Two of the new American Gladiators, Crush and Wolf, dropped by my ever-festive cubicle to share powerful secrets of gladiating with me and Slezak. Here’s Part 1 of what’s sure to be a truly enlightening series. My fave part is when I blurt out “Gassy!” Awkward…

Update: Here’s Part 2. We talk “style,” and Wolf compliments the tropical fish spandex leggings from the ’80s (Dee Barrett Original Flavored) that I am obviously wearing in these videos.

Michael Slezak (google alert!) is not havin’ it with my awesome pants in this frame.

Okay, here’s the best one, Part 3. Ridiculous challenges include catching candy in our moths, fielding a publicist’s phone call, and flying paper airplanes.

Oh, and I totally have a crush on Crush.

Yes.

New Idolatry video up today. I’m a lot bitchier in this one than the last one, which may not appeal to the masses. Oh my god! I don’t care!

I’ve been avoiding my first post from Brooklyn for awhile now. What if I was changed? What if this site became much worse…. OR BETTER? The thought was more than I could bear.

No, I’m just lazy.

So here I am! This neighborhood is called Park Slope and I love it. Like OMG it is so cool and original of me to move to Park Slope! I am a Slopester. Watch me blog about it!

But first: last photos of the Village.

Here I am in the Pink Palace, just moments after the three movers lugged out all of my crap from it… and just before I got stuck in a 90-minute traffic jam in a cab because I was too shy and rejection-fearing to bum a ride in the moving van. (The woman on the phone said it was illegal for them to drive me… I’m not sure why I listened to her. I think it was so that I’d have a good excuse to not ask for a ride, even though it was all I wanted/needed in my life at that point. So basically, the prospect of saving up to $95 (the extra hour on the move + $20 for a cab) was not worth the effort of a few lines of awkward conversation between me and strangers. I need to develop some new priorities. Hence, the move to Brooklyn.)

Speaking of awkward, I certainly played my part in making the scene between me and the movers as uncomfortable as possible. It took them maybe 30 minutes to haul everything out of the place, but I still kind of had to be in there to answer questions and generally get in the way. So I pretended to busy myself with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Tilex Shower Fresh cleanser. When they’d leave the room, I’d relax and put both items down; when they returned, I’d be furiously scrubbing the oven top for the fifth time. I also did a number on the closet and bathroom floors. None of this was necessary. All I really wanted to do was clean behind the bed, where I knew would be an assortment of sugary cereals, hair things, and broken glass. Finally the bed was gone, and I was right. The broken glass was more like a broken goblet. It was this huge beer chalice from Munich, and I loved it. I almost didn’t want the guys to move the bed so I wouldn’t have to bear the sight of its pieces. (Keep in mind the glass broke over a year ago and I just never bothered to pick it up. I’m cool.)

The most awkward few minutes occurred after I realized there were still some popsicles in my freezer, and decided to start gnawing on one while the movers were still in the thick of things. It was an Edy’s Whole Fruit strawberry bar and it was absolutely heavenly. So good, in fact, that I started feeling extremely guilty about eating the treat in front of the mover men. Here they were hustling and sweating their asses off, and there I was gingerly sinking my teeth into each bite so as not to incur brain freeze.

A few bites in, the scene became too traumatic to handle, so I started rushing and developed brain freeze anyway. The whole time, I wondered if it would be appropriate to ask the guys if they wanted one. It would have been so weird. We were barely speaking, but they had to notice how delighted I was by the popsicle. I’m positive I was swaying around in a deep swoon, trying to catch my balance on the countertop. I was pissed I never got to enjoy the other bars in the package. I ended up leaving them for new tenant Kate, but first I had a fleeting notion of asking the guys if they wanted one. I wonder how I would have phrased it, because their English wasn’t so hot.

“Want a popsicle?”

“Would you like a delicious popsicle in a strawberry flavor?”

“Here.” [shoves it]

Either way, it would have been weird. Think about it. I’m paying them to carry crap downstairs at 10 in the morning and suddenly I’d be like “No, stop and have dessert with me.” I’m positive they’d have said no, so I never asked, Plus, I knew I’d be offended if they declined. When people say no to things I suggest, I get really mad. Not because I want to win, but because I really want others to enjoy what I’m obsessing over at that moment. It makes me feel less insane and selfish. So seriously. Humor me.

