Oh no, it is too early for this shit

After three straight nights of holiday parties, a 7:30am race Saturday morning was not warmly welcomed. Speaking of warm, the race was held on the West Side Hwy Hudson river piers which offer zero coverage from the icy wind blowing in off the water. Oh and it was a balmy 20 degrees (without factoring the wind-chill). Since I am insane and typically run outdoors in the winter, I dress appropriately: one layer of fleece lined running tights under another layer of my skiing neoprene tights, four layer over the upper body (including under armor long underwear), two pairs of gloves, an ear warmer, a hat, and a neck/mouth warmer. Poor Evan and Michael showed up in just jeans and a winter coat. After standing out in the cold weather handing out goodie bags or certificates, the boys were uncontrollably shaking and their testicles had probably retreated into up into their esophagus.

I luckily did not have to stand still in the cold. I volunteer to be a “running buddy” which meant I was to run with a young girl and guide, instruct, and encourage her. Well the girl I had was SUPER COMPETITIVE! She took off from the start at a dead sprint. About 400m later, she was walking and panting (more like hyperventilating). Once girls started to catch up to her, she would take off sprinting again! We repeated this wind sprint / walk with panting (so bad that I started to think about the steps of CPR) throughout the entire 3-mile race! Yeah, even her coach eventually caught up to us and tried to get the girl to “pace herself” since she obviously was not listening to me. At one point, the coach grabbed the back of the girl’s shirt to force her to continue at a slower pace. Eventually the girl wrestled away from her grip and took off with me at her heels. I eventually realized the girl was so competitive that if I ran alongside her, she would speed up to beat me, then I would catch up and she would pass me again. I finally decided to just run behind her a couple of steps so that she would not have a heart attack racing me. Oh and don’t get me started on her parents. They were the total soccer mom little league dad type who push all their failed aspirations onto the child. Every time we would approach them, they would shout out “you are a winner, you are faster than all these girls, you can beat them, don’t start walking, winners run, etc”. I gave the coach the “are you kidding me, they are going to push this little girl into therapy” look.

Since Dana felt bad about having us volunteer for her charity race at 7:30am on a freezing Saturday morning, she took us all out to breakfast. Well that is after we carted all the leftover race supplies to her apartment (free labor, what can I say). While we were waiting on the street for the last few people to finish up in the apartment, we witnessed a delivery trunk trash a nice SUV! Yeah, the truck was trying to make a right turn and ended up scraping the entire side of the SUV and even bent off the front grill! It sounded like crunching metal which figures because the side was all scratched and bent in and basically fucked up! It was funny that the truck paused as to realize, wow that was waaaaay more than a tap, before driving off. A guy stepped out of the coffee shop across the street and threw his hands up to his head. He then headed back into the shop, and then reemerged on the street with the car’s owner (who then took off in the direction of the delivery truck). I am regretting that I didn’t snap a picture of the SUV, because it was seriously so messed up.

Dana took us to her favorite West Village breakfast joint, the Pink Teacup. It served soul food which is basically an excuse to plaster the place with Martin Luther King Jr. portraits. I swear, one entire wall was dedicated to the King. Sitting right next to us was an old guy eating his grits and eggs and reading the Saturday paper. I took a closer look at him and realized it was Michael Caine! Now I debated asking him for a picture (because I take my camera everywhere) but decided not to interrupt his breakfast. I mean, he IS a person too. Well our table of six was talking about one thing or another, when the conversation turned to movies. I kept waiting for someone to bring up one of his movies (like the notoriously horrid Miss Congeniality), but no go. I did steal a glance or two in his direction to see if he was curious or eavesdropping. While exiting his seat, he brushed his ass up against Nancy’s back (or at least I think her name is Nancy). She took no notice because hey it was a small place. Well once he left the restaurant, I ejaculated to the group “oh my God, that was Michael Caine (followed by some blank stares)….you know the original Alfie, oh alright Austin Power’s Dad”. I guess I was the only one to notice his presence. ‘Bought time anyway since I hardly have any celebrity sightings. Anyway, Nancy was like “oh wow, he rubbed his ass against my shoulder….I’m never washing it again!”

