played with sparklers and an ember flew in my eye and scratched my cornea:











Note that I never spilled my wine, so classily placed between my knees. Priorities, people. I've scratched my cornea once before. It was Christmas Eve in seventh grade, and my sister and I were playing that pen and paper game Pigs in a Pen, Squares/Boxes, whateveryouwannacallit, and we got into a fight and I tried to rip the pen from her hand and in the process stabbed myself in the eye. I went to the emergency room and got a tetanus shot and some numbing eyedrops and a gauze patch. You can imagine how cool I felt sitting on the bench at my junior high basketball tournament that weekend wearing my patch. Fortunately now I have no self-consciousness and will rock my homemade eyepatch until this puppy's healed.

last night at work

Holy freaking crap, you guys, so last night at work there was this massive thunder and rain storm, one of those crazy ones where the sun is still out and unobscured except by the sheets upon sheets of rain. The tables in my section were mostly outside so I didn't have much to do for a while. Eventually the rain let up and I got some action and all was well.

And then walked in two gentlemen who looked forlornly around the restaurant, as customers often do when the hostess is occupied. I'm normally a good little team player, but I must confess that the only reason I ran over to them immediately is because one of the dudes was one of the frontmen of Broken Social Scene, a band that you may have heard me mention once or twice, and the other was one of the most attractive (to me, anyway) men I have ever seen in my entire life. They said, "There must be a long wait for six right now, huh?" and I said, "Yeah, but the hostess knows for sure, let me go ask her," and OOTMA(TM,A)MIHESIMEL said, "Don't worry, we'll talk to her," and ever so gently--lovingly, I like to imagine--patted me on the back as I ran off to do something or other.

Once something or other was over I noticed them standing outside, near my tables, doing some texting. I couldn't wait any longer. "Are you, um, in a band?" I asked the guy in the band who I knew was in the band but because I'd thought about it too much wasn't entirely sure of anymore. "Yes," he said. "You'reinBrokenSocialSceneohmygodyou'relikeoneofmyfavoritebands. ImeanlikefavoritebandsEVER. Didn'tyoujustplaysomelittleshowlastnightinBrooklyn? I'mcomingtoseeyounextThursdayinProspectPark!" Despite my extreme geekdom, we managed to have a nice little conversation about those darn expensive ticket prices and the first time I saw them play (an intimate $2 show at NYU) and how they'd just played Letterman, and they both introduced themselves as Brendan the musician and Brendan the manager, and then they said I should watch the Letterman show if I was home by 11, and I said, "Ha, I'll be lucky if I'm out of here by 2!"

Actually, no, I only said that when I imagined the conversation in my head later and I'd acted cool. Instead I smiled sheepishly and ran off to attend to my 7-top reservation for the first time since they'd sat 20 minutes prior. Once I'd translated the menu, the guys were gone, and I retreated to the downstairs bathroom to pee for a good five minutes straight. All I wanted at that moment was to give the sweet Canadians anything they wanted, but in retrospect it was probably good they didn't get their table with, presumably, more band members, as I was pretty much useless for the next hour as it was.

My job is turning me into a bipolar alcoholic with serious back problems but my god is it cool sometimes.

a michael stipe update

SCENE: Several months ago. My restaurant. Dinnertime.

My Friend M: Goodeveningthankyouforcalling[myrestaurnt]thisisM!

Michael Stipe: Hi, M! This is Michael Stipe!

My Friend M: [doesn't know who Michael Stipe is*] Okay.

Michael Stipe: Can I get a table for six tonight at 10:00?

My Friend M: Sure, that's fine. Can I get your number please?

Michael Stipe: Is E [our General Manager, who is very much a hippie, and very much awesome] working tonight?

My Friend M: Yes he is.

Michael Stipe: Can you tell him not to play any Phish?

END SCENE

*After a long moment of consideration upon hearing this story, I have decided to remain friends with M.

video monday!

Via Ellen via Jason: Girl on Maury show expresses phobia of pickles, is my new hero.

Via Fat Asian Baby: Brooklyn hipsters mock Brooklyn hipsters, do pretty good job.

And with that, I am off to go eat another slippery, scary food, oysters, in, um, Williamsburg.

t-storms

Summer in New York is so awesome! Someone please wake me up in September.

