Ikea sucks swedish meatballs

We went to the Port Authority and arrived at door #5. That’s we saw them. Hundreds of them. Yacking on cell-phones. Hoarding the oxygen. Bulbous and porous handfuls of sweaty flesh. Bellies soft with stupidity.

“This isn’t the fucking line is it?” I asked. “This can’t be the line.”

It stretched to Harlem. I was pretty sure we’d never make it on the bus. The line was too goddamn long. But as it disappeared through door #5, it appeared as though we might make it on. Suddenly, however, the line stopped right as we were about to board.

“No more seats,” said the woman in charge. “Only standing room.”

“Standing room?” we both asked in unison. “What the hell is standing room?”

But before she could answer, the crowd behind us had nudged us aboard. We discovered that "standing room" meant two things:

1) Standing in the middle of the isle of the charter bus
2) Holding on for your fucking life.

I gripped and held. For we were aboard and on our way. On the free Ikea bus to Jersey.

It reminded me of the time I was late for my train in Europe and had to ride in the cargo car. Only now I felt more like a chihuahua's ass drippings.

“This feels European,” I commented to the Rican.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Carpooling to a destination seems like a responsible thing a European would do. If we were big, stupid Americans we’d be driving to Ikea, polluting the air with big, stupid gas guzzlers.”

“No.” He shook his head as we stood in the crowded middle isle. “It doesn’t feel European. It feels Mexican.”

When we arrived, we discovered that Ikea is probably Mexico’s cousin. Cheap stuff, little order, and delinquent children overran the floor, like they were auditioning for the movie, City of God. (Yeah, I know that’s Brazil.) As I watched the swarms of screaming kids circle around the floor, I had only one thought. What the fuck were these parents thinking, bringing their kids along to Ikea? Because really. What were they going to add to the experience? Will the sleeping infant be able to help the arguing parents come to a decision between a new chartreuse throw or an extra set of curtains? Will the screaming toddler be able to provide insights on wallpapering Vs hiring a painter? Or were they really there to do the duty they seemed to be sent there to perform: stomping on my feet.

“I’m getting my tubes tied tomorrow,” I leaned over and whispered to the Rican. In the country of chaos, I was trying my best to eliminate any confusion.

But despite the disorder, we had to focus. Screaming bastards or not, it was time to turn our new home into Omm.


(Wow. I am super gay.)

After a few hours, we had to put a temporary hold on the torture in order to refurnish our empty stomachs. The only option for food was the Ikea cafeteria, so we grudgingly joined the line of oversized customers eager to stuff their faces with Swedish meatballs.

As we picked up our trays, I couldn’t help picturing the Swedish chef from the Muppets preparing the food. But when I took my first bite, I realized that my imagination was pretty accurate.



“This food looks like it would be good,” The Rican observed. “But when you eat it, it’s just crap.” This was becoming a common theme. The beds seemed stylish and comfy, but were like sleeping on top of a snoring grandpa. The pots and pans looked functional, but during cooking, the handles get hot and bite you. And the although the food, appeared tasty, it could have only been prepared by a chef with the brain of a puppet.

Hours pass. Days maybe. Lamps. Loveseats. Spatulas. It's a blur. All I know is that it ended. So we found a sales associate and asked him how we could get out furniture and end the pain, man!

"Oh you guys gotta go back and get da shit."

You mean the fucking giant sofas and shelves? ....we, uh... we just wanna get it delivered.

"I know, but you gotta get one of dees carts and, you know, put da shit on it, and take it over there," he said, pointing to a line of people that stretched to Rhode Island.

We thanked him, checked the time and realized it would be totally fucking impossible to order our furniture and board the last bus to New York before it abandoned us in this hell. Frustrated, we marched out the door and quickly boarded our last chance for escape. As we sat down, thankfully securing seats this time, I looked down at the bag I was carrying. And I realized, uh…we never got in line. We, um…

“Babes…we didn’t pay for shit.”

We just jacked Ikea. Looking around to check for swat teams, I felt bit of tugging in the pit of my stomach. At first I thought my super strict Christian upbringing was making me feel bad for stealing. But upon closer examination I realized it was not guilt but regret.

“Damnit,” I said to the Rican, “Why didn’t we take more?!”

But there wasn’t room for anything else. Cause everybody left their common courtesy behind in favor of mexi-packing the bus full of overcrowding shit. Bags were the size of obese Americans. Cardboard boxes seemed to stretch as long as backyard diving boards. And then, of course – children.

As I listened to a screaming toddler while simultaneously being poked by the corner of a flat cardboard box scrunched next to my seat, I started to realize that children were a lot like the items sold at Ikea. Lunch looked yummy but tasted like a Dr. Scholl’s shoe insole (used.) The beds had comfy potential, but felt like sleeping on old man flesh (hairy.) So then there’s the kid. He looks cute and cuddly, but he’ll start screaming his fucking fuzzy head off when you forget to do the littlest thing. Like feed him. Even once! Forget Swedish meatballs, this is false advertising at its most misleading.

“Well,” said the Rican, trying to raise his voice above the decibel of the screaming child, “at least we got all this shit for free.”

For a second I agreed that our heist made it all worth it. But then my toe got smushed for the eight time by an out-of-control toddler. Nothing is free, bitches. Nothing. Not even stolen pillows.

Update: I'm pretty pumped you guys all hate Ikea as much as me. Feel free to share your miserable stories and keep the comments coming. Maybe Ikea will see it and feel compelled to clean up their act. But, maybe not...

no sleep till brooklyn!

So this, might be what we call a "light post week." (right, like i post so much anyway...)

I have to a) start my new job, meet my partner and try to remember how to concept for ads

b) move to williamsburg -- the rican and i got a fabulous new place which we will be moving to over the week which means...

c) multiple trips to ikea (a blog may be coming about the wretchedness of that place. went yesterday and made a few "observations"...)

d) lots of cleaning. and oh how i hate that....

e) finishing my other job. I'm such a noble employee i decided to give them proper notice and still finish all the shifts i was scheduled for. (barf)

and then there's f) keeping you, my loyal readers, updated with regular posts of hilarity. (see, even that was funny.) ok. i know. i'm not funny. shut up.

and don't forget....




that's it!

Self indulgence and a Streets metaphor

(Warning...this one's whiny. And I guess it won't make sense to you if you don’t listen to the Streets. But given his recent rise to popularity, I’m betting that most of you have. So I’m using his song as a fucking weak metaphor. And if you haven’t, sorry, dude. This probably isn’t worth reading anyway. i only ramble on and on. I just kinda wrote it for myself....and of course, this one goes out to all my homies in the struggle...)

It was supposed to be so eaaaaasyyyyy.

Finish ad school. Move to New York. Get a job. Almost exactly one year ago that was our plan. “Our” being the Rican and me. And it sounded simple enough. I had savings. He had his mama. Never mind that the total combined times he and I had visited New York was under eight. Cause fuck, man. We were smart. And (while I didn’t believe it) everybody told us we had good books. Shit, a few people went so far as to flip out when they saw him. ”Oh, you guys definitely won’t have a problem.” Plus I had Donnell’s list of contacts in my little job searching black book. With hook ups like that I’d been turnin’ the fuckers down! And if all else failed (which it most certainly wouldn’t) I could always waitress at my old manager’s night club. New York, man. We were much too talented to go to some little agency out in Kansas. It was like fucking destiny or something. So goddamn easy.

But little did I know, a grand don’t come for free.

And just like that, easy, quick snap, we had jobs. Like good ad school grads, we printed out ten books and twenty CDs and marched to the portfolio review. And got our egos fucking stroked. “This is nice stuff,” The recruiters said. “Funny.” “Love your work.”

“I really need a writer. You think you can come in tomorrow to start?”

Fuck yeah, I can come in. Hired. On the spot. The Rican too. We didn’t really want to work at the same place, given that we were living together in sin and all, but shit. It was a job. Right-a-fucking-way. Who else could boast such quick employment? No one ever gets hired from these things. But we did, cause we were meant to be here. New York, man. I guess it was destiny after all. So easy, indeed.

