Thursday, June 15, 2006
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!
Sunday, June 11, 2006
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."
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."
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
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.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
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.
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!
Sunday, May 28, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 26, 2006
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.)
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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
THE END
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
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*
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*
Thursday, May 11, 2006
(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.
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.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
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
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
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
craigslist job of the day!
Get paid $500-700 a week (depending on experience) to wipe the ass of an apparently profoundly physically and mentally handicapped "Grammy Nominated Urban Artist in the Music Industry."
Better brush up the ol' resume!
Better brush up the ol' resume!
food orgy
Due to rampant hiring at my restaurant, five of my fellow servers and I found ourselves free on the same night. So we gathered at an expatriate cook's new place of employment and did what we do best.
Things I Consumed Last Night at Gramercy Tavern
*two glasses of crisp, refreshing malvasia
*spiced walnuts and cashews
*seven cheeses from Vermont, Ireland, England, Spain, France, and California (my heart now belongs to Humboldt Fog)
*four glasses of an earthy grenache-syrah blend
*three oysters of unknown origin
*grilled baby octopus with shaved fennel
*chicken liver crostini
*quail with ramps and mustard seeds
*one glass of very expensive rioja
*fresh one-inch-thick bacon with spaetzle and the so-hot-right-now fiddlehead ferns
*some butter with a little potato puree in it
*a glass of late-harvest sauvignon blanc
*a glass of muller thurgau grappa
*three desserts, the ingredients of which failed to register by this point
*heaps of compliments from managers and waitstaff about how much they love our restaurant
I think perhaps we might go back there sometime. Like this Friday.
Incidentally, Gramercy Tavern is now both the former and reigning location of the Best Thing I Have Ever Tasted In My Life. Before it was their braised lamb shoulder on the Main Dining Room prix-fixe menu. Now it is the Tavern menu's bacon, which is as thick as it is wide and probably 95% pure, delicious pig fat. A lot of Zoloft prescriptions could go unfilled if more people knew about this particular bacon. (And if there was any question, FAB, it's worth a flight up from Atlanta.)
Things I Consumed Last Night at Gramercy Tavern
*two glasses of crisp, refreshing malvasia
*spiced walnuts and cashews
*seven cheeses from Vermont, Ireland, England, Spain, France, and California (my heart now belongs to Humboldt Fog)
*four glasses of an earthy grenache-syrah blend
*three oysters of unknown origin
*grilled baby octopus with shaved fennel
*chicken liver crostini
*quail with ramps and mustard seeds
*one glass of very expensive rioja
*fresh one-inch-thick bacon with spaetzle and the so-hot-right-now fiddlehead ferns
*some butter with a little potato puree in it
*a glass of late-harvest sauvignon blanc
*a glass of muller thurgau grappa
*three desserts, the ingredients of which failed to register by this point
*heaps of compliments from managers and waitstaff about how much they love our restaurant
I think perhaps we might go back there sometime. Like this Friday.
Incidentally, Gramercy Tavern is now both the former and reigning location of the Best Thing I Have Ever Tasted In My Life. Before it was their braised lamb shoulder on the Main Dining Room prix-fixe menu. Now it is the Tavern menu's bacon, which is as thick as it is wide and probably 95% pure, delicious pig fat. A lot of Zoloft prescriptions could go unfilled if more people knew about this particular bacon. (And if there was any question, FAB, it's worth a flight up from Atlanta.)
Friday, April 21, 2006
last night's brush with fame
Scene: My restaurant last night, circa 7 p.m. I am very very busy and the hostess is nowhere near the phone.
Gina: Goodeveningthankyouforcalling[myrestaurant]thisisGina!
Michael Stipe: Hi, Gina! It's Michael Stipe!
Gina: . . .
Michael Stipe: What's your availability tonight for six?
Gina: . . .
Gina: Uh, holdonasecondplease.
End scene.