10-Day Forecast for
New York, NY (10003)


Tonight
Jun 24
T-Storms
N/A/69°

Sun
Jun 25
Rain / Thunder
72°/67°

Mon
Jun 26
AM Showers
79°/71°

Tue
Jun 27
Scattered T-Storms
79°/72°

Wed
Jun 28
Scattered T-Storms
77°/72°

Thu
Jun 29
Isolated T-Storms
76°/71°

Fri
Jun 30
Isolated T-Storms
81°/68°

Sat
Jul 1
Isolated T-Storms
80°/69°

Sun
Jul 2
Scattered T-Storms
82°/68°

Mon
Jul 3
Scattered T-Storms
81°/66°

oh, boys

*Trust fund kids are truly a special breed:

"Stupidity, stupidity and more stupidity," Ms. Lillis said, between puffs of a Merit Ultra Lights cigarette as she rolled through East Hampton in her silver 1984 Volvo wagon on Wednesday afternoon, on the way to post fliers for a lost cat. "Those are three reasons pets go missing in the world."

On the seat beside her, next to a container of cat food, Ms. Lillis had evidence to back up her point: a flier, posted throughout Bridgehampton last week, for a missing terrier-Chihuahua mix named Little Joe. The dog, it turned out, belonged to the teenage children of the artist Julian Schnabel. Ms. Lillis didn't know who he was — or much care. She only knew that on the flier, which she now shook contemptuously her hand, 19-year-old Vito Schnabel had spelled Chihuahua "jiwawa," and that when she'd shown up at his house to volunteer to help him look for the dog, the young man had an open bottle of beer in his hand.

"Born and reared in New York City and can't spell Chihuahua," she said, shaking her head forlornly. "And drinking! Don't get me wrong — I love drinking. Everyone should drink. But there's a time and a place for it. When your four-pound dog goes missing, it's not the time to be slurping beer." Ms. Lillis was so unimpressed with the Schnabels' effort that she took control of the search-and-rescue operation herself.

You go, Ms. Lillis!


*And here's one of the very few reasons I miss living on the Upper West Side:

My walk home from those Midtown office buildings sure was lovely.


*Did I say I didn't feel like writing about my "personal life"? Oops. So last night/this morning, at 1:50 a.m., the Bartender, whom I haven't seen in weeks save for a few hours at his bar a couple days ago, called. He informed me that he was heading to [Popular Williamsburg Bar] and wondered if I wanted to come, and, hey, maybe we should just scrap the bar and go to his house, and also he was really drunk. Like, really drunk? Yes, really drunk. I had just gotten home from work and was pleased that I was about to conclude a whopping two days without nicotine and alcohol. Clearly, the appropriate response to this inquiry was a simple, "No thanks, I'm staying in tonight." Of course, my response was, "Yeah, ok. Where do you live, again?" And then I went downstairs for a pack of cigs, a Bud Light tallboy, and a cab. I wasn't so much mad at myself as confused. Why am I doing this? Upon seeing him wobbling down his street holding out a brown bagged 22-ouncer for me, my icy heart melted and my head cleared. Bartender is absurdly adorable, in that fucked up lost boy here-please-let-me-feed-you kind of way. And for whatever mysterious reason (ok, our extreme slutiness and resultant skill level,) the sex is kind of great. Best, and most exciting of all, I do not want to date him! Not at all! So I just may have found what I've been looking for all these years: a real, honest to goodness fuck buddy. In my dreams I'd always imagined that such a creature would live in my closet and emerge only when summoned, but I suppose I can settle for middle of the night phone calls and a hop, skip, and a gypsy cab over the East River.

astor place k-mart: the most special place on earth

This afternoon I swung by the Astor Place K-Mart to get a new computer chair, as my old one (which I'd also purchased at the Big K) broke when I sat on it a couple days ago. I entered the building and noted that the escalators were not running. (Last time I was there and bought my heavy yet incredibly flimsy desk it was the elevators.) So I made it up to the furniture section and there was nary an employee to be found. I went into the shoe department and encountered a portly, gruff lady who informed me that she'd page someone. Ok. I went back over to the display area and sat in the floor model of my soon to be new chair. After about ten minutes and no helpful K-mart employees in sight, I searched out another red-smocked person and he said he'd page someone. Uh huh. I returned to my chair and swiveled around listening to OK Computer, enjoying the double dizziness of the swiveling and the cold medicine (my chronic consumption has flared up again), for the entirety of the album. There were a couple of kids also waiting to get some sort of shelf thing who were totally missing the joy of slipping in and out of consciousness to the crooning of Thom Yorke and the swiveling of a poorly constructed desk chair, and they were sly enough to stop a khaki-shirted manager. He went to the storeroom to check on our items and returned empty handed. He told the kids he didn't have the shelf. They left, dejected. About to walk away, I asked, "and what about this here chair?" and he said, "No." But, oh! They do have the kind without armrests. That was fine and dandy with me, I said. So I waited another ten minutes and walked off with my brand new chair in a box on my shoulders. It is the same brand as the folding chair I had that just broke, but it was only $30, compared to $60 for the exact same model with the armrests in which I'd been swiveling. I'd think the "pneumatic height adjustment" and "easy care upholstery" would contribute more to the cost of the product than armrests, but what the hell do I know? My checkout process was as smooth as my prior service. I made the sly decision to switch lanes when the lady in front of me at the first register got into a bitch fight with the cashier over whether or not the shorts she was trying to purchase for her toddler were, in fact, to be sold separately or only as a set. Lane 2 informed me upon arrival at the register, my $31 and change at the ready, that "no cash!" would be accepted. Third time was a charm, and I carried my new baby the five blocks back to my house. Time to assemble this motherfucker and pray it lasts more than a week.