But easy come, easy go. We went to our first day of work. The Rican overslept and was late. I got there an hour before he did only to learn the news I already feared in the back of my head. We weren’t just hired to work at the same agency, but in the same office. As a team. “But we’re dating,” we protested, hoping our new CD would just find us new partners. “Then that might be a problem,” he agreed. So the Rican got to keep his job. “And don’t worry, CD said to me. “You’re a great writer, you’ll find something else in no time.” And just like that, I was back on the streets. (This kind of thing is also great for a relationship, by the way.)

So I failed on the DVD,
But I still had to get the money….

Ah, but there was always plan B. The nightclub in Meatpacking. Under any other circumstances I’d never set foot in that herpes infestation. The smoke, superficiality and kamikazie shots were more nauseating than a night of chugging Belevdere. But my old manager offered me the job. And given my situation, I had to swallow my nausea cause I needed the money. The hours were horrible. The girls were bitches. I barely saw the Rican. And my ego, inflated by a portfolio review, was immediately popped by the customers who treated me like a dumb blonde cocktail waitress. A grand don’t come for free, indeed. Too scared and miserable to even enjoy the money, I continued to live like a pauper, spending none of it. I simply spent all my free time worrying I would never get a job. And began wondering why the fuck I’d left Miami, my home, everything I knew, in the first place.

So I failed on the DVD.
Couldn’t withdraw any money.
But I still had to call Mom.
Get the savings and then hurry.

And in this case, "Mom" was a list of agencies. Call. Email. Unreturned Email. Unreturned Call. Fuck! How busy can these people be? On the off chance I actually got through, I’d get the same reassurances. “Oh don’t worry. You're good. It’s just a matter of time.” A matter of time like eternity? Like never? Like I the two years I just wasted in ad school?

Oh, but there was the freelance. The horrible partnerless freelance that strung me along week by week. Month by month. The insecure income that forced me to keep two jobs, the club and the agency, lest I lose one. I was living a schizo double life, with my heart in neither one. Uncertainty began to creep all over me in this shaky state. And this horrible thing kept happening to me. Every day. It started with a little worry. Then the world got a little shaky, like I was on the verge of a ‘shrooms trip. But instead of spending the evening laughing at silly visuals, I began crying. For no fucking reason at all. “Shit, I’ve never cried like this before. What the fuck is wrong with me?” And that’s how I learned what a panic attack feels like. And learned over and over, every time I sat down to write. Kinda makes it hard to get your headlines done. But at least I still had that lucrative club gig. I may not have a career, but I couldn’t complain about pulling in that kind of money.

And then, for reasons out of my hands, the bitch fired me.

So there I was. In the middle of a winter I didn’t know how to handle. Losing one income. Knowing that if I didn’t start writing like I used to, if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d lose the other too. Pressure ain’t good for the anxiety. And, fuck it was cold. And ugly. Where were my palm trees? What the fuck was I doing here? Standing in the middle of a frigid crowded street in giant Uggs I should have never spent the money on, I felt like I was in the middle of that Streets song. Except, it wasn’t just about a bad day, it was a fucking bad life. A stupid fucking me. A whiney immature bitch who just couldn’t get her shit together. So easy, my ass. What the fuck was I doing leaving Miami? For what? For here? For this?

Today I have achieved absolutely now.
It’s just being out of the house I’ve lost out.
If I wanted to end up with more now,
I should have just stayed in bed like I know how.

My freelance ended like I feared it would. It seemed like a good thing at the time – my CD promising me all the contacts I needed. But, of course, the prick never came through. Never returned an email or a phone call. Just like all those other working bastards who at one time or another assured me my book was great. So great. So fucking great. So great everyone I know is working but me.

A thousand pound disappearing from me, is not what I call funny.

Getting up was gratuitous. The alarm would go off, but I’d just roll back over, hiding safely behind my eyelids. Good morning, Day, now fuck off. My twenty-seventh birthday was coming. After 8 months of CD hounding I had no job, and no career to speak of. Waa-waa. Boo-fucking-hoo. Even Dave Eggars was not this whiny.

But then one day I just said fuck it. Stop pondering the suckiness of this hole I'd let myself fall in. And start climbing the fuck out of it. You’re depressed? Really? STOP THE DRAMA! GET THE FUCK OVER IT! Get a waitressing job. Start writing. Just do it. No, it’s not fucking easy. It’s actually really fucking hard. But a grand don’t come for free, goddamnit!

So I went back to old faithful and started waitressing again. It didn’t pay like the club job did. But who was I to complain? There was no time for that. “All writers get shitty jobs,” the Rican told me. “Much worse than this one.”

Easy for his employed ass to say. But still, he was right. It wasn’t great, but it could have been a lot worse. So I just did it. Yoga. Write. Work. I didn’t have a spot at Chiat, but I was a hell of a lot further ahead than I was a few months ago – unemployed and crying hysterically on my bed. And I felt better too. Routine keeping me busy. A month passed and I was about to start working on my book again, my confidence restored and my finances (while minor) intact.

And then the restaurant closed without notice, leaving me out of a job again. Goddamnit! What else can go wrong??? No, no. Don’t ask that question. Cause the universe will always answer you. Just find another job and keep writing. You’ll have a new book by the new year, and then you can start chasing the ad thing again.

And I found a new job. And a better one at that. Mo’ money. Better peeps. And a month later I started luxuriating in the comfort of income and routine. Now I can start working on my book again. Just two kick ass campaigns, by the end of the year. I can do this. Just like I did it before.

And then, suddenly, without my planning, to my great surprise, I found my thousand quid. Yesterday, after almost a year of searching I stood outside in Soho, blinking in disbelief. I’d just been offered a job. A good job. A fucking full time job. In advertising. And it’s the kind of job I really want like I want an IV of Black Label in my arm. Or fuck. Make it Blue Label. Cause, fuckers, I’m making a paycheck! 401k! Health insurance! A kick-ass CD! And it was all out of fucking nowhere. It seamed too easy. No, no. This can’t be. A grand don’t come for free. But a quick mental montage through the past year and I remember. This isn’t some freak lottery win. I earned this.

“Was it worth it?” asked my friend on the phone as I walked to the 6 train. “All that shit you went through. Aren’t you glad it all happened?”

I smiled a silent “yes.” into the receiver my phone’s receiver. I guess things, easy or not, usually end up just as they should.

(Yeah, yeah. I’m rolling my eyes too. But fuck. Let me have my little moment. The normal bitter programming will return shortly.)

proof

It’s been a minute since I posted a server story. Mainly because I’m living in denial right now (despite kinda liking my job) and refusing to acknowledge the way I’m temporarily earning my living. I tell myself it’s not my job, no. It’s just some place I go hang out between the hours of 3 and 12. Sure, I bring home a fistful of cash. But it’s not my profession. People just like me. And they donate.

But spending longer time working in restaurants than I ever imagined I would has taught me something. Despite what I used to think as a high and mighty college student, there’s nothing wrong with being a server. Much like real estate, sales or any of the other numerous middle man positions out there, it’s just a job. A way to earn a living. You punch in. You punch out. Then you go find something that makes you happy.

But there are plenty of people who think there is something wrong with it. And what’s wrong with it isn’t the job. It’s the person doing the job. “What’s that? You’re a server? In a restaurant? Oh yee, of little education. Poor thing. You must be stupid.”

So they condescend. They speak sl-o-o-o-o-wly. They treat you with the same annoyed frustration a spoiled rich teenager would treat his retarded cousin when forced to baby-sit him. And there’s nothing you can do but bite your tongue and check your watch. Cause eventually you can high-tail it the fuck outta there and bury your nose deep into a fat glass of cabernet and a couple of brilliant blogs.

But in their perceived social triumph, there’s something they don’t realize. There’s a group whose intelligence plummets far below the average IQ of your every day order taker. A group who was apparently absent on the day in school when they taught the lesson – How Not to Act Like A Total Fucking Asshole. A group composed of you, me and everyone we know. You know who they are? Fucking people.



And this story, would be what I call, proof.

I was annoyed. (surprise!) Standing by the hostess stand on my fifth shift in a row. We were understaffed, overbooked, and my manager had called in sick. And with that phone call he threw us all to the wolves.

