Headache

I yam SO SICK.

I even went home from work early, it was that bad. (I normally have a huge problem ever admitting that I'm sick at work.) I'm all stuffed up and congested, like in one of those Sudafed commercials, but not feeling any better after the medication part.

Anyway, I had many hours to peruse videos and entertain myself.

Some of my faves:

CSS - ALALA



Super bloody prom fight in reverse! This goes back to my New Year's resolution from last year to get in a fight, specifically a brawl. Didn't happen.

THE FLIRTS - DANGER



This video is kind of hilarious because the lead girl totally looks like a suburban mom with a Seinfeld mullet (complete with one of those teacher-style neckerchief necklaces with a huge bead on it.) The girls also share the same voice and can't lipsync for shit. I kinda think I dance like the lead girl - is this an embarrassing thing to admit? Ultimately, the song is too addictive to quit. I LOVE THE FLIRTS!

THE FLIRTS - HELPLESS



A "naval" themed Flirts song. I like the idea of the uniforms as costumes. It makes me think of the fashion show from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. Different lineup, better synchronization than the last video, don'tcha think? This band seriously dumped a member every six months, setting a future precedent for Destiny's Child. And doesn't the lead singer look like that actress from Weird Science? (The movie, not the TV show, obvs.)


MISSY ELLIOT - SOCK IT TO ME



...My reason for living.

Why bathe?

So, I just made a half-hearted attempt at taking a bath.

Why half-hearted? Because I just can't buy into this "bath" crap.

To all the bath enthusiasts out there: I ain't hatin'! I guess I'm just missing the point of the whole concept. I mean, you just...lay there? In chest-deep water? And this is supposed to be, like, a relaxing, sexy-fun experience, with scented oils and bubbles? Because all I ever seem to get is a grout-y tub filled with other people's pubes, a faucet stabbing me in the back, and a couple gallons of my own filth-water to "relax" in while all the grime rises to the top. Good times!

I fondly remember taking baths as a kid, but that was more fun because I was, you know, child-sized, which is inherently more tub-friendly. Now it's like stuffing a foot with no sock into a cowboy boot -- grunting, shoving, sometimes falling over from your efforts, and eventually coming to the sad realization that you're just not going to be able to pull this off in time for the rodeo. (Where was I? Oh yeah, baths.)

Anyway, by the time I get the water to the right temperature and get situated in a comfortable position, I feel like I hit a wall. "Now what?" I think in a panic. Yes, I've got my copy of "Valley of the Dolls," but I don't want to get it all soaking wet. The mandatory Sade is cooing all sexy-like from the boombox, and I've emptied a bottle of K-Mart "bubble suds" in the tub, but I'm already out of ideas of what do to with myself. Am I supposed to, like, seductively smoke a cigarette and contemplate life while staring moodily at a candle? Make little bubbles mounds on my boobs to maintain my modesty, in the event someone comes in through the padlocked door? Masturbate?

I know I'm supposed to be enjoying this, but all I really want to do is get the hell out of there. So much planning goes into being able to STAY in the tub once you're there, but I keep finding reasons to get out. The volume's too loud, the candle's too burn-y, I've got to pee, these bubbles are giving me a UTI, I hate this song, what are you guys laughing at out there? I always need an excuse to get out of my self-imposed water jail and I'm left contemplating the appeal of the whole experience. And the thought of doing this with another person -- GOD, no! I'd sooner take a bath in a pool of urine.

In the meantime, I'll continue to take my scalding three-minute showers, and not a second longer. What can I say? That's just how I roll, yo!

P.S. There is a website devoted to bathtub artwork. Waaaht?

Shit Soundtrack

Color me Seinfeld, but I must get observational and whiny for a minute. Indulge me, won't you?

In general, my workplace is a quiet haven. There is a TV with CNN on around the clock, but I've learned to tune out The Situation Room and all other "infotainment" news aired on said network.