look, ma, there's a street in my closet!

(As an avid anti-reading-the-instructionsist, it took me about a year with my camera to figure out how to turn off the flash.)

ain't life grand?

Oh, Doctor Dictionary, why must you mock me so with your daily emails??

Word of the Day for Wednesday, June 21, 2006

languor \LANG-guhr; LANG-uhr\, noun:

1. Mental or physical weariness or fatigue.
2. Listless indolence, especially the indolence of one who is satiated by a life of luxury or pleasure.
3. A heaviness or oppressive stillness of the air.

And now to use it in a sentence, I find it more than a little funny (and I mean both funny weird and funny ha ha) that I'm writing for a website about nightlife and drinking and regularly failing to turn in my articles on time because I've been fueling my langour with late nights and alcohol.

just another day in wisconsin

Via friend ADF:

Deer causes flood, leaves dog unconscious

Associated Press
Jun. 7, 2006 10:37 AM

RACINE, Wis. - A spooked deer rampaged through an apartment on Monday morning, leaving a flood, temporarily displacing a family and leaving the family dog temporarily unconscious.

Jerry Falkner said he "heard glass breaking" and "thought someone was breaking in," after the deer smashed through a window.

"The next thing I know, a deer is running toward my room," he said.

The animal ran into the bathroom, and the family locked it inside. The Falkners, however, did not know that their pit bull, Shadow, was in inside the room with the deer.

The deer kicked on the water, flooding the apartment, and briefly knocked the dog unconscious.

Police, with the family's help, got the dog out of the bathroom, while Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources officials tranquilized the doe and took it away.

Police Officer Victor Cera said the deer apparently was behind the apartment building when it was spooked by dogs let out of a kennel. Falkner said he believed the doe came through the window to elude children who cornered it near two 7-foot-high fences behind the apartment.

"In the 16 years that I've been doing this, I've seen all kinds of stuff," Cera said. "But this is probably the most bizarre."

pals

All the pictures E sends me from her work email have this fucked up blurry thing going on. In this case, the blurriness of the picture perfectly illustrates the blurriness in our heads. Hooray for drinking champagne out of straws!

last night at work

Last night I came to the sad but seemingly necessary conclusion that the time has come to put this dear blog out of its misery. It's been a good two-plus years, but ever since I threw away all my biz cazh clothing and started working at the restaurant the Urge to Blog has been elusive. I've tried to find the Urge, but the Urge has a mind of its own. This has resulted in almost as many unfinished drafts as completed posts, and that is a little depressing. Although I suppose it makes sense.

No longer am I sitting in front of a computer all day scouring the internet for hilarious links like this YouTube Taco ToWn! video. And for reasons unknown I've lost all desire to share the details of my personal life, as the celebrities like to call it (although I prefer the more apt description, "whom I'm fucking,") with strangers on the internet. Even though I should've had stories galore, like, say, the time Bartender called me at 5:30 in the morning the night I found out Jose died and since I was lying awake anyway I hopped in a cab to Brooklyn where, in his basement warehouse bedroom, he sang songs about women and Jesus until we decided it was time to get naked, and how my roommate's friend from Georgia was supposed to crash on our couch for five nights later that week, and let's just say he did not sleep on the couch much, and how Bartender called at 3:30 am just seconds after Roommate's Friend and I sealed the deal for the first time, and how the other night after work I was drunk with N at our favorite Bar Around the Corner and texted both Bartender AND Scruffy Brit, whom I have not heard from nor attempted to contact in months and am completely 100% over, even though I'd probably still have sex with him if I ran into him on the sidewalk after work one night and he said in his suave, Gina-killing Manchesterian way, "Let's go have sex," which was exactly what happened the last night I saw him and which I also never bothered to write about.

