Tete Rouge

Happy(?) Anniversary

2007-05-02T14:52:00.000-05:00

Today I’ve been at my job for a year. I remember the sinking feeling I had last year when I got into this relationship with my job, the feeling like, “Is this the only job I’ll ever have for the rest of my life?” Although I knew it wouldn’t be the rest of my life, I couldn’t imagine being there every day, and a year seemed like it would drag on until I felt like I was 87 and my husband of 60 years had never gone down on me. You know what I mean?

Even if you don’t, here I am, a year later, not married or 87, and determined to marry a man that will perform cunnilingus frequently. Eww although not when we’re old because extra wrinkles are too much work. Anyway.

So what do I get after a year? A cluttered desk, no real raise or review, 12 issues of one magazine and six of another, a million Diet Dr. Peppers, dirty Tupperware, and the feeling that I’ll be here for at least another year. Meanwhile the creative part of my brain is trickling away into the dust and disappearing while I watch everyone else around me grow and blossom and gain professional credit. I still can't pay my loans.

Awesome. Thanks for that year of my life.

Poor Ernst

2007-04-18T12:05:00.000-05:00

As per The Daily Telegraph:

Little sun bear Ernst is miserable now in his enclosure at the Zoologischer Garten zoo in Berlin, because he has lost his visitors to popular bear cub Knut.

So, you know, you want to feel bad for this little guy, right?

Look at that little mug! So sad! So blue! Whatever shall he do, without the hordes of screaming children chucking things at him and the hundreds of flashbulbs blinding him and the neverending noise keeping him from his sweet bear dreams?

Oh, nevermind. I think he'll be just fine.

On a side note, I think he kind of looks like Jeremy Irons.

Bookit to me

2007-03-15T15:47:00.000-05:00

I’ve discovered the best distraction ever, well I didn’t discover it but now I love it so much that I’ll attempt to claim I discovered it when really I don’t know where I found it: www.dailylit.com. You pick a book you want to read and they email it to your lazy cheap ass just like that, in easy little bits, whenever you want. I picked Anna Karenina and thought, Right, I will never read this, I am way too lowbrow and ADDish. But now, instead of just sticking to the MWF schedule I originally chose, I click on “Send me the next fragment immediately” link over and over again, all day, until now I’m on part 65 of 430 and cruising along quite nicely. What’s going to happen to these people? I know someone gets crushed under a train, and someone of no character/story consequence already has, but I bet that’s just some nice use of foreboding. Don’t spoil it for me, please. I’ll get to part 430 by tomorrow afternoon at this point.

Fuck you, MegaMillions

2007-03-08T16:26:00.000-05:00

Every time I read another story/book/blog entry about New York and how it is/is not how so-and-so imagined it, I want to hit someone. There are people who live like the people do in movies and chick lit based in New York. These are rich people. And even they are deluding themselves and playing characters based only slightly in reality. Most of the people in New York are so boringly normal, that life here becomes one unending cycle of workweek followed by boozy weekend followed by workweek followed by yeah, another boozy weekend where I sit on my couch thinking of what I’d be doing if I had money. If I’ve just gotten paid, and it’s not time to pay rent yet, I’ll go to brunch. One week later, when my bank account is overdrawn (oops, bills, student loans) I’ll regret the brunch choice and instead opt for Maxwell House and a half-ass omelette that I like to call “Scramble Surprise” because I can never get it to retain its ideal omelette form. Then my friends call to "go out for drinks!" and I try to decide if I can smuggle the seven leftover beers from New Year's in my purse because come on, paying $3 per drink is highway robbery.

Where was I. Yes. Boring. Normal. Work sucks for everyone unless you are getting paid a cajillion dollars to appear at parties or “design” a fashion label or do something else incredibly stupid that makes people like me jealous and angry that they weren’t born braindead so they wouldn’t have to witness it. People envy me my job until I tell them how much I make, where I’m going with it (nowhere) and exactly how many words of pornographic filth I have to wade through daily to try to make something that doesn’t completely suck your soul out.

I want to write a book where a girl has no huge expectations, beyond an unrealistic relationship ideal, moves to New York, sinks lower in debt, hates her job, does the same things every weekend with the same people, and can’t afford brunch three out of four weekends in the month. Unfortunately, not everyone is me, and most of those people that aren’t me are rich, comparatively, so they’ll be fine, and I will still hate them, especially when they publish that saucy piece of trashy literature where their character has “problems” but still manages to wear designer shit every day, even if their mean old boss does yell at them sometimes. Boo hoo. Buy me brunch.

