All the things I’d planned to write about before I got such a bad stomach-ache

Yes, I was all prepared to deliver an actual blog posting with actual content. Then I was struck with The Inexplicable Stomach-Ache From Hell. (No, really. Ow!) These are the things I WOULD have written about if I didn’t feel like someone was jabbing an icepick into my abdomen:

• Learning to knit, and discovering that I lack the knitting gene (or the alternate yet entirely plausible theory that Book Stud has put forth, that La Gringa still don’t know her right from her left)
• My awesome birthday, which included tragic Skee-ball, a precipitously tilted pool table, the most spectacular cupcakes ever (courtesy of nightgarden and Small But Mighty), Algerian wine, fresh fava beans and garlic, much beer and the best-ever public performance of the Chicken Song (rumored to be the true national anthem of the Netherlands, fyi) by our own beloved Dutch Boy
• My newfound super-power: the ability to tie a halfway decent half-windsor knot in a man’s tie, complete with bitchin’ dimple (No applause; throw money please!)
• My Really Bad Date last week, which involved her being thirty minutes late without apology, and then – twenty minutes after arriving – calling a friend to invite her to join us on our "date"
• The totally entertaining We’re About Nine house-concert that Book Stud treated me to for my birthday
• My $6 haircut, which Book Stud thoroughly disapproves of
• Those last two sentences, which were grammatically incorrect
• The second lucrative freelance project that One of the Myriad Imprints at Big Ass Publishing Company threw my way last week
• The monsoon that hit New York City yesterday
• The additional three pounds I lost
• The ongoing brou-ha-ha over Howard Hendrix’s ignorant "webscab" comments

I was going to write about all that stuff, but instead, I am going to go lie down, and hold my tummy and groan loudly for a while. Okay, then. Just so we’re clear.

AMBER ALERT: Your laundry is at risk

Further adventures in urban living.

So I go down to the laundry room in my building. All three washers are in use, so I sit down to wait. A man comes down, looking like Mr. Middle America ex-frat boy etc. – the kind of boy you’d bring home to mama.

"Are you waiting for those two?" he says, pointing to the ones with my stuff on top. I smile. "Sorry, no, I’m waiting for all of them."

He proceeds to go on for a bit about how he got "screwed" last week by someone tying up all the machines, and I should just let him have one so he can get through the week. He’s starting to freak me out a little, so I say, "Well, I’ll see what I have."

Machines stop, I start loading my stuff in. Halfway through I realize he’s back, standing against the wall. "I’m sorry," I say, (another big smile) "but it looks like I have three loads’ worth of stuff."

He starts going nuts – on and on about how he got screwed last week. "I’m sorry," I say (again) but I’ve been waiting."

He starts to move purposefully towards the machine I’m standing in front of. (Note – he is twice my size, and the room is tiny. I doubt he meant to be menacing, but it sure was discomfitting.) "Well, I’m going to use that one. You shouldn’t tie up all the washers."

Now, if you have ever used a shared laundry room, you know it’s about luck and waiting – and if you’ve waited, you get to just use the damn number of machines you need, and then the next person can wait. Plus, I HATE being bullied.

"I’M SORRY," I say firmly, putting my stuff in, "BUT I HAVE BEEN WAITING. I will be be done in 20 minutes, or there’s a laundromat two blocks away."

He tells me sarcastically that I am a kind, kind person and leaves. A minute later, he appears behind me again: "YOU HAD BETTER SIT HERE AND WAIT BY YOUR LAUNDRY! EVERY SECOND!"

Did that man just threaten my LAUNDRY?

He did.

What a… strange way to start the day.

Incongruous things…

Things that don’t belong together:

• Rap music
• Ukranian Orthodox churches

Rap music coming OUT of a Ukranian Orthodox church = even weirder. Yet that is what was blasting away through the open doors of the church across the street as La Gringa passed by on her way to the (heinous evil Satan-spawn) gym this morning.

We are befuddled.

Well, feh.

