Company Ink

peach is a horrible name

2007-02-12T19:31:00.000-05:00

Not to operate under the implicit assumption that anyone cares, but the reason I haven't been posting is because I've been feeling sad. Not sad like "Since I'm feeling down, I guess I'll have a martini at a bar while reading some Murakami by myself while pondering the futility of human existence" kind of sad, but more like take a week off work, don't answer the phone, and sleep for 18 hour stretches on various combinations of antidepressants, antihistaminic cold medications, and over-the-counter sleep-aids, sort of sad. But I'm doing much better now, thanks for asking, and it's in no small part due to the new man in my life.

He is Italian. He has dark hair and a great smile. I have had to pay for his services, but no relationship is perfect.

I bought a Nintendo DS.

I know that I'm 25. 24. I know that I'm 24. And I know that this device is the rage among 10 year-olds, and not the hip ones at that. But I don't care. I will finish Super Mario Brothers if it's the last thing I do in this life; and neither that short Italian bastard who screams his head off every time he falls into a pit of molten lava, nor the judgment of my peers, nor my full-time job will stop me. I have been playing for hours every day. I play during my lunch break in the bathroom. I play as soon as I get back from work. I play in bed before I fall asleep exhausted and more frustrated than the times I've had to cuddle with a guy, but I will persevere and I will finish this game. Last night, I had a nightmare after World 6-5. I didn't dream that I was Lady Mario and was being chased by little munchkins and red porcupines, no. Instead, I dreamed that I was in my grand-aunt's house, sitting alone in a corner, playing the game when I suddenly went blind. But when I realized that I could no longer see, I didn't scream out "I'm blind!", but rather "Fuck! I can't see the screen! I can't see the screen!", then proceeded to throw myself onto the floor and roll around in agony. Then I woke up.

It may be eating away what few remaining brain cells I have leftover (from alcohol abuse and a very particular habit of hitting my head against hard surfaces whenever frustrated), but I remain fantastically pleased with my purchase. I love Mario. Only if he vibrated.

holidays with Marc

2007-01-11T13:16:00.000-05:00

Things I miss about my ex-boyfriend:
- His mom's cooking.
- His mom's teacup poodle Theo.
- His mom.

Things I don't really miss about my ex-boyfriend:
The incessant, maddening, soul-deadening, mind-numbing, fighting. Oh, the fighting... We fought for four days about every little trivial thing that we could possibly think of.

At the ATM:

Marc: You're hitting the wrong button.

Me: No, I'm not.

Marc: Yes, you are, why don't you just pick fast cash from checking? Is this your first experience with an ATM machine? Do they not have these back in your country?

Me: It's not an ATM machine, you stupid fuck.

Marc: Um, yeah, it is.

Me: No, ATM stands for Automated Teller Machine, so you're essentially saying Automated Teller Machine Machine, which, despite being very meta and all, makes no sense.

Marc: Why don't you just get your money so we can get in the car and I can drive us both off a cliff or something?

On Boost Mobile's hot new service that lets you pinpoint where your friends are using your cell phone's GPS technology:

Marc: What the hell is wrong with these people? Who wants everyone to know where they are all the time?

Me: I don't know, someone nice?

Marc: I am nice. But no one needs to know where you are all the time. Maybe if you were married. And epileptic. Yeah, if you were married and epileptic, this phone would make a lot of sense.

Me: How about if you were single and epileptic, and you weren't a pathological liar and a cheater? Would you buy the phone then?

Marc: What the fuck? No! When did I ever cheat on you?

Me: No one said you cheated on me, why are you being so touchy?

So what have those four days filled with Christmas joy, caramel cookies, bickering, and sexual frustration taught me?

1. Never stay friends with an ex.
2. Never, ever, accept a gracious invitation from an ex to spend the holidays at his house.
3. While you're at it, stop celebrating the Christian holidays all together.
4. Admit the fact that you are a Godless, loveless, tactless, hopeless shell of a human being who will never change for the better and who is destined to spend the rest of her days alone, not even living, but merely existing towards a sad, quiet little death.

Happy 2007 to everyone.

don we now our gaaay apparel

2006-12-21T14:59:00.000-05:00

Buon Natale e Felice Anno Nuovo, people...
And to all my good Canadian friends, Happy Boxing Day!

I am leaving town to spend Christmas with an ex-boyfriend. Do not ask why, or how, for I do not know. But I leave with the promise of a most colorful and detailed play-by-play of my weekend of frustration, anguish, and discontent (for that is what will inevitably happen) upon my return.

Oh, one last thing: Please read this. And tell me you share my murderous rage.

www.newyorker.com/talk/content/articles/061218ta_talk_collins

Bankers are fucking wankers.

I doctor (I punned)

2006-12-17T19:03:00.000-05:00

I'm nearsighted. I've been nearsighted for a while now, so I've accepted it, along with my mediocre stature and my accent, which, when unchecked, makes me sound awfully like Borat's first wife. So last week, I went to the eye doctor to get my prescription renewed. I knew it wasn't going to be pleasant. I didn't think it could go this badly.

My doctor, who I swear could not have been a more than two years older than me (despite his receding hairline and awful taste in whimsical, statement-making ties), asked me into his office, and that's when the fun began.

He started off with the standard stuff, covering one of my eyes and asking me to read a series of letters.

Me: Um, I can't read any of those letters.

Doctor Genius: Please try.

Me: J?

DG: No. Try again?

Me: I?

DG: Nope. Go again.

Me: I honestly can't see the letters, should I keep on guessing?

DG: Sometimes, our eyes become accustomed to what our brain tells them what they can and cannot perceive. I'm trying to break through this, so we can get a more accurate reading for your prescription.

Me: That's great, but I'm not being complacent. I really can't see that line. Or the line below it.

DG: Try.

Me: Seriously?

After about fifteen minutes of guessing games, the first part of the fun was over, and he figured out my prescription. Then he said that he'd like to check a few more things.

DG: You are going to see two tiny black boxes. The bottom one will be fixed, and I will move the top one from left to right. Tell me when they are perfectly aligned, like two buttons on a shirt, O.K.?

Me: Fine.

(He does it.)

Me: Wait, you went too fast.

DG: That's quite all right, I will do it again, pay attention now.

(He does it again, only faster.)

Me: Aaah, almost. You're doing it too fast.

DG: Can you please apply yourself?

Me: I am applying myself.

Can I please apply myself? We are sitting in a near pitch black room. The only two sounds I hear are the whirring of some machine and your stupid instructions. You have a contraption over my head, so the only thing I can see are the stupid black boxes, and you're worried that I'm distracted? By what exactly? Your masculine wiles? Your Hanae Mori aftershave burning your memory deep into my brain? Stop going so goddamned fast.

I almost got it on the fourth try, and even though the boxes weren't perfectly aligned I was too annoyed to say anything, so we moved on. He then showed me a bunch of criss-crossed lines, and asked me which ones appeared darker and which ones lighter, which took us another half an hour. By the end of it, I was exhausted, and all I wanted to do is get out of there and get drunk.

DG (after much deliberation and head scratching): O.K. What you have is a condition referred to as convergence excess. Basically, when you are reading at a close distance, your eyes converge too much (brings his two fingers together and crosses them), and then your eyes have to spend extra effort readjusting.

Me: I'm cross-eyed?

DG: No, no, you misunderstand.

Me: Well, your gesture, that was the international sign for cross-eyed. And I know I'm not an optometrist, but I'm pretty sure I'm not cross-eyed.

DG: You're not cross-eyed, this happens only when you're reading, which is the definition of convergence excess. Your esotropia is greater for near-vision, so you will need bifocals.

Me: Um, I read fine. I can read two pages per minute. Do you know how many pages that is an hour, or do they not teach you basic multiplication at optometry school? And really? Optometry? Med school must have been a bitch... I mean, even orthodontics has to be harder right? 32 teeth versus 2 eyes? Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong doctor, but I'm thinking that an orthodontist could take you down, and he could take you down hard. What do you think? Oh, and I freaking aced, aced, the SATs and the GREs, so I think it's unfair for you to judge me so quickly, and call me cross-eyed just because I couldn't align the two buttons... I mean boxes. Dammit... (I break down crying)... Can I have a tissue? And a hug?

So I'm not wearing the bifocals. Convergence excess... Please.

parrots and ferrets

2006-12-15T11:15:00.000-05:00

A reminiscence:

I was an utterly unexceptional child. I wasn't reading or writing by the time I was three, I hadn't moved on to quadratic equations by the time I was in the fifth grade, and I most certainly wasn't what you would call "bright". But I was a special little girl, and even though no one else agrees with me on this point, I know in my heart that it's true.

Even though I wasn't a precocious young little thing, I did have a very peculiar habit which presented itself at a very early age. Every time my parents left me alone to play, I would climb the highest surface I could find and jump off. According to my mother (I don't remember any of this, brain damage?) I have jumped off: four couches, two bookcases, six tables, a self-made tower of three kiddie sized-chairs, and the sink. She told me that the worst part of it was that I would climb onto the dining table, run across it at top speed, and simply jump off when I reached the very end, landing with a thud and horrible screams each time. And the next day I would do it again. She insists that I never took off flying.

When I shattered an ankle at two and a half, she took me to the doctor and had to explain my predilection to her, who leaned over me and asked: "Do you think you can fly?" Not being a huge fan of blatant patronization even at that age, I apparently rolled my eyes at her and said "No." And I really don't remember ever thinking that I was a merciless hawk trying to hunt down its prey, or a chubby little quail flying about (I was a fat baby). I don't remember trying to kill myself at two either, but now that I think about it, early onset of self-destructive behavior accompanied by nihilistic thought patterns seems a much more likely a diagnosis than, "I'm sorry Mrs. M., but I'm afraid your daughter believes that she's a parrot." Stupid doctors.

And a recent failure:

It's actually quite painful for me to talk about this, but I'll try. I had a date last week. He cancelled. This was our phone conversation:

Me: Hello?

Him: Hi, M. This is Tom. I'm so sorry but I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow.

Me: Oh, that's O.K. Is everything all right? (At this point, I'm not feigning interest. I actually kind of, sort of, care.)

Him: Yeah, everything is fine I guess, it's just that my ferret died.

Me: Your what?

Aside: I know I'm not a native speaker of English, but I am down with the English vernacular. I have heard men refer to, um, let's say they best friend, as the General, Bonecrusher, Chocolate Thunder, the Dancer, White Lightning, Rho, Doom, and Craig. The Ferret? What? And it died?

Him: My ferret, Tuggs, he died. He had been sick for a while. He had a gastro-intestinal infection, and last week, he stopped eating all together, so I had been-force feeding him for the past few days. And yesterday, he started throwing up, and refusing liquids, and early this morning he passed.

