...Smackage

All 3 of you who randomly remember to check this blog...sorry that I've fallen off the wagon! Everyone in my life decided to get married in California during the month of September, so I spent a full 9 days in NYC during last month. And now I'm in full-blown Broadway show opening chaos. In the meantime, I have used the change of weather to inspire a few changes in my life.

1. I'm actually going to pay attention to the mail I receive via post, rather than just letting it pile up on my desk. This seems a petty revelation, however, the amount of sanity it provides is monumental. When I open up credit card bills to reveal the actual impact of Michael Kors and Marc Jacobs purchases, perhaps I won't blow my entire life's savings on fashion.

2. Work is no longer going to take over my life. After October. Until then, if you don't know where to find me, check a 5 block radius around Times Square.

3. Because I'm too busy to open my mail, I don't have time for things like laundry, changing lightbulbs, etc...how could I possibly have the time (or patience) to deal with men? And by men, I mean boys my age who have zero self-confidence, communication skills or the ability to see a good thing coming unless it smacks them in the face. And even when they're smacked, it often takes way too much time for them to process what just happened. I've decided to start smacking away in the hopes that just once, the timing will be right. Case in point, the most recent victim of my smackage--a friend of mine. There's absolutely no logical reason why I should like this person besides that it's a lingering sensation that has lasted far too long. I do believe I've rendered him speechless for the time being. In which case he has until the end of this month to pull it together, or I'm outta here.

And speaking of Outta Here, it's the best new song not yet on the airwaves. Justin Timberlake discovered Norwegian YouTube sensation Esmee Denters and I'm in love with her single, Outta Here. She's slowly emerging in the US, but just wait for it. A big thanks to Jill for the tip.

But perhaps her newest single Admit It is more appropriate for the Smackage.

http://www.youtube.com/esmeedenters#play/all

...Blog Haterade

Yep--this guy just said to Boz, "what, do you blog?" Newport is rife with douches, which is sad, given its preppy climate. It's where preppies go to lose their dignity. Nantucket is far superior.

...Rural Juror

Jury Duty, Day 1:

Intro video depicting medieval torture trials, including extreme close ups on the women and children actors (with muddy faces for authenticity) who are "worried" for the defendant. Then narration about the history of trials by Charles Gibson. Of course they include a montage of Perry Mason clips for inspiration. And then Diane Sawyer to inspire us. Looks like it was filmed circa 1989. Reminder: "if you aren't selected, it doesn't reflect on your integrity or intelligence." Thanks for softening the blow, Diane.

Lauding the beauties of NY jury service:
"450,000 people will serve on a jury in NY. That's nearly half a million people!" (Thank you for clearing that up, Captain Obvious.)

"If we don't hear from you, we follow up! You see, you are extremely valuable to the system!"

"Wouldn't you want an impartial jury judging the facts in your trial?"

The guy next to me keeps giggling, and then I can't stop.

...Foggy Monocle

If this blog were a Gentlemen's blog, it would be: http://thefoggymonocle.com. And this posting neatly sums up how we would meet: http://thefoggymonocle.com/2009/03/26/a-gentleman-and-a-gentlelady-make-explosive-romance/

Soulmate of blogs, thy name is Foggy Monocle.

...Sums it up

There are no words for this brilliant quote, from a brilliant actor, Richard Harris. And I'm gonna dork out here for a second (cuz it's Harry Potter week and I'd be a borderline Harry Potter loser if I didn't love booze, dancing and fashion), he was the better Dumbledore of the HP movie series. We miss yee, good, wise sir.

...What the Band Just Happened?

Seriously, a tuba, drummer (with cow bell) and a horn/megaphone dude just arrived at our bar at 13 and A. They played a set of unintelligible songs, but we rocked it to the max. What else arrived? Lucy brought a giant supply of 5 hour energy (god's gift to sustaining 3 straight nights out on the town) and candy. It's like we're on drugs, but it's adrenaline.

Earlier today we met Zoolander 19-year-old models in Central Park. We asked, "Where do you work?" They said Ford models! I said then that they're Zoolander, complete with token tall Asian model and needed a gasoline fight to Wham! But all of this leads to the brilliance which is Stumblebum Brass Band with drummer/cow bell artist, Johnny Ballz. Should have married him on the spot to become Mrs. Johnny Ballz. Only in my dreams, says Debbie Gibson.

...The Holy Rooftop

Possibly one of the most gorgeous spaces in NYC for a summer lawn party. We sat atop this 7th floor roof garden one night at a party Lucy was invited to. However, we had no idea what the party was being held for? We were seated at Table 1, which sounds prestigious, but was in fact totally empty in the room. All other tables were packed, and we walked up to Table 1 in awkward shame. Trust me, we were not prestigious by this point--just awkward!

Night was rescued by delish cuisine, plenty of white wine spritzers (the new official drink of summer 2009) and a slamming DJ, spinning loads of Michael Jackson, just a few days after his death. Too soon? I say not. And I still cannot stop listening to Man in the Mirror.