If you can’t tell, I’m bitter that I didn’t win $390 million the other day.

This week in disturbing events

2007-02-16T14:16:00.000-05:00

These two events have nowhere else to go but here, at the end of the week. They stand out in my mind because they disturbed/upset/ickyfeelinged me, in their own separate ways. If I were an annoying Seinfeld character (yes, I am the third person you know in the entire world who despises Seinfeld) I would premise these stories with, "What is up with (blankety blank)?" But I'm not, so I won't.

Monday, 7PM, at Dolphin Gym on Avenue B and 3rd street. I am merrily ellipticaling, minding my own cardiac business, when I see two stationary cyclists chatting. One is a girl, one is a guy. "Oh how nice, they must know each other!" I think, not jealous at all, because honestly it's really hard to casually shoot the shit while racing towards a healthy heart rate. At least for me. Anyway, they chat, then cycle, then chat, then all of a sudden, their necks are stretching and their mouths are veering dangerously close to each other. In a horrible flash I see it all: These two are dating. Sick. These two exercise together. Awwwkward. These two are about to make out, WHILE exercising. Holy shit, no God, please don't do this to me--and there they go, smooching away while riding their bikes to nowhere. There is no kissing in the gym while riding. That is my rule and I think it's a good one. If I wanted to be nauseated by public displays of affection I'd go hang out in the park and watch people on their carriage rides. Not like I've ever done that.

Yesterday, 6PM, Manhattan Mall, on my way to buy two shirts totaling $13.50 (thank you Charlotte Russe clearance rack). A lost-looking woman in a coat and hat says, "Excuse me, can I ask you something?" and touches my arm. She has a herpes-like cold sore on her lip, and there is a big black hair growing right through it, I swear to God. Which is fine, I don't discriminate when I give directions, which is what I thought was about to happen. But it was much, much worse.

"Is this your natural hair color?" she asks, grabbing a hunk of my hair in her creepy claws. "Um, yes." "Veeerry nice! And are these your real nails?" she coos, grabbing my hand, barely glancing at my chewed-down, splitting, decidedly non-fake nails, nails no one would ever shell out money for. "Yeah..." I reply, just as she whips out a crappy old used nail buffer AND STARTS TO BUFF MY NAILS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MALL. I snatched my hand away and ran to the safe welcoming arms of Charlotte Russe. To be fair, as I looked back quickly as I ran, she was standing near the Dead Sea Minerals stand and probably just wanted to help. But look, do not pull my hair and then try to buff my nails, when you're not wearing a beauty person uniform/apron.

People. Stop disgusting me. You are making me lose my faith in humanity. On that note, I am going to Vermont this weekend to restore said faith by ogling hippie boys and their patchwork pants at Magic Hat Mardi Gras. Boo-yah.

VD is for everyone

2007-02-14T09:37:00.000-05:00

I'm getting this one out of the way now, early on, so you don't have to spend your day worrying about my feelings on VD. Instead, you can enjoy yourself with a loved one, or you can spend it being bitter and lashing out at all the commercial signs of a love you wish you had. Whatever.

I am not diametrically opposed to VD, unless it really is an actual VD and is incurable and bumpy and nasty. I think it's great that people are reminded at least once a year (although let's face it, you shouldn't need a reminder) that they love someone. I like this day because I get to spend it acting bitter and saying charming things like, "Fuck flowers, stupid Hallmark, you have a sick case of VD, don't touch me," etc, and no one can say anything about it. They just chuckle, thinking, "Oh, that MB. Being single must suck!"

I disagree. All you couples on VD have to think of something that's not contrived, that really means something to your loved one. You have to work hard, be creative, and come up with a gift that isn't silly and is actually sincere—all while pretending, for the sake of your single friends, that this day is not a big deal.
It is a big deal, to everyone. This is the day I can complain about dying alone and shake my fist at marketing tactics. It's a holiday for me as much as you, just a slightly different kind. And people still give me chocolate so I'm not missing out anyway.

By the way, it is hailing tiny ice balls outside—tickly!
Also, if I ever were to be in love and want a mushy poem taped to my bathroom mirror, this one would be it. So, you know, uh, Happy Valentine's Day.

By ee cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Happy MLK Day

2007-01-15T11:03:00.000-05:00

Oh, hey Blog. How have you been? Oh, cool. Me too. What? What is it? Don't look at me like that. I know I promised I'd take better care of you and actually try to put some real work into this relationship, but I lied. I'm a liar, okay? A big fat lazy liar.