Me (Not 100 percent sure what a ferret is, but still supportive): I am sorry.

Him: And now, Tricks, she's the female, is left all alone, and we are really afraid that she may catch the same infection, and that possibility, along with what she must be feeling right now, I really don't want to abandon her, all by herself, in her cage.

Me: Um, sure. I understand. I'll talk to you later?

Tuggs and Tricks? Ferrets? And one of them died? I mean, I know I'm no Adrienne Lima, and I know my bedside manners are not much better than, let's just pick a feral animal at random, a ferret's let's say, but isn't it just a little much to concoct a story so overwrought to get out of a dinner with me? I mean, I am not that bad. But what if he did have two ferrets, and one of them died you say? A grown man of 28? Living alone with his two ferrets, one of whom he is clearly rearing to become a ferret prostitute? What sort of name is Tricks anyway? I'll pass.

et cetera

2006-12-07T11:37:00.000-05:00

Lunchtime:

I just discovered the most amazing thing in the world: Glenny's Salt and Pepper Soy Crisps.
Not only are they absolutely delicious, and just as crispy and satisfying as regular potato chips, according to Glenny, they also include:

10 grams of soy protein
25 miligrams of soy isoflavones
3 grams of diatery fiber
and, wait for it,
more soy protein than tofu or soy milk!!

Granted, that little blurb doesn't exactly quantify how much tofu or soy milk (teaspoon?), and I hate health food on principle, but each of these puffy little chips are like a peppery orgasm in my mouth. They are crunchy, spicy, and perfectly bite sized pieces of heaven. I just finished eating a whole pack, and all I want to do now is to make a huge bed out of them and roll around on it naked.

Brotherly love:

I am a nice girl, I really am. Despite what just popped into my head right now (let's just say it involves a soy crisp bed, George Clooney, and a small tub of French chevre), I am not too crazy. I'm not into threeways, or gangbangs. And I have never wanted to be doubleteamed, by a pair of brothers no less, until last night after my NUMB3RS marathon, also known as the greatest show on television, or ever.

The premise of NUMB3RS is this: Don and Charlie Eppes are brothers. Don, the elder, is an FBI agent, and Charlie is a mathematical genius and a professor at Cal-Sci, a fictional university in L.A. where the show is set. Charlie consults with his brother on a variety of cases, and helps the FBI solve a big mystery every time using his otherworldly genius. The show revolves around the lives of the two brothers, and how much they learn from one another in the matters of work, love, and everything in between. There are few words to describe how awesome it is.

Now normally, I would be much more attracted to Charlie, because the mention of even the first two letters of a Ph.D. is enough for me to take my top off and start dancing for you, should you so desire. I am freakishly attracted to academic accomplishment, and Charlie, with his curly hair, multiple diplomas, and his sexy little tenure is the ultimate sex god for me.

But I can't deny the energy between Don and I either. I don't know if it's his fitted white shirts, his undeniable street smarts, or the way he chews on those plastic coffee stirrers, but every time he comes on screen, with that slightly constipated, yet totally intense look on his face, I want to start touching myself all over. I want to choose a brother and stick with him, I really do, but watching them collaborate and draw on their individual skill set to accomplish a common goal for forty minutes makes me think that these two come as a team, and that it would be foolish to break them up. I mean, they work so well together, and I really don't see why this would all of a sudden stop being the case if I were naked and in the same room with the two of them and asked for a little bit of attention. Is that too much to ask for? No, right? I don't think so either.

Headaches:

I can't take it anymore, I get headaches literally every day now. Someone please help me. I pop Tylenol like it was M&Ms, and it does nothing for me. I hate doctors and I don't know what to do. I wish I could screw off my own head and eat it, so it could be over. It hurts so badly, and it hurts all the time.

So, to summarize: I like soy crisps, David Krumholtz and Rob Murrow, and I hate my own stupid head.

How are you guys?

'tis the season

2006-11-17T15:22:00.000-05:00

I just want to take a moment to thank YOU ALL for your dedicated readership (Yes, yes, all five of you. Don't be shy. You know who you are. Come ooon..), and in the spirit of the upcoming holidays, I would like to make a suggestion as to how you could give your friends and family a present they are guaranteed to enjoy, while getting on my and God's good side at the same time: Gift them this site!

But that is not all, my fellow skeptics! I am not just asking you to do my pimping for me, that would be selfish. You also get customized holiday emails, written by yours truly, which you can just copy and paste at your heart's leisure, saving you both time and effort. So, without further ado:

To your best friend:

Dude, check out this site. She sounds totally loose. You would dig her. Oh, and happy thanksgiving and all that shit.
www.company-ink.blogspot.com

To your parents:

Mom, dad, you did a good job with me. Look here. Happy holidays,
www.company-ink.blogspot.com

To that special someone, be it male, female, a cousin, or you know, whatever. I'm open minded.

Baby,
I thought you would enjoy this site, and I figured it would help with your self-esteem issues so we could have lights-on sex for once. But totally your call.
www.company-ink.blogspot.com

You're welcome. I told you that I loved you. You just never believed me.

can you say steve irwin redux?

2006-11-15T13:28:00.000-05:00

Check this out, and please tell me why:

http://discovery.com/survival

For the uninitiated, Man vs. Wild is a new series on the Discovery Channel featuring the indefatigable adventurist and survivor Bear Grylls of rugged good looks and chiseled abs. And it's fascinating. It really is. Bear is a freak of nature who served in the British Army Special Forces Unit, and then went on to become the youngest man to scale both Mount Ama Dablam (Thank you Wiki for what I'm hoping is the correct spelling) and Mount Everest. Much deservedly, he now enjoys his very own TV show where he can battle the forces of nature, in such diverse locales as the Moab desert, the Costa Rican rain forest or the African Savanna.

And even though this man nicknamed Bear who makes fire with his bare hands, feasts on uncooked eggs stolen out of eagles' nests, and treks through dark, swampy forests inhabited by slithering monsters and all other sorts of unpleasant things, turns me on like crazy, every rational brain cell in my tiny head is screaming out to him "Dude. Stop." Even though one part of me wants to rip off his sand colored slacks and take care of business in some dark Guatemalan cavern, another part of me wants to sit him down and tell him to just stop being such a douche.

Because Bear, baby, you know you don't have to right? You know you don't have to make fire with a flint, or collect rainwater, spear a fish or any of those other things that you just have to do to "survive"? Have you heard of Fresh Direct? They deliver the next day. You don't have to, and I quote, "abseil from a helicopter into a treacherous expanse and demonstrate how to create a gas mask, escape from a moving lava flow, find water in a lava tube and get honey from a bee's nest", because, why, oh my god, why, would you ever have to do any of these things? Do you know why anyone would ever have to escape from a moving lava flow? If they were filming a documentary and intentionally sought out an active volcano and placed themselves in the path of moving fucking lava! Care to venture a guess as to the statistical likelihood of this happening unarranged? Consequently, can you think of any good reason I should be prepared for such an outcome? I would much rather practice for the off-chance that I will get to have a three way with George Clooney, and so should you TeddyBear. (Maybe not with George Clooney. Padma Lakshmi?) You want to engage in utterly stupid and entirely gratuitous behavior? That's what public nudity is for. So, stop taking your life for granted, and if you won't do it for me do it for your wife and kids. They deserve better.

three misogynistic notes

2006-11-09T20:29:00.000-05:00

Women who pee on the toilet seat in the Company bathroom:

Why and how do you do this? And I'm not talking about those of you who just get a drop or two on there, which I can just wipe off. I'm talking about those of you who cover the whole seat as if you were dousing a bundt cake with some delicious syrup. If you can't hover and aim for the huge hole at the same time, just sit your stupid asses down. I hope you all get herpes.

Women who are loud:

Stop shrieking like a sex-crazed banshee every time you call someone on the phone. I don't know what year you think this is, but technology has taken us far. The same brilliant men who came up with a hundred and one ways for you to be able to push your boobs together, up, up, and higher, also perfected this device called the telephone so you don't have to raise your voice exponentially as you make sales calls to Ohio, Paris, and Budapest. I can hear you. They can hear you. We're both bleeding from the fucking ears. Stop yelling.

Women who do no work and spend their time talking crap about everyone else:

Um... I don't quite know how to elaborate on this one. I guess I'll leave you to enjoy the illustrative example instead.

no touchy

2006-11-07T12:25:00.000-05:00

I am not a lot of things. I'm not kind or loving. I don't have a good singing voice. I'm not very tall. But I do possess one good trait: I am fantastically well-mannered and polite. Elderly ladies have been known to burst into tears of joy after making small-talk with "that nice young lady they just met". My mother still gets misty eyed every time she bears witness to my table manners which are so impeccable and yet so gracefully executed, that it has been said that I raise eating at a four-star restaurant to an art form. I can say "please" in more languages than I can say "I want you to fuck me, and hard" in, and I when I thank people, I do it with such a sincere smile on my face, that it is more often met with a "You are most welcome" than with the obligatory New York grunt. This is how awesomely polite I am. I am respectful of other people.

And this is also why it drives me absolutely insane when people don't show even the tiniest fraction of the respect I show them, back to me:

My Dearest Colleague Ed,

I understand, I really do. You are a 31 year old college graduate with a bachelors degree in Economics who does not know how to use a computer. I know this about you, and it is quite all right now, because I have accepted it. I have come to terms with the fact that I spend the largest chunk of my life sitting next to a person who taps his monitor (his monitor!) when his computer freezes, who drinks chocolate milk in the morning rather than coffee (what self respecting man?) and who doesn't know what "milquetoast" means.

I have resigned myself to this, and to you, and I am always polite to you. I always say "good morning" and "good afternoon", I always answer your questions and help you out, and I never, ever, no matter how much I want to, start pounding my head against my desk with all the force that I can muster because you committed yet another unspeakable act of stupidity which took me at least 45 minutes to undo.

And this is why I think I deserve at least some respect from you too. Like when you ask me to change the default printer for your computer, I need you to get up from your chair and step away so I can sit down and not have to lean all over you as I try to reach the mouse, see your screen and not touch you, or your aura, all at once. I need you to fucking show me, and my personal space some r-e-s-p-e-c-t. I know you don't know me well, but I can break this down for you very simply: I don't do gratuitous touching. I don't like gratuitous touching. So if you need me to enter your personal sphere, I need you to evacuate it immediately and wait outside until I am done fixing whatever you broke in there.

Warmest regards,
M.

and scandal erupts!

2006-11-05T23:44:00.000-05:00

You will not believe this.
I have been plagiarized.

