DRAMA

in the comments on the last post! Weigh in, feel free. I'm enjoying this.

I'm getting Team Dave shirts made up

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Sarah Palin’s absurd and if I'm forced to listen to her whiney voice in that terrible accent, I immediately dismiss everything she says the moment it hits my ears because she's a calculating bitch and unfortunately for Alaska, not very smart, but this I just cannot ignore.

“The comment that was made about statutory rape of my 14-year-old daughter…” ?

“It would be wise to keep Willow away from David Letterman…” ?
(Matt asked what she meant by that...you should watch her response, her idiocy is entertaining)

I cannot physically roll my eyes enough to convey how ridiculous those statements are. David Letterman made a joke. Shocking, yes, because he’s a comedian, so it’s weird that he’d do something like that. Not in the best taste to joke about a young girl getting pregnant or being a hooker? Eh, maybe. But the Spitzer joke is really more of a slam to Spitzer than it is to Bristol, and she already got herself pregnant by some redneck named LEVI, for God’s sake, so let’s not act like a joke about A-Rod knocking her up is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her.

Mug shot

To whoever stole my coffee mug off my desk while I was gone, shame. On. You. And also, thank you for not stealing my iPod. My boss described it as “the perfect crime” because they left everything of value and who the hell cares about a coffee mug? No one will ever investigate. Justice will never be served. Well you wanna know who cares about a coffee mug? Me. I do. Because now I have to use a paper cup (until I remember to buy another mug) and using that mug was one of the only “green” contributions I make. I also bought those corkscrew-looking low watt bulbs, but that was really more out of laziness because they last longer and changing light bulbs is a pain in the ass. If Leonardo DiCaprio (he’s all “green” right?) pays this office a visit and I’m drinking out of a paper coffee cup, I will find you. And take my mug back. That’s really all I can do.

This is where I’ll be tomorrow. HA.



Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I will attempt to pack 5 days worth of crap into an easy-to-carry shoulder bag because I refuse to check baggage when there’s a plane-changing situation and wheeling a suitcase up and down 300 different sets of stairs between my apartment, the F train, Penn Station and the airport, is a test of skill, patience and strength that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Which begs the question, who IS my worst enemy? Hmmm…

SPArty!

I guess it’s possible that someone who works in the…uh…industry (?) might actually read this blog and take offense, so I apologize now if that should happen. Lots of people do it, so apparently there’s someone somewhere making a ton of money and I’m sure that anti-wrinkle cream is amazing, but I can’t TAKE it anymore. If you sell Arbonne or Mary Kay or BeautiControl (look how it’s spelled wrong, how cute) or whatever the hell other pyramid scheme of lip gloss exists so that you can guilt your family and friends into buying $50 thigh exfoliator, I don’t want to buy it or sell it or smell it or lick it or put it in my eye. I don’t want to be a “consultant” and I don’t want to have a “spa party” with “my girls” to drink cosmos and put on hand cream. I just want to buy makeup from Sephora and lotion from the drug store, like a normal person. Please.

I’ve recently been privy to the happenings at one of these companies from an anonymous source who’s freelancing at one of their HQs and oh my God, it’s even better than I ever could have imagined. I don’t want to give away too much, but company-wide conventions include a lot of “empowerment”, making wishes on heart-shaped stones, and Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All.” I swear on my heart-shaped stone, I did not make that up.

I also very much enjoyed the dress code for an upcoming company outing. Please note that shorts are allowed, but there’s a length restriction for Capri pants. Wait, what? Exactly.

Dressy Walking Shorts (Men & Women) – They should be no more than two inches above the knee
Capri’s (Women) – They should fall below the knee to mid calf
Shirts (Men and Women) – Please no T-Shirts or sleeveless shirts
Shoes (Men and Women) – Comfortable but please no open toed shoes

As always, all clothing should be in good condition, pressed, and not faded.

Is that a wrinkle in your khakis? GET THE HELL OUT OF THE EMPOWERMENT CIRCLE.

Ok ok, I take it back

A while ago I talked some shit about Swine Flu, and it must have read that post and thought “she thinks that she and her friends are immune—haha, pun INTENDED (Swine Flu loves puns)—well I’ll show her,” because Rachel’s officially been diagnosed. After it infected Rachel in retaliation to my mocking, it also thought, “I really wish I could shake this nickname. It’s H1N1!” Well take it from me, Swiney, if people call you something for 30 years, that’s your name. Sorry. Melissa has been Mel for almost my entire life, it’s not going to change. Laine can’t even get people to stop calling her “Lainey.” That’s just one letter.

Actually, Rachel’s a teacher and kids are dirty and like to lick things, so that’s probably what happened. Rach, I’m so sorry you’re all flu-y and quarantined. We’ll miss you tonight. If you get really bored, run around Soho and sneeze on people.

I love you, bike

I left the apartment yesterday with no real goals for the day. Rachel’s birthday celebration at Habana Outpost, drinking margaritas and possibly getting dinner in Brooklyn. And then somewhere in the middle of all of that, something wonderful happened.

Skinner: Jeff and I want to ride to Coney Island after we leave here.
Me: I want to go, I wish I had a bike.
Jeff: Target’s 2 blocks away.

We went, we bought (I bought), we rode. I’ve been meaning to get one for a while but it never happened because I didn’t want to spend the money on it (I say that’s because I live in New York and my landlord and the city suck the money from my bank account before I ever see it, but that can’t be the case because I somehow find a way to pay for vacations and clothes and drinks. What I’m getting at is, you probably shouldn’t believe things that I say) and also because I have no place to put it. I still don’t have a place to put it, but that’s not going to change until I move into that 2.1 million dollar brownstone I've had my eye on.

Last summer there was no incentive to buy one because Jeff Allen was out of town for 2 months and I rode his bike for free and didn’t have to carry the damn thing around. It was all going fine until one day in September, riding through Brooklyn with Ryan and Tony. I had a great time that day, but my knee would argue that Jeff Allen's BMX and the sand near the curb sabotaged a nearly injury-free ride. At a stoplight somewhere in Fort Greene, my back tire hit some sand, skidded out from under me and I ate shit in front of 4 or 5 cars stopped at the red light. I think it probably looked cool, though. Plus, I got to ride the rest of the day with a bloody gash on my knee, and I know that looked cool. And then Jeff Allen came back to the city and I was again, bikeless.

Well not anymore. The Schwinn’s first ride was a good one.



The course outlined on this map is completely inaccurate, as I have no idea what streets we took because I have no sense of direction whatsoever and had I been leading, my attempts to navigate around Bed Stuy would have certainly failed and we’d all be dead now, but you get the idea. It’s far. We rode from Fort Greene to Coney Island, ate Nathan’s, rode the Cyclone, had a beer at Beer Island (that’s what it’s called, I didn’t make that up) and made it back to their apartment uninjured. Point me.