My my, check out how much more pink and loserish the Palace looks when it’s empty! It also seems smaller, if that’s possible. Did I really live in that thing for two years? (A: Yes, and you adored it, so stop that right now, young lady. I mean it!)

I expected to be teary-eyed and blubbery during these moments; instead I was thrilled (see above photo, in which I swear I wasn’t trying to look that excited on purpose). I think the most appropriate term is “giddy.” I like that one because when I say it, I seem to feel the need to add an extra syllable, a sort of “ehn” sound before the g. It comes out like “nnngiddy.” People have mocked this. They’re like, “Say giddy again.” But I don’t. I’m not their clown.

Okay, slight problem. I will really miss gazing at Mischa Barton. I’m not kidding.

Don’t get me wrong — I thought Marissa was vile. But I still appreciated her face, frame, and hair. Who wouldn’t? She’s a dream. The O.C. made it so easy for people like me to have a relatively good excuse to stare at Mischa for an hour (the show was usually all about her — agonizing, but easy on the eyes) while exerting the least possible amount of effort. (Did you guys know that? Watching TV is easy.) What are we supposed to do now? Google image search that bitch? Rent The Sixth Sense? See whatever awful movie she makes next in all her emancipated glory? Watch avideo of her pushing Nicole Richie around in a shopping cart?

Fat chance, Mischa. Yeah, that’s right: Fat. Eat a pancake.

Someone should market a Mischa Barton slideshow of sorts. Not a calendar, nothing like that. Just basic photographs of Mischa in expensive, cool clothes — a slideshow that would change maybe every few hours. (But only when it was switched on, like a desk lamp. It’s not like I’d look at it all the time. Just whenever I wanted to).

Or, if I was the richest person ever, I could hire her to just sit in front of me, or show up wherever I happen to go. Like if I’m walking down the street, she’ll be walking the other way. No big deal, just “Oh, there’s Mischa.” Yet again. Just my luck!

She’d always have to be expertly styled — that’s the catch. I’d want her to do what she always did on the show: make me feel dowdy, large, and hopelessly unfashionable. I don’t want to miss out on this now that Marissa’s dead, and I fear that I might. Who will I love/hate to idolize now?

Nope. I’m voting slideshow instead of in-house existence. Seeing her in person — seeing anyone in person, actually — would be incredibly awkward. That’s not even what I want. Excluding special cases, I typically don’t like having to deal with actual human life. I’m confident that I’d never want to talk to Mischa, or do anything with her. I just want to be able to stare at her if I feel like it. A slideshow of her, looking good in different outfits. It’s not so much to ask.

A little old lady tried to buy my necklace while she helped me out at the bridal registry counter (holla, Heffa!) at Williams-Sonoma today. I don’t get that. If I bought it for myself, why would I sell it to you? Is this, like, a common practice?

As soon as I told her I’d bought it in Brooklyn, she looked crestfallen. No, no, it’s a cool store! There are two incredibly convenient locations! I tried to explain. But she wasn’t havin’ it.

“Oh, I’ll never go to Brooklyn,” she said.

And that was that. If our conversation was taking place within Nintendo, the screen would have flashed GAME OVER at this point. This was a perfectly normal, able-bodied citizen of Manhattan, flat-out refusing to travel less than five miles to Brooklyn.

She then started trying to find sneaky ways for me to get the necklace to her via a route that did not involve her setting foot in Brooklyn. Maybe she could write down her address, and I could send it to her, and she could send me money (because she didn’t have any cash…. yeah right). Maybe I could buy her one, then bring it back to the store and she’d pay me extra. Like a tip. Like I’m the food delivery guy. And finally she asked the biggie:

“Well, why can’t I have that one, that you’re wearing?”

There were many reasons, which I didn’t really feel like going through. Not that she wouldn’t have been willing to listen. She was clearly bored by her job and had a crush on me. (Some of her pickup lines included “I just love your style!” and “You’re my kind of girl.”)

So I could have whipped out a notepad and outlined specific bullet points of why I couldn’t/didn’t want to take off my necklace and give it to her. Instead, I just stared at her and made a noise that probably resembled “Hehhhhehh.” Imagine the noise Pat, the SNL character, made when he/she was nervous. Mine was in a lower tone. I probably sounded like a trucker.