There is one notable exception to the relative quiet of the office: specifically, the women's restroom.

I'm sorry if I'm out of the loop on this one, but is it normal for there to be a piped-in "soft rock" radio station for a bathroom? I could understand if it was the entire office, but just the bathroom? I do not need to listen to Amy Grant while I pee, thankyouverymuch, and I find it hard to believe that I'm the only one that feels this way. Is it meant to cover up the soft plops of women making tiny bunny shits? Because it doesn't? Yeah, it really doesn't.

Whoever's brilliant idea this was, I have a bone to pick with you. I'd challenge you to a "meeting in the ladies' room," but I don't really think we'd be able to hear each other over Seal's touching rendition of "Kissed by a Rose."

(ed: He's really making a comeback with this whole Heidi Klum thing, huh? Just saying!)

IT HAPPENED TO MOI !!!

I GOT GRIFTED!

And it was soooo worth it!

For the two of you I haven't already told this to, allow me to elaborate, Sophia Petrillo style.

Picture it: Brooklyn. 2007. Last night. (6:30 PM, actually.)

It's colder than a witch's teat and I'm stumbling home with a half-dead orchid bigger than my head, wrapped in shredded paper bags that I found at the office. I received said orchid yesterday when the plant people came to remove it from my office after replacing it with a new and better orchid. (Each orchid costing a mere $185, by the way.) After fighting tooth and nail with my co-workers for the plant (actual story: passive aggressively wrote my name all over it before any one else could get to it), I slowly but surely make my way home with my delicate treasure.

So, I'm walking up to my door, and I hear a high pitched "Haaaaaaaaaay!", not unlike the "haaaays" often repeated in that joke about what a gay horse would eat. All of a sudden, I am moderately overwhelmed by the appearance of a "fabulous" little man in a fur cape (yes, cape) with a flashy camera the size of a toaster around his neck. He immediately grasped my arm (while I instinctively lunged backward) and says, "THANK GAWD for a friendly face! Am I in a mess of trouble or waaaaaaaht? It's so cold! I love your hair! I love your pin! What is with this neigh-bor-hood?!?"

(Now, I must mention that I live in kind of a "tough" area. Sadly, you'll be hard pressed to find any designer soap stores, Baby Gaps or gourmet gummy bear vendors in close proximity. We rough it out here. It's all rusty crack spoons and "keepin' it reeeeeal!" By flagrantly showcasing a camera like his in my 'hood, this guy was just asking to get his neck snapped.)

Needless to say, I usually ignore everyone in my neighborhood, but this little beaver-caped gnome piqued my interest. After coming to the conclusion that he wasn't going to razor me in the face, I honored his request that we go inside to talk about his "situation" (ed: yeeeeeah.), whereupon we went into the vestibule of my building. (With me insisting quietly the entire time that we were going "NO FURTHER, you hear me? NO FURTHER!") He proceeded to he to tell me his sob story about not being from around here, living in an ocean front villa in New Jersey with "all the queens you'd ever want to meet!" and leaving all of his earthly belongings in a gypsy cab. Also, can he have $15 to get home to said villa?

At this point, I think he could see my skepticism and started laying it on real thick. All of a sudden he was here for fashion week, he was friends with Richie Rich





and Amanda Lepore



and that he had access to the Heatherette show room. Did I mention his name was "Randuel"?

Randuel: What do you want? Do you want shoes! I'll get you shoes! You want Manolo Blahniks? You want gloves?!? (Mumbles to himself about how cold it is.) I KNOW! Alligator skin gloves! Oh my gawd, you will be so FASHION! But what do I know, I'm just the biggest queen, up shit creek, needing $15! (Whimpering at this point) What am I going to do without my Blackberry?!?

(Might I add, Randuel is laying across my shit nasty front steps at this point, in a state of melancholy that dirt couldn't even affect.)

Me: (Mumbling incoherently about how I need to go inside.)