My genius housing idea has fallen through, so Book Stud will need a new place to live as of May 31st!

If you know anyone who will have an empty room around that time, who would like a nice clean roommate accompanied by sweet cat, do please let me know.

Gracias!!

Book Stud

My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius

Alas, no, this is not a post about the film Gladiator. No, no, no. It’s just that La Gringa has always had this fantasy about striding out Russell Crowe-like onto a battlefield – one that has been appropriately set-decorated in muted earth tones with splashes of vivid scarlet thrown in for effect, and backlit in just the right way so as to enhance our bitchin’ well-oiled muscles* but downplay the non-studly double-chin** – clad in leather plates and a helmet and wielding a ridiculously huge sword that is an obvious stand-in for our manhood (La Gringa’s actual manhood*** is kept in a discreet red leather box next to her bed, FYI) while scoring Roman babes left and right with our tousled, sweaty good looks****.

Ahem!

This is what comes of spending too much time alone at home. Back to the job hunt!

* Do note that we in fact do not sport bitchin’ well-oiled muscles. We sport no muscles at all.

** We do, however, have a magnificent double-chin.

*** It’s purple. In case you were wondering.

**** And, er, not so much on the tousled, sweaty good looks part, either.

The perils of getting in shape

One of La Gringa’s New Year’s resolutions was to try to get myself back into shape. (By that I mean, being able to climb more than two sets of stairs without collapsing into a wheezing heap of sweaty Celtic fat chick). To that end, I’ve been getting up most every morning at the crack of dawn to join Book Stud at the gym down the street. It isn’t always easy, and some days – like today – I try to get out of it by coming up with what seem like perfectly valid excuses like "Dude, the wind chill is below zero today." Whereupon Book Stud shoots back a stern text message that says something to the effect of "Get your ass into the gym, woman!!!"

Ahem!

Anyway, other than the three days I did not go because I had to get to early morning work meetings, and the one day I did not go because I was Crampy McCrampypants, I’ve been going every morning for about the last five weeks or so. (Book Stud hasn’t even missed a day!!!) All this working out has resulted in my losing about fourteen pounds since the beginning of January, and dropping two pant sizes.

All good, right?

Well, all good EXCEPT when I have a job interview and must once again wear a suit to said interview. A suit whose pants now droop perilously close to my butt-cleavage nether-regions. In fact, as of today, not one pair of my dress pants actually fits. I have to hitch them up under my navel like an old man with a belt that’s on its last set of notches. Needless to say, I now look utterly ridiculous.

It’s official: I’m a wimp.

Or at least, my veins are.

I went in today to donate platelets; I have an unusual blood type that is not all that useful for whole blood donations, but is apparently quite good for platelets. IF, that is, your veins are up to it. Which mine are not. Two nurses hmmmed and mmm-mmmmed around my arms, and finally decided my veins were too weak; they couldn’t, and I quote, "take the return."

I think they could see the silent, mutinous "I CAN TOO CAN TOO CAN TOO TAKE THE RETURN!!!" rising up in me, because one added, mildly, "Your veins would explode."

Oh.

Well then.

Talk about a weird thing to be developing an inferiority complex about. I did the whole blood and then tried to drink juice as toughly as possible, just to save face.

Ouch.

La Gringa was previously ignorant of the fact that it could get so cold that one’s eyeballs could hurt.

Now we know better.

Dear Mr. Postman

Dear Mr. Postman -

I know that our building is cursed with miniscule mailboxes. I know this. And I know the fact that I have eight zillion magazine subscriptions makes delivering my mail somewhat of a challenge. Really. I understand. You have a job to do.

However…

When you are delivering a magazine that won’t miraculously roll itself into the ideal sausage-shape to fit into my wee mailbox, I would prefer that you did not mutilate said magazine in your quest to conform to the absolute ideals of the U.S. Postal Service. I am absolutely OKAY with your leaving those magazines on the floor in front of the mailbox. My neighbors are not villains. They will not steal my mail, I promise you.

