I'm really sick of logging in to Facebook and continually being presented with this ad in the right margin - mostly because I want to know who that hot slut is, since I goddamn well know he's not on whatever pathetic dating site selected his stock photo.
Arrgh. He's probably not even gay, so I wish they'd just quit showing him to me.
I'm not going to be exceptionally boring and go too in-depth into New Year's resolutions, since I don't really care that much about them and I can't imagine any of you do, either.
Two that I care (somewhat) about and their statuses:
1. Getting back to a regular gym routine.
Status: Currently very sore after doing biceps/back/abs on Monday, cardio on Tuesday, chest/triceps/abs on Wednesday. Goal for the rest of the week: cardio & abs today, legs/shoulders/abs on Friday, and possibly yoga on Saturday.
1a. No drinking Monday through Thursday.
Status: FAIL. Gave in and had a vodka drink last night. Meh.
2. Getting my financial house in order.
Status: I did some analysis of my finances, created a budget, and am trying very hard to stick to it. Example: I went grocery shopping on Monday night with $26 in my pocket and managed to spend only $25.45. For some pathetic reason, that made my night.
I realize this post isn't exactly scintillating reading - but yet another resolution that I made was to start blogging again - so give me some leeway; I'm trying.
Friday night, 9 pm. I'm home watching "The Golden Compass" (it sucked) and getting drunk by myself when No-Dice Joe texts me and tells me to come meet him and the rest of the Brooklyn crazies at McSorley's, where they're celebrating Alex's birthday.
As I emerge from the ATM around the corner from my apartment, I see 3 guys getting out of a yellow cab, so I hail it and jump in.
"Manhattan," I tell the driver. "7th and 3rd Ave."
He glances at me in the rearview mirror. "7th Street and 3rd Avenue?"
"Yes, 7th and 3rd Ave.," I repeat back.
A few minutes later, he asks me again, and wondering what's going on with this guy, I say firmly, "YES. Manhattan, East 7th Street and 3rd Avenue."
He knows I'm getting irritated, so he smiles and says, "Is amazing, this city. Those three men I just dropped off? I picked them up at 7th and 3rd, and now you are going there."
That makes me smile. New York is an amazing city, it's true.
I tip the guy an extra buck more than usual for making me smile and head into the bar to meet the crazies, where I discover that the birthday girl is shitfaced and wearing a large, pink hat that is somewhat Bo Peep-ish. After a few rounds (and a bar tab of $378 - holy shit), we decide to head to Libation on the Lower East Side, since this guy Brian's two brothers are hanging out there. Having only been there for brunch, I'm skeptical - it's kind of douchy there, and I know what the Brooklyn Crazies are like when they get their drink on - it usually ends in fighting - but we pour ourselves into two cabs and we're on our way.
I'm in a cab with Alex's fiance, Tom; his co-worker from St. Louis who's only been in New York for a few months; and Alex's co-worker Selma, who's French, drunk, and who also has been in New York for 3 months. St. Louis, I should mention, is crushing hard on Selma, and he and Tom are delighting in teasing her about her accent.
We get out on Ludlow directly in front of Libation. The others are there already, standing on the corner having cigarettes. As they finish, Joe and I steer Alex and Selma toward Libation, where the doordouche (a twenty-something white guy whose smile reeks of insincerity) asks what's going on tonight.
Selma, bless her French heart, points at Alex and exclaims, "It's her birthday! She is 33 years old!" I wince, knowing that's not going to win us any points.
The doordouche chuckles a little, looks at us again, and says, "Fine, I can let the girls in, but the guys are going to be $15 each."
"WHAT?!?" Joe yelps, and he turns to me and says, "That's ridiculous." I agree, and after the McSorley's bar tab, both St. Louis and I need an ATM again anyway. We discuss for a few minutes and then just decide, fuck it, we'll do it. I trot across the street to an ATM, and when I come back, we assemble before the doordouche like the supplicants that we are.
This time he doesn't hesitate. "Sorry, guys, but we just can't do it now."
Alex is confused, so I tell her that they're not going to let us in, and that's when her drunken, shit-kicking alter ego (whom we call Boots) emerges.
"Fuck you," she screams at the doordouche, and then rips the ridiculous pink hat off of her head and THROWS IT at him. "Go fuck yourself, you fucking asshole!"
Joe and I are cracking up, and to give him credit, the doordouche is as well without being meanspirited. We drag Alex and Selma across the street to some dive bar, where we discover...
...Tom already inside, a drink in hand, talking to some guy whom Joe informs me is Tom's cousin. Oh, New York.
I completed 8 weeks with the personal trainer. I lost 5 lbs, 1.5 inches from my waist, an inch off my hips, an inch off my chest, and dropped my body fat by 3 percent. I also dramatically improved my endurance and my resting heart rate. My overall percentile rank went up 11.4 points.
Benjie and No-Dice Joe and I leave for Hawaii tomorrow for 12 days and 11 nights. You know you're jealous. And really, it's okay to be.
But first, today, I'm doing a day of gym/haircut/massage and then packing.