Three of them walked in. Two wolves and a baby pup.

If you ask me, children have no place in adult restaurants. There’s a very specific reason that most people avoid eating their food while surrounded by plush cheese eating mice that go by the name of Chucky. And I don’t think anyone deserves a place at the adult dinner table, until they learn to not shit in their pants.

But that’s what kids do. Shit their pants. And then they grow up to be adults. Adults who shit on your day. Adults who missed the lesson in class: You Don’t Change Your Baby’s Diaper at the Fucking Dinner Table in a Fine Dinning Restaurant. But that’s what she did. And that’s what people do. That, or something like it.

And like an unwelcome child, the diaper’s aroma came out to play. To mingle with the normal restaurant smells of garlic and lamb jus. The smell got so bad that one of the bus boys decided to walk to her table and spray Lysol. On her. (Hey, you act like an idiot, you get treated with stupidity.)

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Why he felt she deserved an apology, I don’t know. “But some people have been complaining about the smell.” Personally, I don’t see the use in trying to explain to people like this that there actually are others in the world that their actions affect. But maybe it was some sort of service industry instinct that prompted him to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault.

“Well you can take that then,” the woman said pointing to a napkin on the center of the table. “That’s probably what the smell is.”

The bus boy reached down, doing his normal job of cleaning up other people’s thoughtless shit. But the warm gushy feeling inside the napkin made him recoil his hand in horror.

“What is that?!”

“Oh, that was me.” Said The Moron. “I threw up.”

After changing her child in the middle of a food-consuming environment, where people touch things and then touch their mouths, she went on to publicly vomit in the same spot. Puke, no doubt, subconsciously induced by her gut wrenching behavior. And then she went on to talk down to her server, and all others working around her, just trying to do their job.

“Let me out there.” Said the chef, shuffling back and forth like a boxer preparing for a fight. “Let me go out there and tell her that we don’t want people like that in here.”

Ah, such naïve words for one who deals with food and not humans. People like that? Then you’ll be forced to close down and look for other work. Because at some point in our lives, all people do something like that. Kick her out, and you kick everyone out. These are people you’re talking about.

“Relax,” I said. “She’s just a stupid human. Just learn to laugh at her from back here. You’ll find it’s much more fun.” And fun is what I'm all about these days.

More people were seated. The night continued.

Like the flu in the winter, stupidity relished in its breading ground, mutating like motherfucker. Highly contagious. Infecting everyone in it's path. Too much idiocy to fit in one post. This used to make me mad. Infuriate me to the point of feeling compelled to teach everyone out there a lesson. To give them my class notes, and fill them the fuck in!

But now, after so many years, you can find me in the back. Completely metamorphosed into a bubble of laughter. Hilarity weakening my legs to the point of eventually collapsing Indian style to the floor. Gasping for air. Tears escaping from the corners of my eyes. Guffawing at all these stupid, stupid motherfukers.

Subway Etiquette

You. You there wearin’ the tank top. Yes you. There’re only two other people in here. And I’m certainly not gonna attempt conversation with Mr. Pot Belly Sanchez sittin’ diagonal across. I see you. And I see what you’re about to do. Twisting your underarm skin ‘round so you can see. It’s in your eyes. Bloodthirsty. You’re wild, ravenous. You’ve spotted your prey.

Oh I know it looks all bulbous and juicy. Ripe for the poppin’. You can almost hear the satisfying snap of taught flesh breaking between your fingernails. There’s no goin’ back now. Temptation’s got its dirty little coke-nail hooked on your throat. Pointing out your prize with the other four fingers.

And it’s luscious. Apple-like. Garden of Eden n such.

Well, allow me to play God. Just for a second.

Don’t pop your fucking arm pimple in the subway!

Oh I know, I know. It’s calling out to you. And there’s nothing else to do considering you’re illiterate and all. And perhaps you think I don’t see you. I’m looking away now, right? You’re safe. I’m busy. Buried. Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (good god…does he ever stop whining? Does the book ever end?) But your vision is dancing all over my peripheries. My imagination filling in the sites and sounds. I can see the whole operation from the squeeze to pop and wipe. Examine the evidence on your little finger stubs. Your entertainment oozes all over my senses. You’re the subway ridin’ Garbage Pail Kid. And I’m officially grossed the fuck out.

No! Goddamnit! Don’t start looking on the other arm for another one!!!

Been duped like Oprah reading a memoir

Every morning I wake up, I have to look in the mirror and face something horrible. It’s like a gigantified tumor on my face. But worse. The millionth reminder that, “Goddamnit!” I’m a fucking girl. And there’s nothing I can do about it. (No, that’s not an option.)

This would all be fine and peachy if I was the type of girl who didn't view her existence and fem-habits as an atrocity to society. And could buy tickets to see "The Devil Wears Prada" like it's completely acceptable social behavior. But personally I find 8-balls to be a much more time valuable way to massacre brain cells.

But my brain is not the only part of me that makes decisions. I have this other little bully inside me, who’s pretty fucking strong. (For a girl). A dumb little floozy we call Estrogen. I fucking hate this bitch.

My brain and Estrogen are constantly having battles that make Celebrity Death Match look like the Berlin fucking Love Parade. At sixteen or seventeen, Estrogen used to be the clear winner in these brawls. But as my brain has become more developed (read: smarter) Estrogen is starting to be revealed as the pussy she really is and losing these fights. (Thank fucking god.)

Estrogen: Omigod, you will look so totally hot in [perfectly useless fem-product that even Paris Hilton’s Ferret is smart enough to avoid].
Brain: “Shut up, whore."
Estrogen: “K!”

But sometimes she makes me do very stupid things that are completely out of my control. Like this weekend, when she discovered I was out of face wash. Even though my brain saw the perfectly acceptable bar of Ivory in the soap dish, I was drug by my heels to “check your logic at the door” Sephora . It was here that she successfully tied my brain to an outside poll and let it fry away in the mind melting Manhattan Heat. Thus, allowing me to fall under the temporary delusion that I would hand over my money to this store and try to, as their tagline says, “Believe in Miracles.”

I bought this:

Or as I like to call it, The Four Steps to Stupidity.

Step one: “Purity.”

A bottle of “soap” that really should be enough in one’s cleansing routine. But sadly, mostly for me, it’s only the first step. On the bottle it says, “Cleanliness is the beginning. Then you can begin to be who you really are.” What? A doltish shiny faced bitch who’s now slightly poorer in both intellect and pink coin purse for believing the mind numbing copy scrawled all over your box? I had no idea all that dirt and oil was hiding this. Thanks for exposing the idiot in me.

Step 2: Hope in a jar.

I’ll repeat. Hope in a jar. The actual name of the product makes a mockery of those dumb enough to consume it. (Including myself.) They’re selling fucking Hope. Not “Results.” Not "Shit that Actually Works." They’re selling, “Oooo, I hope it works! I wish, I pray, oh please, oh please!” I’ve also been hoping for an advertising job and, you know, eighteen million dollars. Will they sell me a jar of this too? (And if so, apparently I’ll be first in line to buy it.)

Step 3: Hope in a jar, part 2 for eyes and lips.

Notice the similarities of the bottle on the right to the former bottle of pipe dreams shown on the left. In this step, they have the nerve to sell a smaller jar of the same hope. Ironically creating less hope that I’ll ever regain a sliver of the former smartness that’s currently roasting away outside the entrance to Sephora. (If there ever was any in the first place.)

Step 4: Hope and a prayer.


The directions say to take a small scoop of this powder and mix it with a small dab of "Hope." Like this:



So let’s see. We've already established that I'm separating myself with my money for "hope." And thus, I’m a fucking dolt. So now you're just choosing to ignore this completely and expect me to be a fucking chemist? To take proper measurements and mix shit? You actually believe I’m capable of this? I think you may have won the Biggest Moron contest this time. And unfortunately your prize is my money.

So that makes one, two, three, four steps to what could have been a fifteen second affair with a bar of soap. Washing my face is now going to take about eight minutes every morning and night. Sixteen minutes a day stolen from what could have been time for more intellectually edifying activities like slapping my elbow with a spatula.