Randuel, getting desperate and shrill: Here, hold my camera for ransom! (Holds it out, covering his glitter-masked eyes like he's going to cry.) You want my coat? You can have this coat!

Me, slightly interested: You mean your cape?...What kind of fur is that, by the way?

Randuel, seeming slightly suspicious that I might actually take his coat: It's beaver -- and it's DELICIOUS! (Pets the coat.) All I need is the $15, honey.

Here is the exhaustive list of everything Randuel promised me:

a. a seat at fashion week, + 2 standing positions
b. snake skin gloves
c. manolo blahniks
d. his beaver cape
e. camera
f. a blackberry
g. access to a secret 411 code for all the phone numbers I could ever wish to have (ed: waaaht?)

Basically, anything he could think of to get me to give him this money.

When I finally broke down and gave him the money (Yeah, what would you do in this situation?), he made me write out an extensive IOU and swore that he'd "get me back!" and that I'd saved his life.

Needless to say, he hasn't called me yet and my hands are cold and clammy, awaiting those alligator gloves!

SEE YOU AT FASHION WEEK!

True story.

P.S. The orchid's dead, my hands are still cold and he hasn't called. GOD DAMMIT.

Who wants cake?!?

Answer: me

C.R.E.A.M.

Greetings from Temp-town, population, ME!

You can usually find me sitting behind a reception desk, calculating my take-home pay, braiding my hair, or memorizing the lyrics to such seminal works as Ludacris' "What's Your Fantasy?". (You wish I was joking.)

Even though I function as little more than a decorative houseplant at most of my jobs, I still manage to find a little time in my staring-into-space-schedule to get a little thinking done on the job.

Thus, I present, for your consideration:
"My Typical Day in Temp Town"

8:00 - Arrive at temp office - status: barely conscious.

8:05 - Settle into uncomfortable chair, read about LiLo's (Lindsay Lohan, for those not in the know, natch) latest cootch exploits. Oh, Lilo!

9:27 - Pray I won't get sent anywhere for the day, but that means no money. This is kind of a double-edged sword, because both concepts kind of blow.

9:43 - Bored, kind of stir crazy in that itchy sort of way. Don't want to sit down any more, tired of reading about celebabies. End up getting sent to some office, somewhere. Crap.

10:00 - Arrive at office. Ask for directions to kitchen and bathroom. And when's my break, by the way? Get coffee, stuff pockets with tea bags.

10:40 - Snoop through drawers. Use lotion, observe surrounding photos, religious bric-a-brac and inspirational quotes. Occasionally answer phone, but this is rare.

11:02 - Check myspace, e-mail, new york times and gawker continuously. Repeat.

1:19 - Finally go to lunch. By this point have chewed all the gum in my purse because was so hungry. Buy chips at a bodega because I can't afford $9 midtown sandwich. Cry.

1:52 - Go to Sephora and try on every kind of makeup within reach for lack of anything else to do on lunch break. Return to office looking kind of whore-ish.

2:47 - Someone inevitably tries to teach me "the correct way" to lick envelopes. Am incapable of informing them that I'm only here for one day, and that I don't need any "lessons," thank you.

3:04 - Scavenge for food left from corporate meetings. (Usually leftover pasta salad, a few pieces of pineapple, and a sandwich ripped in half.) Never know if I'm allowed to eat this, so usually stuff all of it in my purse and eat it in quick bursts from under my desk, into my mouth. Subsequently, feel like hobo.

4:37 - At this point, have left myspace comments for everyone I've ever known, as am bored to tears.

5:15 - Braid hair into Princess Leia buns. Can I go home yet?

5:21 - Clandestinely sneak out of office, taking all the tea bags I can carry with me.


....And that's my usual day, except I'm somewhere different every single time.

(Psst! Just between you and me? Temping can actually be kind of fun, once you get past the boredom. It's pretty freeing when you don't ever have to know where "Josh from Accounts Payable" sits or how to make an Excel chart. I'm here for one day! What do I know?)

