Owing to our equally busy schedules, Galactica and I rarely have time to rendezvous. But the other night, between babysitting and a party, between Badvertiser and cleaning up a trifecta of my dog’s piss, shit, and barf, we were able to meet up at Café Gypsy for a dinner date.
To bystanders, we must seem absurdly conceited, for our dates together usually goes something like this:
“Your blog is awesome.”
“No, your blog is awesome.”
“No, yours!”
After we make ourselves feel better about our living-in-a-cardboard-box future as writers, we usually try to console each other about our perpetual boyfriendlessness by complimenting the shit out of each other’s outfits.
“Well, at least your outfit’s silky.”
“No, your outfit‘s silky.”
“But yours is silkier!”
And then we more often than not get too drunk off too much alcohol way too early. We head our separate ways, while some residual light from the sun still glows on the horizon, and I can only imagine us in our separate subway stations, one heading to Brooklyn and one heading to Queens, simultaneously and furiously swiping our MetroCards through the MetroCard reader, only to be prompted many a time to “PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I yell at the turnstile.
“No, go fuck yourself,” it replies, in green, digital font.
“No, you go fuck yourself…”
07 October 2010
06 October 2010
Conceits of Mass Destruction
I’ve acquired yet another job. The fifth one, if I’m not mistaken.
My fifth job is a Sunday night waitressing stint at this old New York, Soho mainstay called Funfetti Café. Did I submit a resume there? Of course not. Was I properly trained before working my first shift on Sunday night? Hardly. It was great.
I’m not sure why it is that I can’t stay moderately employed. Upon hearing about this fifth job, many of my friends' jaws fell open; to some, my employment or lack thereof is a disaster waiting to happen. I’m either dropping jobs like nuclear bombs or stocking up on them like cans of baked beans in the fallout shelter of my life.
But screw all you haters. I actually like all of my jobs.
Well, four out of five, anyway. I'll segue this into the latest on my Badvertiser poopscapades, which, admittedly haven’t been quite as entertaining as usual; just general memos about out of order bathrooms, nothing poop-specific.
Which leads me to announce that poop is so last month; moldy food in the office fridge is all the rage.
Today I discover a pair of moldy mangoes and a moldy half-burrito, as well as a stale cupcake with a single bite mark. I’m not sure which Einstein in this office decided not only that he or she didn’t want more than a bite of cupcake, but that it was also a good idea to refrigerate said leftover cupcake over the weekend, just in case he or she might want it at a later date.
As debasing a task as it is to clean out the refrigerator, there is one good thing I pull from the experience. I find an unopened bottle of champagne—a remnant from that first fateful cupcake and champagne party.
Henceforth, I am establishing the new refrigerator order, though I will not send it out in an office memo: she who cleans the fridge shall lay claim to its spoils. And by this I mean the champagne bottle is going into my bag right now. Taking it to my fallout shelter in case of emergency.
My fifth job is a Sunday night waitressing stint at this old New York, Soho mainstay called Funfetti Café. Did I submit a resume there? Of course not. Was I properly trained before working my first shift on Sunday night? Hardly. It was great.
I’m not sure why it is that I can’t stay moderately employed. Upon hearing about this fifth job, many of my friends' jaws fell open; to some, my employment or lack thereof is a disaster waiting to happen. I’m either dropping jobs like nuclear bombs or stocking up on them like cans of baked beans in the fallout shelter of my life.
But screw all you haters. I actually like all of my jobs.
Well, four out of five, anyway. I'll segue this into the latest on my Badvertiser poopscapades, which, admittedly haven’t been quite as entertaining as usual; just general memos about out of order bathrooms, nothing poop-specific.
Which leads me to announce that poop is so last month; moldy food in the office fridge is all the rage.
Today I discover a pair of moldy mangoes and a moldy half-burrito, as well as a stale cupcake with a single bite mark. I’m not sure which Einstein in this office decided not only that he or she didn’t want more than a bite of cupcake, but that it was also a good idea to refrigerate said leftover cupcake over the weekend, just in case he or she might want it at a later date.
As debasing a task as it is to clean out the refrigerator, there is one good thing I pull from the experience. I find an unopened bottle of champagne—a remnant from that first fateful cupcake and champagne party.
Henceforth, I am establishing the new refrigerator order, though I will not send it out in an office memo: she who cleans the fridge shall lay claim to its spoils. And by this I mean the champagne bottle is going into my bag right now. Taking it to my fallout shelter in case of emergency.
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