But time and brain cells are not the only treasures lost. The grand total of this cerebral abortion? Fifty-two bucks. I bet it’s not even that bad when you compare it to the beauty budget of your average “Devil Wears Prada” fanatic. But then I remember that most of the world lives off a dollar a day. And the girl inside me feels the sting of the bitch slap she deserves.

Luckily, it will take about 6 months to run out of this stuff. So, I’ll only fall victim to the bitch in me twice a year. My only wish is that next time I go, I’ll discover that Adobe has gone into the cosmetic industry, and started bottling Photoshop. Cause that’s a miracle that both Estrogen and I are willing to believe in.

Hey, Nacho. Why you all up in my name n shit?

Dear Mr. Libre,

We’ve got a bone to pick. You see, long ago, before you were just a twinkle in Jared Hess’ eye, I was christened the one and only “Concha Libre.” And it seems, my non-amigo, that you have stolen the title by which I'm known. How could you even dream of robbing the one and only Concha Libre: Famous Blogger with audience of eight? Did you think I wasn’t going to find out, Mr. Jack-my-name Black?

Maybe if you would have asked to borrow my name nicely, we could have been nombre compadres, no? We could live lovingly in happy Libre Land. We could lucha together and be the Libre champions of the world. You’d paralyze our opponent with a camel clutch. And I’d finish him off with some biting sarcasm. And it’s 1…2…3….and Libre victors we’d be!!!!

But no. You stole. And then something went wrong, didn’t it? Your movie sucked. Ass.

But don't take my word. In between the pained writhing, clutching their eyes and begging for mercy, here’s a few things the critics managed to get out:

“Nacho Libre is the kind of awful movie that ruins your whole day."

“After a while this movie just lays there like a wrestler body slammed one too many.”

“Slightly less funny than cancer.”

And cancer isn’t funny at all.

You know what else isn’t funny? Stealing. Oh it isn’t funny. No no no. Cause the Bible tells me so. And since you’re the mastermind behind this grande nomenclature larceny, you’ve got a life sentence to the unfunny jail. But I’m still free to live a life of libre. Do you see my commenters, my faithful loyal readers, mis amigos al fin, saying these things about me? Clearly, in la copa de lucha de nombres, I am the Italy to your France.

I bet you thought you were being sneaky by not stealing my whole name. "I’ll just steal the “Libre” part. She’s too stupid to notice anyway." Maybe you even thought your name is totally different. A concha is a shell, while a nacho is a chip. Let me tell you something, you Canal Street charlatan. A shell tastes a lot like a chip when it is stale. If you find the stalest chip in the whole pile, it would be just like eating a conch from the sea. And that’s all you are. Just a stale chip in the Mexican food of movie going.

But what can I do? You’re the one grossing 73 freakin’ mil. So go ahead. Steal my name. Bite my concha. Bite it hard. I hope you break your teeth.*

Signed,

The one and only: Concha Libre.

¡Viva la Concha!


*note: I realize some of you are familiar with Argentine Spanish slang and probably recognize the pun. It wasn’t really intended, as I have no interest in Mr. Libre getting anywhere near mi concha.

catharsis

(and now concha gets angry)

I don’t know how you grew up. And frankly, I don’t care. But let me tell you about how I grew up. I grew up in a place where shopping for groceries didn’t invoke homicidal feelings. I grew up knowing if the loudspeaker announced “Cleanup on isle 3” Someone went to mutherfuking isle three and started moppin'! I grew up not having to ask myself, “Will there be a prize in my Cracker Jacks, or perhaps a FUCKING DEAD RAT?” Cause I grew up with Publix, where shopping WAS a mutherfuking PLEASURE.

Then I saw this. The fucking entrance to fucking hell, my brethren.

Maybe their lawyers (stupid mutherfukers who think they can actually defend this place) call it Gristedes. But for the rest of you, you better fucking call is what it is. The nasty, fatty, artery-clogging, heart attack causing, excrement of fucking pig lard, lubricant between the sweaty cellulitey thighs of fat chicks: Grease. Fucking Greasy’s!

Here is a picture of the fucking piece of shit Greasy’s by my apartment. See how the sky is all ugly and gray? That’s cause it just realized that it’s the part of the sky hovering over Greasy’s, and it’s about to ball like a fucking constipated baby who’s fortune teller just told him that he’s gonna grow up to be nothing in life but a fat piece of shit mutherfuking Greasy’s employee!



The other night I was in fucking Greasy’ s trying to buy some dinner to end my pathetic day, when the stupid baby who grew up to be a fucking Greasy’s cashier started talking to me.

“You know what?”

No. I don’t know what. And I don’t fucking care.

“I was laying in bed next to this girl last night and I told her, ‘I think I’m in love wit chu.’"

Thank you. Now I have a naked fat man picture in my head. There went my fucking appetite. And by the way…why are you telling me this?

He fucking continued.

“So she rolls over and says, ‘Steve, what you talking about? We just havin’ fun, Steve.’ And I was like, ‘But really, I think I’m in love wit chu. I’m tryin’ to take it to the next level.’ And she was like, ‘Don’t be stupid, Steve.’”

First of all, telling a fucking Greasy’s employee not to be stupid is like telling a fucking emo to cut his bangs. Because one day this idiot woke up and decided, despite all the fucking fungus free grocery stores out there, he wanted to work at FUCKING GREASY’S. OF COURSE HE’S FUCKING STUPID.

FURTHERFUCKINGMORE, If I fucking had anything that resembled sexual relations with a fucking Greasy’s employee, it had better be because I had fucking IVs of GHB in all six thousand of my veins, regaining consciousness only because the fat fuck ripped them all out. And when I came to, and discovered I’d just been (eww, gross, gross, gross!) fondling a Greasy member, I’d say the same thing. And by the same thing I mean, “Put the IVs back in and get the fuck out of my house YOU FAT STUPID GREASY’S EMPLOYYEE!”

This is the fucking stupid door to get into Greasy’s.
(Note: none of these pictures fully capture Greasy’s grease in full glory. Much more acned in person. Much.) Most automatic doors do what they’re supposed to do and open when you step on the mat. But not this fucking door. Step on the mat here and it will say. “Oh, shit. Do I really have to stop eating cheetoes and get off my fat fucking ass to open the door for you. Goddamn fucking customers!” And then you will hear lots of creaking, which is actually the sound of it scratching its fat fucking lazy ass while it opens the door for you.

More grease.

I'm so fucking glad they could get off their fat greasy asses to clean up this germ infested half finished soda can left in the spice rack.


Uh, yeah. That would be dried mud on that beer bottle.



Gee. I was looking all over for the maxi pads. There they are! Silly me, I should've known they would be next to the Jolly Green Giant. Great organization, ass wipes.



This would be the way the genius custodial staff decided to fix the leaky seafood shelves. Really works up your appetite for tuna.

Seriously. With the way this place can ruin appetites, there's no need to buy Lean Cuisine.

AHGHG. I hate fucking Greasy’s!

Believe it or not, once in a while they do make lame attempts to mop up the constant dripping grease of this place. One time I actually saw a fucking Greasy’s employee cleaning the floor. Unfortunately the ramen section was hovering above the part of floor he just mopped. So I had to gingerly step over it. But when I did, the fucking piece of shit grease cleaner shouted out, “You fucking stupid bitch! Fucking walking on my clean floor you fucking stupid bitch!” And this was all in earshot of the manager. But did he threaten to call corporate? Run to me and apologize on behalf of his delinquent employee who would surely be facing some kind of immediate punishment? Offer to comp my Ore-Idas? No. He fucking only grunted and went back to licking the grease out of the corners of his register.

I suppose you may suggest that I do something like stop going to Greasy’s. “They just opened a Trader Joe’s in Union Square, Concha. Why don’t you try that?” To which I’ll answer, “Exactly. It’s in Union fucking Square and I’m not about to ride down the whole green line just cause I ran out of fucking Pot Noodle!” I say we all go to every Greasy’s and dump buckets and buckets of Dawn on them, since it takes “grease out of your way” and all. Only then might we be able to rid the world of this artery clogger, and buy our Pot Noodle in peace.

the bride of frankenstein

At work on Friday night, I had a fucking pounding headache. The pounding part was ever amplified by the fact that unless I’m hung-over, I don’t usually get headaches. So I’m not used to the feeling of a little man on cocaine running around inside my skull, pounding on the inner walls of my brain with a sledgehammer like an ADHD child on a kilo of meth. Yeah, it hurt.