Since there were so many leftover bagels, Dana sent us home with bags. In the subway, Evan was carrying a half gallon of milk in one hand and an overstuffed bag of bagels in the other. He wanted to switch hands because it was hurting his frost bitten fingers. He tucked the milk under his arm (by the armpit, between his side and bicep) while he was transferring the bagels to the other hand. Well he squeezed too hard to keep the milk in place, that the cap shot off and milk gushed out like a champagne bottle. I look over and Evan and the surrounding blast area are all covered with milk. He panicked and was like “what do I do”. Well run silly! We ran up the stairs (beware the wrath of the MTA workers) and I had to hold my side from laughing so hard. He later said “man it looks like I was just molested by a cow”.

Tis the season for Office Holiday Parties!

Wednesday was my holiday party. Sadly there is nothing humorous to report. I think everyone toned it down after last year’s wild evening.

Thursday night was a holiday party for another company. I accidentally went as the date for another electrical engineer. Yeah I know, how do you do that accidentally, but it is too complicated to explain. I handled it quite nicely by boozing him up and then fleeing the immediate area.

Okay many people don’t associate fun with engineers. Frankly they are right unless you add a lot of alcohol to the equation. Late in the evening, a dance circle formed and token engineers would showcase their “moves” in the center. Yeah, engineers dancing….I almost peed my pants. At one point, two electrical engineers broke out their choreographed dance to the rap song ‘superman’ (or at least that is what I think it is called). Anyway, watching a tall Asian and geeky white guy bust out synchronized dance moves (finishing off with a superman pose every time the rapper would say it) was definitely the highlight of the evening.

After the official party ended, the crowd moved down the block to an Irish pub. There I chatted with a real live Irish man (complete with accent and drinking problem). He is from Blarney and his advice is: “don’t kiss the blarney stone, the tourists all kiss it, but all the locals piss on it”.

Friday night was Jordan’s holiday party. Yes count-em, three in a row. Actually I had a fourth on Saturday in Chicago, but decided not to fly out for it. Jordan also works for an engineering company, so you can imagine the scene. Well a bleached blonde girl with a tight body and HUGE boobs that were trying to escape from her dress walked in and caused quite the stir. Seriously, her dress was super short, tight, and full of eye-popping cleavage. I’m thinking she is obviously not an engineer. I’m not doubting that she could have some brains, it is just that she would not look like that if she spent her college years at the library....instead of the strip joint. Immediately, all the male engineers (married and single) flock to her. Turns out she was a friend of the sister of the receptionist or something. Basically, her friend probably said “hey I’m going to a party with a whole bunch of rich, available, dorky men, want to go fishing?”

Around 9pm, I headed down to the ladies room and was serenaded by the sound of alternate puking and crying. Yeah it was like “bllllllaaaaahhhh, boo hoo hoo, bllllllackkkkk, sniff boo hoo hoo”. I looked at the bathroom attendant and pointed at the closed stall making the commotion as to ask “who is in there?” She shrugged and made a gesture to signify big boobs. Ah ha! I knocked on the door and offered to get some help, but her friend said she was almost done. Ummmm, okay.

At 10pm, the party was over and the club was adamant about getting us out of there. The club, The Spare Room in Gramercy, was I guess a real swanky place and it was afraid that being associated with a bunch of engineers would down its cool/hip factor. Anyway, they had to drag the drunk blonde bombshell out from the bathroom. Unfortunately (or fortunately if you think with the penis), her skirt got hiked up in the process, so we all saw her un-sexy panties. Her boobs were as ever, struggling to keep covered. They flopped her up against the side of the building and she basically wobbled there like a jellyfish. Obviously, this girl needed to get home, so the owner of the company offered up his car service (limo). They called the driver and he outright refused to pick up the girl because she would as I quote “fuck up his car”. The owner threatened to take his company’s business elsewhere if he didn’t stop by. He also assured him that the girl was done puking because she spent the last hour by the toilet and could not possibly have anything left to expel! Well about ten minutes before the car was supposed to show, the blonde jerked forward and projectile vomited all over the sidewalk! Whoops, okay I hope THAT was the last of it.

Errr, you may want to try that one again

Saturday started with a jolt. On my way to the grocery store to get milk for my precious cereal, I came across an interesting scene. There were a dozen police officers around minding the “crime scene” tape blocking off the entire 50th street block. I am thinking, oh wow, finally I get to see a real CSI scene! Only when I was ushered across the street did I see the real reason for the commotion. Evidently, the cops had their holiday party the previous evening, and a giant police van smashed into another police cruiser, skipped the curb, and crashed into the sidewalk scaffolding. Talk about a wild night! I tried to get a picture of the scene all incognito so that they would not confiscate my camera. Yeah, didn’t turn out so well, but you get the idea.