Now I sort of want to go buy it for her and drop it off next week. It’d be so unlike me. I’d feel like a great humanitarian and she’d be thrilled and tell everyone she knows about the total angel who bought her a necklace.

Seriously, who would refuse to go to Brooklyn? I’m already obsessed with it. Reason 1: The movie theaters are always empty! Check it out (left). Just one of the highlights of my new and improved Brooklyn Life: Leno and I were treated to a private screening of the new L-Lo vehicle Just My Luck.

This movie was horrible on all levels, the most significant of which was the unfortunate presence of Samaire Armstrong (Anna from The O.C.) as one of L-Lo’s nondescript best friends. I gather that she was supposed to be “the quirky one,” which mostly meant a guitar, a lot of fake fur, and hot pink highlights. I don’t understand how this girl keeps getting to act while refusing to enunciate a single word in her life. Wouldn’t someone say something? We’re dying here.

We’re in the process of painting our new apartment. I’m living with a Scandanavian arctic creature named Poor Leno (right). He doubles as a human. We hosted a “painting party” last night and got one room completely done, in a life-affirming shade of green called Brookdale Gardens. Yes! Painting is extremely fun and rewarding for at least ten minutes. You should try it!

I’ll tell you what’s disgusting: primer. I coated my room with it because the infant named Jackson who lived there before had an apparent fondness for pumpkin orange, a color darker than my choice of Luster Blue. (I’d actually call it Dusty Violet, but whatever.) Let’s not linger on the fact that I’m moving into a tiny cube previously inhabited by a baby, and instead focus on primer being disgusting. From the first massive “roll” I applied to the wall, I was treated to a constant shower of tiny wet, white specks. I felt like I was in a commercial for a shampoo called “Primer.” It was sort of fun becuase I’ve always wanted a ton of cute freckles, but mostly it was disgusting. I don’t even know if it was worth the effort. Note to everyone: Say no to primer!

I love how I paint one room and I’m suddenly an expert on manual labor.

Here’s one cool thing: the color we picked for the hallway (a light sea green) is called Prairie Princess, and both of us are from Illinois, which everyone already knows is… The Prairie State! True to our roots, we are. Maybe we should make it a theme and stencil in some corn on the cob and the ever-obligatory outline of Abraham Lincoln’s head.

Since painting the rest of it looks to take 10-15 days or perhaps years, this site will be even lamer than usual (Exhibit A: this post) in the near future. Please stand by… and grab a roller and HELP us, with a backwards E.

Or leave tips on painting, specifically how to do it for extended periods of time without going insane.

You’re welcome.

The new Forever 21 had been silently annoying me with its brightly lit vibes and outpoor of clones for a few weeks. Along with Whole Foods, the new Trader Joe’s and its accompanying line to get into heaven, Strawberries, and the people who crowd around Nuts 4 Nuts without ever ordering anything (MOVE), Forever 21 seemed to me to be the pinnacle of Union Square obnoxiousness. I wanted nothing to do with it and resented everything about it, especially its name. (I still resent the name. More on that later.)

But then a friend gave me some store credit and so I decided to go. I mean, I wanted to get a not-too-expensive dress for my friend’s wedding and so I decided to go. I mean… a teenager dragged me off the street and into the store so I decided to go…

Fine. I just decided to go to Forever 21. Rebecca had told me the clothes were cheap and “basic enough, if you can get past the bullshit.” I liked the sound of that! So I went. Shoot me.

Rebecca was right. 90% of the clothes make no sense, but since the store is a million square feet, I ended up dropping $40 on shit I arguably didn’t need but am now glad I have. Despite the shrieking/hissing combination platter I uttered when I thought a mannequin lounging lazily on a table (right… I wonder what she’s thinking?) was an actual person, my trip to Forever 21 was a successful mission. Except for one perhaps obvious problem.

FOREVER 21 MAKES YOU FEEL OLD.

I went into this store taking its name pretty literally. “Oh, that’s cute, I’ll feel 21 again if I shop here,” I thought. “Nostalgia! Yes!” No.

The majority of people in Forever 21 (at least when I was there) are under 21. Case in point: these two, chilling out in their Uggs at the register. And these aren’t even very representative of the breed. They were just the two I thought I could get away with shooting. I’m a horrible photographer. I have no guts whasoever. I see cooler/prettier/thinner/ whatever subjects to photograph and I run away from them in fear. I’ve always done this. It’s sick.