“Can you go down to the ladies room and see what’s going on?”

I looked up into the face of my manager. The entire night I had been awash in a sea of “Can you do this?” “Can you do that?” so I gave him a look like he had just asked me to extend my shift an extra 14 hours.

He sensed my pain. “Please?” he added. He was being sincere, so down I went.

My judgment was clouded from my headache, so I immediately pictured a group of women all partaking in a drug buffet in one of the stalls. (And had I still been working in South Beach, that’s probably what would have been going on.) My plan of action was to march me and my headache all authoritative-like and threaten to call the cops, unless they shared. After I had consumed every drug known to man, I’d just float home, having successfully killed that asshole with the sledgehammer in my brain.

I was confronted with something very different.

Walking down the dark stairs to the restaurant’s bathroom, you get the feeling of walking into the basement of a horror movie. The bathroom is quiet and barely lit by an overhead light, while candles eerily flicker in the corner. When i opened the door, I found a woman standing in one of the stalls. She was overweight, some sort of foreign, with an unbuttoned shirt, droopy eyes, and an agape mouth. There was probably a little drool there too, but me and sledgehammer man agreed that we weren’t about to get close enough to investigate.

Eyes practically rolling into the back of her head, she looked up at me and with a deep, almost demon-like voice asked, “Where are my pants?”

Sledgehammer man and I looked down further, and asked ourselves the same question. Because, good fucking god! Where were this woman’s pants?!

“I can’t find my pants.”

Now, one’s first guess would likely be that she was really – I mean like 87 tequila shots – drunk. But as I stood there in the dark quiet bathroom and watched the candles flicker in her bloodshot eyes, I thought I was starting into the possessed face of Damien’s much older sister.

She reached a shaking finger towards me and pointed to the pants I was wearing. “You. You have pants. Give me yours. Give me your pants!”

Me being 5’9” and 130 pounds (187 if you added the sledgehammer) and her at 5’ 2"ish and probably well over 160, I wanted to state the obvious: “My pants would only fit around one of your toes.” But given the fact that she was standing in the stall of a fine dining establishment’s restroom, inquiring the whereabouts of said missing pants, I don’t think this woman could comprehend the concept of being a fat fucking bitch.

Like a demon after my soul she started to stagger towards me and slowly chase me out of the restroom.

“Give me your pants! Give me your pants!”

I suddenly felt like I was a scared-to-fucking-death little kid in a haunted house, running from a ghoulish skeleton, who was inching its fingers toward me with a greedy appetite. So me and my pants hauled ass up the stairs back to the bustle of the Friday night restaurant crowd, safe from the monster in the bathroom stall.

“A!” I called to my manager, breathless. “A, we’ve got a…a…a ‘situation’ in the ladies room. Woman…no pants…drunk…”

She gave me a puzzled look. Probably cause I looked like I had just seen a ghost.

“Just go down there and check it out.”

My headache now miraculously gone, I walked out of the kitchen to experience the comfort of being surrounded by tables of fully dressed non-ghost like people. And I walked out just in time. Because standing in the back of the restaurant, I had a great seat to the show.

The woman had decided it was time to leave the restroom and join the rest of us. And with the speed of a zombie, she sloooowly and pantslessly walked down the middle isle of the restaurant and out the door with all eyes and snickers on her. Since staring at cellulite isn’t much of an aperitif, the management had badly wanted this situation contained. But there was nothing they could do now but ogle and giggle at the fat lady in her granny panties as she walked down the isle. In the spirit of the procession, I thought about humming a little ‘Here comes the Bride’ to the tune of her walk. It would have fit perfectly. Except for one difference. She wasn’t carrying a bouquet. She was carrying her skirt.

karma tastes like shit

Most of you that know me, are well aware of the amount of shit talking I do. Be it, fruity drinking guys or that fucking anorexic bitch over there, there’s always a plethora of excrement flying out of my mouth. And I guess it’s payback time. Because lately I’m having to swallow heaping spoonfuls of my own sarcastic comments. And Mother Karma is not letting me up from the table till I’m finished with dinner.

The first course of this meal was prepared by the Rican. Last week when getting the mail, he couldn’t help but notice a package from Victoria’s secret arrive at our apartment. He brought it over to me, hoping I'd open it immediately. But me excitedly tearing it open was only prelude to his disappointment. Because he gave the contents one condescending look and then turned his nose, announcing he liked nothing.

“Fine.” I said, throwing the catalogue at him. “Why don’t you go through this and Art Direct me some underwear.” Not one to turn down the chance to peruse the scantily clad, he agreed.

“What about that one?” I asked, pointing at a thong I think most guys would agree with. “That one’s cute.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay. But there’s no point in getting it cause it wont look like that on you.”

My face dropped. To the floor.

He, to my disbelief, continued. “What? You know you don’t look like that. I know you don’t look like that. Everyone knows.”

My face was practically fucking the floor.

…and on. “I mean no one looks like that except for a Victoria’s Secret Model. You don’t. So what’s the point of pretending you do and buying something even though it wont look as good on you.”

My face and the floor were now having post coital cigarettes.

All women are painfully aware that because we don’t have 36 hours an afternoon to spend in the gym, nor have the money to afford the microbiotics/coke diet, that we don’t look like Victoria’s Secret models. We don’t need to be reminded. Although I was too dumfounded to say it then, I should have replied with, “Yes, I’m well aware of my sub Victoria’s Secret Model looks. Because if I looked like a one, I WOULDN’T BE DATING YOU.”

During one of my half assed attempts to be a tenth as attractive as the model I’ll never be, I pulled on some sneakers and did my early morning visit to Crunch. Never having been one of those put-on-a-full-face-of-makeup-and-prance-around-the-gym-like-the-Victoria’s-Secret-Model-I ain’t types, I was more the pull-on-an-old-pair-of-Umbros-I’ve-had-since-I-was-fourteen-and-the-rest-of-you-can-just-fuck-yourself chick.

This particular morning I was in a body sculpting, Victoria’s Secret Model looks attempting class. Taught by the sort of perky cheerleader type, that, if I ever have kids, and my daughter turns out like her, then she will have to be taken out back and shot.

Miss sprightly gym class instructor came bubbling and bouncing over to me and pointed to my shorts.

“OMIGOD, LIKE, I TOTALLY USED TO HAVE THOSE!”

Great, I thought. Way to point out my ugly shorts.

“THOSE MUST BE SO OOOOOLD!!!!”

Yes. They’re old. Thanks for drawing the entire class’s attention to my circa 1994 gym short fashion sense. I realize that since you’re shamelessly playing Kelly Clarkson music, you must not mind revealing your incredibly embarrassing music tastes. But some of us and our ugly shorts, would rather go un-pointed out over the fucking microphone in the back of the class.

“I HAVEN’T SEEN THOSE IN LIKE SOOOOO LONG. THAT’S WHAT YOU WORE BACK IN THE DAAAAAAY. UMBROS AND A TANKTOP. THAT WAS SO COOL WAAAAY BACK IN THE DAAAAAY.”

I thought “back in the day” comments were still reserved for my dad. But apparently, kids, I have my own back in the day, and that was the day of the ugly Umbro. Which means I am officially old. No wonder I don’t look like a VS model.

So far I’ve had to swallow the fact that I’m Umbro wearing and sub VS model looking. But I can still write, right?

Lately it pains me to answer the “What do you do?” question. My ad friends get it. But questioned by anyone outside the complicated world of portfolios, and my answer may seem like a desperate string of excuses for why I don’t have a “real” job. Last week I was asked this question by an old man I was waiting on in the restaurant. While I should have stated the obvious (“I’m serving you your fucking foie gras, what the fuck does it look like I do?”) I decided to save my own face and give the short answer to my most dreaded question.

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh!” He clasped his hands together excitedly.