I've had a lot to deal with lately. I mean, sometimes I do things at work. My boss started coming in on time which meant I had to come in on time and not just five minutes before him so he'd think I'd been there since nine. And it's really hard to get the balance going, the switching between Firefox (so many open tabs!) and Word and In Design and work email, while making it appear that I am actually accomplishing something. When in truth, I like to get things done when my boss isn't there to see, for some self-punishing reason that probably has to do with my father and his nagging me to clean my room, or you're grounded and I would be like stop yelling at me, I'll do it, I don't need to see the floor and then I'd only clean it when he finally gave up and stormed out to "go throw myself into the lake."

No one is at work today. Because it's a bank holiday, holy MLK day, when most normal people get to relax and think on the state of civil rights then and now. But not us. Nope, not this magazine. We are so committed to bringing you quality content, that we do not have the day off. Except for the people who took the day off.

That brings me to why I'm here, Blog. I wanted to say I'm sorry, one more time. I wanted to say I've missed you, and I hope we can work it out. And if not, it's okay because I'll just be back in another month and a half or so.

xoxo

Me

Umm.

2006-11-17T10:42:00.000-05:00

I don't get it. I don't get you, Mr. Bush.

HANOI, Nov. 17 — In his first day in the capital of a country that was America’s wartime enemy during his youth, President Bush said today that the American experience in Vietnam contained lessons for the war in Iraq. Chief among them, he said, was that “we’ll succeed unless we quit.”
—"Bush Cites Lessons for Iraq in Vietnam," The New York Times, today.

Here's an idea: let's take our cues from the (other) most idiotic war we've ever fought, the one we finally, after years and years of pointless bloodshed and protest pulled out of, the one we LOST, horribly and miserably and other words that mean really really badly screwed up. I don't even have anything clever to say at this point about how much of an idiot monkeyman he is, a thickheaded brush-wackin' fuckup, all I can do is that thing where you tickle your lips and go "buh buh buh," indicating you're exasperated to the point where your mind isn't working.

Of mice and pigeons and hallway sex and me

2006-11-15T10:17:00.000-05:00

So, I'm back. I don't want to hear your complaints because I know you don't have any. Stupid internet.

This past weekend was quite the momentous one, as three friends were in town and in charge, and we basically walked the entire island of Manhattan in a few days ("Let's be just like Sex and the City!!"). We saw everything and did as much as we could, and I was a good little tourist. Really, I hardly complained. There were only a few mishaps, which I will now enumerate.

1. While we were fighting for our lives and sidewalk space among the teeming masses in evil sick Times Square hell, I felt something fall on my head. "Who would throw something in my hair?" I said. Oh, a pigeon would. A pigeon would definitely poop on my head, just to reaffirm that I do not, in fact, belong in Times Square and will be punished accordingly for forgetting that. Luckily we had water and napkins on hand, and a hat. Sick. To the left, my head, after most of the poo was vanquished.

2. Sunday morning, my cat caught and killed a tiny mouse and was playing with it in the hallway. He was quite proud, and I almost peed my pants. I don't mind bugs, spiders, or abnormally large seagulls, but I do not like rodents. And I really don't like them dead and in my house and making a sad "I'm a dead tiny mouse" face. After panicking and backing away, I tried calling a few friends of the male persuasion to help, until I realized that I was being ridiculous and we swept it into a dustpan and I took it outside to its final resting place in the corner garbage can. I also took it outside wearing the previous night's heels, boxers, and an inappropriate T-shirt advertising porn.

3. Sunday night at 11 PM, my roommate came in and said, "There are two people having sex in our hallway." Me: "What? No, there are not." Her: "Oh yes, there are." I went to peep through the peephole, and sure enough, two people (who probably came from the club downstairs because it was not our neighbors) were banging against the wall five feet from our front door. After a sufficient amount of peeping time, I jiggled the lock on our door and they bolted. Dirty bastards.

Other than those three things and some other minor occurrences, the weekend went swimmingly and a good time was had by all. I'm guessing those people in the hallway might have had the best time though, until we busted them for dirtying our environs.

Friday's child

2006-10-13T14:48:00.000-05:00

I'm hoping great things will happen this weekend, because my coworker told me on October 10 that you can wish for whatever you want and it will come true, because it's 10/10. I mean, I know that's sort of a verbal "SCROLL DOOOOWN WISH WISH WISH!!!" chain mail kind of thing, but dammit, I need some good luck. So here's what I wished for:

1. That a certain someone shows up with an awesomely large armful of flowers and apologizes for not showering me with devotion sooner, and that he has finally, painfully, extricated his head from his ass.