All of the under-21s in the store were so tiny and perky and smushable! I seriously thought I could stomp all over them and clobber them to death, and not because of my towering height. I’m used to feeling more elevated than people. This was different. I imagined the sheer force of my 25-and-higher hagitude casting a wicked spell on the kids. They’d lie there, wriggling like tiny cockraoches under the steady stream of my Mature Woman disinfectant spray. The nozzle would be set to the shower-like setting instead of the jet dagger, so I could get to more of them at once.

Still, I didn’t necessarily want to kill the teens. It was more the type of situation where I felt guilty for existing in such a ridiculous space with creatures like them in the first place. This was their natural habitat, not mine. I didn’t belong! Who was I kidding, thinking the store’s name was all-inclusive? The teens were laughing at me on the inside! Is this how parents feel, all the time? Gross.

For some reason, I hadn’t considered the teen overload as a possibility. Except for ubiquitous NYU undergrads, I don’t see too many youngsters around my ‘hood. Now I know why: they’re all in this store. Maybe they live there.

Speaking of which, it would be really fun to hide in this store until after closing, then get stoned and roam around making fun of things (left) like entire racks of jade fur shrugs. The store is enormous!

Now Forever 21 has two reasons to want to ban me: that comment and their apparently not so strict anti-photography rule, which a disinterested salesgirl outlined to me near the register. She was like, “There’s no pictures.” I said, “Okay,” the long version of which was, “First of all, you’re wrong because I just took 32 shots elsewhere. But okay. You didn’t say no photos, so I’m going to dart around you in 30 seconds and photograph the inexplicable atrocity hanging from the ceiling.”

Which was a mobile of babies.

I don’t get it either. They could be going for a number of themes.

–Uncalled-for Kitsch. (You’re going to stare at different-sized fetuses floating in a puke-green ether, and you’re going to enjoy it. Love, Management.) ANNOYING.

–Youth. (Shop here and you’ll feel younger.) WRONG.

–Infancy. (Your presence in our store has reduced you to the level of a newborn. You lose.) DING DING DING.

There’s one more feature of the store that fits both the “Get stoned and shop here” and “You’re old” themes: The Forever 21 Wall of Words. Some of the words are misspelled, and paired next to the “correct” version of itself. Click here for the bigger image.

The Wall of Words further downgrades the clientele. If they’re not infants, then they must be quasi-literate grade-schoolers who more often than not take things “for granite.” The words and phrases appear in the escalator area, so that customers can squeeze in a quick vocab lesson (containing imaginary words) on the way up to formalwear, most of which is polka-dotted. I must have stared at this wall in shock for maybe three entire minutes before thinking to take a pic. Yes! Journalism!

So I’ve gotten Forever 21 out of my system. And onto my website! Awesome. As a parting gift, witness a throwaway from the blooper reel, wherein Annie ducks behind racks of clothing while wearing a jade fur shrug not because she doesn’t want to get caught taking photos, but because she doesn’t want to be seen wearing a jade fur shrug! I think the big “21″ tag on the celebrity/hooker sunglasses are the perfect touch. You wish, Annie Barrett!

And yet…

I’ll probably go back.

I could never do a pull-up in elementary school. This meant I could never get the Presidential Fitness Award, because in order to get that, you had to do at least one pull-up (if you were a girl. Boys had to do more than one. Boys are way impressive).

Girls who couldn’t do a pull-up had to settle for the flexed-arm hang, which involved a gym teacher hoisting you up over a metal bar as if you were doing your own pull-up, simulating the experience for you to remind you of how unsatisfactory you are on your own. Then you just hung there with your arms “flexed” until they felt like they were about to fall off, at which point you let go and plummeted towards doom. To make things worse, the gym teacher would be counting out loud from all the way down on the ground, so that you knew exactly at which point you had earned the stupid, lesser, no-good National Fitness Award and could finally let go. My arms always started shaking well before this point, but I refused to quit. I’d end up earning the second-rate, Dan Quayle version of the esteemed George H. W. Bush honor. “She’s kind of a fighter, that Annie Barrett,” the gym teacher would say when we all left to change. I’m sure he said that. He had to.