“What do you write? Novels? Theater? Screen plays?”

“No, sir. I write advertising.”

“Oh. His voice dropped to a nadir of disappointment.

“I thought you were a real writer.”

Fine. You got me. I’m the fucking unemployed pack of Splenda in the pastry shop. But you should see how I rock the runway in a pair of Umbros.

If you like Piña Coladas....

Picture this: You’re sitting in a restaurant. You reach down for your crotch (like you probably do about 14 times a day) and there it is again. The umpteenth confirmation that: Yes. You are %100 percent male. But cha coulda fooled me. Cause on the table in front of you is a Sex on the Beach. And you’re sipping it with all the glee of a gay parade.

If I’m waiting on a guy who has ordered a drink that shoud only be consumed by pre-teen girls, I make sure to garnish the glass with an overabundance of pineapples cherries and other fruits that symbolize the female genitalia. You may be wearing pants, but underneath you’ve got on panties. And somebody’s gotta let your poor date know before she gets back to your pathetic apartment and finds herself in the middle of a reverse Crying Game script. Here is a list of drinks that as a man, you should NOT be ordering.

The Cosmopolitan

I find it pathetic enough that there are still large numbers of girls who shamelessly quote Sex and the City and try to find parallels with the plot and their own lives. But chances are, you’ve convinced one of these halfwits to be your girlfriend for at least two weeks. In that short time, you must have learned that the Cosmopolitan is the show’s signature drink. So by ordering this pink puke, you have just carelessly thrown away your manhood. Now you only resemble a Carrie wannabe. Except not nearly as pretty. Which would make you Miranda. And no one wants to be her. Just ask the dimwitted little PR assistant who was dumb enough to go out with you.

Piña Colada
There is only one place you can order this drink. A tropical island. Preferably a deserted one so nobody can see what a douchebag you are.

Bay Breeze
I used to be somewhat of an acquaintance with an RnB singer (that alone already breaks the gay meter) who drank only Sea Breezes. He also sings a song that I’m sure your ears were once unlucky enough to be poisoned by. Excuse my particularly awful singing voice, while illustrate one the most pussified songs in existence.

“I don’t wanna know
If you’re playing me
keep it on the low
Cause my heart cant take it anymo’”

Unable to be a man and dump the bitch, he’s basically giving her an open invitation to cheat on him. He’d rather just live in the deluded bliss that only his Malibu Rum can provide, and nurse his pussy with “Bay Breeth.” If this is your drink, this is also you.

Strawberry Daquiri

Just cut off your dick and stick it in the glass. It’s got better use as a swizzle stick. (Although I’m sure at least one woman has told you this already.)

White Wine Spritzer

Is it a coincidence that the name of this drink so easily lends itself to the lisp? I think not.

Wet Willies
I hope you’re only here because your girlfriend and her six friends dragged you out, and you’re angrily sipping a scotch in the corner. But if you’re sitting at the bar with several sampler cups, and you (insert lisp) “just cant decide between a ‘call a cab’ and a ‘frozen flaming homo’” then I suggest you skip the charade and head over to Scores. I’m only sorry I avoid Wet Willies LIKE THE FUCKING CHICKEN FLU and won’t be there to make fun of you to your face.

Of course you’re now asking, “Well, Miss Concha, fine dinning guru, what IS acceptable for me to drink?” I’m glad you asked. Cause by admitting your ignorance, you just let ME know you’re a fucking HOMO who’s probably sipping on a Mai Thai right now, with your pinky out and a cocktail umbrella behind your ear. And lemmie guess. The umbrella’s a rainbow.

Why so angry, you ask? As a server, I get looked down upon plenty. This is my chance to talk back. So, boys, next time you shout out a supercilious “Miss!” and expect me to take you seriously, I hope you’re slamming down a Johnny Walker neat. Or I’ll make certain you’re next drink is garnished with a neon pussy – giving your date a heads up that, despite your almost convincing man mask, she’s actually on a date with Miranda.


Cheers.

compliments of the chef

Chefs are tempermental souls. After working in two of the most famous restaurants in Miami Beach, I can confidently vouch for this. Either insanity is a culinary school pre-requisite, or it’s only because as artists they automatically posses some amount of lunacy. Given the right circumstances (and power), it will rear its ugly head. Hitler was an art student, he got a little power and look what happened to him.

So as boss of the kitchen, the ugly head is ripe for rearing.

We get the word "chef" from French. In English, it translates to boss. And in the kitchen, the Chef is the king priest boss on high. The kitchen is his country, and he’s given ultimate control. Since every line cook aspires to work his way up to Chef, they pander to his every crazy demand, no matter how insane the rules are. Not to mention at 8pm on a Saturday night, tensions are high, the heat is on full blast and the Chef’s success or failure depends on a bunch of obsequious Mexicans to carry out his vision. You can see why he’s prone to go a little nuts.

I’ll illustrate.

A few years ago I worked in a famous restaurant that kept an arrangement of Sake bottles on display. As I was setting them up one afternoon before we opened, the chef approached me and asked if I would pour him a carafe (not a shot, a full carafe) of our house sake. I agreed, assuming he needed it for cooking. As soon as I handed him the sake, he proceeded to chug the entire carafe in front of me. Well not the entire carafe. Some managed to leak out the corners of his mouth and litter his beard with stray dribbles. I’ve seen fraternity boys bong beer with more class.

As I watched him sloppily stumble back to the kitchen, I wondered what celebrity was going to come in that night and call him a genius. I stood there in shocked silence, probably looking more like a hooker than a waitress – my mouth hanging open in a perfect “O.” I probably should have run after him and tried to prevent him from getting his hands on any knives that evening. But what could I do? He was the Chef.

So you can imagine my surprise when I started working for a new restaurant in New York, where the Chef is actually…normal. Normal and nice. His benevolence is so surprising that I’m fully prepared for the day he’ll come into work, smile at everyone, pull out an AK and start shooting. Nice, I tell you. He doesn’t yell, he treats the servers with respect, and he actually gets his hands dirty in the kitchen. (Most Chefs only parade around the floor of the restaurant and accept compliments for the food that the sweaty slaves in the back are actually making.) He’s so nice that there’s no way he meant to offend the bartender who I was lucky enough to witness him inadvertently insult last week.

J the bartender, is sweet. The sort of niceness that doesn’t deserve to be the object of insult. She’s also been trying to loose some weight. So far she’s been successful, shedding a respectful 12 pounds. And her efforts did not go unnoticed by the Chef.

“Hey, J.” Chef began. Did you loose some weight?”

“Yeah,” she brightened. “I did.”

“About 12 pounds right?”

Given that that’s a pretty precise guestimate, her faced twisted up into a confused contortion that said, “How the fuck would you know, stalker? Did you stick a fucking computer chip in my scale or something?”

She actually said, “Uh…yeah. How’d you know?”

He smiled, completely oblivious to the insult he was about to make. “Cause I cut meat all day.”

Satisfied with what, to him, was a perfectly logical explanation, he walked back to the kitchen to continue working. But if you've ever been on a diet you can imagine how she felt. Most women don't want to be seen as just a piece of meat. More importantly, while J has been diligently dedicating her efforts to look better in a bikini, Chef (albeit obliviously) only made her feel like a slaughtered cow.

But what can we do? He’s the Chef.

never mind the bollocks, it's time to talk about my boobs

(And now Concha references an exceptionally trite and mindless movie that yes, she is embarrassed to admit she has seen, but it is relevant to the exceptionally trite and mindless subject she is about to discuss. )

I was twenty-two when I saw the movie, “The Sweetest Thing.” (Shut up. I was at a friend’s house and she put it on. I have better taste than that, ok?) There’s a scene where Cameron Diaz and the chick from Married with Children are standing in a dressing room. Wearing only a bikini top, Cameron Diaz lifts her boobs to the top of her chest and proudly declares, “Twenty-two.” She then lets them go. As they fall down to their sunken position on her chest, she announces her current age, “Twenty-eight.” She repeats this sequence of lifting her boobs and letting them go, to illustrate the waning of her boob quality as she’s aged from twenty-two, to twenty-eight.