2. The club downstairs closes, and a record/candy/guitar/book/cheese curd store opens there instead, and all the employees are hot, intelligent, socially-unawkward single men who looooove redheads.

3. Oprah calls and offers to pay off all my debts. I appear on Oprah. She hires that guy to redo my apartment.

4. Jake Gyllenhaal calls and offers to smooch me. He appears on my bed.

5. The book I haven't written yet is an immediate bestseller, all those people who doubted me back when I was winning spelling bees in grade school read it and realize they are the inspiration for the evil, backstabbing, exclusive, dumb-as-rocks antagonists who are stricken with multiple disfiguring STDs early on in the story, feel bad, get really jealous, then go back to living their lame lives and working at the Bagel Shoppe.

6. $100,000 promotion. I mean, I'm trying to be realistic here.

7. George Bush calls and apologizes for fucking up the country/world, tenders his immediate resignation, followed by Cheney, and Barack Obama is unanimously voted President.

8. I throw a big party. Paris Hilton can't get in, but Soleil Moonfrye shows up and admits she wanted to be me when she was a little girl. Nicole Richie consents to eating a 20-lb hamburger and subsequently puts on 20 lbs.

9. I buy houses for my entire family and all my besties, and everyone gets a beer/soda/scotch fountain installed and free healthcare.

I think that's it, for now. I'll let you know on Monday how the weekend goes.

My new friend!

2006-10-05T10:02:00.000-05:00

Hey! Good morning! Guess what, I have a new friend! His name is Jean Claude, he works at the club downstairs, and instead of leaving work last night/this morning, he decided to stay awhile. I found him this morning on my way to work. Asleep on our stairs. Inside the building, not outside. And not asleep, no way! My buddy Jean was completely passed out and unresponsive to all my efforts to wake him. Because I am a good friend, these efforts included, but were not limited to: shaking, stomping on the stairs, smacking his face, grabbing his shoulders, pinching his nose and ears (gently, of course). Don't worry, I checked for his pulse, and he had one.

"Oh, buddy," I thought, (I didn't know his name yet, but already I felt so close to him) "Who are you, and why are you in such a state?" I got my roommate to come out of the apartment, and I called 311. Then they switched me to 911 and then to the EMS. Of course, my new friend roused himself as soon as I hung up with the EMS, and tried to go towards the door that leads into the club. It was locked, unlike our front door, which the club people always leave open, in case any visitors want to stop by unannounced. Poor Jean! He was glassy-eyed and unresponsive to our heartfelt inquiries as to why the fuck he was asleep in our building.

The cops/firetruck showed up, to make sure he was okay. He told them he works at the club and was working last night. Well, I think that's what he said, he didn't seem to speak much English. Another employee said, that yes, he worked last night, and had too much to drink! Oh the stresses of work, they can really get you down. The best thing to do is get completely wasted and pass out on my stairs. The cops said since he wasn't on the stairs when they showed up, they couldn't give him a ticket. He didn't have an ID, or know his address though, so that might prove a tough situation for him in the future.

Anyway, I finally left for work. It's fun to have a new friend sleepover on my stairs, not even 15 feet from my door, even though I don't know him and instead of being a small drunk wobbly man, could've been a huge violent burglar or some other type of scary man intent on hurting the girls that live on the first floor in an unlocked building. Whew! That was a close call. Thank God for Jean Claude!

Dr. Xenalover McDouchebag and the latest attack on Pluto

2006-09-14T13:40:00.000-05:00

My invisible friends. I know it has been awhile, but the wireless internet we were guiltlessly ganking off of an unknown neighbor has disappeared, allowing me to only post while at my life-sucking job. Who can think of a post while the cubicle walls still stand? I digress.

Today I would like to express my hearty disapproval in the further mishandling of the case of my favorite former planet, Pluto. Please take a moment to read this article, from today's NYT:
A Dwarf Planet is Named: Eris

First of all. This wackass scientist has repeatedly insisted upon using his utterly predictable dorklove for Xena: Warrior Princess to slap lame names on celestial bodies. Who is this guy, that he was given the go ahead to trot around calling scientific phenomena Xena and Gabrielle, while poor Pluto goes from a happy yellow puppy to 1340340? A number people, a fucking number. So what if he discovered that rocky ice ball? I discovered today that I severely dislike his name choices, and do I go around labeling him Xenalover McDouchebag? No, because I have class, and have only seen one episode of Xena and so I can't really judge.