Anyway, so I'm starting a new feature here, and it's called Last Night at Work, since that's all I have the capacity to write about at this drunken, nocturnal juncture in my life. So last night at work, I was extremely exhausted for non-debauchery related reasons and owe the retention of my job to two tables who kept me entertained and awake. On an outside table sat three folks who were clearly seasoned restaurant patrons. Low maintenance, asked about the restaurant's history, let me decide what they should drink, etc. As I brought out a bottle of kickass limited production Cerasuolo rosato (bottle number four for them--clearly my kind of folks,) one guy was standing next to the table smoking a cigarette and looking shaken. He'd just stopped a robbery, he said, as he pointed to the man being led out to a police car in handcuffs. He'd gone to the bodega nextdoor for a pack of cigarettes and, on his way out, noticed a man fleeing with a wad of cash. As the man reached the door, my drunkenly emboldened customer slammed the door, trapping his cash-filled hand in the door, called the cops, and held it until they arrived. Then it was back to that delicious rosato. Aaah, New York. Meanwhile, back inside, one of my twotops had been sat with four very, very French people. Like, barely-spoke-English French people. They were all talking, nay, shouting, at the same time so finally I just said, "I am going to bring you this, this, and this. Yes?" They sat there for a couple hours and blew through about five bottles of wine and spent about 3/4 of that time outside smoking cigarettes. Their final bill: $166.84. Their tip: $3.16. Aaah, France. I actually kind of loved them for their complete, stereotypical obnoxiousness. Had they tipped me even remotely reasonably I'd have had to revamp my whole worldview. Nevertheless, if it were my restaurant I'd totally add "and the French" to the part at the bottom of the menu where it says "20% gratuity added for parties of six or more."

ridiculosity

The last two weeks have kicked my ass. Last week in mostly bad ways, this week in mostly good. (And by weeks I mean increments of seven-ish 24-hour periods, since my concept of days of the week is inferior to that of even the most delinquent kindergartner.) Point being I have nothing to say until I've gotten some sleep and can once again form complete sentences. So go read my bff Ellen's new blog about nerds and restaurants, Slender Retort, and my new pal Andrew's cell phone cam chronicle, Seen Around Town. You're welcome.

california knows how to party

So I never said anything about my trip to California! Well, due to my idiocy, specifically my getting wasted and staying up all night before my morning flight, my forgetting which car rental service I'd booked, and my nonexistent available credit which made that last point moot, things didn't turn out quite as I'd planned. Sans wheels, I was unable to see Alex and/or Eric and my friend Chef Steph who works her magic at the Dakota. Sad. But this meant I had more time to relax, detox, hang out with the Fam, and jump on every little opportunity to chauffeur them all around in their rental minivan. My parents love them some minivans, and I just love to drive. Anyway.

For the first couple days before the relatives arrived, I spent an inordinate amount of time beached on the big leather couch on my sister's dorm suite's terrace.



I love how in this picture every other person, myself included, is making a ridiculous face.


I would also like to point out the lovely flaxen-haired lady of a certain age at the end of the table. That is Great Aunt Barbara. She was Miss Budweiser sometime back in the 50's. Note that she is drinking a martini. It is a tragedy that this was the first time I met her since I was three.

Here's me and my sis on graduation day. I did her hair and makeup and encouraged her to buy that great dress at Target.



Though hard to believe, we are 100% genetic siblings. Here's proof:



Well, my sister looks like my dad at least.

"i switched the axolotls"

I've been reading a lot lately, which is all well and good. The only problem is that it makes me want things. My brain is like a file drawer filled with knowledge about all these wonderful things I read about and must. have. now. Magazines make me want clothes, books make me want to travel to far off places, and my list of cheese descriptions from work makes me want, um, cheese. I can't even look at the Time Out New York restaurant listings for fear of making my little file drawer explode. Now, thanks to the New York Times, I want an axolotl. They are giant Mexican aquatic salamanders widely used for lab research and, according to my dear old dad, repeated joke fodder for Mad Magazine. They are neotenous, which means the adults retain some fetal characteristics. Just look at that face!

r.i.p. humberto "jose" mendez

I was all set to write a post about how the reason I haven't been posting much is that I'm just plain happy, and no one wants to read about someone who's just plain happy. And then I sat down for family meal and the meeting before work tonight, and the owner stood up and said, "I have something serious and tragic to tell you guys."