I know I should be cycling between crazy indignation and violent rage right now, but all I feel is giddy like a schoolgirl. Someone plagiarized me? Me? Seriously? There is someone out there who is lamer than the depressed economist who gets no ass, someone whose life is emptier than the girl who spends all her time writing acrimonious little vignettes about her colleagues and her friends, someone who didn't even have the soundness of mind to pick a piece of writing that was slightly more highbrow, with more references to Thackeray and less spelling mistakes?

I link to these purely for your enjoyment. Aside: And when I say "your," I mean my remaining readership of four since I guess I just lost someone. Damn.

He said:
http://four2seven.livejournal.com/115035.html

I said that! On October 23rd...My post-birthday lows.

He said:
http://four2seven.livejournal.com/114195.html

And, September 27th. Ed must feel so dirty.

As bemused as I am though, I feel compelled to ask:

Dude? Have you no self respect? Stop your mooching. And don't you ever, ever dare rip off something I wrote about my mommy again.

morning commute

2006-11-03T14:13:00.000-05:00

To the gentleman who made me laugh at 7:45 a.m. this morning:

First, I don't think anyone has ever been able to do this before since I am a vile, violent and vindictive creature in the mornings; and I have always felt bad for the very few people who have had to come in contact with me before 11 a.m. (my mom who had to wake me up for school for 12 years and two men who I know have bigger regrets about our relationship than the fact that I was a smidge confrontational in the a.m.) And second, I salute you because you made an absolute fool of yourself and everyone else looked at you as if you were crazy-like, but you did not care. Only if you were a little taller, and a little younger and a little less married.

Aside: I'm writing this draft in Gmail, and at exactly this point, Google ads is trying to sell me a two bedroom house in India. I've spent the last ten minutes trying to figure out which part of the previous paragraph could have triggered the Mumbai real estate algorithm, and I have no idea. Well played, Googs. I am rarely this confused.

Anyway, when I was trying to cross 46th street at Park Avenue, the traffic was backed up, so a white truck was sitting right in the middle of the crosswalk as throngs of angry finance monkeys were trying to make their way around it and across the street. Everyone was doing that indignant little C-dance, whereby you walk rapidly all the way up to the vehicle obstructing your path, then act completely surprised as if it just materialized right then and there in your way, then sigh, and walk around it in a half circle, body-checking as many people as possible on the way while telling yourself that this is somehow their fault. I was busy doing the exact same thing, when I noticed this guy who cut his way through, walked up to the back of the truck, put both hands on it, grunted, and mock-pushed it up the street. I know it sounds retarded when you read about it, and even though I heard a few snickers, no one else who was there thought he was funny either, but I laughed about it all the way to the office, and for a little while when I was at my desk too.

So good sir, you are a modern-day Sisyphus, and you made me happy for like, 20 minutes. Thank you, wherever you are.

an entirely rhetorical question

2006-10-30T17:10:00.000-05:00

How big a mistake would it be for me to turn on comments?

I know there are like five people who read this site (That's two more than my last count, so take that mom! You said I would never be a success!), but what I can't tell is whether you do so because you feel bad for me, or because you are in fact dedicated thinkers with genuine stands on issues who will take something I said seriously and be mean to me. Oh, I also can't whether or not you care. Almost forgot that one.

I hope more than anything that what makes you come back for more is the promise that on Monday, while you're bored at work eating a semi-warmed panini during lunch, you can read about my weekend and suddenly feel a whole lot better about your life when you find out:

- how my date stuck his hand inside my jean pocket like a 12 year-old special-ed student from Alabama,
- how I then got drunk on three Coronas just to bring myself back from that murderous precipice,
- and how I told him that I would blow him in the bathroom of Houston's if he could pass my World Capitals test just out of spite.

This is what I dream of. Nothing more. I am a sensitive lady who's prone to crying spells and long bouts of neurasthenia. So be nice to me.

Oh, also:
Estonia, Kyrgyzstan, Burkina Faso, Marshall Islands, and Bhutan. Takers?

people i hate (the last one, i promise)

2006-10-29T17:30:00.000-05:00

The marketing genius who came up with the "boyfriend fit" concept.

I have no idea who this person was. It may have been a single idiot, or an entire roomful of losers, but I am willing to bet good money that it was a single woman with a name like Bethany who thought the permanent post-coital look was the epitome of sexy for women. I am almost positive that Bethany was one of those women who acted like she didn't have any clothes of her own, and constantly put on her boyfriends shirts, her boyfriends boxers, or hell, her boyfriend's wifebeaters after sex because it somehow made her feel closer to him. I am sure that Bethany was stupid. As is the "boyfriend fit". So, I'll do my good deed for the day and break this down for Bethany in case she is reading:

1. Women don't need custom-designed looser or slimmer fits. Every woman knows to go down a cup size, or to go up a jean size if she when she wants to hike up her boobs or when she's feeling a little bloated. If women really wanted to look like they were wearing their boyfriend's sweaters they would go up a size. This is that simple.

2. No woman, no matter how skinny, wants to look like they're wearing their boyfriend's jeans. This idea is so flawed at its very core that I can think of no way to attack its reasoning other than to say: "Which idiot came up with this shit?" Seriously, I can't do it.

3. No one is buying this "luxirious boyfirend fit" bullshit. Loose does not equal luxurious. In fact, the two words are about as etymologically related as salmon roe and Roth IRA. You know what is luxurious? Higher quality fabrics. So make the fucking sweater out of cashmere and stop asking me to pretend that it belongs to my boyfriend. I went to college. This just insults my intelligence.

people i hate and would like to hurt if i could continued

2006-10-28T20:40:00.000-04:00

1. Hopeless morons who answer the question "If you were stuck on a deserted island, which three books would you like to have with you?" with "Um… Wow, that's a tough choice. But I'd have to say The Bible, Robinson Crusoe, and To Kill a Mockingbird".

You know which three books you should have with you if you're stuck on a deserted island? Three books you haven't read before, asshole. To Kill a Mockingbird? From like the sixth grade? Are you joking? You answered “Um… Dude… Some sort of survival guide. Totally”? Fine. You're being a smartass and ruining the point of the question, but I'll take it. But don't even say something like "An inflatable book" and then expect me to take off my top because your pithy wit just blew me away. And never, ever, ever say "Lolita". This is unacceptable on so many counts that it is not even funny. First, if you never read Lolita, and only have time for that amazing piece of literature now that your ass is stuck on a remote island, I don't even want to talk to you. Second, if you did read Lolita before and your little dick, and by dick I mean your brain, mistook it for soft-core porn, I hope that you are attacked by a pack of rabid dogs on your way out of some strip club in Northern Jersey. And finally, if you did read Lolita before, and you didn't think it was porn, but you just pulled that name out of your ass at the very last second because you thought name dropping Russian émigré authors was the best way into a girls pants, maybe you and I could talk. But I still think you should go with something you haven’t read before and fucking expand your horizons because I'm finding you very uninteresting.

I don’t know where all this rage just came from. I’m going to go have a glass of milk or something.

yesterday

2006-10-23T13:45:00.000-04:00

All morning and afternoon:
Spent planted in front of the TV watching the Food Network, Extreme Makeover, The Butterfly Effect (twice), and Mythbusters.

A good 15 minutes:
Spent talking on the phone with my mom about the sex industry. She and my dad are in Amsterdam for the week, and apparently they happened to stumble upon something that made my mom want to gouge out her own eyes with a spork and cut of one of her ears just for good measure. I tried to explain to her what she had just seen (It's perfectly natural, all the grown-ups are doing it) but failed miserably.

8:30 p.m.:
My roommate leaves to go to a party.

9:00 p.m. to I'm not quite sure when:
Me in my pajama bottoms and bra, playlist #9, which I reserve only for my most suicidal moments (You don't understand what the combination of Damien Rice, The Eels and Garbage does to me), and half a bottle of Souza tequila with salt but no lime, which I didn't have.

I think it's safe to say good times ensued for at least a little while, as I was scurrying between the kitchen where I was doing shots and the living room where I was dancing like it was 1999 to the song Most Beautiful Woman. And by dancing I mean seizing in an upright position while butchering the words to the song and flapping my arms about myself as if I were a mentally challenged Guillemot after the Exxon Valdez spill. Unfortunately, I have the lung capacity and physical stamina of a four year old, so about an hour or so later, my exhilaration gave way to exhaustion and I fell asleep on the couch. Which brings me to my point:

Why don't I just end it already?

I spent my birthday getting drunk by myself, and on crappy liquor too. I think I finally alienated my last friend when I told her to read the paper once in a while rather than ask me every stupid thing. I hate my job more than anything, but I don't have the emotional wherewithal to look for a new one, so I spend my days playing miniature golf on my computer and reading Harris and Dennett's atheistic treatises during lunchtime. And I haven't been with someone in so long that my checklist as to who would constitute an acceptable one-night stand has been reduced to a single point: Willing male. I'm not one to stop and "take stock" as they say, but fuck. This blows.

oh joy!

2006-10-22T14:46:00.000-04:00

It's my birthday today.
Happy birthday to me.

My plans? Nothing too crazy. Get drunk by myself, reevaluate my life, see how I come up short.
Cry.
Drink some more.
Fall asleep.

I can't believe I made it to 24.

i'll have some cookies instead

2006-10-11T08:31:00.000-04:00

I just walked into the Company's kitchen to get some coffee, and there was some leftover cake sitting on the counter, and someone had put a piece of paper on the box labeled "Outstanding Cake." I think it's safe to say that my morning is ruined.

Outstanding? Outstanding? It's coffee crumb cake! Not a non-performing loan, prime mortgage application or a budget deficit. It's cake. It's leftover cake, extra cake, cake that the clients did not like when the Company served it to them during the last sales meeting. Anything. It's not "outstanding" cake.

I am also aware of the somewhat slim possibility that the writer was using the word "outstanding" as in "exceptional", and I will verify to make sure that this is not the case. For I have one and only one purpose today: To find out who in the Company labeled that cake and hate them for the rest of my days.

just a random thought

2006-10-10T00:16:00.000-04:00

You know what’s not funny? Occupational pet names. Economists naming their dogs Tobin, Fisher, and Keynes. Their basset hounds, Allen Greenspan. Physicists naming their cats Schrödinger. Writers naming their great danes Hamlet, their French bulldogs Flaubert. I knew a math major in college who named his penis “rho”. When I asked him why he didn’t pick another letter like alpha, or – judging by the size of his hands—epsilon, he told me that “rho” had a very sensual sound.