That night, Bree and I met Dana and Michael over at an UWS house party. Yeah we totally did not know anyone there. I think they dubbed us “those girls” who sat in the corner and drank all their wine. The night did bear some fruit when we introduced Bree to Guitar Hero. Talk about an addicting game. Her and I both got booed off the stage each time. Then in walks some girl who picked up the guitar and played the entire song….on her first try. Bitch.

Our defeat at adult video games (okay that sounds odd, but you know what I mean) was drowned out by beer and pastries at Europe café. The deadly combination made us forget the address of the next party, so we settled for Rudy’s and Pizza Place.

Waaaay better then Nintendo

Friday night I had another date with Marathon Man. Being that he is 4-1/2 years younger than me (whoo-hoo, I still got it), he wanted to play video games. We sparred at Dave and Busters in Times Square and here is the score:
I won the basketball game twice, he beat me both times at the trivia game (odd how that turned out huh). We both sucked at ski-ball and jumping rope (don’t ask, the game was gay anyway). I smoked his butt on racecar driving and zombie shooting. It didn’t hurt that I have experience in speeding excessively…..or shooting zombies.

After a good two hours of play time we had amasses over 300 tickets. Too bad that doesn’t buy you jack shit there. We were able to get two giant pixie sticks, one sweet tart candy gel, and a ring pop. We decided to head over to the bar and mix the alcohol with excessive sugar. Yeah, we basically had a sugar buffet laid out in front of us, and we would fill our mouth with what ever sweet concoction and then chase it with a beer. The faces we would make were so bad that the wait staff started pointing and shaking their heads.

Later some guy came over and asked for a 25 year old ID. He promised us free beer if we pretended to be with his group. I guess if the group has minors, you have to have an adult, age at least 25, present. It was only then when it dawned on me how young M-Man was. He could not help them….but grandma Lindsay could.

After we had our fill of beer and sugar (my stomach hurt all night), we headed to heart of Times Square (44th and Broadway) because he had always fantasized about making out in Times Square. Everyone now….awwwwee, how cute. Too bad I’ll hit 30 before he makes it over the mid-20’s hump.

The Christmas Letter

My mother is sending out a Christmas letter (or holdiay letter for the Jews reading this), and she asked me to submit a paragraph summarizing my last year. Just ONE paragraph! No seriously....one! How can I possibly write just one. I mean I once wrote three pages about getting my junk waxed, but now I am forced to sum everything up into four or five sentances. I am afraid the outcome would be:

"Hello, I am still living in New York City. I have not gotten knocked up or tied down yet. I eat, sleep, work, and drink my ass off (of course she would edit the 'drink my ass off' to 'play checkers with orphans'). I yell a lot at stupid people that I call tourists. I still rock. The end."

I am sitting here at lunch trying to gather my thoughts. Here is what I have written sofar for the epic "paragraph":

In the spirit of Christmas, I have been trying to think of creative uses for my Christmas lights. I ask myself, how do you end up with four strands of lights when you do not even have a tree? It is alright that I do not have a tree because they are not readily found in New York City. Oh sure, I can go to Central Park to visit them, but I don’t think they will let me chop one down and haul it down 8th Avenue….in a cab.

Yes I am still in the Big Apple, and calling it the Big Apple makes me even lamer. I have lived here a total of 16th months sofar which is just long enough for me to give accurate directions and swear at the slow moving tourists. In my tenure here, I have learned the three rules of survival for the city. First, garbage is on the streets, so just deal with it. Yes it is true (as my Mom probably has said), every day is garbage day, and the lack of alleys forces shops to pile heaping bags on the street. Second, check your manners at the door. You may think New Yorkers are rude, but it is just because the rest of the world is polite. If someone bumps into you on the sidewalk, you normally will say excuse me. Well if a New Yorker bumps into you, don’t expect any reaction because they have places to go and you are just not worth their time. And the final rule in NYC….saying F-you pretty much works for every situation even in any language!