So many things about the flexed-arm hang were uncomforable, the most obvious one being that another person had to lift you above the bar — all of you — because you couldn’t lift all of yourself by yourself. That’s gross. I dreaded the lift, not just because of the shame game, but because why should a gym teacher get to grasp a little kid like that? Looking back, I’m surrpsied no one ever yelled “bad touch!” during the lifts. I should have, just to see the looks on people’s faces. But I wasn’t that edgy yet. It would have been out of character for the Young AB to make any sort of outburst.

The shame I felt during the lift itself was astronomical. (What a lame word, astronomical. Do I mean to suggest the shame was from outer space? No.) The gym teacher had to undeservedly bear the brunt of my excessive existence — the random long limbs I couldn’t muster up the strength to deal with by myself. And my weight wasn’t even excessive. I was skinny! I realize today that this was never fair. I was too tall. There’s no way an 11-year-old girl who was my height could have lifted herself up without some serious weight training or ‘roid use on the side. (And you know how I feel about the ‘roids. I feel weird even accepting an immunity or protein booster from the smoothie place. Seeing as my diet consists mainly of pad thai and cookies, I should probably get over this for the sake of “health”.)

But that’s not what I told myself back then. The entire time I hung up there over the bar, flailing, I imagined a voice informing me what a disgusting slob with no upper body strength I was. I’d also be wondering why I bothered to break a sweat during the mile run.

This should not have happened! I’m telling you, gym class in Illinois public schools was evil. I’m sure everyone in every state had to take gym, but Illinois people have to take it for an HOUR each day,all throughout high schoo l. I could probably write an entire book based on traumatic gym-class episodes from the Land of Lincoln. Okay, great! Nobody steal my idea.

So when I’m trying to fall asleep, I often lament about the blue Presidential Fitness patch, or what I call “the one that got away.” I think of those little feisty girls who could do pull-ups, and I hate them all over again. When we got to high school, I’d kick their asses in all areas, including obvious ones such as sports but also others like intelligence, metabolism, stealth while ditching class to drive to Applebee’s, and general coolness. But in fifth grade, they were still the stars. They could lift their wiry bodies above a metal bar. It was awesome.

To better convey how I feel about forcing little girls to attempt pull-ups, here’s a homemade animated graphic (Huh? Annie can do that? YES.) of Madonna flipping the bird to the camera during a special-edition cut of her video for “Sorry.” Apparently the kiddies at home would have been too tormented by Madonna’s obscene, shriveled-up middle finger, so they cut the gesture out for the official release. A good move, if only because she knew the original cut would leak and keep people talking about her. Madonna is really funny. I often realize I’m simply glad she exists.

Apologies in advance: I don’t get to write about The O.C. anymore (I’ve moved on to covering a far more ridiculous show), so I’m gonna do it right here. Instead of covering the entire episode, I’ll just be focusing on something really small (annoying, even!) and apply it to my own life because HELLO! It’s what I do. I’m cool.

Last night on The O.C., Marissa and her on-again/off-again sister Kaitlin were chillin’ out by the pier, because that’s what all cool girls do in Newport Beach mid-morning, and Kaitlin told some long-winded story — that was actually a lot like this sentence — about how when they were younger, Marissa could never decide on which flavor of ice cream to order at Baskin Robbins.

I was immediately intrigued, for many reasons. 1) These two actresses probably haven’t even eaten ice cream since they were around six. 2) That’s a really funny product placement, even if it’s only a Mention. And 3) Baskin Robbins was my favorite ice cream store when I was younger, and the more things on TV that can relate to Annie Barrett’s Own Life, the better! Also 4) Baskin Robbins made the Clown Cones I’ve written about before. You remember, right? (I’m basically talking to myself here, so yes, Annie, I totally remember that! It was such an awesome entry.)

Anyway, the story 14 year-old Kaitlin told was funny because I can totally picture someone as annoying as Marissa wanting to sample all 31 of the flavors before making her final decision. Imagine my shock and awe when I realized that Kaitlin was actually describing my life! See, Kaitlin, who bragged that she always got Gold Medal Ribbon because she “knew” that she “loved it,” is like my friend Kara, who in the hundreds of times we must have gone to Baskin Robbins NEVER ordered anything except Gold Medal Ribbon. She knew about it from day one, even before I’d ever been to the store with her. It was like she’d claimed that territory as part of her America. I’d always be a little jealous, becuase I too liked GMR. She was right — it never disappointed. It was just something you could count on, like running water or Ryan Atwood.