The only pets I had were three chicks my mom got me when I was 10 years old. I named them One, Two and Three. For two weeks, I loved them more than anything else in the world. Then, One died of a subdural hematoma, and Two and Three grew up to be huge cocks, so I had to give them away. I didn't have any pets after that double-whammy of death and adolescent transmutation; but I’ve always wanted a dog. And if I ever get one, I’ll give it a dignified, sensible name. Like Ted. Or Philip. I’ll make sure to avoid any clever allusions as well as the names of anyone I may have dated or slept with. Maybe I’ll name it after myself. But I’m not naming my poor dog Black-Scholes. That’s just stupid.

i no heart meg

2006-10-09T21:06:00.000-04:00

Why do beauty technicians always insult you so badly that you want to hurt them as soon as they’re done wiping the apricot scrub off your face?

I went to get a facial today, and easily one of the most confrontational experiences of my life, coming in way ahead of all my breakups, pretty much any phone conversation with my mom and Model United Nations. Aside: The fact that I got a facial can not, and will not, in any way be used against me. Just because I enjoy a little pregnant lady glow without the crying, shitting and annoying accoutrement, does not mean that I am any less hateful. The facial itself was quite good, but my technician, whom we will call Meg, made me fell so depressed and miserable that I contemplated eating the cucumber eye mask to make myself feel better. Aside: Seriously, the eye mask was freshly ground cucumber wrapped in a soft piece of tissue. It looked delicious.

I think my first misstep with Meg was telling her the truth when she asked me when my last facial was. I told her that it had been a while, but just like a new lover with low self esteem who will not settle for anything other than a discrete number, she asked me to be more specific. So I told her that it had been almost three months which caused her to gasp in horror and tell me that I was at an age when I was supposed to take better care of my skin. Then she proceeded to take a look at me under that horrendous overhead light, and threw around so many names and accusations that I almost started crying right then and there. She called me "dry, congested, and un-exfoliated", and just as I was about to come back with "heartless, cold-blooded whore", she covered my face with a triple oxygen instant energizing mask and ordered me to “just relax”. I don’t relax well under pressure, so I just lay under the covers stewing and thinking of biting retorts to hurt Meg back. Then I realized how much this facial was like so many of my relationships, and got even more depressed, and this is when I wanted to start eating some of the stuff she was putting on my face.

I will concede that I may have overreacted, but I still don’t think that this is smartest marketing strategy. I understand the “asses the situation, identify the problem, and offer a solution so the potential customer will be more likely to make a purchase” doctrine, but I still think Meg was a little too unkind. She made me feel so used and dirty, and I left teary-eyed, wanting my mommy. I don’t think I’ll be going back for a bikini wax any time soon.

Aside: I hate Meg, and there’s nothing she can do to make it up to me, but I have to admit that I look freaking fantastic. So new and shiny. It must have been the cucumber thingy.

musings on a thursday morning

2006-10-05T10:22:00.000-04:00

A very lame observation:

New York smells terrible. I went to Connecticut yesterday, armed to the teeth with my suburbia jokes, but was so taken aback by how wonderful the air felt the moment I got off the train that I was completely dumbfounded and almost broke into tears right then and there. The air around me felt light and untouched, and it smelled like a combination of freshly cut grass and seawater. I kept taking deep breaths, trying to take in as much as the aroma of the air as I could before habituation kicked in. Soon, I was sitting on a stoop hyperventilating, and holding my stomach as I panted like a retarded beagle, but it was worth it. That smell was amazing. Now I'm back in the city that smells like old Chinese food and an unusual mixture of bodily fluids. God, why won't someone knock me up already so that I can finally play my Muslim card, force them to marry me, and move to Orange, CT? Why?

A bad Saturday:

I had a date this weekend. I don't have the emotional stamina to break down all the ways in which the evening made me want to chase down a bottle of Lithium with some quality vodka, but two choice quotes from the evening were:

Me: "So what else do you do?"
Him: "I'm a runner."

Stop right there. No. You're not a runner. You work in a consulting firm. A runner is not someone who runs. A runner is someone who runs for a living. I write hundreds of emails every week, and I even have a blog that three (count them, three) people read. Does this make me a writer? I also love to sing Portions for Foxes when I'm taking a shower. I don't sing it as much as I scream it out as if someone was coming after me with a knife, but if we're being technical, I guess I "sing" when I'm in the shower. Am I a singer? Huh? Huh? No, I'm not. And you're not a "runner". Running a mile in Central Park every two weeks in your PwC issue t-shirt does not make you a runner. It makes you a fat cubicle monkey. Don't fool yourself, and don't try to fool me.

and

Him: "I know this will probably sound really vain, but I feel like I have a hard time relating to other people because I'm very smart."
Me: "No, that's not vain at all. That must be very difficult for you."
Him: "I was never sure about it, but I was tested last year, and I'm in the 99.7th percentile. I guess that makes me some kind of a genius or something."
Me: I guess it does.

I don't even know how to elaborate on this one other than to ask you to imagine this. Imagine Albert and Mileva in 1905, sitting in the dining room of their small house in Bern. Imagine them having some spaetzle and talking about how Marie Curie looked like she had put on some weight at the Nobel ceremony. Then imagine Albert telling Mileva that he thinks "he's some kind of a genius or something" and asking for a blowjob after dinner. You can't really see that happening can you? And not just because I threw in the blowjob. I didn't think so.

And a question:

I shared an elevator with a pregnant woman and a middle aged man this morning. The man was looking appropriately tired and grumpy at 7:30 in the morning, and he most certainly was not happy to be there. But the pregnant lady looked freaking amazing, all shiny and smiley in her blue sweater and white Aside: White? Really? pants. This is when I had an epiphany. If I was standing in the elevator, wearing a slutty white pair of pants and a hickey the size of Kentucky on the side of my neck, I would be treated as a porny pariah. But a pregnant woman flaunting her belly is totally acceptable, inside my elevator and outside. Why? I am the last person who will fight the single woman's fight, and write about how knocked up women with big rocks on their hands look down on the rest of us little people. I could not care less about the fact that married/pregnant folk feel a sense of superiority to the single/slim. But this double standard intrigues me from a purely logical standpoint. What does a hickey say? That I got it on last night, perhaps with an over-eager partner. What does a fat belly say? That you got it on about six-to-nine months ago, and I will refrain from any assumptions about the intensity of that episode. Why is only one of these displays of sexual activity acceptable, and the other a mark of a slattern?

I know. I pose very interesting questions. I can almost see a dissertation happening somewhere.

Aside: The aforementioned hickey is obviously hypothetical, since my last date was Rainman, Lance Armstrong, and Gordon Gecko all rolled into one.

money money money

2006-10-02T14:36:00.000-04:00

I read somewhere that the average person has at least one one-million dollar idea in his or her lifetime. I always figured that it was unfortunate that my life was uncomplicated by the joys of friends, family or a boyfriend, but because I have none of these things, I have a lot more free time, and thus a lot more million-dollar ideas. So many more in fact, that here are two I know I'll never even get to. Just take them. I have neither the energy nor the drive to make anything of them. I'm lazy. Honestly, they're yours. When you buy yourself that new car or lay that hot chick, just take a second to think of me.

1. Pillows with ear holes.

You know why you keep tossing and turning at night? It's not because your mattress is too soft or because you have back problems. It's because you're a side-sleeper, and when you lay on your side for extended periods of time you crush the sensitive cartilage tissue in your ear causing you much discomfort throughout the night. The problem is obviously exacerbated for those whose ears are larger protrusions, but the problem could be easily remedied by ear-hole pillows. Each pillow would come with two average ear-sized indentations so that when you buried your head into them, your ear would nest comfortably inside its little home rather than being crushed and bruised. You would utilize the the second hole if you turned to the other side during the night, ensuring you a wonderful 8-hours of uninterrupted ear-friendly sleep.

2. Reading umbrellas.

The modern umbrella design in all wrong. Why is the umbrella decorated on the outside when people spend hours walking in the rain, staring at the plain inside of their boring umbrellas? Valentine's Day? Give your girlfriend a pink umbrella with Auden's poems on the inside. Flying to London for the weekend? How about the best chapter from Bleak House to accompany you inside your umbrella? For your young one? Why not give him Calvin and Hobbes? You need to tell him to watch out for the bus and to look out from under there once in a while, but other than that, I really don't see how this business plan could fail. Foolproof I tell you. Foolproof.

You're welcome. Really, it's nothing.

an indecent proposal

2006-09-27T15:37:00.000-04:00

To my three readers,

According to my statistical model, I have three unique visitors to this site every week, and I just want to take a minute to thank you; whoever you are. Aside: I'm not getting this number from the counter at the bottom of the page. I only installed that for ironic value anyways since single digits don't exactly require a counter. So I don't rely on it. Besides, a real economist does her own stat work. If it weren't for you, I probably would have had that sixth vodka cranberry when I went out last week, and we would not be chatting here today. My mommy would be crying her eyes out, with my ex-boyfriends in somber black suits, standing by her side trying to console her, telling her that alcohol poisoning was really the best way for me to go, and that I must have died happy.

I want you to know that I am genuinely grateful to all three of you, and that I am not above offering sexual favors in exchange for your continued readership. I would also hand out cash if I had any, but I break exactly even every month, assuming that I don't buy new shoes or get fancy and ask for Absolut instead of well vodka. And if you were feeling particularly generous one day, and decided to pass on this site to your friends and family, or to your sworn enemies, please, please, email me so I can at least cook you dinner and give you a back massage in return. I am a lonely girl of limited financial means, but I have a lot of love to give, so don't be afraid to ask. And remember that whoever you are, I love you, and not in a weird way. My love is pure, despite the fact that I offered to put out if you visit my blog.

Take good care of yourselves, and think of me the next time you're bored or horny. Whichever.

XxX,
M.

don't mess with my language center

2006-09-27T15:35:00.000-04:00

The Company recently hired a new employee, gave him a computer, a phone, and a stapler and sat him next to me. He's only been here a few weeks but I swear to God, if he doesn't stop annoying the fuck out of me within the next few days, he will face the consequences. And by consequences, I mean:

a. I will reprogram his phone, so every time he makes a phone call, it will go to 1-800-HOT-ASIANCHICKS and nowhere else.
b. I will send his explorer history to HR every day after he leaves. He hasn't yet figured out how to change his PC password.

and I swear I'm going to do this:

c. The next time he asks me a ridiculously inane question like how to rebase a price index, that a newt would know the answer to, I am telling him to multiply everything by a factor of 1,000 and cc the chief economist on his results. I am confident that he will not question me and do as I say.

I realize that I am not filled to the brim with Jesus love, and I frequently tend to be blinded by murderous, red hot, boiling rage when subjected to the mediocrity and the stupidity of yet another coworker, but I assure you that this time, my hatred is entirely well-founded. Ed, for that is is name, is a moron and a loser of the worst order. The unaware kind.