Tonight our crew of debaucherousness will be attending "Yo! It's the 90's Party" at the Canal Room. I won 10 free tickets and drink tickets by knowing the answers to the following 90s trivia:
1. Who sings "Poison"? (Bel Biv DeVoe of course!)
2. What year did MC Hammer release "U Can't Touch This"? (1991, although I totally admit to Googling this)
3. What does O.P.P. stand for in Naughty by Nature's song of the same title? (Couldn't have had a better question if I tried! I sat at my portable radio/cassette player in 6th grade and memorized all the lyrics to O.P.P., just as all proper blonde Catholic school girls should do. Here's my A+ answer: "O.P.P. Stands for Other People's Property, which is the only stated definition in the entire song. However it is alluded to as Other People's P*ssy (another way to call a cat a kitten) and Other People's P*nis (another five letter word rhymes with cleanest and meanest)." My question here is: is it possible that I'm a 90s hip-hop nerd??)

Ok, signing off to prep for the show. Blasting some Kriss Kross, 90s Michael Joseph Jackson, Naughty by Nature, Montell Jordan, and a few rounds of Informer by Snow.

...Door

Sitting @ happy hour discussing my friend's recent quitting of his job and breaking up with his boyfriend. We all wonder: "When God closes a door...why doesn't he open another door? A window is smaller!"

...U.A.F.

I never knew the reality of flabby old lady arms until I got them in my 29th year. Some call it U.A.F. (Under Arm Flab), but we prefer: "Charms, Charms, Hamhock Arms."

I'm going to move into the gym, but not until I've finished my 2nd frozen pomegranate margarita on this gorge summer day. Wonder where I get that flab??

...Sophisticated Madam

You know you've had a fun night when 4 tables surrounding you ask to be moved, you have ordered 3 rounds of dinner, and you have had so many muddled cucumber drinks that the entire restaurant has run out of cucumbers...

Recently had an amazing getaway weekend to Boston, which was much needed, given that NYC has been a gray, cloudy mess. Found out that Boston is also a gray, cloudy mess right now, but at least it's not NY.

This visit to Boston served as a creative rebirth of the blog--work has been too busy for me to have any sort of entertaining commentary. But, summer is on the way (apparently) and it is time to revive these posts. Thus, I present Boston Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre. I dare say it is the quote wall to end all quote walls, but I'll let you be the judge of that. (Editor's Notes appear in parentheses)

Curtain up on Eastern Standard restaurant (Manhattanites, think of a large-scale version of Balthazar)

Caroline tells us the tragicomic story of the Great Pumpkin Golf Cart--a brilliant idea for a Halloween DUI-proof transport vehicle. She was so excited to see it after work on Halloween and in order to explain that excitement, the only thing she could do was break out into song: "This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it." Now imagine this being sung while swilling a cocktail, accompanied by a lovely grovelly voice. (I don't have a clue as to why anyone would want to change tables around us??)

Caroline tells us of how she tried to smuggle some booze into a party: "We wrapped it in swaddling clothes and laid it in a manger." (She is re-writing the New Testament, one booze-filled Bible passage at a time.)

Still on fire from her excellent Halloween tales, Caroline explains her penchant for the same costumes: "For Halloween, I'm either Peg Bundy or Cher because it's an easy transition. Not much more needed to complete the look."

A few of the ladies at our table get up to smoke on the sidewalk and strike up a convo with some guys. The following ensues:

Sabrina laughs at something and snorts. "Yes, I'm a snorter. Wait. A lazy breather." (Good save)

Sabrina asks one of the guys: "You win $700 if you know what a FUPA is."
Guy: "Fat Upper P*$$% Area."
Barbara Jean: "Oh wait, you mean a Gunt?"
Sabrina adds: "It's also a toolshed. But you have to lift the shed to get to the tool." (Clearly the cocktails are a flowin' by this point in the evening.)

Sabrina and Barbara Jean don't like this guy and come storming back to the table to tell us about him:
Barbara Jean: "I want to go and find that man. He needs to be blanket beaten."
All of us: "Blanket beaten seems a little harsh!"
Barbara Jean: "I was folded into a pull-out couch as a child, and you wonder why I want to blanket beat people??" (Barbara Jean is clearly the youngest of 5.)

The saga of Jason Bourne (Barbara Jean's alter-ego) is told at the table:
Caroline: "All I get is a phone call from Barbara Jean, who says: 'I have left the venue.'"
Barbara Jean: "I knew I needed to get out of the venue, so I left and went to the diviest bar in all of Boston." (This evening also included Barbara Jean's husband carrying her down the hotel's hallway fireman style--slung over his shoulder--and Barbara Jean helping her friend throw keys into the harbor after the friend had dumped her boyfriend. Unfortunately, one of those keys was her own house key...)

Caroline brings us back to present day and professes how much she loves Barbara Jean (now known as Jason Bourne): "I'd give you my kidney, Jason. I'd cut it out and hand it to you and wouldn't even cry."