I am still working for the same architectural engineering company. My most recent major achievement includes passing the PE exam. All have to validate the last ten years of hard work and study is a little rubber stamp with my name on it. I really wish the stamp was bigger to demonstrate the effort behind achieving it, you know, like the size of Iowa.

Put me in coach

I’m all about hiding my Midwestern roots and schooling in Kansas not because I am ashamed about being raised without running water or electricity, but because if I’m told “you’re not in Kansas anymore” one more fucking time, I will rip that person’s arm off! Well my Alma matter, Kansas State, came in town to play in the men’s basketball showcase at Madison Square Garden (aka the Garden), and I couldn’t resist picking up tickets. Okay, my college pride is enough for me to root for sports that I don’t particularly follow, like men’s basketball or women’s equestrian (yeah, don’t get me started…it is not even a fucking sport, why couldn’t we have something like um I don’t know, normal like soccer or swimming, stupid horses).

Anyway, I headed two blocks over after work to join up with the KSU Alumni bar pre-party. Yeah, I work a block from the Garden, pretty sweet. Well the pre-party would be better described as random old KSU grads in sweat shirts and mom jeans. Seriously, there were only a handful of us under the age of 35. Anyway, one of the big surprises was Beta Ben! Yeah he is the picture you would see when you look up supreme douche-bag in the dictionary. Any time a guy tells me he is a Beta, I groan thinking about Beta Ben. Honestly, one of the guys I hang with at watch parties is a Beta, and he says everyone does that groan thing. My freshman year in college, I was set up with BB for a Halloween date party. Five minutes into the night, I thought “what the hell….kill me now!” Well sure enough, I am over drinking with Bree, Marshall, his older brother, and some other Garden City guy, when Beta guy runs up to me and points out Beta Ben in the corner. We both start laughing (while pointing), and I now wonder if we just set BB’s self esteem (cockiness) back about a notch.

After a good solid 90 minutes of drinking semi-expensive beer at the bar, the crowd headed over to the Garden. Bree and I scored front row court level tickets for $30 which basically gave us access to the really expensive seats. After about an hour (and several beers later), we made nice with the usher (aka lonely old man) and hopped down to the $80 seats. Yeah our jump put us five rows from the edge of the court (end court view).

Anyway, in anticipation towards being “that girl” and possibly getting on TV, I made two large signs to display at the game. One said “Huggie Who?” and the other said “thanks for sticking with us boys” and had all of the recruit’s numbers on it. Quick note in case you don’t follow college basketball (cannot blame you), our head coach (Bob Huggins) convinced some of the top (if not top like Michael Beasley and Bill Walker) recruits to commit to us. He then skipped town after one season to coach at his Alma matter West Virginia. Well the recruits obviously came to the school for the coach and not the glamorous lifestyle beheld in the middle-of-nowhere Kansas. Therefore, we risked loosing what could be our first tourney team in um decades. Thankfully they opted to stay put and play with us, probably more so since they would have to sit out the year if they transferred to another program. Well Bree and I would stand up every time out and wave our signs for the cameras. Only when the game was in its fourth quarter (and we were on our tenth beers) did the camera guy point to us and tell us to shake it for the camera. Of course we were wasted by then and probably did not give the greatest impression of KSU fans. Plus I held the sign up upside down by accident at one point.

We also didn’t help boost the “good fan” image while heckling the Notre Dame fans sitting in front of us. They were harmless old men, and one tried to set us up with his son. I’m sure they had enough of us when we started zealously yelling chants and subsequently spilling precious beer on them. Seriously, I don’t sing, but as proof of how much we drank, Bree and I were convinced to stand up and shout out the fight song.....by ourselves!

After the game we headed down to Doc’s to – you guessed it – drink more! You know you are not operating in a sober mind when you A) head down to a bar that is notorious for getting you even drunker on even shittier beer and B) go there with your ex-boyfriend….and his brother! Yeah, talk about bad ideas since the last time I went to Doc’s, I kissed the drummer of this same guy’s band! Actually it was a lot less awkward than I anticipated. As proof, here is a snippet of our conversation:
Marshall: Is that a new K-State shirt?
Me: Yeah, my friend got it for me
Marshall: (interrupting) wait didn’t I get you one?
Me: Oh…yeah, but I don’t wear it anymore
Marshall: Oh
Me: anyway, he bought it in his size and I cut it all up and sewed it to fit me
Marshall: (looking at my seams), I could have done it MUCH better
Me: well that is because you have a vagina
Marshall: (turning to brother) you can see why we didn’t work out
Brother: actually, I think she has you nailed.
Ah ha ha ha!

