"Viewer Discretion Advised."

There was a little bit of thought that went into Friday's plans with Holly -- call it a calculated effort if you will. I was banking on the cheap drinks at our favorite watering hole to loosen her up. Then we would go to Girlsroom (a lesbian bar in the Lower East Side) and dance to 80s music and make use of the open bar. They even have couches tucked back in the dark so you can do other things than dance.

I had a plan to stick to.

Cheap drinks? Check.
Good level of inebriation? Check.
Watching a barely dressed tattooed girl dancing on a stage? Check.
Spot secured on couch in darkened corner? Check.
Smooching going on?

That's a big fat no.

So what's going on here? I'm making this real easy for her and I'm barely getting a response save for some close dancing. What do I have to do? Take off my top?

"I'm an artist. I don't make generic observations."

When my cell phone rang at 8:15 am yesterday morning, the caller ID showed that it was my mom. Wait, my mom never calls at this time of day. And of course being a person who immediately thinks the worse, I answered the phone expecting to hear that someone had died.

It's a universally accepted truth that you just don't call people at weird times, especially during the hours of midnight to nine in the morning. If you want to give a person a heart attack, call them at 4 am and you'll be the person finding out someone had died.

In this case, thankfully someone hadn't died. Heart rate started to return to normal. She just called to hear how my interview went. Sorry mom, I probably bombed it. Your daughter is still stuck in medical design purgatory.

"Where the hell is the think and do section?"

Update time. I know, I know. I've been a bit remiss in the blog entries.

Chicago: Saw some good friends of mine, spent time sipping overpriced martinis on the 96th floor of the Hancock Building, danced to James Brown, shopped for shoes, nearly went broke in TJ Maxx, and froze my butt off.

Holly: I totally chickened out when we were out for drinks last Tuesday and thus a relationship of undefined status continues. Good news is that we are going out on Friday . . . that is if she doesn't cancel on me. Though I did find out that she was really sick when she canceled previously, so she's off the hook.

Interview: Interview? What interview? I didn't tell you? Well I had a job interview with a high end real estate advertising agency yesterday. They found my portfolio online and contacted me. I probably bombed it as I was so nervous, but you never know. I could really use a job where I am actually a designer. Ho hum.

Digital Camera: I heart it. Took many pictures in Chicago and it has rekindled my love of photography. 35 mm film is totally old skool, man.

"Do you know about our three year service plan?"

I have a digital camera! Now I can photoblog and take pics of my Chicago trip on Thursday. Hooray!

Okay, enough geeky excitement.

Yes I am going to Chicago on Thursday, which means mucho opportunity to test the new camera. Also mucho opportunity to document some drunken episodes (not mine, oh no . . . I'm an upstanding citizen). While in Chi-town, I will be meeting up with friends, seeing the sites, and trying not to let the evil gin have its way with me.

Just in time for my trip, the weather here in Gotham has turned summer like. Felt odd breaking out the cropped khakis and lightweight shirts, but what's a girl to do when it is 86 F? I'll tell you what a girl's supposed to do: sit on a Manhattan roof and drink a beer. The shot above is my inaugural digital pic of my friend Jess's foot.

Enjoy.

"Choosing a 78-year-old Pope is like buying a 1977 Alfa Romeo Spider . . . it'll just break down and shit oil over the driveway."

I went to the pub last night because a) it was press day at work and I needed some mindless entertainment when I got home at 7:30 pm and b) it was movie night. The double feature was (drum roll please) Top Gun followed by Roadhouse. I weighed my desire to watch brainless television versus watching a couple of god awful movies. In the end, the crap movies won out. A few glasses of wine later (five) and I was able to enjoy the pure cheese of Tom Cruise wooing Kelly McGillis and Patrick Swayze's mullet.

The down side to this plan was that the wine caused me to wake up at 4:30 am. I tossed and turned till 6 am before finally surrendering to the shower. Too knackered to make breakfast at home, I struck upon a genius plan to have oatmeal with brown sugar and banana courtesy of the deli by my work. Strike two -- the oatmeal was horrible and I think I paid $3 for a gloopy, watery mess. It was like runny porridge -- breakfast of the disenfranchised masses. Even the banana couldn't help it.

"Well just text me if you need to go with Plan B."

Ass Crisis: An Update

Due to the escalating nature of the Ass Crisis, I have rebutted the UN's warning against unilateralism with a terse message outlining my right to deal with this issue as I see fit. I have also stated that by promoting a policy of containment, I am preventing a regional crisis from spreading to neighboring biologically unstable body parts.