Second. Okay Dr. Xenalover McDouchebag, Eris is a good name. I used it as part of my screenname on Prodigy when I was 10 and trying to trap pedophiles. Geeky ones. Don't ask me why I did that, it's another story and wholly hilarious and wholesome and in no way creepy. Anyway, I digress. Again. "Eris is only slightly bigger than Pluto," they say. And so why does she get a name and not a number? Sexism! That's what it is. The feminists are getting back at Pluto.

I don't really believe that. I mean, the feminists are way too busy being crazy to focus on Pluto. Not that I don't like feminists, I mean, I'm female and I like myself. This whole Pluto debacle has just made me crazy mad!

Anyway like I said, it's tough to post anything worthwhile at work, and that is why you had to suffer through the above ridiculousness. Now please write to your local politicians and demand that Dr. XenaloverohIlovehersosomuch McDouchebag not be allowed to go around labeling things so dorkily anymore.

First Pluto was demoted, now this?

2006-08-30T11:41:00.000-05:00

"Ernesto Drops to Tropical Depression" -- NYT, today

The science world needs to stop laying the smackdown on planets and hurricanes. It just ain't right, and now feelings are getting hurt and Ernesto is going to see a therapist when he finally gets out of bed in the morning and Pluto just won't stop drinking, why won't he stop drinking, oh God, not the belt honey, please just put it down, yes I think you're still man enough to hold down any job, fuck those NASA guys, you're twice the planet Mars is.

Quick

2006-08-21T15:13:00.000-05:00

I haven't posted in ages. You don't care.

I just want to say, after reading the NYT headline that Snakes on a Plane was an opening weekend letdown. Really? They REALLY thought that a movie about snakes on a plane would do well? Maybe if they got a nickel for every time someone made a joke/blogged about the movie snarkily, well then yeah, it would've been a success. But if I want to snakes on a plane, I will picture it in my head and laugh, and save my $10.75 for something powerful and uplifting like Talladega Nights.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/21/movies/21box.html

Warning: mushy ushy ooey-gooey feelings expressed

2006-08-04T14:35:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I forget why I wanted to get into the business of journalism/media. All the petty criticisms, the fight to get the story that will establish you as a writer of some repute, the word- and society-wrangling to get a leg up. I get sick of reading about everyone who's better than me, everyone who's worse, and yet I still continue to pay attention to it all. I get sick of every news outlet, the NYT (of course), blogs, dailies, weeklies, monthlies, even though I rely on them to check-in with the world. A world that is constantly disappointing me and worrying me and making me lose my faith in humanity and making me think we are one oil drum away from destroying the world with global warming, greed and war.

And then there are articles like this one:
"All the News That Fits: Liberia's Blackboard Headlines"
with passages like this: "Sometimes he adds an editorial — a thundering denunciation of corruption, or a plea for Liberians to be kinder to one another. When the president called for a day of national repentance before the Independence Day celebration, Mr. Sirleaf wrote, 'Say sorry for your evil deeds to someone that you hurt yesterday for peace sake.' "
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/04/world/africa/04liberia.html

Jesus H. Christ, if we could just say sorry to someone for peace sake...

P.S. Since this has so far, been a less-than-serious blog, I apologize for waxing all Woe is the World on whomever might be reading this. Sometimes I am overcome by feelings of sickly sentimentality. I should be cured by Monday, after a weekend of hedonism and evildoing.

Seven blocks and a world of noise

2006-08-01T12:02:00.000-05:00

It has been too long since the world has gotten to hear about my personal life, and a lot has happened. For the last two weeks or so, my life has been like this: clean new apartment, paint new apartment, clean up after painting new apartment, pack up old apartment, move to new apartment, unpack, clean old apartment.

However, instead of packing LOTS of boxes for the guy I hired to move me to load in his truck, I packed like, two, and thought "I'll just tote my huge massive wheelie duffel back and forth a few times. What the heck, it's only seven blocks!"

2938547439857 trips on sweltering hot days with a heavy, overstuffed duffel later, and I think I'm the dumbest person alive. And I think all of Avenue B has gotten sick of seeing me making that trip three times a day in all of my sweaty glory. I know I'm sick of it.

To add to all the moving trauma, we arrived with the couch on Tuesday and spent almost an hour grunting and wheezing and cajoling, only to finally abandon said couch due to non fitting through the stairway dooredness. I saved the cushions though, so our living room is kind of like a genie's bottle now.

Let's not even start on that trashy club downstairs. I hate it. I hate its thumping bass from 10-4 EVERY SINGLE NIGHT and longer on Sundays. I hate the line outside my door with the gelled guys and their KMart prostitute dates. I hate everything about it. I need someone to buy me heavy curtains, large rugs, and a huge amount of cork to stick to my walls to soundproof them. Any volunteers? Oh, I also need an actual bed to lift my mattress of the ground, which reverbrates with club bass every night.