Barbara Jean (with Caroline's commentary) relates the story of Fluffy, the now-dead cat:
BJ: "So, the dog killed the cat."
Caroline: "The dog was working for the Third Reich. It was a German Shepard and Pit Bull mix. It's a total Michael Vick scenario. He killed our cat--Winner Winner, Siamese Dinner!"
BJ: "But it was really the children who killed the cat by letting it out. So I told them, 'You children killed the cat.' It was their verbal blanket beating. I made the children go to the viewing of the cat and then no one could eat because we're all nauseous. We have to double-bag the cat to bury it. But we can't tell the neighbors that my children killed the cat because they'd kill our dog (Caroline chimes in: "That belongs to the Third Reich"). So rather than bury the cat, we have to hide the evidence: 'The cat's in the Charles, son. The cat's in the Charles.'"

Caroline recounts her daughter's brief sojourn in the military.
BJ's advice: "When you go off to war, when in doubt, tuck and roll."
Caroline describes just how brief the military stint lasted: "She comes back from the war after nine days. She was 'Johnny-We-Hardly-Knew-Ye' not 'Johnny-Comes-Marching-Home'"

Sabrina and Tiff stay out later than the rest of us, like true champions, and wind up having some drinks with some rather young guys at the bar. In the middle of one of the guys talking to Sabrina, she says "Ummm...you can continue talking but I really can't concentrate while you are wearing that pinky ring."

Sabrina and I go out to bars unchaperoned on Saturday night and start heckling some guy whose opening line was, "What's the longest relationship you've been in?" I refuse to let him live it down. Before he heads to the bathroom he says to Sabrina and I: "Wow. I really can't decide which one of you I want to make out with." (Touche!)

I left my coat in the closet of our hotel room and called to have them leave it at the front desk. Room is under Sabrina's name, which provides a very awkward encounter between me and the bellman:

Me: "I think you have my coat?"

Bellman: "What name is it under?"

Me: "Sabrina"

Bellman: "Are you Sabrina?"

Me: "Yes."

Bellman: "Can I see some ID?"

Me: "I'm not Sabrina."

Curtain.

...Celebrity Tally

Beginning this week, I am going to keep a running tally of celebrity encounters I have from now on because they are totally at random and come out of left field. It would be one thing if I expected to find myself in these situations, but that is never the case. This will only include face-to-face meetings for the fact that my indirect contact with celebs is not nearly as exciting. I mean, would you care that we've engaged some celebs to send out eblasts? I thought not.



Today's celebrity encounter is brought to you by the year 1995, when I was a wee sophomore in high school and totally obsessed with ER on NBC. Dr. Mark Greene's first love affair on the show with Dr. Susan Lewis was the top priority on my schedule in between Advanced Algebra and Honors Chemistry homework assignments (nerd alert!).


This afternoon, I had a lovely meeting with the good Doctor Greene regarding some video shoots. In the cab over to the meeting, my co-workers and I were running through the list of people we'd be meeting with, including video producer Anthony Edwards. We joked that it would be funny if it were the famous Anthony Edwards, but seriously doubted he didn't have anything better to do than meet with us! Imagine our surprise when we're introduced to "Tony" Edwards and it's actually Dr. Mark Greene. Well, we were all surprised except for one of my co-workers, who had absolutely no idea who he was until we left the meeting and we told him so.

Please note that I am only referring to Mr. Edwards as Dr. Greene because I cannot think of anything else more relevant about him. What about Top Gun, you ask???? Yeah, I'm not a big fan of movies with major traumatic death scenes, and the loss of Goose still scares me to this day. Thus, we shall celebrate my celeb encounter with the one and only Dr. Mark Green.


Celebs: 1 and counting...


Maverick, OUT!

...War of the iPods

It started as just another Saturday night, but the weather was the warmest we've had since last summer. So perhaps my claws were poised at the ready? Anyway, I was decked out in one of my newest Yumi Kim dresses, which deserves a moment of reflection: Yumi Kim is my fave designer in the city, whom I can actually afford. Her prints are AH-Mah-Zing! and I never fail to get compliments when I wear them. And most dresses have an added bonus: pockets! Plus, they're pockets that do not create weird seams or saddlebag action on your hips. Flawless!

Anyway, back to the story--it was a balmy spring evening in the city, which can lead to crazy times. We headed over to my friend Nick's 36th floor fancy apartment in Chelsea for an evening of drinking games, gorgeous skyline views of the city, and dancing to one of my famous iPod mixes, custom-built for the party. Ping pong balls were flailing about, landing in the odd solo cup with a splash, folks were shaking their booties on the dance floor, and plenty of mixed drinks were being poured in the kitchen. So, the scene is set for a fun party...

Midway through Kanye's "Stronger," the music is abruptly swapped out for some sort of Paul Simon "The Sound of Silence"-esque party-killing anthem. The mood of the place immediately changed and the fevor that was building throughout the evening started to plummet back to stone-cold sobriety. Now what's fun about that? I inquired after whom (yep, whom) had removed my iPod, and some Ugly Beyotch comes running at me saying that she was told she could play her iPod and that I was not to touch her device. Ok, crazy.

I let the music go for a bit longer, but then it really was killing the mood. I wasn't the only one to notice, so I went up to Psycho Snatch and asked her if I could put my iPod back on the speaker. I said that everyone wanted to dance, and when my iPod was on, they were. She snapped back something about how my music sucked and that no one was dancing when it was on. She was so disrespectful in her approach, which always sets me off. Who pissed in her beer?? And then I lost it. I was held back from punching that Whore square in her ugly mug. And my anthem for the night? "I'm gonna kill a bitch!"