Unannounced segue

I frequently get pretty bad headaches, so I went to a new doctor last week to see if he could figure out what was wrong with me. He ran a few tests and prescribed an anti-seizure medication I'd never heard of, which was shown to help with headaches and migraines as well. So I googled it as soon as I got home, and it turns out that my "doctor" ( Aside: The quotation marks are entirely appropriate as this guy clearly went to medical school in a third-world country with multiple consonants in its name) had failed to mention a few common side effects of the drug.

Cons of my magic pill:Nominal aphasia, severe memory and cognitive impairment, myopia, glaucoma, renal stones, and in rare cases, partial complex, absence, or grand mal seizures. The pros? Appetite suppression and weight loss. It turns out that this drug is jokingly referred to as the "supermodel" drug, because it causes you to lose weight while impairing your temporal lobe function and making you dumber than, well, Ed for example. Never mind the irony that the anti-seizure medication actually causes grand mal seizures in rare cases, and concentrate for a moment on the fact that nominal aphasia (not being able to remember words), is listed as a side effect. Call me crazy, but aphasia, along with blindness, anal bleeding, and death is not a side effect, but a standalone problem that needs to be dealt with. So I'm not taking the pills. I don't want to wake up one morning, maybe next to a handsome stranger, my head feeling perfectly fine, and say: "I love you" just because I happened to forget the words "Can we have bacon for breakfast?"

as the day goes on...

2006-09-20T17:14:00.000-04:00

Critical Update: Level 14 on Brickbreaker. Do you know what that means? That means less than half way. Hell yes! Who's the man now? Huh? Huh?

It's been a slow day at the Company, so I killed time playing games and working on the sketch of a hedgehod getting its head stuck in a McFlurry cup. I made the hedgehog obese, and gave it big soulful eyes. Then I set the whole thing in a dark corner of the woods, with the rain starting to come down, and I was so sad for the poor little hedgehog that I teared up a little. It's a beautiful picture though. Someone's getting that for a birthday.

I told the emerging markets economist that I'd have one thousand words for him on Hungary by tomorrow morning, and I'm at 57 right now. This means I have two options. I can stay late and write the whole thing, leave work late, walk home in the rain, (because it will inevitably rain every time I get stuck in the office), curse out Hungary, every Hungarian who ever lived, the Hungarian economy, and myself, then fall asleep in my work clothes, crying into my pillow. Or, I could tell myself that I work bettter under pressure, go home early, and write the analysis in 30 minutes tomorrow morning. Since I know surprisingly little about Hungary, I figure there will be little variation in the quality of the final product. And that means three discs of Grey's Anatomy and a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for tonight. I don't know how anyone could ask for more.

Second critical update: John bought me a cup of coffee this morning without me asking. I'm so confused?!?! What does it all mean? Is he trying to tell me he's ready for a relationship? Maybe something more serious? I mean, a cup of coffee! That has to mean something right? What does tall skim cappucino from Starbucks translate to in guyspeak?

But he did look cute today. I have a thing for men wearing white shirts. And my father isn't even a doctor.

and how does that make you feel?

2006-09-20T10:06:00.000-04:00

Awesome: Balls on a plane.

I was waiting in the 2nd Avenue subway station, and someone had drawn a pair of balls on the plane in the "Take the E train to Jamaica Center to travel to JFK" sign. The airplane had two perfectly plump balls right on the wings, and the head of the plane looked, well, like a head. Points for originality.

Not so awesome: Getting called into the senior economists office because I talk to myself.

I don't understand why it's perfectly acceptable to sing to oneself, but taking to yourself is indicative of either a psychotic break or demonic possession. I have a fantastically interesting dialogue going on inside my head at all times, and sometimes, I get carried away. It goes something like this:

Me (Quiet): If you throw in an index for manufacturing activity, you're going to get a higher r bar squared, but it's not going to be right because you already have production proxies in there.
Other Me(Quiet): So? This is a measure of sentiment, it's a completely different thing.
Me(Quiet): No it's not. But if you just want to make up numbers go ahead. Why don't you throw the number of your sexual partners into the equation too? Maybe that will improve the fit.
Other Me(Quiet): Fuck you.
Me(Out loud, in a very high pitched voice): Are you fucking stupid? There correlation is going to be all wrong!

or

Me(Quiet): Do you think that bartender likes me?
Other Me(Quiet): Which one you drunken whore?
Me (Quiet): Peter.
Other Me(Quiet): How to put this gently ... No.
Me(Quiet): Why not?
Other Me(Out loud and irritated): I really don't know where to start answering that question. Shut up and go back to work.

So on Monday the senior economist came over and asked if he could talk to me. As I was following him to his office, this was going on in my head:

Me:Fuck, you're so getting fired.
Other Me:Um, no. They can't fire me. I'm totally getting a raise.
Me: You're getting fired.
Other Me: Raise.
Me: Fired.
Other Me: Raise.

Then he told me that the new guy who sits next to me was visibly startled by one of my outbursts the other day, and he just happened to see. I apologized for yelling out obscenities and making the new idiot cry, he said it was fine, we had a warm moment, and then made out. OK, so we didn't make out, but he was quite nice about it. Still not the highlight of my week though.

Awesome: John has been very cool.

He struck the perfect balance between being aloof as to ward off any further advances (which I wasn't even going to make) and an easygoing friendliness so things won't be "weird". Which tells me that this is not his first time at this. But then again, who am I to judge?

Not so awesome:

I hate the new person who sits next to me. I hate him. It's shocking, I know.

my mommy gives the best advice

2006-09-13T23:35:00.000-04:00

Phone conversation with my mother, 10:30 p.m. my time. That’s 5:30 a.m. her time.

Her: Are you all right?

This is how she actually answers the phone.

Me: Hello to you too, I’m fine. What’s going on?

Her: I had a dream about you.

Me: Was I brutally ax-murdered or just raped and pillaged this time?

Her: I don’t know what was wrong, you were sitting in a chair, alone, crying.

This is a surprisingly accurate description of how I spend quite a bit of my time, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Me: I’m fine mom, really. It was just a dream.

Her: But how are you really doing? You never tell me anything anymore.

Me: I tell you everything, it’s just that there’s very little to tell. I’m at work most of the time. Nothing really exciting is going on.

Her: Well, how was work today, tell me about that?

Me: Well, I had a bagel for breakfast and then Canadian labor productivity fell for the first time in almost two years. Do you want to talk about that?

Her: Are you seeing anyone?

Me: Yes, he’s actually in bed right now, waiting for me to finish this conversation. Can you hear him calling my name and moaning?

Her: Don’t be smart with me. Have you met anyone recently? Why don’t you go to the Yale club? I bet you could meet some very nice boys there. You could wear that navy skirt we bought together.

Me: Um, because I’m not going to whore myself to a bunch of investment bankers just because they have the same diploma as me. You want me to dress up and go pick up random men? What kind of motherly advice…

Her: That’s not what I’m saying, but you could meet them.

Me: I’m not going to the Yale Club to meet men, mom, is there anything else I could help you out with?

Her: I just want you to be happy.

She always says this, but I have no idea what she means. I went to college. I got a job. I don’t do illegal drugs (only because I have no connections and I’m really shy), and as far as I know, I haven’t yet besmirched the family name. She should be proud of me. What’s happiness got to do with anything?

Me: I am happy mom. I love you.

Her: Your dad’s snoring again, I can’t hear you. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Me: Bye, mom.

I miss her.

bad calls and seagulls

2006-09-13T17:43:00.000-04:00

I've been trying to distract myself, writing about how much I hate people who are more accomplished than I am and so on, but it's not working.

Damn it. I knew this was going to happen.

I hooked up with John Friday night. Bad M. Bad. Bad. This is all Kristin's fault. I'm not quite sure how, but thinking that makes me feel better.

Without getting into too much unsavory detail, let's just say that it was good. It was very good. Although, it's been a while, so I'm not quite sure I remember how it's all supposed to go, but factoring out my faulty memory and the possibility that I wasn't all that due to lengthy disuse either, it was very good.

I think.

I figure I can either be stupid about this (read: act like a girl), or I could be smart (read: deal with it like a man.) Aside: Please send me some hate mail accusing me of being sexist. Please? I'm so lonely. I could either shake off the whole thing as the inevitable culmination of some pretty serious sexual tension that built up betweeen two people who work together. I mean, I'm not conceited or anything, but if you saw me, you would totally understand about the sexual tension. No? No one bought that? Fine. Or I could go home, put on some Aimee Mann, think about what that night "meant", and then send John a mildly flirty, mildly retarded text message like: "I really enjoyed myself on Friday, and I'd like to get to know you better."

I will not resort to game theoretical analysis like I did before, since that sort of dumb-ass, high-minded thinking is what probably landed me in this mess in the first place. But I figure if I go the first route, there will be no "conversations", awkward "moments", "expectations", pregnant "pauses", or late-night phone calls. Everything will go back to the way it was, I will continue to treat John with a combination of flirty tenderness and mild fascination with his shortcomings as an economist. He will probably be cool about all of this, and we will all live happily ever after. I will also get tenure before I'm thirty, marry George Clooney, and receive the Nobel prize for my groundbreaking work in the extended applications of behavioral economics to the mating cycles of seagulls.

I'm so glad I figured this all out. That was easy. I should probably get started on my seagull sex theory though.

i'm with...

2006-09-12T14:08:00.000-04:00

Kristin writes:

“I’m living and working in Atlanta. By day I am a legal assistant, and an SAT instructor. By night and on weekends, I am working as an AD with an awesome production company on their first independent feature film. I’m also penning my first screenplay and documentary. Finally, I’d like to give a shout-out to the class of ’04!”

I need a minute to regulate my breathing to be able to convey to you the absolute violent rage that came over me when I read this a few days ago.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.. Don't fall asleep though.

What is wrong with these people? Let's put aside the fact that, anyone, no matter how accomplished or interesting, who takes time out of their day to write an email to the class secretary and forcing the most mundane details of their lives onto their classmates who could care less, should be shot on sight. A dark, Romanian assassin, with not a hint of mercy in his glassy eyes, should quietly approach them from behind and put a single bullet in their heads as they are leaving a volunteer meeting for the association of humane treatment of homosexual animals in the wild. That's what all of these people deserve. But Kristin ... Kristin deserves much worse.

Note for the sake of "journalistic" "integrity": I changed Kristin's name. I wanted to use her real name and provide all sorts of identifying details so when I went to bed tonight, I could dream that she was captured, beaten, and eaten alive by a huge mob of the angry and the disillusioned, all of whom read this site. But I decided against it, and not just because I don't have a mob following who would kill for me. I'm sure Kristin knows a bunch of lawyers, and my visa situation is precarious at best.

