Thursday, June 22, 2006
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.)
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
ain't life grand?
Oh, Doctor Dictionary, why must you mock me so with your daily emails??
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.
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.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
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!
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!