I was vindicated in my hatred of her by my friend Rich, who arrived at the party and immediately frowned upon the music. He thought he could slip his iPod into the dock unnoticed, but then Ugly Mug comes charging across the room shouting at him to take it out. At this point I knew I had to remove myself from the situation, or else I would have cut that bitch. But, the thought of an impending lawsuit for battery deterred me from acting upon my impulses. I was wearing a designer dress, after all.

The moral of the story? Snatches are never a welcome addition to a party. And buy a Yumi Kim dress this summer--you can thank me later.

...Subtext

A quick Quote Book Masterpiece Theatre for your Tuesday afternoon reading pleasure:

After watching a marathon of Teen Cribs on MTV because we were too hungover to function, the Boz, Lucy and I were mesmerized by the fancy houses of random tweens across the U.S. One house had a secret room that was a small theatre for the kids to perform things. Lucy only heard the audio of this moment and thought it was a sex room. Later that evening, Lucy saw a mysterious staircase in a bar and said, "Is there a tiny, dirty performance space in there?" (Probably funnier if you were there, but I had to give Lucy her blog debut.)

In reference to Lucy's ex-boyfriend, who after getting scared to propose and breaking up with her 6 weeks later said that he wants to get married, she texted him a response: "Hindsight is sophmoric."

No explanation needed: "Loose morals are the Subtext of 2009."

I was exclaiming one night that we were having a perfect NYC moment, watching a random bartender we met the night before performing with his bluegrass band next door to where we just got our zombie makeup done for a birthday party. I was saying how much I loved everything, to which The Boz replied in a deep voice, "I enjoy passion," and then she took a slow, long sip of her bucket 'o wine.

Someone was complaining about how much they ate the other night, to which a friend of mine replied, "How much did you eat? Are you still attractive?" (fair question!)

Going to see Flight of the Conchords at Radio City Music Hall tonight, and I can't wait. If you haven't seen their show before and you enjoy the humor of this blog, I have a feeling you'll love it.

...Whale

As the saying goes, "April showers bring May flowers," I would like to suggest an alternate:

"The crappy, rainy weather of Manhattan in March and April (despite it officially being spring) brings me to my largest weight ever."

I am not saying I am fat. Just saying that I feel fat, like a giant, bloated whale, and I have no motivation to improve this condition while the weather is in the 40s and raining. But, I write here to cleanse myself of my bad habits (i.e. Grandpa Baby), so here is the motto for April:

"April came in like a Whale, but went out like a svelte, toned, attractive gazelle."

Whenever weather gets gross, I will be repeating this motto in the hopes that I don't gorge on chicken fingers and beer and then wonder why none of my pants fit.

Think spring, and maybe it will happen. Or just cover your ears when you hear the sound of seams spliting down your rear end...

...End of Things

Well, kids, I did it. I kicked Grandpa Baby to the curb. This was LONG overdue, but I didn't feel the mandate to totally end it until yesterday after a long day of riding a party bus around Manhattan, having a wonderful time, and feeling empowered by Coronas and rum. No better than Berger's "post-it" break up note to Carrie on Sex and the City, I did it all via drunken text messages...the point being that I am one classy broad. The transcript of the texts are as follows:

Me: "Whatcha up to? We're on the Lower East Side post bus and not too hammered." (Editor's note: we were VERY hammered, so I guess that was a lie to coerce him to hang out? Hmm...)

Grandpa Baby: "Watching the bball games with friends and then going to my friend's bday party." (Editor's note: he had planned to meet up with me, so this is what set me off.)

Me: "That's cool. Want to meet up or no? If you have plans that's okay. Let me know." (Editor's note: my drunken rationale was to play it cool, but be direct. It only lasted for so long...)

GB: "Probably be hard to do given all that's happening." (Editor's note: WTF?!?!?!)

Me: "That's fine. I get what's happening, so if you ever want to hang out again, I'm not into it." (Editor's note: the rationale to play it cool has just flown out the window.)

GB: "Hahaha. Ok. Have fun tonight." (Editor's note: I wasn't being funny, so why is he LAUGHING????)

Me (going in for the kill): "Not kidding. It's weird that we haven't hung out in ages. It shouldn't be so difficult, and I'm done with this." (Editor's note: well played, if I do say so myself.)

GB: "Wow, ok. I get it. I have been lame and apologize. But you're right. Still, have a fun night tonight." (Editor's note: men who grovel are very unattractive. And also, he should stop telling me to have a fun night.)

Me (sending the nail in the coffin): "I get it too. Given all that's happened, I'm cool. Talk to you never." (Editor's note: did I actually say "talk to you never"? Yes, I sure did. And he never wrote anything back.)

Thus concludes Text Breakup of a Faux Relationship Masterpiece Theatre. Goodbye and good luck, Grandpa Baby.