Even though it sounds like I would wish a most incommensurately draconian punishment for charges of incurable stupidity on Kristin, I would like to know what goes on inside her head. A little introspection is never a bad thing. I wonder if she ever takes a few minutes, maybe even while she's multitasking a Whipple, baking a Bundt cake, and teaching young chimps basic math skills, and asks herself: "Honestly, what is wrong with me?" I, personally, engage in quite a bit of introspection, and even though most of my introspective sessions end with either a tearful nervous breakdown or a very regrettable sexual encounter fuelled by multiple vodka drinks, I take time out of my day and ask myself that question. Sometimes I even ask myself why I'm not more like Kristin. I question why I can't put in a ten-hour day at work, come and prepare a five-course tasting menu, do some light yoga exercises while re-estimating a few econometric equations, visit my blind and incontinent neighbor Ted, and finally go to bed after bringing my partner to climax multiple times. And I know the answer. I can't do any of these things because reading Kristin's class note reduces me to such an irrational, raging mess that all I can do is go hide in my bed, pull up the covers and scream out "WHY? WHY ARE PEOPLE SO FUCKING STUPID?" Why do you think that people care Kristin? Why did you take at least half an hour to craft that email to let a bunch of strangers know that you teach the SATs? Assuming you're telling the truth, why do you feel this pathological compulsion to be busy every single second? Is it because you can't bear a single minute of calm, just being inside your own head? Is that because it's too painful there, or because it's painfully quiet? And if you aren't telling the truth, why be so mundane? Why not try to be even a little bit creative if you're going to lie? Why not go all out? I have finished my Ph.D. in a prodigious 4 years and I'm currently on the short-list for next year's Fields medal....I recently got engaged to Jeremy Piven, but will continue to use my last name professionally....I am a fucking stripper....Give me something Kristin, anything. It's because of you that I can't fulfill my potential. At least fucking entertain me while you're ruining my life.

the Company hates me too

2006-09-03T20:54:00.000-04:00

Conference call on Friday morning. I am busy trying to figure out where this morning falls on my list of “worst mornings ever.” I’m tired, sleepy, and just plain aggravated that I have to do actual work for a solid ten hours before I can go back to bed. I’ve initiated the call, conferenced in everyone else, and have already tuned out when I hear my name.

One thing about the Company’s conference calls: they don’t require me to do any talking at all. The head of the company speaks to clients, everyone else remains in a “listen only” mode, which doesn’t necessarily imply that you need to do any actual listening, you can take that time to have your breakfast, fix your french-manicure, or, if you have your own office… you know… do whatever. Don’t make me say it. I usually block out the call entirely and do my own work, so I can take an hour long lunch.

So when I hear this, I am surprised to say the least:

“Actually, M.’s case is a perfect example of this.”

At this point I am so clueless as to what he was saying before that I panic for a few seconds. The man is an economist, so my best judgment tells me he was saying something related to the economy, but I had tuned him out so completely that he may have as well preceded that sentence with, “I hope I was able to effectively illustrate the very real dangers of impromptu anal sex with a first timer.” Thankfully, he goes on, and not about ass-sex.

“Wage inflation is definitely a very real concern. M., for example, had been with the Company for two years, and had not received any annual increases in compensation. When she brought this to my attention, she referred to the rising cost of living in New York, especially higher food and transportation costs, and realizing she was right, I agreed to a very generous increase in her base salary.”

What? I wish he had been talking about ass-sex, or a senior gang-bang, because that probably would have made him sound less stupid. I wanted to get on the phone and ask him: “Your 23 year-old employee brought this to your attention? Are you joking? If I hadn’t been broke on what you were paying me and hadn’t asked you for a raise after two fucking years, you wouldn’t have realized that the rising costs of living are feeding into wage inflation which is feeding into higher core prices and unit labor costs? And you have no problem admitting, that a. You pay the people who work for you shit, and b. You are so far removed from the realm of reality because you’re busy playing golf three afternoons every week that you didn’t realize that there’s a little thing called “inflation”? Maybe I should do these calls from now on, what do you think? First I can talk about the recent surge in compensation figures and then tell our clients about how I made out with that cute guy after our date on the 5 train for some anecdotal color.”

Of course I didn’t say any of this, because I’m a loser, and because my voice gets freakishly high-pitched when I’m upset and I sound more like a gay cat singing a show tune, than an intelligent professional. I just don’t like being made an example of. And I don’t like it when the Company talks about me. It should be the other way around. Damn it.

M.: master of the three ball reverse cascade

2006-08-28T16:18:00.000-04:00

Last night, I spent a good two hours juggling in my room naked, rocking out to The Fray. After half a bottle of red wine. Something is definitely wrong with me.

I don't know what happened. I was getting ready to take a shower, so I undressed and put on my towel. Then I remembered that there was an old bottle of wine in the fridge, and thought to myself: "You know what's classy? Having a glass of wine before taking a long, relaxing shower while listening to Elgar's Enigma Variations. That's classy. Damn, I am the embodiment of old-world glamour." About an hour and a half later, I collapsed onto my bed with two balls in one hand, an empty glass in the other, singing along to "How to Save a Life". Great song, by the way. Elgar would have liked it too.

In retrospect all this sort of makes sense, since my entire Sunday was a waste. I woke up to a friend of mine calling me persistently on my cellphone despite multiple admonishments against calling me before noon on weekends. I did not answer her call, simply out of spite, but I couldn't go back to sleep either. Then I cried for a good ten minutes because I was up at 10:45 on a Sunday morning, and I didn't even have to do laundry that day.

My list of accomplishments after that point are as follows. I believe they're few but impressive. And by impressive, I mean, at least I waited until the sun went down to get drunk and feel sorry for myself.

1. Had two cookies for breakfast.
2. Watched three solid hours of Food Network.
3. Took a shower.
4. Went to the roof and sunned my toes.
6. Had few more cookies.
7. Finished reading the hot new book by the hot young writer du jour. (Marisha Pessl, I hate you.)
8. Cried for half an hour out of sheer jealousy.
9. Cleaned the kitchen.
10.Cleaned the bathroom.
11. Spilled Drano Max on the bathroom floor, and spent more time cleaning the bathroom.
12. Called my friend Beth at 12:15, woke her up, and told her to never, ever to call me so early in the morning.
13. Congratulated myself on my impish wit.

At this point, I was pretty tired and ready for bed, so I wanted to take my second douche du jour (I know, isn't my French so damn hot?), but had, what could most modestly be described as an epiphany, and decided to get drunk beforehand. That led to some very impressive juggling, which led to me yelling to myself over the music: "Look at my arms. My muscles are so well-defined from all the juggling!" after about fifteen minutes of physical exertion, which eventually led to my exhaustion, and to me falling asleep on my bed with balls in my hand. And sadly, when I say balls, I mean literally.

thursday night

2006-08-25T08:42:00.000-04:00

I am in so much pain right now.
Oh.
Oh dear.

My head hurts so badly that it feels like the three midgets who have been imprisoned in my skull since birth, making me the intellectual giant that I am today, but also, on occasion, causing me to say things like: "No, I haven't had phone sex with him in over a month now", are throwing a raging party, pounding 40s, blasting Secret Agent 8, and dancing their troubles away. I've taken four Tylenols since I woke up. The midgets don't give a fuck.

To be honest, this is all my fault. If I had any sort of self-respect, dignity, or restraint, even if I had any one of those three things, I would not feel like cracking my head open against my desk just to stop it from hurting right now, and this is how this post would read:

Yesterday after work, I went out with a few people from the office. We went to a bar around the corner where I had one glass of wine. We had a great time, and interesting conversations. Then I walked home by myself, unaccompanied.

This is how this post will actually read:

Yesterday after work, I went out with a few people from the office. On the list of things I'd rather not do, going out with people from work falls a few places after "beating a newborn panda to death with a blunt instrument" and right before "Having rigorous sex with the creepy guy I buy coffee from every morning who feels some sort of tacit cultural and sexual bond with me because he's from Azerbaijan and I'm from the original land of all the great Turkic people", which is to say that I don't like it. This is not necessarily because I think I'll get drunk and make a fool of myself, and lose the respect of my coworkers, or because I'm afraid all my inhibitions will just melt away and I will finally tell John that even though he will never be a great economist, I see a lot of potential in him, most of it carnal, and then proceed to rip my own shirt off. I don't like it simply because it's boring.

I like most of the people I work with. I make fun and insult them on a regular basis, but I could never say that I hate them. But they're boring. On any given company outing the list of conversational topics will include one or more of the following, but never anything else.

The economy
The stock market
How hot the receptionist next door is (Almost all of my coworkers are men.)
The bond market
How aloof the receptionist next door seems, but Colette actually told Mary that she once took a "long lunch" in the disabled bathroom stall with Patrick from the third floor.
How expensive it is to go out in New York , and "I was down at Cape May last weekend man, and I got a bottle Yuengling for two bucks!"
How the dollar is getting bitch-slapped by the pound.

And, on special occasions, after quite a few rounds:

How we should "totally" go bowling in Port Authority, but we never do.

There's nothing wrong with these particular topics of conversation, and if you're thinking that I'm some silly little female who's confused by all the guy-talk about the recent "gyrations" in the market and would much rather ponder how Jessica and Nick should get back together; first, I resent you. And second, you're wrong. It's just that I get bored. And when I get bored, I get sad. And when I get sad, I tend to drink.

Last night, everything unfolded as they always do, and my particular drink(s) of choice were four vodka tonics. And even if I do say so myself, after the third one, I was unstoppable. I was no longer the quiet little girl who never talks to anyone but makes awesome spreadsheets. I was a veritable force to be reckoned with. Some choice tidbits from that night include:

Senior economist: So, what do you want to do after you leave here? Go back to school? Get a Ph.d.?

Me: To be honest with you, I'm just trying to marry rich so I don't have to do any of that.

-roars of laughter as everyone thinks I'm joking-

Senior Economist: That's hilarious, you would never do that.

Me: Actually, I would love to, it's just that I'm not exactly Jewish.

-people in stitches, a few of whom are Jewish-

Random guy I don't really know: So Thom told me you went to Yale. Is that true?

Me: Yes, yes I did.

Him: So you knew Barbara Bush? Did you party with the first daughter?

Me: No, but she was in one of my classes. Actually, she cheated on the midterm and got caught.

Him: Really? What class?

Me: Ethics.

-random guy bursting out in laughter, and falling in love with my easygoing manner, my sparkling wit, and my raw sexual energy-

Note for the sake of "journalistic" "integrity": I actually never took a class with Barbs. This was just a rumor that went around campus; I have no idea whether it's true.