Currently I am weighing my options of force, options which fall along financial lines.

Option 1: Pay $75 dollars for a yearly membership to the recreational centers of New York City Parks and Recreation. Pro is that it's only $75 a year. Con is that the nicest and most convenient location is in the not so convenient area of Chelsea.

Option 2: Take advantage of the discount my health plan applies to gym membership. Pro is that Crunch Fitness is in the plan, which is located next to my office. Con is that it's a $40 sign up fee and a $70 monthly fee, but I get to use any Crunch in Manhattan.

When I get back from my trip to Chicago, I will make my decision.

"This is part of your punk rock education."

In the absence of datage last night, Jane and I decided to paint Bushwick red and visit all three local bars. It also helped that before I left work on Friday, my boss informed me that in honor of our very good billing month, I could expense $100 worth of drinks. I asked Jane if she was up to the $100 challenge and she replied that she would do her best.

It's amazing how quickly two people can drink and eat through $100. The bar tab at Life Cafe, not including food, hovered somewhere around $40. With our eyes on the prize, we stumbled over to bar two, the newly opened Wreck Room on Flushing Avenue. What an appropriate name, especially considering how I later felt. We finished off our Bushwick Bar Crawl at Kings County. A couple of ill advised drinks later, I was ready to careen home.

I deserved my searing Saturday headache and wobbly stomach. In the immortal words of Jimmy Buffett, it's my own damn fault. But poor Jane. She's a little rusty and her hangover definitely took her by surprise.

Needless to say that the $100 challenge comes with its payback.

"The hipsters never suspect a thing."

I have to say that it is very weird to open up the New York Times -- or in this case, load the homepage -- and see a picture of my loft. I mean holy crap! Apparently my whole neighborhood is not zoned for residency, meaning that I live in an illegal loft. This really isn't brand new information. I suspected it, but really didn't give much thought to it.

"Though many of the new residents seem genuinely unaware that the lofts are illegal, the shift is self-perpetuating. Building owners have begun to cite the changing streetscape to apply for zoning variances, according to Mr. Friedman, of the industrial retention group."

"What reason did she give?"

Well that was anti-climatic. I just got cancelled on, so no date tonight -- no maybe-this-isn't-a-date either. I thought fate was supposed to be on my side?

This really, really blows.

Perhaps I shall drown my sorrows in gin.

"Your search 'Sir Mixalot' did not match any results."

Oh Holly, Holly, Holly. What am I going to do with you? Everyone says I should make the first move, but what can I say -- I'm a total chicken. Maybe you are dropping hints. After all you did choose Metropolitan (a gay bar) as our venue last night. And as we sipped our pints of Stella, you definitely said the words "my ex-boyfriend." Is that the big in that I have been waiting for?

Now that we have plans for Friday (lychee martinis, dinner, and 80s night at Girlsroom), I can come up with a plan of attack. Hopefully I won't chicken out for the fourteenth time, but I can at least ask, "Hey, you still datin' that guy?" Hopefully she will say, "Actually no. Let's go snog in a dark corner."

Why is this so hard? Does she like me or does she not. Are we friends or have I been going out on a lot of dates with her?

So many questions.

"I hope your wish comes true."

So did you all see the lunar eclipse last night?

I had totally forgotten about it, but Dennise texted me about it halfway into my second apple martini so I was obliged to walk up to my roof and check it out for myself.

Dennise: "Do you see it?"

Me: "I see the projects. I see a water tower. I see Queens."

Dennise: "Keep looking."

Then I saw it, an orange-red crescent moon slung low, hovering somewhere over lower Manhattan. It was rather awesome to see it within the same panorama of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, especially as it dipped towards the horizon. Dennise was viewing the eclipse over a parking garage in Cleveland, so she was a little jealous of my New York City skyline.

But the best part -- and the most magical part -- was looking off into the glowing lights of Manhattan just as a shooting star flashed across the night sky.

I made a wish.

"Because I'm Will Smith and it's 1991."

Oh boy, oh boy. I had an action packed weekend and about 9 hours sleep total. It's tough being this badass.

Dinner, drinks, and a Josh Rouse concert with Holly on Friday followed by a hangover on Saturday. Jess called me Saturday evening to see if I was interested in dinner and drinks with her friend Tori. I can report that I was very good to my liver, but ended up staying at Jess's place Saturday night since it was either that or take a cab home. In the morning, still in the clothes I slept in, we all went down to Chinatown for vegetarian dim sum.