Back when I watched that movie, I was twenty-two. As I watched Ms. Diaz map out the path of her boob’s descent, I felt content that I was still at a peak age and my boobs were surely still on top. Well, my friends, this past weekend I turned twenty–seven. You can spare me the happy birthdays, as I am not too happy about this one’s arrival. Because here I am, only one year away from her dreaded age, and I can confidently conclude that, yes, my boobs are also sagging.

“My boobs are sagging,” I shirtlessly announce to the Rican.

He squints his eyes to examine the evidence.

“No, they’re not. They’re fine.”

“Yes they are. Look closer.”

Of course he doesn’t get it. Men will never be able to grasp any of our illogical female plights. For example, no man can comprehend that we as a gender perpetually have nothing to wear. In fact I can guarantee you that if I decide to go out Friday night after work, I will stand in front of a heaping pile of brand new birthday clothes, declare that I hate everything, put on my pajamas and pout. This is also the same sort of female common senselessness used when we insist that we ARE, in fact fat, or goddamnit, yes they are too sagging, and I’m not putting my shirt back on till you agree with me!

“Baby, your boobs are fine. They’re not sagging.” He gives one an affectionate squeeze and walks past me. I should be happy with his approval.

“Goddamnit, yes they are!”

But I should give him a little credit. It's not like they've sunken dramatically. Cause, aging moves kinda like continental drift: slowly BUT surely. It doesn't happen overnight, but eventually the once young and tightly unified Pangea will spread into the seven problem continents of wrinkles, graying hair, failing eyesight, swelling ass, drying eggs, and a few I’d rather not mention. (Causing tidal waves and earthquakes of frustration like this one, as they carve their course across my epidermis.) But as goddess of my own continents, I’m must bear the burden of omnipotence. And thus, be aware of every millimeter of progression, as my once twenty-two year old perkies decend further and further to my knees.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

A completely hypothetical hookup story that I’m only writing about because the Rican and I are lame and never go out and do anything on Saturday night hence I’m living vicariously through my own rambles


It’s come to my attention that perhaps I have too much paprika. (Ok one of those bottles is thyme, but I put it in there so that you would be affected in the same way I was when I perused through my very cramped spice cabinet this evening, and thought, “Hey, really who has this much paprika?”)

What does this say about someone? We all know that a sneaky peak in the medicine cabinet can reveal whether or not it was a good idea to take home the smelly dude drinking the Pabst in the back corner. (I mean, he said he wasn’t homeless and that was good enough for me.) In fact I’m an advocate of the sneaky peak. Cause while sweet drunken lips may be deceitful, Valtrex never lies.

But what, pray tell, does it say about someone whose spice cabinet is overloaded with a spice usually found in Goulash? I mean, you’re in a bar, you meet some drunk chick (me) who’s doing a lot of drunken rambling on and on about herself (most definitely me) and one cab ride to her apartment and a sneaky peak later you discover an abundance of the spice in question (Yep. Me again.) First you may think, “What do I know about paprika? Oh, Crackberry, Wikapedia me!”* And pull out your blue little friend for an answer. (At which point I hope you stick a ballpoint pen through your balls for saying something so stupid.)

After a quick scroll down of the page (if you can still read since you were drunk enough to take me home) you’ll learn that paprika is a spice most extensively used in Hungary. **
You may have stray thoughts like, “I’ve always thought the people in Hungary should go to Turkey. Ha ha. Or how come they named an entire country after a side effect of getting high?” But I assure you, please keep these overwhelmingly asinine thoughts to yourself. They may have that discovering-Valtrex-in-the-medicine-cabinet effect on me and send me out the door. Except for, shit. This is my apartment. Godamnit, who’s the idiot now?

After all this inconclusive pondering, you may hear my footsteps and thus have to shut the cabinet and pretend you weren’t just going through my stuff or surfing the web. All before you were able to come to a resolution about what paprika is or what it means if someone has so much of it. In this brief period you may have only had time to jump to some conclusions like, A) I’m a Hungarian immigrant B) I might suggest getting kinky with goulash or C) Not that you’re gay or anything, but you found David Hasselhof to be much more attractive in Nightrider than in Baywatch. Well, my friend (and potential questionable hookup) if you found David to be less tasty when surrounded by a throng of perfect bodied females on a California beach, then may I suggest this: take one of my paprika bottles and spice him up by dumping four tablespoons down his hairy chest. I’ve sure got plenty to spare.

*No, I was not high when I wrote this.

**And yes, that is my paprika.

taking the Y out of NYC

J and I are sitting on the patio of a German Restaurant on the Upper East Side.

“So what exactly is ‘German potato salad?’” I spent 3 months in Berlin so I should know this. But while I was there I spent more time in Indian restaurants than native ones, so I ask J. His dad is after all, off the Deutchland boat.

“It’s crushed up potatoes with a vinegar dressing. No mayo or anything.”

“So good, it’s not like American Potato salad? I fukin’ hate that shit.”

I know, I know. What don’t I hate?

A round of Spaten in authentic looking German beer glasses. Authentic as Busch Gardens, Williamsburg. I take a sip, swearing this will be my only drink of the day.

A few sips later, the waiter brings our plates.

“I wish we had a girl waitress. I’d rather get to look at a chick in a dress than some guy in Leiderhosen.”

“I’m glad we have a guy. I’d rather have a guy for everything. For friends, a waiter a boyfriend…”

“We’re you thinking about switching to the other side?”

I crinkle my nose in disgust. What kind of question is that? Besides, I’ve ordered sausage. Not tuna.

“At least the papas are good,” I offer. But I guess to a man, no potato can replace the enjoyment of seeing bosoms every time you order a refill.

“I don’t wanna move to North Carolina,” I blurt out like whiney 3 year old. An agency, an unfortunately good agency, is flying me down next week for an interview. Flying means they’re serious. I wish it was a bad agency. But it’s the kind of agency I’d be naïve to turn down. But I posses a problem that fosters this naïveté. I’m a city snob. It’s an arrogance that was fostered early in my youth and nurtured by my string of past residences. Buckling down with a good job in a city without distractions may be a smart career move. But then I picture rodeos. Unnecessarily giant muddy trucks with stickers of Calvin peeing on the Chevy logo. Waitressing in this city has been suddenly elevated to rock star status.

“No one says you have to,” says J.

Sure no one says I have to. I didn’t HAVE to work two jobs my first few months here either. But I did. And now I can still afford to feed my addictions.

I gulp down a mouthful of my Spaten and wipe off my top lip. “What am I gonna drink there? Busch beer? Do they even drink imports down there?”

“Sure they do.” He says cheerily.

My feigned confused expression goes flat. “Dude, I wasn’t being serious. I know they have imports. I’m not that fucking ignorant.”

“No, I was gonna say, they import their whiskey from Kentucky.”

I reply with an unenthusiastic, “Ha.” I am not amused at their idea of cultural exploration.

My whining re-commences. “But I don’t wanna move to North Carolina.” I am three years old. I’m at the dinner table. And I don’t wanna eat my green beans.

“It’s really the north of the south.”

This does little to comfort me either. It’s like saying they’re the best of the worst. “I don’t want no north of no south,” I say. My grammar already beginning to assimilate with the NC natives.

“Just use it as leverage.”

“Can I do that?”

“Of course you can. Tell all the agencies you’ve been talking to you here that Agency wants to offer you a job.”

“But aren’t I really screwing Agency over? My headhunter too? He’ll hate me.”

“It happens all the time.”

“What? People hating me?”

“That too.”

“The rican’s gonna hate me.”

“No he won’t.”

“I’m sticking him with rent.”

“And you’re stuck with it now.”

“True.”

I look up at the fading sky. Then back down at my papas, nudging what’s left of them around with a fork. I’d finish them. I want to. But I’d spent the last week abandoning the gym in favor of 5 nights of heaving drinking with my favorite Korean drinking partner. I swore I’d use this hiatus to be “productive,” but it’s easy to forget your plight with eternal rounds of vodka. But after my week my body feels two pounds heavier. Multiply that by 765 and that’s how my head feels thinking about moving to the country.