To say I was on fire would not do my performance justice. I become an entirely new person when I'm drunk, and even though all alcoholics say this, I mean it from the bottom of my heart. When they drink, some people get gloomy, quiet, and introspective. Others get confrontational and abrasive for no reason. Some become extroverts, boisterous and fun. Some just get promiscuous. I simply get better. I get funnier, smarter, wittier, hotter (although the inebriation of the other party does factor into this too), and more articulate. And most important of all, I get happier, and I think some of that happiness shines through in a way that never happens when I'm sober. I know for a fact that all of my boyfriends first fell in love with me when I was wasted, and no matter how much they deny this, I know it's true. I am not M. when I'm drunk. I'm like M. 3.0.

This time was no different. And even though John was trusted with the task of walking me home, and I am in a great deal of pain right now, I figure there is no point in a moment of deep introspection which will inevitably lead me to the conclusion that I have a "problem", to put it in milder parlance. It was an interesting night. Some people would argue that I made a fool of myself in front of my colleagues, and lost face in front of John. I disagree. I think I simply allowed my coworkers a glimpse of the better me, the one that they should have hired instead, the one who could write econometric models, make margaritas, talk on the phone, flirt with the mail guy, make small children laugh, and remember her mom's birthday all at the same time. And about John, I'm thinking spring wedding.

the "no one cares, get over yourself" list

2006-08-15T20:16:00.000-04:00

I’m a girl. It’s shocking I know. I ask myself why every day too.
I am afraid of fish. Not when in fishbowls, and not on a plate, but when they’re free, in their natural environment.
I went to an Ivy League school. I am deeply embarrassed by this.
I really hate feet. Yes, everyone’s.
I would much rather have some dressing rather than an actual meal. Even better with a few crackers. Ranch dressing and Triscuits. Heaven.
Ranch dressing is the greatest dressing of all time, followed by ceasar, sesame ginger, honey mustard, raspberry vinaigrette, and balsamic vinaigrette.
I am very serious about my dressing. Dressings?
I am excellent, no awesome, at Jeopardy.
I live in New York, but I’m from Turkey.
I hate being from a country named after a bird that can drown itself by looking up into the sky when it’s raining.
I have no sense of direction to the point of borderline retardation, and I routinely get lost in New York City.
To remedy this problem, I have made friends with, and dated, multiple people with amazing spacial intelligence.
When I was growing up, all I wanted to be was a gay figure skater.
I still think this could happen for me.
I speak three languages. Two of them don’t really matter.
I think Stephen Colbert is funnier than Jon Stewart.
I’ve been to a strip club. Twice. The specifics elude me.
I’m inexplicably jealous of left-handed people.
I still think that I was adopted.
I am way, way hotter than I sound.

office worker's dilemma

2006-08-15T19:17:00.000-04:00

John is cute. This is a problem. And I'm a problem solver. So I think this particular problem breaks down like such: (Stupid, stupid people who say like such.)

1. John is my coworker. We sit about three feet away from one another. We sit so closely that if I just swiveled around in my ergonomic office chair, and took one step forward, I could poke him in the ribs. Or if I didn't want to expend that sort of energy, I could simply throw my stapler at him. I throw like a girl, but I know I could hit him squarely in the head.

2. The first lemma is slightly misleading in that, although it conveys our physical proximity in the office environment pretty accurately, it also gives off the implication that I want to hurt John. This is not the case. I want to do a lot of things to John, maybe even hurt him a little, but in a totally different context.

3. The only reason I like John is because the "work" that I am paid to do on a daily basis bores me to the very core and makes me want to disassemble my phone, find some exposed wiring inside, and slit my wrists with it. I am sure that under different circumstances, John would not be the least bit intriguing to me.

4. What I just said is not true. I do think of very violent ways to end it all when I'm in the office, but the fact that I want to jump John has nothing to do with this. I'm pretty certain that this would be the case regardless of my suicidal tendencies spurred by my unspeakable boredom.

So, to briefly review these lemmas, I am an immoral slattern who harbors sexual desires towards her coworker, and writes juvenile little vignettes about said desires when she should be working.

And this is how I believe my decision-tree works out:

A. I do nothing. I stop sighing deeply and batting my eyelashes every time John asks me something. I stop making stupid jokes. I stop flirting like an inept 13 year-old with a crush and an IQ of 75. This decision, I expect, will lead to a good deal of frustration on my part, but is, in the end, the superior strategy, in that it will allow me to hold on to my job, and my dignity, while also ensuring that this sequence of events is not set catastropically into motion: Morning after awkwardness- Even more awkward conversation about how we can never do this again-Us doing it again-And again-The onset of inevitable fighting-The onset of frustration-The onset of annoyance-The onset of sheer hatred which will finally culminate in the yelling of insults and calling of names in the office, leading ultimately to my sheer humiliation, an honor killing (I am eastern after all), and finally my untimely demise.

or

B. I get drunk and hook up with John. This option is not predicated on my personal hubris (What if John does not want to get with you? Huh?) but rather on my absolute faith in the power of alcohol, or as I like to call it, the great social lubricant. If sufficiently inebriated, John will totally hook up with me. This, I say, regardless of the fact that I am ridiculously good-looking, and honestly, John should be so lucky. But I digress.

As I have clearly illustrated, option A is a far superior choice. But one caveat for the sake of theoretical accuracy: If we assume that any scenario involving the exchange of bodily fluids is a multiple equilibria game, it is difficult to say with any certainty that not seducing a coworker is a better idea than doing so, since one has to, again for the sake of theoretical accuracy, acknowledge the possibility that sex with said coworker will be so utterly mindblowing, that it will negate all previous calculations, making even John Nash blush and go: "Never mind what I just said. You go girl!"

imf zen

2006-08-14T21:30:00.000-04:00

The IMF publishes quarterly direction of trade statistics for 192 countries. If you need to know the value of Norwegian exports to Iran in the second quarter of 2005, or Burkina Faso's trade balance with China, you need the IMF DOT stats. That's what all the cool economists call it.

The DOT is available as a handsomely bound book for the bargain price of $250 a year, which gets you four quarterly books and an annual yearbook in March for the previous year. All the quarterly books, in an amazing feat of layout genius, are about 400 pages, and the yearbook is about 100 pages longer. All told, one can purchase the complete DOT, all 2100 some pages of it, for the previously mentioned price, which works out to approximately 12 cents a page. It really is a sweet deal.

My company receives one copy of the DOT. We need two. So every three months, I spend an two hours and twenty minutes and photocopy the entire book. Two hours and forty-five minutes for the yearbook. I have been at my job for twenty three months, which corresponds to 10 DOT books, or 27,664 pages copied, give or take. I have also calculated the implied savings accrued by the company through our buy one and duplicate in-house strategy, and it works out to slightly less than $12 a year, if I value the opportunity cost of my time at minimum wage. I make this adjustment, because otherwise, the company makes a loss. And I wouldn't want that. Also, if they knew, they might not let me do it anymore.

I complain about having to xerox 400 pages because I feel like that's what I should do. I don't want others to think that I'm complacent, that I fear challenges, and that I'd rather spend my time copying and collating than writing 500-equation dynamic models that tell you whether or not there's a God if you just plug in last year's GDP figures. So every time the FedEx envelope with the book in it arrives, I sigh, and I roll my eyes. I rip open the envelope with a most studied indignation which I hope says: "I have an Ivy leage education, and this is what I must do?!? How will I ever fulfill my intellectual potential?" I put considerable effort into feigning disdain for the lowly, clerical task of photocopying 400 pages, even though I love it.

I love it, because I have since memorized the names of all the countries recognized by the IMF. This gives me an incredible advantage at all sorts of board and trivia games. I don't know a single thing about the majority of these countries: Belize, Latvia, Tonga, Guinea-Bissau, the Netherlands Antilles. I probably couldn't point to some of them on a map. But I know that they're there, and even that little bit of knowledge gives me an edge. "Gabon is so not a country!" someone yells, and all I have to do is raise my head and tell them "Yes. Yes it is." My unshakable confidence translates beautifully, and they shut up. I have been planning to complement my newfound worldliness by learning where all these countries are, but my world map is one of those funky ones that's upside down, with a big caption that reads "Who says north is up?" So I know that task is going to be a pain in the ass. But one day I will. I promise.

But the real reason I enjoy xeroxing so much is because it's my yoga. I love the quiet fluorescence of the copy room, the dull hum of the machine, the beep of the go button, the way the green laser refracts on the ceiling as it scans the page. I pick up the book, turn the page, place it back down, hit go. I wait. Then I do it again. And again. And again. I read the country headings and imagine all of those places I will never see. I plan out my alphabetical road trip. I wonder what the best way would be to get from Bahrain to Bangladesh. Or maybe I skip those two and sail from the Bahamas to Barbados. I create a new world order. I look at Turkey. That poor country bordered on the east by Iran, Syria, and Armenia, and Tajikistan. I move it to Lichtenstein's place instead. I sprinkle a few second-tier European countries into Africa and balance things out a little. I play God. When it becomes obvious I'm going to have to pull Norway out of the Middle East, I take a little break and fly to a secluded beach in the Philippines. If I'm feeling lonely, I go to Brazil during carnival, and I'm welcomed by three shirtless cabana boys shaking mojitos, among other things. And then I hit Zimbabwe. That's when I know it's all over. And I go back to my desk.

letters and blocks of joy

2006-08-10T16:06:00.000-04:00

I was never that into computer games. I had a Gameboy when I was a kid, and played a little Splinter Cell (I want Sam Fisher so much, I don't even care if he's not real) and Grand Theft Auto on my boyfriend's Playstation when I was in college, but that was about it. Until I started work. I am now a master. Obviously, the office environment doesn't allow me to hook up a playstation to my two Bloomberg monitors and admire Sam's abs like I've never been able to before, but this does not mean that I've been doing work. I've played a lot of games over the last two years, and damn, I'm good. Mostly.