At least I didn't approach him during the course of his meal and tell him how I saw the "Losing My Religion" video for the first time back in second grade at my friend Sarah's house and it, like, totally changed my life and stuff. I did, however, probably stare a little too much at ol' Mike and Patti Smith getting cozy at their table. Cult Rock Heros, They're Just Like Us! They Eat Panini With Friends!
Gina: Goodeveningthankyouforcalling[myrestaurant]thisisGina!
Michael Stipe: Hi, Gina! It's Michael Stipe!
Gina: . . .
Michael Stipe: What's your availability tonight for six?
Gina: . . .
Gina: Uh, holdonasecondplease.
End scene.
At least I didn't approach him during the course of his meal and tell him how I saw the "Losing My Religion" video for the first time back in second grade at my friend Sarah's house and it, like, totally changed my life and stuff. I did, however, probably stare a little too much at ol' Mike and Patti Smith getting cozy at their table. Cult Rock Heros, They're Just Like Us! They Eat Panini With Friends!
Monday, April 17, 2006
happy happy joy joy
Summer in New York officially began on Saturday, April 15th. Though it's even lamer to talk about the weather on a blog than in a real live conversation, I have to mention that the environmental conditions were absolutely perfect. I pulled myself right out of my recent funk with several hours in the Hudson River Park watching dogs and reading magazines followed by quesadillas and to-go margaritas followed by an impromptu bratwurst grilling bonanza on my roof at midnight. Today (a little chilly towards the end, but still quite nice) was for walking all over the southern part of the island and buying the first dress I've ever bought that I actually will probably wear more than once. Even though I need some Ben-Gay for my legs and I had to withdraw cash three times at the $100-per-transaction bodega ATM, I am pleased. I am also pleased by these pictures my dad took of my crazy terrier, Daisy, as she attacks the stuffed George Bush dog toy my uncle brought up from Chicago.
Monday, April 10, 2006
back on the wagon!
Well, the blog wagon at least. The other wagon will have to just roll on by with out me, since the time for to-go margaritas and brown-bagging in the park is nigh.
Here's some random funniness.
*The new game show Deal or No Deal is quite possibly the single worst television show I have ever seen in my entire life. And I'm including The View, Joey, and Revealed With Jules Asner here. It is pointless, uninteresting, and insulting to anyone with a chimpanzee-or-higher IQ. Zulkey's intro to the pointless, uninteresting, and sub-chimp-level IQ "models" of Deal or No Deal, however, is hilarious.
*While we're on the topic of awful television, let's talk about the informercial for Dual Action Cleanse, which, I have to say, beats out Richard Simmons, RonCo, and Climatique for my favorite infomercial of all time. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, A., you need to watch more TV, and B., proceed to Four Four immediately. The talk about four-year olds' poo, the "doctor's" sequined striped sweater, and the creepy-looking inventor named Klee. Pure unintentional comedic genius. Of course, it should come as no surprise that Dual Action Cleanse is a substantial load of detoxified crap (sorry, I had to.)
*I will never forget the first time I saw a PartyBike. It was near my old apartment on the Upper West Side, an area typically safe from the tourist nonsense 20 blocks south. Or so I thought. While walking to Starbucks for my morning soy latte I saw an octopus-esque vehicle go by with seven traditionally midwestern (i.e., morbidly obese) people perched on little bike seats. I stared in stunned horror until the PartyBike disappeared into the horizon. If you're like me and need a second (or first) job, PartyBike is hiring! Incidentally, the PartyBike testimonial from Likesta P. has just made my day:
these family members are all having orgasms
Here's some random funniness.
*The new game show Deal or No Deal is quite possibly the single worst television show I have ever seen in my entire life. And I'm including The View, Joey, and Revealed With Jules Asner here. It is pointless, uninteresting, and insulting to anyone with a chimpanzee-or-higher IQ. Zulkey's intro to the pointless, uninteresting, and sub-chimp-level IQ "models" of Deal or No Deal, however, is hilarious.