He told us that one of our backwaiters, Jose, was shot and killed in Brooklyn this morning. He was with his brother, Humberto, who just started working for us too. Tonight was slower than usual because of Memorial Day weekend which normally I'd whine about because it means less money, but tonight I whined about because it meant I had too much time to think. I didn't want to think.

Jose started just a couple months ago and he picked everything up so quickly. His face was perfect and handsome--completely symmetrical which I've learned from the Oprah Winfrey show is what makes people attractive. Every time I'd blow past him needing to get some waters for a table he felt like a brick wall. Dude was jacked. He was always smiling and happy and worked his fucking ass off and every time I needed something he'd have it in two seconds. He was also a world class flirt and would demand kisses on the cheek when he'd helped us out, which I was happy to give him. He was always impeccably dressed and wore a nice and not overpowering cologne. He came out and drank beers with us last week to celebrate a fellow waiter's last day. Last night he was so happy because he'd just bought some new t-shirts and sneakers. He and some guy got in a fight over a girl outside of their Brooklyn apartment and the guy shot and killed him, while Humberto watched, at 11:30 a.m. this morning.

The first part of work tonight I just felt nauseated and hungry because I couldn't eat, and then Jose's brother Humberto, cousin Marco (a new backwaiter who just started), and other unkown female relatives came in to bring us pictures of him, and I nearly lost my shit. Every time I had to go to a table and ask "Hi! How are you guys doing tonight? Can I get you some water?" and they'd respond, "Great! Yes! How are you?" I'd for once have to lie and say, "I'm great! Is tap okay or would you prefer a bottle?" I had to fight so hard not to tell them the truth about how I was really doing tonight.

What is wrong with people such that anything, ANYTHING, is worth killing someone else for? I've never understood guys who get in physical fights, but a punch in the face, fine. A bullet through the heart, NO!

Fuck.

Jose, you rocked, and I'll miss you and your jokes, your smiles, and your diesel biceps.

street art!

Ha! Get it?!

(I'm down with the art and stuff, but I've always found its terminology more than a little pretentious. Especially "street art". It's called "graffiti". And there's nothing wrong with that.)

no fair!

All we got was George Stephanopolous.

the best story ever

You know how in the American Apparel storefronts all the mannequins are dressed head-to-toe in multi-layered, contrasting-solid-colored American Apparel gear? Every time I walk by an American Apparel store (which is basically every day) I think to myself, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if someone actually dressed like that?" Well today on a stroll through Soho I walked by a girl dressed just like that--leggings, skirt, two t-shirts, hoodie vest thing. The whole kit 'n caboodle. And, uh, it was hilarious.

THE END

i have a crush

Coexistent with my recent blog dry spell has been a dry spell in the more traditional sense. That is, I haven't had sex in quite some time. This is due to a number of factors, including but not limited to the fact that I've already slept with the only straight boy at work I'd want to sleep with and no longer want to sleep with him, recent mysterious five pound weight gain, and working all the goddamn time. This has given me an opportunity to clear my head with regard to The Dudes.

I've mulled over the past five years and come to realize that I've been exhibiting certain patterns. Namely, I'll develop a raging crush on a very attractive guy who is clearly never going to date me (let's call this Type 1), eventually we'll sleep together anywhere from two to fifteen times, and then it'll be over and I'll be devastated. Then I will meet a moderately attractive available guy (Type 2), convince myself that I like him and date him anywhere from two weeks to fifteen weeks, and then run the fuck away when it becomes apparent that he thinks I might be, or someday be, his girlfriend. This was all illustrated quite clearly this past winter when I was alternately sleeping with the painfully hot and exciting Scruffy Brit and the Science Geek from work. I realized that it's not that there's something repellant or undateable about me, as I like to tell myself after a fling with a Type 1, it's just that my girl parts want the Type 1s as much as my mouth wants beer and the Type 2s as much as my mouth wants a virgin dacquiri. So I resigned to put an end to the madness, save myself and the Type 2s of this fair city some trouble, and be celibate until I came across a Type 1.5. I was quite proud of myself for this groundbreaking resolution.