Are you sure it has not gone bad?

Saturday night was another date with Marathon Man. I guess we are in the stage of dating where you cook for each other. Well we decided to cook something that is completely indigenous to our upbringings. Being from Hawaii, M-Man cooked me Spam Sushi. Yeah, it really is as gross as it sounds. Basically you fry spam, add rice and some spices, and then wrap it all in seaweed. The state of Hawaii consumes more Spam per person than anywhere else in the world. Go figure, I thought they would be more into pineapple or something else not labeled with a question mark.

I wondered what Spam stood for. Select Parts of Animal Meat, Special Pigs of Alternative Markets, Stupid People All-purpose Meat. Turns out (according to the website) it doesn’t stand for anything. Basically it is a combination of random letters….just like the product is a combination of random animals.

Okay, I have never eaten Spam before, but I don’t think I was missing out. I mean the three main ingredients are pork with ham, mechanically separated chicken, and salt. What…pork with ham….I thought pork WAS ham! Also, mechanically separated chicken….why wouldn’t they just put chicken on the label? That is unless mechanically separated chicken is just a fancy way of saying grinded up beaks and feathers. In all actuality, they should have listed salt first because it tasted like rubberized salt, dipped in salt finished with salt juice.

It is still beyond me why people would willingly eat this meat product (or just meat colored product). The thing makes a suction noise when it is squeezed out of can! Yes, a giant sucking, what the hell is that noise, only to be followed by the juicy dead fish plop of the mass on the plate! Still after reading the ingredient list and enduring the smell of it being cooked (like burning hair and rubber but in meat format), I still was forced to EAT IT! I figured it would act better at stripping furniture than providing a wholesome meal. Anyway, I choked it down (literally gagging as I ate) to appease the boy.

I contributed to the evening with dessert. I was introduced to creative mixing of random ingredients by my Mother who also does not know how to cook. Seriously, I can barely make mac N cheese from the box or get a pre mix pancake to escape the skillet without a char. I even request that my eggs be overcooked to the point of being burnt and crispy when ordering at a restaurant because that is the only way I know how to cook them. People ask me “didn’t your Mom teach you how to cook” to which I reply “no…she doesn’t know how to cook either”. Anyway, my favorite dessert is chocolate ice cream with rippled potato chips. Trust me, the combination of sweet and salty is awesome! Think of it as French fries dipped in a frosty. Mmmmmnn. Needless to say, his taste buds must be malfunctioning because he preferred the Spam!

I killed Christmas

Friday night, I went on a date with my roommate. Okay get your mind out of the gutter for thinking of girl on girl action, we just felt like we actually have hung out less since moving in together. Strange I know. Anyway, the night started with Miller Lite pounders in the apartment. After a few beers, we decided we should spend the night messing with tourists. We therefore threw on the most ridiculous outfits EVER! I was wearing a floral summer wedding appropriate dress over my jeans and t-shirt. Since that wasn’t enough, I put on a belt (over the dress) and pinned on a fake flower to act as my corsage. To match my floral theme, Bree put on her bright pink and white floral pajamas over a green shirt and off white leg warmers.

Now that we were dressed for the part, we headed into the tourist Mecca…..Times Square. At the first bar (an Irish pub) we decided our back story is that we were from the Hamptons…and that we were kind of a BIG DEAL (said deeeee-aaauuuul). Yeah some of the things we would say to the other customers were “see the flower, well everyone wears them, because it is the Hamptons” or “they don’t have Miller Lite! This would so not fly in the Hamptons”. Now multiply that by drunk squared. We eventually headed on, but not before taking a secret picture of a tourist in a horrible ski sweater with a turtle neck. Gaaaawww!

We walked across the street to a very swanky looking place complete with a door bouncer, list, and velvet rope. Having whiskey courage, I just walked up to him and said “My name is (my name…with emphasis on the last name), I’m on the list”. He flipped thru the pages while Bree and I impatiently acted and said stuff like “you know my grandfather is Bose speakers” and “in the Hamptons, we would not be waiting so long”. Since our self-belief in our “story” was so great, the door bouncer flipped to a random page and said “oh yeah, here you are, go right ahead”. Ummmm….did we just pull that off? Not only were we not on the list, but we were dressed like absolute lunatics!