...Maverick

I just got out of a meeting where the following happened:

1. A woman in our office, who is a dead ringer for Sarah Palin, used the word "maverick." (That is what caused me to start giggling in the first place.)

2. Our Director of Music walked into the meeting and a few minutes in asked, "Why are you only talking about The Sound of Music?" To which someone replied, "Because this is a meeting about The Sound of Music."

3. Miley Cyrus/Hannah Montana was referenced at least 20 times by 3 people over 60.

4. The meeting concluded with two grown men singing the part of a young boy in Les Mis.

If Michael Scott one day turned up at my office, I would not be shocked. I should start answering my phone with "Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam."

Other amazing moments in my 3 years at my job:

1. During our move from one office to another, someone actually said they wanted a chair in the bathroom to sit in and take their lunch break. Another woman said she would be willing to sit on her printer, just so she could have one at her desk.

2. Our receptionist often goes to the bathroom and violates several health regulations because she doesn't wash her hands and also often walks around the bathroom barefoot.

3. Our receptionist once scooped all the muck out of the kitchen sink drain, put it in a cup, and then left a note with it to tell us that there's no disposal in the sink:

4. There is a guy we call Gay Queerpont Finch (after the title character, J. Pierpont Finch, in the musical How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying) because he played that role in community theatre and loves to throw tantrums all the time.

5. One of our VPs whistles in the bathroom.

6. A co-worker of mine snores at his desk in plain view. For hours at a time.

7. We recently discovered a UPS rate chart from 1993. It survived 3 office moves despite its utter irrelevance 16 years later. It now hangs proudly on my wall.

I would like to write a script for The Office because way too often, art imitates life EXACTLY.

...Menudo

To the left, I give you "Old" Menudo. I am totally mesmerized by their mullets and pleather pants. I may have to rethink my wardrobe forevermore.

This past weekend, we invented a new word inspired by Menudo. The "New" Menudo was formed recently and has a hit song called, "Lost." That song came on the radio as I was roughly 6 bottomless mimosas deep, and was so excited that I was hearing the "New" Menudo. Now, try saying "New" Menudo 5 times fast, 6 drinks deep. Thus, "newmenudo" was born. I'll give you some sentences to help you understand how/when to use this new catchphrase that is sweeping the nation...

1. Noun: The Boz LOVES sausage, and thus said: "Sausage is the newmenudo."
2. Adjective: Our discovery of bottomless mimosas for $14 was awesome and thus: "Bottomless mimosas are so newmenudo."
3. Verb: I had a bagel sandwich out of sheer malnutrition at 1am and devoured it: "I'm going to newmenudo the sh*t out of that sandwich."

Much like Stephen Colbert coining the word "truthiness," I'm hoping "newmenudo" becomes the official word of 2009. We have 10 months left to campaign, so get going!

...Pleather

This Sunday was my pleather leggings tour de force. It began on Saturday night for The Black Keys concert (they are amazing, btw, so check them out live if they come to your neighborhood!), wound up partying all night (ending with a 4am round of everyone's favorite drinking game: The Eliminator), crashing at my friend's apartment with bunch of people, then brunch with bloody mary's in the morning with The Boz. She and I were exhausted by bloody mary #2 and ready to go home when my friend Victor arrived at the restaurant. He fired us up to go watch basketball games and continue drinking. By the grace of God alone, we carried onto the next bar in our clothes from the previous night. The Boz's boobs were literally hanging out of her shirt and I was still clad in my 1980s-inspired pleather leggings and patent leather short boots. Imagine a family just getting out of church and crossing our path as we walked between restaurants. I basically marched down the street saying, "Yes, people, I am wearing pleather." We then played the card game A**hole (which I HATE) for another hour or two, and once I finally became President of the game, I banished it from the bar. Suck on that, biatches!! The game required way too much thought and concentration from people who were hungover and yet somewhat drunk again. Boz and I finished off our evening with yet another dinner of Mexican food at the none-too-classy Caliente Cab. Now I think I caught a cold from my antics. Damn you, pleather!

...Lesbian Pants

Due to the cold weather in NYC lately, I have been committing unmentionable fashion crimes to stay warm. The latest infraction was the pair of Lesbian Pants I wore yesterday and mentioned in my last post. Now, I have the same pants in black and they do not turn me into a giant lezbone. But, the gray pair come equipped with saddlebags that would even make Cindy Crawford look like the starting pitcher for the USA Softball team. I didn't realize the saddlebaggery until I arrived at the office and was appalled when I looked in the mirror in the bathroom. Apparently I didn't have proper lighting when dressing at home and checking my appearance in my mirror. I did make it to American Apparel after work and bought a substitute outfit before going out, but didn't have time to change at the store (and I also couldn't stand the b.o. stench in the dressing room, which the woman working at the store thought I had left behind!!! Mortification! Lesbian pants and b.o.? I've hit an all-time low.). But rather than change once I got out, I just drank until I started to embrace the pants. I went so far as to beat my friends in 2 rounds of darts and then kick some ass in skee-ball while drinking "The Champagne of Beers" (aka $3 Miller High Life bottles). I'm changing my name to Marge.