I pull my sweater tighter. It’s getting chilly. I bet it’s warmer in NC. And if it’s not, a shot of Bourbon might do the trick. But then I remember my one beer limit. So I go home and pour myself a glass of water. Wondering if my future glasses will come from a Brita pitcher, or a well.

bad friday

i hate poems. i hate spoken word fucks. and i hate PMS. but one day, a yr or so ago, i wrote a poem about PMS. and it pretty much encapsulates how i feel today. so poetry hating aside...enjoy!


I'm feelin' more crampy than bitchy.
but sometimes the cramps are a bitch.
if i'm feelin' more bitchy than crampy,
you might go and call me a witch.
but whichever way i be feelin'
i suggest you stay out of my way.
cause the cramps are a bitch
and i'll soon be a witch
and you'll turn into my fuckin' prey.


happy easter.

thing to be a little bit more happy about #3

sexism.

my headhunter just called. my dream agency is hiring. and they're only hiring chicks. i'm no feminist, but at this point i'll take advantage of a little female affirmative action, in exchange for all the time i don't (and won't) get taken seriously.

thing to be realatively happy about #2

growing up in so.flo. i only knew two seasons. hot, and fuck you. but apparently here there are 4 seasons, and we're in one called spring which is actually quite nice. back home at this time, when the heat starts to begin it's ascent back to 117º, flowers let out a last "fuck you" and promptly die. but here they look pretty like this one outside my apartment.

good god. somebody make me stop. i just got nauseated.

delightful pessimism

i hate quoters. i hate people people that wak around with quote journals and start writing pieces with quotes and quote the whole goddamn library without ever saying anything interesting of their own.

however.

since the blog is on hiatus until my fragile confidence is restored (i'm so goddamn dramatic, i know) i found this quote too interesting to pass up. but maybe it's only interesting to me. but it's sure as hell more interesting than anything i have to say at the moment...

"An ad that pretends to be art is -- at absolute best -- like somebody who smiles warmly at you only because he wants something from you. This is dishonest, but what's sinister is the cumulative effect that such dishonesty has on us: since it offers a facsimile or simulacrum of goodwill without goodwill's real spirit, it messes with our heads and eventually starts upping our defenses even in cases of genuine smile and real art and true goodwill. it makes us feel confused and lonely and impotent and angry and scared. It causes despair."

and so the job hunt, and chance to inflict these emotions on the thoughtess masses, continues...

more meaningless life excerpts

Since yesterday was my last day of freelance, one of my former co-workers suggested we go out for drinks. Anyone who knows me, knows I am absolutely incapable of turning that down.

Unfortunately before she offered me drinks, I promised the Rican I would cook. For some reason, this promise is always met with great excitement by him. So I was going to have to figure out how to have drinks and produce the pollo. Else I would have to endure a minimum two days of pouting because I had promised Christmas, and then failed to deliver the gifts.

While I was out my phone died. Which cut off my communication with him and my access to a time source. In the midst of scotch and conversation, I forgot my hunger and that it’s best not to deny a Rican his beans n rice. Luckily my drinking companion reminded me I better get home, so I traded having another beer for a trip to the grocery store to buy food.

Feeling nice and sauced up from 2 black labels and 2 beers, I sauntered in our apartment, tossed my computer bag on the floor like it didn’t have a computer in it, and ripped out my (fucking brand new so awesome!) iPod earbuds out of my ears.

“Where have you been? I called you like 4 times. You don’t answer your phone?” he expressed with un-rican like concern.

“Why, what time is it?” I had no idea.

“Almost nine-thirty. I was about to order dinner and call the cops!”

Note, ordering food was first in line. Good to know he has his priorities straight.

brain dead

It’s late. I’m still at the office. Everyone else has left. And all I can think about is scotch. And the sweet sweet tinkling noise the ice makes as I swirl it around in my glass. And its sweet sweet feel as it courses down to my belly, the alcohol carving out tiny caverns inside my throat. Three glasses and I can finally wake up from this headline nightmare, having forgotten about advertising completely. Six and I’ll be scrawling scripted nonsense onto bar naps with the pen the bartender lent me. Eight and I’ll be telling everyone to fuck off and I hate them all. I hate this city. I hate my life. And you can all just fucking die. And then, thanks to the sweet sweet mind erasing benefits of sweet sweet scotch, I won’t remember a damn thing.

Hm. Headlines or not, I think it might be time for me to go home.

i miss miami

How appropriate. I am now a shot. My dear bartender friend in Miami has been threatening to name a shot after me, and he finally developed the recipe.

1 part chambord
1 part Godiva white chocolate liqueur
1 part Myers Rum

Layer them in that order and serve.

I was hoping that a shot made in my honor would be a little stronger, but apparently the recipe of straight tequila was already taken. So next time you’re at a bar, order la Concha Libre. And if the bartender makes a face of confusion, kindly enlighten him with the recipe.

May you always be happy and your concha be free.

(god I miss the beach)

the switch (or crappiest and most unorganized blog ever, sorry guys)

I’m sitting in Starbucks during a three-hour intermission between my two jobs. Everyone leaves the office by 6 on Friday. And given that the agency and the club are within a block of each other, (how that happened, I don’t know) I’m forced to sit here in dread of the next 8 hours on the clock.

This is when I must make the switch.

I’m not the first person with two jobs. I think Jamaica has already pioneered that frontier. And since advertising entrance salaries aren’t exactly forgiving, I’m not the first copywriter who was forced to find outside employment. But how many copywriter/ cocktail waitresses are there? I’m sure there’s lots of bartender/copywriters. And perhaps a few restaurant/cws as well. But copywriter/cocktail waitress? It’s like the Skittles’s sheepboy of employment.

In my observation, the smartest ones in the service industry tend to gravitate towards bartending. There are plenty of idiots behind the bar, sure. But the ones in aspiration for callings higher than a Grey Goose martini, seem to earn their interim income flipping bottles. Then you have your waiters. Respect them. They know more about wine than you do. A lot of them are just between jobs. And some just can’t figure out what the fuck they wanna do with their lives. And I don’t think any of us can judge a person for that.

But then you have the cocktail waitresses. A totally different deluded breed that manages to squeeze $80,000 + a year from society, while remaining completely ignorant to anything outside the world of expensive jeans, manicures, and facials. (You are free to interpret facial either way you like.)

I once walked in on a conversation between two of my coworkers who were discussing the absence of high tippers in the past 5 years.

“I used to walk out the club with like $2000 maybe $2500 in my pocket. But, you know, it’s ain’t like that no more.”

“Prob’ly cause of the recession.” I offered.

They stared at me like I had just proudly announced a case of the crabs.

I made the mistake of trying to explain, “You know, 9/11, the .com burst, decline in consumer confidence…”

It was like trying to teach Neitzsche to eight year-old boys. They’d stare at you for a second, and then go back to giggling at each others’ farts.

Yet, I’m one of these girls.

Yeah, yeah…. I’m on my way to other things, my day will come…bla, bah. I’m sure I’ll be the fucking president come February. But for two nights a week I’ve got to play the roll. Because customers don’t want to deal with anything unexpected. They want the same vodka tonic they drank last week. They dance to the same Kanye West song that was playing on the radio while they looked for a parking spot. They don’t want to be confronted with a sarcastic bitter half writer wannabe who’s trying to prove she’s more than this. So, I’ve got to play the role. I’ve got to make the switch. But luckily I’ve got abundant access to the remedy.

I take a shot. It doesn’t do much. I take a second. Score some champagne. That Shakira song sounds a little better now. More Patron? Sure. You sell insurance? Really? Oh my god! My friend used to do that! By the way, that’ll be $675. Eight-fifty, with gratuity.

Enough champagne and I forget about everything. The music is great now. My vocabulary plummets. (Yet my Spanish is strangely more fluent.) If only my Monday morning Starbucks could provide a champagne-like transition back.

On the morning after my two job collision, sore headed, I’ll wake up to another rainy New York Saturday. In between the time I regain consciousness and stumble to the bathroom, I’ll resume my incessant, narcissistic, fruitless pondering. Who the fuck am I? Stupid waitress or half ass copywriter? Who the hell are any of us? Who the hell are you? And why are you reading my blog?