*While we're on the topic of awful television, let's talk about the informercial for Dual Action Cleanse, which, I have to say, beats out Richard Simmons, RonCo, and Climatique for my favorite infomercial of all time. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, A., you need to watch more TV, and B., proceed to Four Four immediately. The talk about four-year olds' poo, the "doctor's" sequined striped sweater, and the creepy-looking inventor named Klee. Pure unintentional comedic genius. Of course, it should come as no surprise that Dual Action Cleanse is a substantial load of detoxified crap (sorry, I had to.)
*I will never forget the first time I saw a PartyBike. It was near my old apartment on the Upper West Side, an area typically safe from the tourist nonsense 20 blocks south. Or so I thought. While walking to Starbucks for my morning soy latte I saw an octopus-esque vehicle go by with seven traditionally midwestern (i.e., morbidly obese) people perched on little bike seats. I stared in stunned horror until the PartyBike disappeared into the horizon. If you're like me and need a second (or first) job, PartyBike is hiring! Incidentally, the PartyBike testimonial from Likesta P. has just made my day:
Likesta P. [Ukraine 12/12/2004]
Party bike is like the coolest thing I like ever did. Big Andre drove our party bike with skill, agility, and precision. He executed turns like no other. The whole experience with the party bike and Big Andre left me very aroused and flustered. We met Big A in rockafeller center and he looked stunning and me and my entourage could do nothing but approach this handsome fellow. I had the time of my life and i owe it all to Andre and his electrifying personality and good will towards men. I will definitely go again with my friends to ride this magical bike A.S.A.P!!!!
these family members are all having orgasms
Saturday, April 08, 2006
what?!?
At 4 a.m. this morning, I sent the above Easter greeting, originally sent to me by my dad, to pretty much everyone I know. I almost never send email forwards, I stopped caring about Easter when my parents stopped giving me Easter baskets about seven years ago, and I wasn't even that drunk. Though this is a mystery that likely will never be solved, I think it has something to do with the way that Gmail will fill in an address for you after you type the first letter or two. "E"...oooh there's Ellen, "A"...and Alexa, oh and Andrew! "R"...and Raegan and Rhett and Ryan, oh my! I am easily amused.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
what happens in ithaca stays in ithaca
And most things in Ithaca stay pretty much the same.
This past weekend Ellen and I made the pilgrimage back to Ithaca, where we found ourselves last year taking life-altering breaks from the big city. In three days we managed to see everyone we planned (and didn't plan) to see. Here are the updates:
Morgan
My former roommate continues to blow my mind with her antics and I love her for it. On Saturday night the 26-year-old law student left her friend's house at 4:30 a.m. to walk home. Ellen and I were a little worried when she hadn't shown up by 3 p.m. the next day and her cellphone and wallet were in our possession, but all was right with the world when she came home in a mysterious vehicle and told us that on her walk home she'd gotten in a car with some frat boys she didn't know and eventually fell asleep at Sigma Chi.
Rob
At our favorite place for beer we ran into the hippie who lived in Morgan's attic. Though his hippie girlfriend had pissed off our other roommate Cody prompting the hippie couple to move to Mexico, he's since returned to Ithaca and is going to have a hippie baby. He still talks like he's been smoking a lot of the "quality African herrrb" that he used to offer me while I was lying on the couch watching America's Next Top Model on VHS.
The Law Students
Every delusion I'd ever had about law school being a potential option for me was obliterated when I got to Ithaca. Law school, or more specifically, top tier law school, is the most depressing institution I can think of. Unless you're insane, it sucks when you're there, and then you graduate and you're either a miserable lawyer or in a miserable amount of debt. At least there's Law School Prom to keep everyone happy! Complete with a $20 cover, non-free drinks, a king and queen, and a sing-along to Livin' on a Prayer. It was at the dinosaur museum. Needless to say, Ellen and I planted ourselves in the corner and made fun of nerds dancing with glowsticks until it got old.