Enjoy the visual of the pants above, as I tried to highlight the saddlebags. And in a sad turn of events today, I have fattily devoured 2 bagels with cream cheese in an attempt to fill up the saddlebags.

The fate of the pants, you ask? They're in my pile for Goodwill and will never adorn my body again. I wonder if homeless people will reject them, too?!?

...Super Bowl

One game.

Two words: Beer Funnel.

Three slices of pizza.

Four quarters of TV commercials (of which I saw none as I was blindsighted by the 1/2 price beers).

Five hours of drinking.

You do the math.

Honestly, this Sunday was more tame than anticipated, but we all had intense weeks ahead, so we toned it down a bit. However, in the coming weeks we have an Open Bar bday party and a night of guest bartending ahead of us. So, the Super Bowl did not end the madness. It was a mere blip on the radar.

Grandpa Baby is now claiming he has 100 birthday parties every weekend. Either his friends are so depresed they're entering their late 30s that they need to have parties, or he's dating someone named Birthday Party. Either way, I'm going on a date with someone else next week. Life is too short. I'd rather juggle 5 guys than put up with one who can't get his life together.

In other recession news, is it just me, or is everyone wanting to meet up for drinks more than usual? I feel like it's the Great Depression and we all want to suffer together with booze in gin joints and whatnot. I love the togetherness that the recession is pushing. And if people have to get poor to go out to bars more often, then I say "Viva La Recession!"

And with that, I'm going to American Apparel to buy a new outfit for tonight's recession drinking events: Scotch in Soho with a Broadway composer and traversing around the neighborhood with the Boz and Sabrina. I look like a softball playing lesbian in horrid saddlebag pants. I don't know why I left the house like this--I am going to blame the 10-degree temperatures for my appearance. I plan on changing in the store and throwing my pants in the garbage and hopefully will make a homeless person very happy today. See--my lesbian clothes are actually a public service. Saddlebag pants = charitable donation.

Dog Song

In addition to Rosa Mexicano, last night we meandered to the Lower East Side to

Loreley, the biergarten, and met up with some other fellow degenerates. Among these degenerates were my friends who are twins. These two gals, after a rousing round of Quarters with Oktoberfest-sized beer steins and all of us eating bratwurst and other German delicacies, serenaded us with a song they made up 20 years ago as kids. The song was only meant for our table, but midway through, the whole restaurant decided they wanted to hear it. So, the girls stood on chairs and gave us: "The Dog Song." It was created when they wanted a dog and decided the best way to ask their parents was via song. It comes across as "Ya Got Trouble" from The Music Man--but imagine two 4'11" half Japanese and half Indian girls rather than Robert Preston (from the film)-- and it was met with resounding applause. For their encore, the girls sang their other original creation: "Just Say Yes," which salutes the many ways in which parents say no to their children. As soon as I can get a video of them doing this, I will be sure to post it, for it is priceless.

This posting is not as exciting if you weren't there, but trust me, as soon as I have video, you will be happy you read this.

And with that, I wish you all a wonderful weekend. Get ready for the post-Super Bowl recap. Mayhem will most definitely prevail.

...Olympics

Gearing up for the mother of all Sunday Fundays (the Super Bowl), we decided to give our livers a bit of endurance training last night. Some guys were sending these younger men over to us to see how they'd do talking to girls. Result of the experiement? We ate those poor little boys alive. However, the older dudes came over and bought us a round of Patron shots, which I can still taste now. One of the old dudes, who was from Quincy, IL, so we'll call him Quincy, came over and was chatting with Sabrina. And now for a short segment from Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre:


The scene: Rosa Mexicano Bar in Union Square. It's loud, we have guac and patron all over the place and are standing around a large table.

Quincy: "Hey, Sabrina, you're tall. Did you play basketball?" (Editor's note: Sabrina is 5'11".)
Sabrina (in a sultry, bedroom voice): "Like a Special Olympian, baby."

Cue riotous laughter. The end.

Stay tuned for our next episode, "The Dog Song." Teaser: this post will involve a beer garden, sausage, twins and a vocal performance...

...Gaaaahhhhh

There is a woman who makes this face in my office anytime she is doing something she doesn't want to do. Most of us just try to avoid eye-contact, but if you are caught by Gaahhh Face, it's a good 30 minutes before you can break free from her tractor beam gaze.

Face count of this blog after 2 weeks:
1. Rage Face
2. Angry Face
3. Poker Face
4. Gaahhh Face

I might need to rethink the title of this blog as a clear theme is emerging.

...Poker Face

Inspired entirely by RAGE FACE, I present "Poker Face" by Lady Gaga for your consideration. She is the completely perfect blend (and by perfect I mean perfect for my 80s and pop music obsessed self) of everything amazing about the 80s, but yet with a nice infusion of present trends to make her relevant near the end of the 00s (The Naughts? The Zeros? WTF do we call this decade???). "Poker Face" shares such great lyrics as: "Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun. And baby when it's love, when it's not rough, it isn't fun." Ballsy, truthful and full of bubblegum pop--I love her. And I do believe that the chorus on her song "I Like it Rough" sounds oddly similar to "Private Eyes" by Hall and Oates. Or maybe I just want it to sound the same. Yes, "Just Dance" is permeating the airwaves at a near-constant rate, but her whole album is awesome. Find your favorite pair of legwarmers (another awesome trend revival from the 80s--thank you American Apparel!) and your most fluorescent item of clothing and enjoy Lady Gaga at full volume. You can thank me for your obsession with her and legwarmers later. Just remember I told you so.