So Kara would choose Gold Medal Ribbon. They’d give it to her and she’d stand there all smug, totally happy with her decision. Smart as a whip, that Kara. Such conviction at such a young age. Meanwhile, I’d be sweating (literally… I wasn’t even fat, but I did sweat a lot as a preteen) while touring the rest of the flavors. If I got Gold Medal Ribbon, I’d be a copycat, but if I got something I didn’t like as much, I’d hate Kara and myself for the rest of that day. Sometimes I went with rainbow sherbet or a Clown Cone or even this other flavor they had called World Class Chocolate that always always always sat right on top of GMR. It was brutal. Sure, I liked World Class Chocolate, but I never once got to order GMR if Kara was there because I thought she’d get mad at me. Why didn’t I just order it first, or pretend like I didin’t remember that it was her favorite flavor? Nah, she’d be onto me in a second. Smart as a whip, like I said.

Wow, Annie, another killer graphic.

What the F is the point of this? It’s right here: I hate Marissa. And now I’m LIKE Marissa. It follows that I now hate myself. Great! Time for this week’s Query Chart, or what people searched online that made them find this site.

Yesssss. larry king’s chili and i hate oprah are welcome additions to the list, which 100% of the time includes the query “butt crack.” I am an amazing writer and a prominent thinker of my time.

Speaking of phrases like “of my time,” how absolutely offensive is it that in this year’s Survivor, they broke up the women and men into older and younger groups? One of the women, Cirie, was like “I thought I was young!” while the graphic below her name said she belonged to the OLDER WOMEN group. Yikes. I also think producers planted that fish in the rocks so Tina could find it, bring it back to camp, be seen as even more of a threat, and get BOOTED!

The Office was really good last night, too.

But I don’t really like TV.

Monday was Halloween. At left, there’s me as a halfhearted version of last year’s very successful “Tangled Up in Blue” costume. (Props to M. Dunn for the original concept.) Look at me, all skeptical. It’s like I’m thinking to myself, “I know I’m bullshit.”

Here’s a comparison of this year’s and last year’s costumes. I’m really creative.

Okay, that’s the sexiest photo you’ll ever see of me.

Halloween was fun. I learned what a Snickerdoodle was. And I also told a bunch of cops outside my building who were staring me down while I was selecting scary-looking flowers at the deli that they had “great costumes.” One of them laughed. I considered that a success.

I wasn’t kidding about the 7-Eleven obsession, as evidenced by the huge thingie on a popsicle stick some guy outside the store was handing out. It says “I AM A FAN OF 7-ELEVEN, 23RD STREET AND PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY.” I think the apple shape is a reference to “The Big Apple,” which means “New York City” for all you non-locals. Ha ha. Very cute. I curbed myself at the last minute from shouting at the little man “No way, I totally just wrote about this on my blog!” because I feel like he wouldn’t have cared. Seriously. If someone told me that I’d want to slap her in the face. Sigh. Bloggers. Ew.

Just came home and promptly turned on Footloose, which I DVR’d tonight while at work. I’ve watched the opening sequence, with all the different ’80s shoes dancing (shown at left — yes, I did just really take two pictures of the opening scene from Footloose, thankyouverymuch), at least three times now. I’m in love with all the shoes in this sequence. I wish there was just a storefront with all of these shoes, so I could go up to it and then buy all of them. Would you guys make fun of me if I did the legwarmers/sneakers thing shown in the image to the left? Does it really matter if you would? I don’t care. I think the combo looks fun. And very warm! Yum.

Speaking of yum, I feel like now is as good a time as any to post these two embarrassing photos of Rebecca and me completely devouring huge hero sandwiches at Long Beach a few weekends ago. Yesss. We are so cool. She opted for turkey, while I went with the roast beef. We already had a big bag of Fritos in our Big Brown Bag from home, and although I love me a good turkey sub, I feel turkey doesn’t go as well with Fritos as does RB. Tuna or chicken salad would also have been good. Rebs should be taking notes here, although she looked pretty damn happy with her choice as it was.