Because the magazine you trashed TODAY was Paste Magazine.

My FAVORITE magazine.

A magazine that Book Stud & I subscribed to in the first place for the SOLE PURPOSE of receiving that awesome free music sampler CD they send every month. The awesome free music sampler CD that YOU, MR. POSTMAN – in your infinite wisdom – BROKE IN HALF IN ORDER TO GET MY MAGAZINE TO FIT INTO MY TEENY LITTLE MAILBOX!!!

::: pant pant pant :::

You can see where this might piss me off just a little, right?

Sincerely,

The Cranky Chick in Apt. 1E

=====================

Dear Book Stud -

May I pretty please borrow your Paste 28 sampler CD? (Thanks, dude.)

xoxox,

La Gringa

Contrary to popular belief…

La Gringa has not run off to join the circus. However, as there is a large and extremely potty-mouthed man on a scaffolding outside of La Gringa’s office window using a 4000-decibel concrete drill to BOARD UP THOSE VERY SAME WINDOWS, rest assured that the circus is one of many places other than HERE that La Gringa would prefer to be.

We must now run off to a meeting for which we are ill-prepared, as fully three-fourths of the staff here at La Gringa’s place of employment do not know that she is in fact an employee here so they do not send her the pertinent material which would prepare her for said meeting.

So, there you have it. We promise that we will compose a real post at some point today. Book Stud has pointed out the fact that she has been carrying the burden for all the fresh content lo these many days. We apologize to Book Stud, and promise to be more diligent in our blogging responsibilities.

The mark of true laziness

La Gringa’s bathroom light bulb died two days ago. The lightbulb way high up on the ceiling. Where a ladder is needed. Has La Gringa replaced said lightbulb? No. No, she has not. Instead, she has been peeing and showering in the dark for two days.

The application of hair product has been particularly amusing, by the way.

And the award for Most Humorless Person of 2007 goes to…

::drum roll please::

…Mama Book Stud’s downstairs neighbor.

After being summoned to Mama Book Stud’s place of abode to move boxes around, I escaped via the elevator and was greeted several floors down by two adorable dachshund puppies. A woman whose kids I used to babysit for was at the other end of the leash. We exchanged greetings, and then of course I went into raptures over the puppies.

"Well hello! Aren’t you adorable? What’s up with the shoe-sniffing, huh? Do my feet smell good?"

Humorless Woman stares at me patronizingly over her glasses. "Book Stud…" she says, slowly, as if I might be a wee bit slow, "…they don’t talk."

::splutter::

How La Gringa spent her morning on Google Talk

Transcript of an actual conversation with an actual friend:

deadlanguages: damn it – my ear is bleeding! i hate that

gabe:

*blink*
is it a tumor?

deadlanguages:

don’t ask – just my own stupidity sticking things in my ear to scratch

gabe:

someone with a sharp tongue piercing get to you? LOL…ah! NOT THE DREADED KEY!!!

deadlanguages:

i wish – no, the dreaded paperclip

gabe: d’oh! use a q-tip!

deadlanguages:

i have used the dreaded key, however

gabe: did you adjust your crotch and spit at the same time? mouthbreather!

And La Gringa wonders why she doesn’t have a girlfriend.

‘Tis the season: Guilt Incorporated

Real, genuine, 100% not-made-up conversation with The Ultimate Jewish Mother upon arriving at her apartment for dinner last night:

Me: Hi Mom! Happy Hanukah! How are you?

Mama Book Stud: Well, other than my arthritis, and the throat problems, and the fact that I’m all alone in the world, and that my only daughter doesn’t love me…. I’m fine.

::groan::

Can we please have a moratorium…

…on any and all mentions and/or candid shots of Britney Spears’ bare nekkid coochie???

Hello, media? NOT NEWS!!! 

Insufficient coverage in the panty-area (apologies to Book Stud for using her least favorite word) – while tacky and low-rent and just awesomely disgusting – is not actually a news item.

Are we all clear on this now?