In other news, Grandpa Baby is on the outs (for anyone who cares). Recession or not, the fact that he is clinically unable to infuse any time with me into his plans is inexcusable. I hope he is enjoying his relapse from the prime of his life into Grandpa BabyHood. Thus, I have decided to start looking for Hot Gentleman, not Grandpa Baby. Please let me know if you find any worthy applicants.

Also of note, Boz, Sabrina and I will be guest bartending on a Thursday night in late February. I guarantee there will be mayhem to report. Here's a little teaser: We're wearing t-shirts that say "Cafe Patron" on the front and on the back, "Mother's Milk." Yes, Cafe Patron is THAT good. Yet again, you can thank me later for this awesome drink of choice.

So, to gear up for the weekend, put on your best Poker Face and see what comes of it.

...Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre

Overheard on both Saturday and Sunday fundays in Manhattan, I proudly present the Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre Hall of Fame:

Scene 1: The jukebox in the bar starts playing "Sunday Bloody Sunday" after my horrid experience stuck in a cab for 1 hour on the FDR.

Me: "This is my new theme song. Sunday Bloody Sunday. It's Sunday, and there will be a blood bath."

Scene 2: The jukebox in the bar starts playing "Bat Out of Hell" by Meat Loaf.

My friend Boz: "Ah Meat Loaf. That sexual beast."

The bartender (in reference to Meat Loaf's lyrics): "He's thinking about his ex-girlfriend while pounding the sh*t out of another girl."

Scene 3: The bartender tells us about a "classy" girl he dated who he met up with after they broke up. In the interim, she had gotten a giant tramp stamp of a Claddagh ring with the Twin Towers in the middle of it.

The bartender quoting himself during a night they spent together: "I said to her, 'I can't look at that anymore. Turn back over, dude.'"

Scene 3: We change bars to a degenerate establishment set deeper in the heart of the Lower East Side. A girl walks in with dreadlocks, a giant bandage on her neck, and a box of celebratory donuts. She removes the bandage to reveal a "the ink is still wet" tattoo of a sparrow that she got for her birthday.

My friend Sabrina (who was degenerately sleeping with the bouncer of said bar for the past few weeks): "That girl could be at my wedding."

Scene 4: Later that evening (still well before 9pm), a bartender from another bar we've been to arrives. She is drunk as a skunk, smells of brussel sprouts, and is sporting a sling because she told us she fell down over New Year's and split open her elbow. And then she proceeds to explain that the elbow is (gag me now...) swollen and looks like a rotting apple. The bar can't get any seedier at this point.

Sabrina: "I'm just so glad the smell is actual brussel sprouts and not her rotting apple elbow. I'm just going to sniff my hair because it smells like lavender." (Meanwhile, everytime Boz hears the rotten elbow lady coming closer, she shudders and inches farther away from her.)

Me: "If my cleaning lady shows up, we're going to have to leave."

Scene 5: Another day of drinking (shocking) and we wind up at Fat Cat. We have beers in unlabeled pint glasses.

Sabrina: "This beer tatstes awesome."

Me: "It's Bud Light you a**hole!"

Scene 6: Boz tells us a tale of hooking up with a guy who was in AA and how it all ended.

Boz: "He left his AA book in my apt and it was the most awkward thing in the world. I think every word out of my mouth was 'open bar,' 'hungover,' or 'alcohol.'"

Scene 7: We are lamenting the fact that rather than save money to buy adult purchases such as homes or cars, we'd rather spend every penny on booze and fancy bags.

Boz: "My friend just bought a condo. And another friend just bought a car."

Me: "I can't buy anything!"

Sabrina: "I'm gonna die in my rental apartment."

Scene 8: Even though we are thoroughly exhausted from a previous night out on the town for a post-holiday party, it is Saturday and we are drinking the recession-friendly Champagne of Beers: Miller High Life. We all agree that we should be sleeping, but would rather be drinking.

Boz: "I want a bed in the bar to snuggle in to. And drink."

This concludes Act I of Quote Wall Masterpiece Theatre. We're always taking notes (and submissions, so feel free to email me!), so expect more from time to time.

...RAGE

I have recently invented my Rage Face. Said face occurs when I am over-the-top irritated by someone or something. Recent recipients of the Rage Face include:

1. That cab driver when I was stuck on the FDR (see first blog post)
2. My entire IT department when they blocked Facebook, even though I manage our social media presence
3. Grandpa Baby
4. The patrons of Barrow St. Alehouse as I demonstrated the face for a photo op.
5. My friends (The Crocs Crew--who are aptly named for their horrifying affinity for Crocs shoes) who claimed they "forgot" about me on Saturday night when they all hung out together and I was the only one missing. WHAT????