Livin' on the street!

...So, you hear a lot of crazy shit on the streets of New York, on the subway, in your building, whatever.

When I first moved here I just assumed that there was an unusually large schizophrenic population wandering the streets, but I've come to realize that people here just don't have any sort of mental muzzle to keep all their thoughts from wandering out of their mouths. Seriously, I have never lived ANYWHERE before where it was so acceptable to routinely talk to yourself in public and say the most offensive, inane shit out loud.

When I say talk to yourself in public, I mean exactly that. Everyone does it! If it's a simple, "Well, fuck you, too!" under their breath, or a pep talk before a meeting, or a conversation with yourself about what you'd like for lunch today -- people just don't hold back! And this isn't even considering all of the actual two-way conversations I overhear daily.

A recent contribution:

Business man on the street: "....and if I wanna get new vocal chords, I'm GONNA get new fucking vocal chords!"
Woman: "But, what --"
Business man, cutting her off: "Eh eh eh eh eh! I'm getting new chords. End of story!"

Very gay man on train: "God! By the time we get to Brooklyn, giraffes will be lactating!"
(Do they not already?)

Verbal diahrrea, that's all I gotta say.

If it tastes good, who cares what's inside?

I am currently OBSESSED with Shaye Saint John.



If you haven't heard of her, here's the synopsis.

"Meet Shaye Saint John. Legend has it she was horribly injured in an auto accident which took both her arms and legs, as well as disfiguring her face. She now resembles a mutilated doll with rubber appendages and a wig mask. She's a singer and an actress living with two filmmakers who make dozens of short films about the 'record holder for having the most problems.' Whether she's truly the victim of circumstance or the work of a mad puppeteer, her music and films stand on their own."

Whatever the story is, she makes her cash monies by looking like a cross between Baby Jane, a mop and one of those overgrown dolls you practice CPR on. But her videos? GENIUS! Never really any point, but I give her credit for trying.

24/7 REDUX



She's obsessed with Marsha Brady, too. (ed. LOVE LOVE LOVE)

Check out her website. Entertainment for HOURS.

www.shayesaintjohn.com

Am I a fatty?

Recently (ten minutes ago), as I perused the internet while awaiting my day of servitude to come to an end, I came across a listing on Paper's website concerning the best doughnut places in New York.

I was disturbed to realize that I have eaten doughnuts at all but one of these establishments. Now, I've only lived in New York a few months, but the fact that I have somehow managed to eat doughnuts all over the city -- in between working, having a social life, washing my hair, etc. -- distresses me in a way I cannot explain. How and why have I been to all these places? I can admit that the Doughnut Plant is one of the finer doughnut establishments I have ever perused, but still! Come now! Am I doughnut connoisseur? Or merely a fatty in training?

Don't answer that.

Whatcha doin' Fri-Sat-Sun?

Well, another week draws to a close, and I gots to get some plans for the weekend. Here are some options:



This movie poster looks pretty hokey, but I think the camp factor will be OFF THE CHARTS! (Which means, right up my alley.) Plus, there's a lot of moustache showing, some horse stuff maybe? I don't know, the visuals look cool. Sounds pretty similar to that one movie -- you know the one I'm talking about -- "the spaghetti western?" The one with all the ramen? You know what I'm talking about.

Tomorrow I'm going to see Juiceboxxx -- always a good time!

"Thunder Jam III"



I love the sweat pants, what can I say?

The first time I saw J-boxxx perform in Iowa City it was in a basement in the "Yellow Ghetto," the sole Mexican looking domicile in all of Iowa City, and called as such because it's yellow and kinda ghetto looking and it's made of stucco or something. Anyway, I thought he was some weird roadie that was kinda hanging on the side, being a skinny little dork guy, and then all of a sudden he just grabs the mike, takes his shirt off and starts rhyming like crazy! He was all standing on shit, hanging from rafters, and I think he even dirty-ground (past tense of grind-ed) with my friend Christ-y.