So we were required to check our coats, so we tried to trick the lady and avoid paying for two coats by shoving them in together. She was obviously not fooled since the end result was some misshapen mass. The hemorrhaging from our wallet didn’t stop. At the bar, we ordered two well drinks, and the total came to $33! What the hell! What do they need that money for….oh wait….the pool! Yeah there was a pool in the club! Well more like a very very very large warm bath, but you get the point. People were actually swimming and playing with beach balls in it. I guess you could buy a suit if you wished to take a dip. Of course the novelty of having a swimming pool in the middle of a club meant the whole place was super humid and reeked of chlorine.

While exploring the club, a couple (who consisted of a hot Asian woman and handsome black guy) approached us. They were behind us in the coat check line earlier, and they found us hilarious. Well they asked out of the blue, “so are you two having a good time…want to make it better…we are looking for a third to join us”. Hum, did I hear that correctly? Bree blurted out, “I have a boyfriend” and left me with them. The guy turned to his Asian girl and asked her if she liked me. She purred back an affirmative while she petted his arm. They then began to describe what they would do to me and I admit, I considered it because I could cross off three things from my list, hot Asian, hot black guy, and threesome. I made up some sad excuse that my phone was ringing and ran off.

I plopped down in a booth and interrupted Bree and some douche bag in mid conversation by saying out of the blue “I’m a trust fund baby (sigh)”. Since our nursed drinks were all but gone, we headed out the door after causing yet another commotion at the coat check where Bree bought suckers off of the guy only to unwrap and return them because they did not taste good.

We headed down the block to yet another Irish pub. The place was flooded with British guys who could not get enough of us yanks. Over in the corner, the bar had a life-sized Santa. The mannequin had so much shit on it’s face (beard etc) that the chin sagged down to the chest. Basically it looked like Santa was trying to nod off while standing up. I would have none of that and tried to adjust his head to the proper position. Well while I am pulling back his head, I hear a SNAP and I am left clutching Santa’s dismembered head in my hands! Yeah….I ripped Santa’s head off! I am standing there next to a headless Santa panicking when a nearby girl was like “just get rid of it”. So, I threw the head into a nearby booth and ran back to blend in the crowd. The brits and I were having a good laugh looking at the decapitated Santa (and secretly praying that no children walk in) when a busboy passed, did a double take, and gingerly put the head back on. Too bad I snapped it clean off, so any gentle bump in to the mannequin would result in the head rolling off. Ah ha ha ha!

Put a cork in it

Brief post before I unleash the massive randomness that happened over the weekend. On Thursday night, I met Dana, Evan, Michael, Bashwire, Andy, and some other guy out at a champagne bar, Bubble Lounge, in Tribecca. We figured champagne would be appropriate to send off Bashwire to India (where we jibbed that he was going back to get a wife) and to congratulate Evan who is going to be sent to Hong Kong for two years. Yeah Evan is super excited and he even hugged his boss when he found the news.

Well you know a place is out of your league when there is a $6,000 bottle of champagne on the drink list. Yeah, the cheapest bottle in the entire 20 page drink list was $40 and it was for some Indian sparkling wine but more likely rice wine that elephants get drunk off of. Even shitty champagne like Brute was $75! Really….Brute….you are serious?

Trees are for beavers

Wednesday officially kicked off the Christmas season with the lighting of the Rockefeller center tree. Of course I didn’t see that, but sure as hell tried. Marathon Man and I tried to fight the crowds and get a glimpse of the all mighty tree. Seriously we headed up 5th Ave from the south, and then we tried the north, and then coming in from the side on 6th Ave. At one point we went into the subway which is directly under the fucker only to be denied by some cops who had seen several dozen people try the exact same thing. After all the wandering around, we found ourselves on 6th Ave starring at a giant big screen of Celine Dion that was a few blocks away. Love ya Celine, but you are not worth dodging traffic for.

The best view of the night came from inside the Saks Fifth Avenue building. It was pure genus on our part to sneak into the store since it is located directly across the street from the main event. We headed up to the top level and had a clear view of the tree. We had fifteen minutes before the actual lighting, so M-Man suggested we pretend to be shopping in order to stick around in the store. Too bad the floor was lingerie! We would hold up ridiculously naughty teddies and thongs while trying to keep a straight face. Eventually the sales lady came over and kicked us out because she didn’t think we were serious shoppers. Plus I think she wanted to watch the tree lighting and did not want to deal with customers. On our way out, I fulfilled one of his adolescent fantasies by making out in the elevator. He treated me to Wendy’s afterwards….with a coupon.