Or maybe just a lifetime supply of sleeping pills. The threat of addiction means nothing to me, if it means I can sleep every night.

Playing chicken: the office version

2006-07-27T15:08:00.000-05:00

First of all: I haven't updated this in awhile, but that is because I moved apartments this week and my life has gone down into a swirling, sweaty, expensive vortex, wherein I lost my couch due to non-fitting-through-the dooredness. So lay off me.

If you're not completely put off by my snippiness, please go on to enjoy my extra-unfancy edition of Today in My Head, While I Sat Here, Bored at Work.

Today in My Head, While I Sat Here, Bored at Work, I started to count all the times I play chicken during the workday (if you don't know what playing chicken is, you've never seen the best movie ever, Crybaby, plus like 43 cajillion references/instances in American film). Here are a few I thought of Today in My Head, While I Sat Here, Bored at Work:

1. Morning news/breaking gossip Chicken, also known as Silence, I'm Working Chicken: This is when something interesting or breaking happens in the real/gossip world, and no one wants to be the first to shout it over the cubicle, but everyone wants to talk about it. Seeing how long you can go, wondering "Am I the first to read/hear/watch this? Does anyone else know? What do they think? Do I have a better comment?" is rough. But if you're the first to bring it up, everyone knows you're not working, and then Suckeyup McBrownoser over there, who started working at 9 am sharp while you drifted in at 9:06 and then left again to get coffee (and a donut, fine), starts looking like a nice candidate for promotion.

2. Hallway Chicken: Very similar to Sidewalk Chicken, this happens when you're walking directly towards another person along the tiny hall and you're not sure which one of you is going to move where when the time comes to interesect, or if you should just turn off down a random aisle to avoide an uncomfortable hallway side-to-side dance.

3. Eye contact Chicken: In circumstances like the one above, when both parties are studiously looking anywhere but ahead, until one has to break and make eye contact, thus forcing an awkward greeting.

4. Bathroom stall Chicken: Perhaps the most nervewracking of all Chicken games. Can only be played in office bathrooms with stalls that do not have floor-to-ceiling walls/doors, and therefore, no barrier to protect other inhabitants from hearing/smelling your stinky offerings.

Unfortunately, these happen to me almost every day. Number 4 most recently, as I battled it out with a woman known to me only as "blue flip flops," as that was all I could see of her feet. I entered the bathroom after her, and from the moment I took my position and silence ensued, it was on. She was in there first, she had her chance. As the minutes ticked by and neither of us gave up and left, I started to panic. What if my boss thought I was up to inappropriate bathroom behavior like drugs or picking my teeth with his letter opener? What if she never left and I had to surrender and suffer for the rest of the day? I was about to yell "I'll go if you go! I mean, everybody does it, and mine really smells like roses," when I heard the toilet paper roll shuffle, the sign that she was quitting. She got back at me though, by running the water in the sink for approximately 442748 minutes before leaving.

But I won. For today.

My night off the couch

2006-07-20T11:05:00.000-05:00

Last night my friends and I decided to abandon our couches and attend the free UCB comedy show at the Central Park Summerstage. "Free" is a word that makes my heartstrings tremble with joy. And, I must say, Rob Heubel's ferocious roar does things to me I can't admit, even to my imaginary friend/alter ego Pervert McHumpmenow.

Highlights!

1. It was a nice night, with plenty of room to spread out on the ground and have a nice little picnic. Nothing better than overpriced Whole Foods sushi and cold edamame!

2. The comedians that showed up were funny. One of them threw donuts. Nothing better than throwing a donut!

3. Rob Heubel and Paul Scheer as Central Park rangers/hosts were funny, especially when they renamed Sheep's Meadow "Fingerbang Field," and Belvedere Castle "Dragon's Come Castle."

4. "J.D. Salinger" was brought out to introduce The Titte Brothers. Everyone started snapping pictures, including me, just because I am no match for peer pressure, even though I highly doubt he came out of seclusion just to read off some index cards. Unfortunately, photographic experts will never know from my picture, because my cameraphone is no match for distance. Please see below.

Lowlights

1. "Scheduled" performances by Demitri Martin, David Cross, and Amy Poehler did not happen.
2. The line was as long as the line to get into Lindsay Lohan's pants, and moved much slower.
Speaking of pants, even though we had a blanket, the ground/fake turf was wet and by the end of the show; everyone looked like they had wet themselves in anticipation of David Cross, all for naught.
3. The continuous screaming by The Titte brothers of "boobies!!!" as the closing act was a big ol letdown.