It all started with a little Sudoku before it became all the rage. I justified the hours I spent working on the puzzles as "professional development". I'm an economist, honing my math skills, I told myself, knowing this was total bull. Then came the word games. Bespelled and TextTwist. After I conqured TextTwist, I moved onto Lingo, and when that was done, I went back to a classic. Tetris. I spent four solid months playing nothing but Tetris, and uninstalled it from my computer when I realized that a. I have no spacial intelligence, and b. Consequently, my score will never breach the 1 million mark. After a few weeks of desolation and hours spent asking myself: "What good are you? Why don't you just end it all now when you know you'll never amount to anything?", my company gave me a Blackberry and I started playing Brickbreaker. I am no good at it just yet, but I know that one day, it too will succumb to my genius and my obsession. And for just that one moment when I know I'll never play Brickbreaker again because I've made it my bitch, I will feel warm inside, mistake it for happiness, and smile to myself.

people i hate and would like to hurt if i could 2

2006-08-08T15:57:00.000-04:00

3. Coworkers who are not good with words.

I don't care if you're not from here. Or if only one of your parents spoke English at home. Or if you have a learning disability. Or if you're stupid. Well... I guess, if you have a learning disability, that's all right. I'm a nice person, after all. But if you don't have a disability, and you ask me a. How to spell something b. What a word means, or c. both, you will earn yourself a permanent spot on my list of people whom I'd rather not associate with on account of inferior intellectual ability. I know that there are over 600,000 words in the English language. And even though your personal linguistic arsenal is comprised of only 65 words, and you are an idiot, I will still play along and pretend that it's O.K. that you don't know what "conflagration" means. But all of this does not make it O.K. to ask. I don't care if it's faster to ask me than to look it up on dictionary.com. I don't care if it makes you feel small when you misspell a word so badly that you stump the online dictionary and it's unable to offer you an alternate spelling; and I especially don't care that you sent out a letter to four of our clients with the words "Sorry for the incontinence." (Such a fun day for me). Do not bother me because you're ignorant.

4. Men who hit on me during my lunch break

If I'm wearing something black and low cut, perching on a bar stool with a come hither look on my face, smiling in your direction, please come over. Come over and talk to me. Don't worry about how to start a conversation, or what you would say, because the odds are, if I'm doing all of these things I just mentioned, I am totally drunk and I don't really care what you say, or whether or not you speak a language I know. Just come over, and I promise you, we will have a good time. And you will totally score.

But if I'm wearing a suit, sitting alone, eating my salad dressing instead of the salad, and reading during lunchtime; don't. Just don't come over. Don't talk to me. I'm sure you are an intelligent young man who is a great listener and a better lover, with a host of interesting hobbies and $100,000 in the bank, but I don't care. I am unhappy during lunchtime. I'm unhappy because the honey mustard dressing is too sweet, or because I got some on my book, or because the people at the next table are idiots, or most probably, because I have to go back to work in 15 minutes. But if your printer displaying a fuser error, come over, and we'll chat.

people i hate and would like to hurt if i could

2006-08-08T11:03:00.000-04:00

1. Women who jog on Park Avenue at seven in the morning when I'm trying to get to work.

I understand that you all need to get married. I understand that in addition to wearing your sluttly little outfits and going out to W bar to sip martinis with JP Morgan managing directors, you think to yourself: "Well, I look good in a pair of shorts that would be too small on a five year old, why don't I go jogging on Park Avenue during the morning pedestrian rush and see if I can catch the eye of some young rising I-banking star, or better yet a recently divorced fund-manager, with my perky breasts and athletic gait. Let's just see if that works." I understand this. But this does not mean I approve. I am not a morning person, and I am definitely not a people person at seven in the morning when all I want to do is get to my damn office, plant myself at my desk and have some coffee. And I can't do this as quickly and efficiently as I would like if I have to dodge at least four or five of you every morning. You just keep on running, running right into me, because god forbid you slow down a little and break your pace. I will gladly step aside, since I have nothing to do, and no place to be, and all I'm doing here, at this ungodly hour, is taking a leisurely stroll. I will step aside. You just keep on running down to UBS. Maybe stop in front of the entrance and do a few lunges. I hate you all.

2. People who can't fix printers.

I am not an engineer. Or a computer technician. But I can read. I am an excellent reader. And I am convinced that in the year 2006, that is the only skill that's necessary to fix, or at least, correctly diagnose the problem with a printer. This is why I don't understand why no one else in my office is able to fix any of the eight printers we have. I have been fixing every one of them for the last two years, and I have never encountered a problem other than a. The printer was out of paper b. The printer was out of toner c. The printer had a paper jam. and d. The printer was warming up, and was about to start printing, but you were an insistent little ignoramus, and resent the same job 287 different times, and overloaded the queue. The printer doesn't work? Go look at it. And read the directions on the screen. It even displays tiny graphics lest you don't understand what the phrase "Open tray 1" means. Don't call me. Don't come over to my desk and tell me that the printer "doesn't work". At least take some responsibility and say: "I have the IQ of a three year old, and not a very bright three year old at that, and I think I broke the printer", and maybe then I won't begrudge helping you, since I will feel bad for you and ask myself how you were able to survive for some forty odd years.

I am very upset right now. I need a break.

c=(f-32)*5/9

2006-08-04T12:20:00.000-04:00

Someone in the office came back from a two week vacation in Switzerland and brought everyone different kinds of Swiss chocolate. I got milk chocolate with whole hazelnuts, and although I would have preferred dark, it was quite delicious. I ate the whole bar for breakfast. He handed me the chocolate at 8:30, and by 9:00 it was only a sweet memory. This is not because I am a pig. Just bear with me here.

I don’t subscribe to rules dictating what is and is not an appropriate food item for a certain time of day. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having a bar of chocolate, or a turkey sandwich, or some leftover rice and dim sum for breakfast.
I had not eaten breakfast, or dinner the night before. This is because I don’t subscribe to rules dictating how frequently or infrequently one should eat either. I was going to have some ice cream for dinner last night (Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Brownie if you must know) but I fell asleep on the couch before I could get to it. This, I blame on my reading material, but that’s another story.
It is freaking 103 degrees outside (There aren’t many things I hate more than the Fahrenheit scale in this world. That’s 39 degrees for you normal people) and my chocolate bar was melting.
Ooooh, you caught me. I’m metric. So? There’s no shame in that. I mean, is there?

So yes, I’m not from these parts. I’m from a strange land far, far away where I weigh much less, where people eat cheese with watermelon, and where Piglet is censored out of Winnie the Pooh cartoons. Like I said, I’m from a strange place.

angels and beavers

2006-08-03T08:39:00.000-04:00

I never understood the idea of personalizing your workspace. Family photos, stuffed animals, fancy stationary, inspirational phrases printed onto landscapes of waterfalls and rolling hills. And little Jesuses. Jesi. Never mind that it is mostly women who do this. No judgement. One person in my office has a stuffed beaver approximately half my size sitting on her desk. The beaver is wearing a baseball cap. A beaver? Really? I mean, of all the cutesy, cuddly animals who really serve no purpose in the ecological balance other than to evoke motherly feelings in lonely women instantly prompting them to go "Aaaaaw", you chose a beaver? All right.

Another person has three miniature angels lined up on top of her monitor, big, bigger, biggest. Which, when presented in that order, immediately makes me think "happy family!!". Are the angels perhaps in a same-sex marrigage? Have they been allowed to adopt? Did the two mommies choose to adopt a little girl who looked just like them, with flaxen hair and white ethereal-looking robes for $500 from China? They're not gay? Angels are asexual you tell me? All right. Whatever you say.

And no. I don't have a photo of my studly boyfriend on my desk. And this is not because I don't have a studly boyfriend. I don't have any animals, stuffed, or otherwise, but I don't think this is necessarily because I don't like funny looking, fat-ass animals. I am actually quite fond of pandas. A species that would rather just lay around and gorge itself than have sex. That's awesome! And I don't have a single angel, or any other religious icon either. I guess I could buy a Jesus figurine and stick him between my two speakers, but this would be purely for ironic value as I am nowhere near Christian. Actually I can think of few things I'd like to have on my desk if I could have anything I wanted and people wouldn't look at me weird. Maybe some cheese would be nice. I could snack before lunch. Or a portable DVD player. I could watch Face/Off during conference calls. But no Jesus. Or Muhammed, for that matter, although I don't think Urban Outfitters makes hip Muhammed figurines, the final prophet giving a thumbs up while prostrating himself. Perhaps I have no personality. All right.

typical wednesday night

2006-08-02T12:47:00.000-04:00

- Get home at 7:15, realize you missed three quarters of Jeopardy, throw a fit, then break down and cry.
- Watch the very end of Jeopardy, miss the final question, question self-worth. Cry a little more.
- Check the fridge for food and find following items: Honey Mustard Dressing, two bottles of Grolsh, one minibar bottle of Absinthe, fourteen bottles of nail polish, and a jar of green olives.
- Be amazed that two females live in this apartment. Then have some of the olives.
- Turn TV back on and watch Private Life of a Masterpiece. Have a few more olives.
- Ignore parents' call on cellphone.
- Express annoyance to no one in particular about parents' second, third, and fourth calls on cellphone.
- Turn off cellphone.
- Order The Hills Have Eyes on demand.
- Watch The Hills Have Eyes while reading the arts section of the Economist, taking special care to skip all parts relating to economics.
- Finish the jar of olives.
- Tell self, "Wow, look at the time, I really should get to bed" while averting eyes from the clock that reads 10:02 p.m.
- Congratulate self for the thorough research that led to the discovery of Excedrin PM, with
38 mgs of Diphenhydramine citrate, instead of the more commong 25 mgs.
- Take two just to make sure.
- Fall asleep on the wrong side of the bed.

work and ranch dressing

2006-07-27T16:43:00.000-04:00

I work as an economist at a small research company in New York. Well, that's only true if you replace economist with glorified formatting monkey, and small research company with hell on earth, and New York with, well, I guess we can keep New York.

That's what I do. And I hate it. It makes me sad. Other people have hobbies that take their minds off work, but hobbies cut into my sitting-around-looking-at-the-TV-when-it's-off time. They have relationships, but that requires the participation of a second person, and I'm not into all that. I have perfectly engaging and entertaining conversations all by myself, and when I make jokes, I always crack myself up, and when I go to bed at night, I don't have to cuddle with myself, and then have my left arm fall asleep, and not be able to move because, god forbid, that might wake me up. I forget where I was going with this.

So I have this now, and if this doesn't get me fired so I can finally marry rich (one has to make certain concessions- a cuddling husband will certainly mean much, much more sitting around time for me) and wile away the rest of my days watching My Sweet Sixteen while eating ranch dressing with a spoon, well, I don't know what will. Honestly.

what?

2006-07-27T16:18:00.000-04:00

My phone rings at 4:55 p.m. The little chlild inside of me, whom I've been trying to kill for a while now, tells me not to pick up.

I pick up.

Economist: I need to know what sap means.
Me: Sap? What?
Economist: Sap. S-A-P.
Me: Um.. It's the fluid that carries nutrition through a plant.
Economist: Really? It can't be. Use it in a sentence.
Me: The Ph.d. asked me what the word sap meant.

I don't say this.

Me: Um.. The tree sap was sticky.
Economist: Use it as a verb.
Me: It means to drain, or to deplete.
Economist: Give me a sentence.
Me: You sap.

I don't say this either.

Me: Um, the latest rate hikes are sapping the economy's recent strength.

Then he hangs up on me.
I love my job.