One fruitful side effect of the midtown wandering was coming across the Palace hotel. If you are big Gossip Girl fan like me, you would know that Sabrina and Chuck live there. I couldn’t help being a tourist and taking pictures. If only M-Man looked like Dan or acted like Chuck. A girl can dream.

In New York where the goods are fake and the tourists tacky

Here are the high lights from the weekend. I was able to hang out with Jeremy, Anna, and my college buddy Justin (or Moldy…don’t ask) at the KSU football watch party. Justin was the infamous nose flute / ballet magic show from Thanksgiving last year. His fake sock puppet (pepi) act is one of the most hilarious things I’ve ever seen. My mom still talks about him, and I think he was the highlight of her visit to NYC…that and fake purse shopping on Canal street. Yep, I also got some Christmas shopping in down on Canal (or as I like to call it, Chanel) street. I picked up a few fake Gucci, Prada, and Coach purses for my sisters…and myself, I couldn’t help it. I also scored some fake Tiffany & Co key chains, money clips, and necklaces.

Here is a picture of the tag that came with my Gucci hobo bag. Yeah, looks legit at first until you realize they misspelled the following words: aslight (a light), preaerve (preserve), immeadiaely (immediately), Forany (for any), and persounnel (personnel). Awww, close enough..

If anything other to be completely random, here is a picture of a man in Times Square who has a mullet and a bad Planet Hollywood leather jacket (embroidered with King Pin none-the-less).

Keep you hands to yourself

Friday night, I headed out with Dana in the West Village. We stopped at a Serbian bar called Employees Only. You may ask, what makes a Serbian bar any different than any other bar. Well the answer is my friend, weird beer. Yeah, they didn’t have a single beer that I recognized! Plus the labels were all in a foreign language, so I could have been drinking llama piss for all I know.

One great thing about the bar was that it was a complete and utter sausage fest. We started off the night surrounded by drunk British and Italian men who kept trying to playfully hug and kiss us. Yeah that sounds creepy, but you have no idea how tame they were in comparison to the ultimate pervert….British Mark. Dana and I made our way over to talk to a super hot (but ultimately super short) guy who was giving her the fuck me eyes. Sitting next to hot shorty was British Mark and his friend Lyle. Okay first thing, they were 40+ if not closer to 50 years old! To add to the matter, creepy Mark kept trying to feel up my thigh. I would playfully swat away his roaming hands while giving Dana a “are you serious” look. Mark told us about his art gallery (he owns one) and how he just bought a house in the West Village. Yeah, this guy must be loaded since townhouses in the area are probably 2-3 mill at least. Well he invites us over to see his house, and before I can respectfully decline, Dana says “OKAY!”. Hmmm, does anyone else think this is a really bad idea….thought so!

I started to make escape routes in my head as we walked over to his house. I’m thinking, okay if he gets us cornered, I’m stabbing him with my heel or I’ll take one of his paintings hostage. He was pretty drunk, so I figured it would be easy to push him down a flight of stairs. Anyway, he was relentlessly pursuing my body parts with his hands. If he got anywhere near me, I would cross to the other side of the room. One time, I was cornered on the roof terrace, and I considered jumping off the roof in lieu of smacking his hand away AGAIN from my backside. I found momentary relief when Dana an I shared a small sofa. Too bad he soon squeezed his fat ass in between us even though we were clearly sitting next to each other. When he had his head turned from me, I would mouth to Dana “lets get the fuck out of here….I’m serious, I’m going to punch this guy….lets ditch this m-fer when he goes to the restroom”. She is reading my pained expression and trying her hardest to keep a straight face.

Finally we were able to make some lame excuse about meeting up with some other friends (even though it was 3am!). I ended up crashing on her couch, not due to the alcohol because I refused all of his wine in fear it was laced with ruffies, but because I didn’t want to deal with another scumbag on my way home. Dana (God bless her heart) said later “we HAVE to say friends with him…think about how awesome his Christmas party will be”. Ummm, I’d rather shove bacon in my underwear while at the dog park.