I don't know if there's a lesson to be learned here, unless it's wear waterproof pants to CP Summerstage and that I have a weird crush on yell-y comic Rob Heubel.

Adventures in furniture moving

2006-07-19T08:21:00.000-05:00

It's taken me a few days to update this, mainly because my boss has returned from vacation and it's hard to post entire blog entries while furtively glancing around every 0.03 seconds. He hasn't arrived yet, however, so let's see if I can bust this out.

Last Friday, I found an adorable 50s style deco-ey formica table on craigslist for the bargain price of $50 (see left, not in my apartment). We need a table in our new apartment (we have room for a table! A real one! No more eating on our laps or sitting on the floor to use the coffee table!) so I arranged to pick it up on Saturday morning. The seller assured me, "Sure, it's light enough for two people to carry on the subway from the UWS to the East Village," and "It might fit in the trunk of a cab." We arrive in the very nice doormanned neighborhood of 89th and West End, and go see about the table.

It is not light, enough, or otherwise. It is not small enough to fit in a cab. But it's too late. I want this table, I want its swoopy metal legs and drop leaf capabilities. We find ourselves standing helplessly on the sidewalk, as a torturous subway ride looms before us. Just then, a Lincoln Towncar pulls up and the driver sets about trying to instruct me on how to angle the table into his trunk, while screaming "DON'T touch ANYTHING! LIFT THAT ONE! LIFT THAT ONE!" Meanwhile I have no idea what "that one" is, since we are currently only holding one, and only one, table. Finally, he bums a screwdriver off the super across the street, and unscrews the legs from the top. The top goes in the trunk, and the legs, all in one swoopy, art-deco-ey piece, are crammed into the backseat with us. I have the job of making sure that none of the four feet of the table touch ANYTHING! DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!

As I'm involved with the table in the back, Mr. Driver proceeds to wax romantical about why he helps The Ladies. "I help all The Ladies. I help The Ladies because you never know--that lady, or that lady, could be your wife or your girlfriend someday. Eh? (suggestive eyebrow wiggle in the rearview mirror) Are you Russian?" This last question was addressed to me, and I figure it must be part of the marriage interview process. I'm not one to ethnically pigeonhole, but I can categorically say I do not look Russian. Red hair + blue eyes+ freckles + transparent skin= "Uh, what? No, I'm Irish."

"Oh. You Jewish?"

"No." I have yet to meet an Irish Jew. Not to say they don't exist, but to my knowledge, my clan is all about the Jesus-lovin' pope. "I'm Catholic." Sort of. I haven't been in a church in forever of my own free will, besides the occasional Christmas when my mother begs me to be a part of the family for once and stop being such a goddamned rebellious heathen.

Mr Driver: "You go to church?"

Me: "Not really." (As I am nearly brained by two table legs simultaneously)

Mr. Driver: "You should."

Me: "Maybe." (Chair leg violates me momentarily)

And then the logical conclusion from Mr. Driver: "If you're not Jewish, you should go to church."

When we arrived at our apartment, he made a U-turn in the middle of Avenue B, jumped out of the car, inspected the plastic seats for any indication that I had been faulty in my seat-protecting chair-wrangling, and reassembled the table for us on the sidewalk. I could feel the bemused hipster stares as Louie (we were now on BFF terms) jumped around the sidewalk, screwing legs on, righting the table, dusting it off.

And then he was gone, back to the UWS to return a screwdriver, and I have a lovely table, fond memories, and a fresh serving of religious guilt.

An open letter to my blog

2006-07-14T15:25:00.000-05:00

Blog, you are tiring me out. I know, I know, there have only been two posts. But when I think of you, sitting here by yourself with no one to look at you, the immense pressure of bringing you up right starts to get to me, so that I just don't even want to deal with it anymore. It would be nice if you tried contributing a little bit to this relationship, or at least learning how to make yourself appear a little snazzier.

I have a feeling we'll have more to discuss after this weekend as I am 1) picking up a table I got on Craigslist on the UWS and bringing it to the East Village on the subway, and it appears to weigh roughly 7.2 tons 2) going to an extravaganza-sized party with every single person I know (almost, Don Rickles can't make it, something about a "prior commitment." Whatever, Don, you're dead to me [oh, shit, he's not dead, is he? {nope, says IMDB -- whew!}]) and 3) playing frisbee in the park on Sunday during high-sun hours. That last one might result in me being too burned to type, translucent-skinned as I am, but I'm sure I can learn to type with my teeth.