It is now a hilarious thing when I feel the rage because the face comes out and then I wind up laughing it off. My good friends are also adopting this tactic. One of them has Angry Face and the other has yet to find her inner Rage Face.

Rage Face was invented on a Sunday, which is just so appropriate for these pages.

...Put Your TiVo to Work Day

Big Love and Flight of the Conchords just started their new seasons on HBO. So, despite the recession, I signed up. However great these two shows are, the best reason for adding HBO to my cable is one of their Sunday movies this week: Trading Places. I was so pleased to see this movie on my TiVo after a great Sunday of NFL playoffs, a random matchmaking of two friends, laughs at Upright Citizens Brigade Theater (with an oddly hot ugly funny guy), and a bunch of snow.

Trading Places is only the BEST 1980s Stock Market Comedy. Eddie Murphy and Dan Akroyd are at the peak of their talents. For the gents, there are lots of topless scenes, for the scholars, there are lessons to be learned via the stock market trading of orange commodities, for the ladies, there is always the hope of some Wall Street Alpha Male who finds he loves you for the compassionate and genius prostitute you are. I first saw this movie my senior year of high school in Economics. Our teacher was mortified when Jamie Lee-Curtis's boobs popped up on screen, but as a left-wing lesbian, she decided the economic lessons learned far outweighed the bare breasts. Or, maybe she just wanted some good old fashion lesbian-friendly flashing?

Ah yes, HBO is improving the quality of my life in these tough times by reminding me of the values of first class movies like this one. My TiVo is going to be working its tail off on Sundays.

...Day for Runaways

A boy-crazy friend of mine came out to stay in NYC for New Year's with a boy she met one weekend visiting NYC in the fall. Wise decision, you might say. Riiiiiight. You reap what you sow.

The boy she met turned out, most shockingly, to be a giant douche. Details are worthless at this point. The best part is that the Sunday of that weekend, he hopped into the shower. Boy-crazy friend rapidly packed up all of her belongings and left his apartment with no explanation. Rather than be angry, douche boy texts to ask what he did wrong. Really? Really, douche boy? You have no idea what you did wrong? It really takes some balls for a girl to run out of your house in the broad daylight with nowhere to stay. Just accept that fact and learn something. But never, ever ask the ditcher why you were the ditchee. This is not the case of a jilted bride where you deserve an explanation. This is a simple boy meets girl, girl inappropriately decides to visit boy in another city, boy turns out to be a douche, and girl ditches boy while he showers. The end.

Thus, Sunday Is the New Day for Runaways. Douche Boys and Boy-Crazy Girls beware.

...Day of Miscommunication

So, let's say I'm dating this guy, who is a giant Grandpa Baby. In honor of a recent film about a Grandpa Baby starring Brad Pitt, we'll refer to him as Benjamin. Benjamin is 6 years older than myself. Fun, funny, smart, etc., etc., [insert other redeeming qualities here]. However, Benjamin suffers from eternal bachelor syndrome, and is an only child. These two conditions lend him to being used to his own time, easily getting overwhelmed when work or life gets somewhat busy or stressful, and wimping out and claiming he's tired or hungover--thus making him a giant Grandpa Baby. Case in point: Benjamin went skiing this weekend. Was supposed to return on Monday, but now it's Tuesday night and I've heard nothing from him. The only excuses I will accept for his behavior at this point are:

1. Avalanche

2. Still skiing with no cell phone service

3. Lost his job today

4. Family emergency

Any other excuse he will provide will be something along the lines of Grandpa Baby excuses:

1. Is too old and therefore is sore from skiing, so couldn't pick up the phone or send an email

2. Hungover from too much apres skiing and picking up the phone or sending email gives him the spins

3. Got his long johns in a bunch and is stuck in a tree somewhere on a mountain

His Grandpa Baby symptoms first manifested themselves on a Sunday when he was too hungover to tell me he wasn't coming to join us to watch games and have some drinks. Thus, I conclude that Sunday Is the New Day of Miscommunication, which then bleeds into the rest of the week.

Stay tuned to find out if Grandpa Baby makes the cut, as I'm on the fence.

...Saturday

There is nothing like a Sunday during which a New Yorker can spend 1 hour stuck in a taxi on FDR attempting to travel from the Upper East Side to the Lower East Side due to a car fire. When the cab driver wouldn't shut off the meter after 2o minutes of idling and money adding up, I lost my marbles and screamed at him that I would get out and walk if he didn't shut it off. He relented, lest he feel my full wrath, which was pretty warmed up by then.

I arrived at a Lower East Side drinking establishment named after an auto-immune disease (not kidding) and proceeded to consume 3 shots of Patron Cafe (the new best shot on Earth) and 2 Bloody Marys (while U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday came on overhead). 5 drinks in, and I was finally back to normal. And by normal, I mean sufficiently buzzed enough to stop trembling in rage (or perhaps trembling in post-hangover state).

Despite the horrendous commute to get out and drink to celebrate the end of football season, I boldly declare that Sunday is the New Saturday. A day of drinking beats any Saturday night out on the town. Thursday is the best night for wilding about, but as for weekends, my money is on Sunday.

This blog is dedicated to the glory of Sunday Funday and all the craziness that ensues.