The Regulars
After the painful yet amusing prom debacle, we went to my former place of employment for a drink. The bartender I'd hooked up with is still working there and still says he'll be quitting soon. He didn't immediately ask for money when he handed over our drinks so I just didn't give him any and didn't feel at all bad about that. To my delight, the holy trinity of old-man regulars was there. This includes Creepy Roger who runs between the restaurant, cafe, and lounge like he owns the place, hits on undergrad girls, and occasionally applies for a job there without success, David the Math Professor who is cute and quiet, dresses like a 10-year-old boy, and drinks 2-4 pints of Sierra Nevada until closing, and Fabio John, the physicist with a long golden mane who hits on blondes, talks about his friendship with Carl Sagan and his adventures riding whales in Hawaii, and wears the exact same thing every day, which is a too-small pair of Levi's, a royal purple button down shirt, and a brown tweed blazer.
Tate
Morgan's beagle is still fat, allergic to dust mites, and totally fucking adorable.
Gina and Ellen
Though we've moved away from Ithaca and are now enjoying our Ithaca-influenced lives in New York City, we always like to try new things, Ithaca-style
and we still find great humor in bodily functions.
This past weekend Ellen and I made the pilgrimage back to Ithaca, where we found ourselves last year taking life-altering breaks from the big city. In three days we managed to see everyone we planned (and didn't plan) to see. Here are the updates:
Morgan
My former roommate continues to blow my mind with her antics and I love her for it. On Saturday night the 26-year-old law student left her friend's house at 4:30 a.m. to walk home. Ellen and I were a little worried when she hadn't shown up by 3 p.m. the next day and her cellphone and wallet were in our possession, but all was right with the world when she came home in a mysterious vehicle and told us that on her walk home she'd gotten in a car with some frat boys she didn't know and eventually fell asleep at Sigma Chi.
Rob
At our favorite place for beer we ran into the hippie who lived in Morgan's attic. Though his hippie girlfriend had pissed off our other roommate Cody prompting the hippie couple to move to Mexico, he's since returned to Ithaca and is going to have a hippie baby. He still talks like he's been smoking a lot of the "quality African herrrb" that he used to offer me while I was lying on the couch watching America's Next Top Model on VHS.
The Law Students
Every delusion I'd ever had about law school being a potential option for me was obliterated when I got to Ithaca. Law school, or more specifically, top tier law school, is the most depressing institution I can think of. Unless you're insane, it sucks when you're there, and then you graduate and you're either a miserable lawyer or in a miserable amount of debt. At least there's Law School Prom to keep everyone happy! Complete with a $20 cover, non-free drinks, a king and queen, and a sing-along to Livin' on a Prayer. It was at the dinosaur museum. Needless to say, Ellen and I planted ourselves in the corner and made fun of nerds dancing with glowsticks until it got old.
The Regulars
After the painful yet amusing prom debacle, we went to my former place of employment for a drink. The bartender I'd hooked up with is still working there and still says he'll be quitting soon. He didn't immediately ask for money when he handed over our drinks so I just didn't give him any and didn't feel at all bad about that. To my delight, the holy trinity of old-man regulars was there. This includes Creepy Roger who runs between the restaurant, cafe, and lounge like he owns the place, hits on undergrad girls, and occasionally applies for a job there without success, David the Math Professor who is cute and quiet, dresses like a 10-year-old boy, and drinks 2-4 pints of Sierra Nevada until closing, and Fabio John, the physicist with a long golden mane who hits on blondes, talks about his friendship with Carl Sagan and his adventures riding whales in Hawaii, and wears the exact same thing every day, which is a too-small pair of Levi's, a royal purple button down shirt, and a brown tweed blazer.
Tate
Morgan's beagle is still fat, allergic to dust mites, and totally fucking adorable.
Gina and Ellen
Though we've moved away from Ithaca and are now enjoying our Ithaca-influenced lives in New York City, we always like to try new things, Ithaca-style
and we still find great humor in bodily functions.