So, yes. That's on the agenda for tomorrow.

See you there?!?

News from the bottom of a hole

So, I don't know why it's taken so long, but I've finally jumped on this whole "American version" of The Office.



I know, I know, it's been out for a while now, and I'm just catching on. (I'm still working on that "toothpaste" concept as well, just in case you were wondering.) I derided it forever, saying it couldn't possibly be better than the British version. No throwing around the slang I have no idea how to use! No Paki jokes! And worst of all, no more Scotch-egg-biting by my favorite obese imaginary friend, Keith. Sadness!

Well, somehow a DVD of said show ended up on my coffee table, I was absentminded enough to put it in while in my catatonic "drool state," and the rest was history. Whip me with the shame stick, I stand corrected! And how, in no particular order, some things I enjoy about said show.

Number 1 fave: CREED BRATTON



O-M-F-ing-G. Creed Bratton MAKES this show for me. In addition to being the "spooky old guy" in the office, he is essentially playing a cameo role, since he really is Creed Bratton, former member of the Grass Roots, druggie dude and card-carrying weirdo. Wiki that shit!

• "Creed is a taciturn quality assurance representative at the Scranton branch of the Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company. He lives in Toronto, spending three nights a week there in order to milk the welfare state. The remainder of the week, he sleeps in his cubicle, using the office water cooler to bathe.
• Creed spent time in an iron lung as a teenager, and was a member of the rock band The Grass Roots.
• He has concentration problems due to his drug use during his rock career and is unfamiliar with many of his co-workers, regularly forgetting their names and personality traits.
• Creed has four toes on his right foot and enjoys arcade-style shooting games. He lost his toe because his parents bound his feet as a young child.
• He snacks on nutritious, fragrant mung bean sprouts, which he keeps stashed in his desk on a damp paper towel, though he admits "they smell like death." (ed. note: LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT)
• Creed says that he made love to many women during the 1960s (outdoors, in the mud and rain), and could possibly have made love to a man, but "there'd be no way of knowing."

How could you not love a guy like this? People, HE WASHES WITH THE WATER COOLER! This is a quality character we've got here! With the possible exception of my number 2 fave...

DWIGHT SCHRUTE



Oh, Dwight, my sweet, potato-shay-ped man child. Where do I begin my love letter to you and your hateful, small-minded ways?

Dwight triumphs over British Office's Gareth in many capacities, mostly because of the fact that he belongs to the highly mythologized nerd/dork hybrid, characterized by odd habits, an authority complex, extreme immaturity, and a strange aversion to cleanliness -- one rarely seen past the age of 14.

My first experience with this type of "nork" was a kid named Ephram that I went to middle school with. (With a name like Ephram, need I say more?) He always wore a khaki boy scout uniform, never washed his hair, had those middle-aged man gold aviator style glasses, pulled his socks up to his thighs and wore shorts 365 days a year. He never really said much, so I just assumed that he was the quiet, smart loner type, wise in ways I wouldn't understand and maybe kinda funny in a weird way.

Well, I quickly learned the error of my ways when we were paired to work together on a project. He always carried his big back pack because he "didn't believe in lockers," not because he had any inkling of wisdom buried squirrel-nut style in his oily, dandruffed head. He didn't help with the project, was obsessed with gaining more rank in "the scouts" and was only interested in muttering out his various comments concerning the lunch ladies and their monopoly on selling picnic cookies at lunch. Basically, he was the sort of person that would be entertaining on TV, but not in real life.

Enter, Dwight.

This annoying, pedantic little man makes my TV dreams come true with his ignorant ramblings, self-aggrandizing speeches and affinity for beet farming. In short, I can only say, I DIG DWIGHT! (In theory, and with a "third wall" between us.)