And then my little fortress came crashing down. The night before I left for LA, I responsibly shunned packing and making the mix CD's I'd promised my sis as a graduation present in exchange for dinner and drinks (emphasis on the drinks) with my friend Sarah in Brooklyn. As I entered her favorite local bar, I noticed the tall, blonde, scruffy bartender dude and thought to myself, "Hmmm..." As I sat down for my third beer of the evening and he concluded a conversation about his recent date with a local bartender chick with the magic words, "...but I'm no good at relationships," I thought to myself, "I must sleep with him immediately." Due to my dinner plans, my being out of town, and now his being out of town, this has yet to happen. But oh is he ever dreamy. Please allow me to count the ways: 1. His Myspace profile headline reads "Relationship material? Probably not." (Shut up, he has a unique and very stalkable name.) 2. He gave me his phone number, but he refused to take mine when Sarah offered it to him several days later saying he can never make the first move and isn't good with dating. (That makes two of us!) 3. He is a bartender, and a relatively cute one, and we all know what that means. 4. He purports to be a Christian on his Myspace page. 5. He never finished college. (Again, according to Myspace.) 6. He jokingly refered to me as his future wife, a joke I've only ever heard come from The Canadian, who is probably the biggest relationship wussy I have ever encountered. 7. He may have gotten a blowjob from a hooker on Saturday night.

Truly, this is a match made in heaven if ever there was one, and you can bet I'll be a-callin' the first night I'm free next week. But fear not, I've already got my Type 2 rebound all lined up, in the form of a scrawny painter nerd who lives in the same Williamsburg basement as my work friend Natalie. He told her he thinks I'm beautiful. *gag*

(four dwarves and a minnie mouse)

The Local Paper has been turning out some real gems lately. For your amusement:

The ubiquitous stolen lawn ornament letter.

The I-don't-know-why-the-hell-this-person-sent-this-to-the-newspaper letter.

And, last but not least, a horrendously written, creepily disturbing, and wildly entertaining account of this year's Spencer High School Junior Prom.

one of these things is not like the others . . .

. . . one of these things just doesn't belong.



I don't know about you, but I probably wouldn't scream out "Kraft Single" if I were on Family Feud and the category was "Things Commonly Found on the Back of a Toilet."

Sometimes I quite like having roommates.

a letter from apartment nine

Dear Few Brave Souls Who Still Read This Borderline Defunct Blog,

Greetings from my sunny corner apartment in the East Village! I know I've been pretty lousy at keeping in touch with you lately. Between all the extra shifts at my job and the bartender at the other late-night restaurant down the street from mine who barely charges us for drinks, I've been quite busy. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that it has been a pretty good couple of weeks!

First, I had my three-month review at my restaurant. I know I know, I started working there four months ago, but there was the whole "closed for a week to take the roof off the building and fix the broken cooling/heating system" thing, and the "the manager who does the schedule now thought my request for a week off in May was for a week off in April and scheduled me thusly" thing, and the "general manager's frolicking around Budapest and Prague for two weeks the lucky bastard" thing. So yeah, I had my review, and I got straight A's! Well, almost straight A's. I got an A on service and an A and an A- on the food and wine tests, respectively. Even at the height of my dorkdom (i.e., the first three and a half years of high school), I always had one A-. Gotta keep it real, you know?

Now I don't want to go putting carts before my chickens are hatched or anything, but I think this may be the year in which I do something remotely fulfilling with my time, aside from drinking. Last week I got this writing internship thingy for a big website. It's unpaid, but wasn't it the late great Mark Twain who said "Write for free for two years and if no one pays you after two years, you should quit because you suck" or something to that effect? What's good enough for Mark Twain is good enough for me. Let's just pay no mind to the fact that I've been writing my blog for over two years. Ahem. In slightly less shocking potential career-oriented news, my love for cheese has blossomed since my job began. I grew up in a town that had parades in celebration of all that is dairy, and except for those two misguided years when I was a vegan, cheese has always been my favorite food. I get a little thrill at work when someone polishes off a cheese plate that I selected for them, and I'm also a little thrilled that the cheese mecca of New York City offers Cheese Internships. Let the internment begin!

And last but not least, I've decided that the time has come to pay off my exhorbitant credit card debt. I'm not sure how this is going to happen, exactly, but I think it's going to involve perhaps canceling my credit card (thank you, Ellen, for this genius idea,) getting one of those fancy debit cards with a Visa symbol on it, and saying goodbye to the well-fitting wonders of designer clothing. H&M here I come! (I'm actually on the verge of tears right now.)

Anyway, I hope this letter finds you well! I'm off to Los Angeles tomorrow to see my sister enter the wonderful world of adulthood. Let's hope it doesn't take her three years to come to terms with that like it did for her big sis!

xoxoxoxo,
Gina