No stories or salacious details to report, but when I skulked home around 1pm Sunday, I had quite a time trying to convince Jane that I didn't come home on Saturday because of some Manhattan booty call.

If only.

"I found a liquid cure for my landlocked blues."

I'm having what is known as an ass crisis. An ass crisis, as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, is when the posterior becomes disproportional to the size of the body but proportional the amount of alcohol and take out meals consumed. Basically I've been going out way too much and my jeans are getting tight.

Goddamnit.

I walk and climb stairs like a fiend, but uh-oh . . . I don't go to the gym. It's not because I don't want to -- I actually love going to the gym -- but rather that I can't afford it. The walking I suppose was a stopgap measure -- a bulwark against my burgeoning ass crisis, a bulwark that has now failed.

Extreme measures must now be taken. A coalition must be formed to stop the ever widening crisis before the contagion spreads to neighboring body parts. We can call it the Coalition of the Hungry. Based on past political instability, the abs are ripe for crisis.

I must strike first. I will be victorious. I will . . . mmmmmmmmm beer.

* * *

I went to the Spotted Pig in Greenwich Village last night with my friend Jess. Fully aware of the Ass Crisis (it really should be capitalized to underscore its severity), I enjoyed two pints of lovely pilsner, watched the sun fade on the Hudson, and consumed quite possibly one of the most lovely things to pass my taste buds since I made homemade alfredo sauce -- the ricotta gundi.

Oh my freaking god. Words to not describe how good it was. Gothamist gives it a try, but you really have to have it for yourself.

Now it is time to find a gym.

"Better now, merci."

The United Nations just sent me a sternly worded letter regarding the escalating Ass Crisis. They have warned me that any unilateral action in the matter is in violation of Security Council Resolution #45235b and suggested that I seek to resolve the crisis through traditional channels of diplomacy.

Harrumph.

"They wanted to search my diplomatic pouch."

God made me a hairy freak. Okay, genetics and cocktail of chemicals made me a hairy freak, but whatever. Since I don't live in a society that loves the hairy, freaky woman, I have to indulge in the occasional trip to the salon. It seems like such as scam to pay someone $10 (not including tax and tip) to rip the dark hairs off my face, but I'm a sucker.

There's a place on Broadway that will make my eyebrows pretty for $20. It's is primarily a threading salon and if you've never heard of threading before, it's supposed to be the alternative to waxing. What they don't tell you is that it doesn't hurt any less.

A look in the bathroom mirror yesterday reminded me that it was time to have my mustache yanked away. Oy vey. I had post work drink plans with Holly (lychee martinis) and I really didn't want to be crazy mustache lady.

As I laid back in the salon chair, tears welled up in my eyes as the woman deftly removed the unwanted hair using a red colored thread. Though the process only takes five minutes, it can be a bit of prolonged agony. But as least I wasn't a hairy freak anymore. Well I still need to get the eyebrows done . . .

* * *

Oh my. One of the funnier articles to come out of the Guardian:

"With the high spring temperatures in Rome, putting a corpse on display without preservatives for four days might seem a high-risk strategy. There are plenty of tales from history of exploding bodies (Henry VIII was apparently quite spectacular) and disintegrating cadavers (Pius XII turned black in 1958 and his nose fell off - and that was in October)."

"A girl takes her top off, you have to give her something."

Saturday was naked day. I didn't know this when I woke up, but it was totally naked day by the time it slipped into the gin addled minutes of Sunday.

Naked day started with a trip to the spa for a massage. Meanwhile my prudish self thought I was merely having a back massage (my back has been killing me). But oh no, it was a "naked with a towel" kind of massage. Not that I didn't enjoy it, but it was naked time I wasn't mentally prepared for. At least I shaved.

Naked time took a little hiatus after I left the spa. After a zen like post massage experience in Whole Foods where I must have looked stoned to the guy chatting me up, I continued on back to Brooklyn. Later was an anniversary party at Kings County complete with a vibraphone band, champagne drink specials, and burlesque dancers. Cue further naked time.

Drunk Chick: "That last girl, she had nice boobies!"

I couldn't have agreed more. Oh wait, I thought, you forgot to add that she has a nice butt.

Though there might have been pasties and tassels, having a girl shake her fishnetted ass in front of you definitely qualifies for naked time. Thus Saturday became naked day.

The end.