In closing, don't worry blog, I will try not to disappoint you, if you try not to be so helplessly lazy.

Love, xoxo, puppies and sunshiney rainbows,

Me

I love commuting

2006-07-12T08:37:00.000-05:00

Getting to work in midtown is always fraught with wonderful opportunities to bond with your fellow New Yorker. Those slow-walkers, motionless corner-standers, the people that slip their arm or purse into the closing doors and hold up the entire train, Penn Station wheelies that run over your feet, and lately I've been noticing the umbrella-carrying stabbers that jerk their arm rapidly while toting an umbrella with a four-foot spike on the end. Usually I am ready to full-on shove these people out of my way with a string of curses against their annoying commuting habits, or perhaps start toting a 10 foot pole to vault lightly above their heads, laughing merrily as I go.

Today I had the chance to simultaneously abhor one of those people while inadvertently being one of them. It was a horrific experience. I will have to eat 73 cookiese later while jumping around in my underwear singing along to "Let's Go Crazy."

I have to take two trains from home to work, the evil L and N/Q. Then I have a nice long avenue block to walk with all the dunderheads I mentioned above, until I finally get to my last hurdle: crossing 7th Ave at 32nd street, right in front of Penn Station and MSG. It sucks daily, as I fight my way to the corner like a spawning trout, just to wait 3.2 minutes and dash across in the 1.3 seconds the light says walk.

Today, instead of standing in a big crowd on the curb to wait for the light, I took one step off the curb to stand in front a parked car. That way, I wasn't one of those nasty corner-standers, getting in the way of sidewalk traffic, but I wasn't in the way of regular car traffic either. My iPod was on, but not very loud, and it was a quiet song. My internal monlogue went something like this, as usual: "Time to go to work. Almost there. Damn. Maybe I'll do something today. Man, taxis beep a lot. I can't wait to drink coffee and sneak onto AIM Express. Stop beeping, stupid cars. Why won't they stop, there's no one--"

"IDIOT!! MOVE! YOU IDIOT! FUCKING MOVE!" yelped the lady behind me with yellow/gray hair, yellow shirt and yellow teeth.

Apparently the parked car was no longer parked and was trying to make a lefthand turn, but I was in the way. I was that girl, zoned out on her iPod, oblivious to her surroundings, blocking traffic. I guiltily jumped back on the curb and the driver gave me a wave--even he wasn't that pissed off, he had just started up his car a moment before. Yes, I was wrong, but who was that lady to call me an idiot? She was nobody, that's who. Even when someone in front of me is dragging their feet or stabbing me with an umbrella, I usually try a nice "Excuse me," before resorting to an all-out insult.

So, did I give attitude back to scary yellow haired/shirted/toothed woman? Did I yell, "I'm an idiot, but you're old and wrinkly!" or maybe "Oh, what, like you're so perfect? Go get a decent dyejob, you nasty whore, and stop giving me shit," or even "May you die a thousand painful deaths in the arms of your lover Satan." I should have--she looked ready to fight, her eyes were blazing and the word "idiot" still seemed to hover near her snarling lips.

Since it really was my fault for zoning out, I swallowed my rage at being called an idiot, and calmly remarked to the Satan woman, "I'm sorry for blocking that car, but please don't call me an idiot, ma'am. It's really not necessary."

She looked startled at being called ma'am, then slightly ashamed, then uncomfortable as I stared at her. "Oh, okay."

I had triumphed with manners! I was polite, well-bred, and unruffled! Until I gazed straight ahead as the light started to change and mumbled a parting "You fucking bitch" under my breath.

I've gone Blogital

2006-07-10T15:42:00.000-05:00

Get it? Blog-ital, like digital? HA! So funny.

Welcome to my first post as a blogger. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing but I'm still going to subject you to whatever I throw out there. Unless no one is actually reading this, in which case I might as well be writing on my WaMu receipts and shoving them through the cracks in my floor in the hopes that they are discovered years from now as proof that humans wrote on paper, and then they'll be put on display in the Blogital Museum of Awesomeness.

See, no idea what I'm doing/talking about. Read on, or not. Whatevs.

In this blog, I will aim to express my thoughts about my job, your job, other peoples' jobs, the jobs I want, the jobs no one wants, Steve Jobs, stuff not about jobs, you, this city, this city being New York, this city being whichever one I'm currently in, etc. You get the point. Even if you don't, I will be okay.

I hope this is the first post of many. Unless I get way too lazy to update this and then it falls to the wayside like my cajillion other blogs. Here's to hoping! Or here's to miraculous bursts of good blogging. I don't even know what that means.