Here is a non-eating picture of us on the boardwalk. I was smiling rather normally (for me) during the first three, but quickly realized she was insistent on doing the trademark Rebecca McFarland “Aggghh! Look at me, camera! Catch me in a hilarious moment!” open-mouth gape (OMG), so I grudgingly went along with it for this fourth and final shot. Cute, huh?

We also ran into our Boston College friend and roomie, Shannon. And when I say “ran into,” I mean “saw intentionally because we knew she was lifeguarding at this particular Long Island Beach.” We are such stalkers. But she loved it. I’m proud of her for letting down the sportsbra to avoid nasty tan lines. That’s a kindred spirit right there. Kudos to Shannon.

In Creepy News, I saw the same person two nights in a row while walking down 7th Avenue between 23rd and Bleecker. Last night I saw him a bit north of Gourmet Garage. I stared at him longer than the requisite half-second glance, because he was one of ‘my people,’ it seemed – long messy hair, casual non-stylish outfit, looked hippyish… and right before we crossed paths he gave a little nod/grin. It made my night. (Lame!) It wasn’t necessarily sexual at all. It was just nice to acknowledge someone like that, a sort of “we’re on the same page” glance that was shared. It really put me in the best mood. No big deal, but it made everything so much better at the time. Someone on the mean streets of Manhattan just grinned at me! Wow! I mean, that rarely ever happens. You know how it is.

So now that I’ve seen him twice, it’s just weird. Like, I sort of feel like this is Truman Show and I am the central character. (Imagine, a blogger thinking she’s the center of the universe. Whoa. No way.) It was a random glitch in the Truman-esque system that I saw him twice, like he’d been planted at that point in the city by accident twice in a row. Or maybe it was an intentional move by the producers! Maybe someone wanted me to see this guy two nights in a row and feel great the first night, and a little weirded out the second night. Very weirded out.

I saw him sooner tonight. Meaning, I got to stare at him for at least four seconds before the crucial “passing point” occurred, wondering is this the guy? Could this actually be the same person? And I’m positive it was. Oddly, he was wearing some sort of structured red coat, with gold buttons on the front and down the back. Not a big fan of the red coat. Was it a costume? Does he perform at the Stonewall and then walk up to the 14th Street subway every night? Is he just a madcap free spirit who thought that coat would be a unique fixture of his character?

This time, it was obvious that I was staring at him for at least four seconds, as was previously mentioned. I couldn’t help it, because I found all of this just that weird. He totally knew it. So he started nodding a hello while he was still in front of me, as if to say yes! I’m the same guy! Can you believe it? And I had no idea what to do – I was still pretty happy-slash-mildly-freaked-out from the first night’s encounter – so instead of giving my usual reaction to eye contact on the street (i.e. nothing), I squeaked out this really weird “Hi!”

Fuck!

It was about an octave and a half higher than my voice usually sounds. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to watch/hear this in a surveillance camera playback. (Which I’m sure could be arranged, given that there are 2.5 delis per block around here.) I feel like I totally ruined that coolness of our second encounter that could have been achieved given the coolness of the first… by squeaking out a hello. Gross! Now if we never see each other again (which I kind of hope doesn’t happen), I will have “lost” round two after “winning” round one (when he gave a grin the first time, I didn’t smile, I just stared blankly. Somehow this counts as me winning).

Enough. I have no idea where this is going. I think I’ll go finish Footloose. I’ll leave you with this image, which was photographed on our day at Long Beach. It appears at the base of my spritzer bottle:

I mean, whatever. That’s cool. Thanks for letting us know you’re an equal opportunity employer and everything. The only part I don’t get is “in Michigan.”

Sometimes I use the Internet at work. Not often, just for research. Like when Rebecca and I send each other links to obscenely expensive bags over Instant Messenger (a newfangled computer program I’ve recently started using).

On the Coach site, there’s a “try this bag on” feature which I originally found rather cute and helpful. But then, for “fun,” I selected the 4′11″-5′4″ height range instead of my own, and was horrified to compare the two resulting diagrams.

Does anyone else think this looks disproportionate? The mini-me short girl might as well be the six-year-old child of the gargantuan taller one. Plus, who the F is 4′11″?

Despite the new law banning photography in the subway, I risked my life and this website’s flailing reputation to snap a shot of this ad for Manhattan Mini Storage:

Okay. Fine. As uncomfortable as the thought of “BURNING YOUR CROTCH!” while riding a crowded subway car is, I tolerate this ad because it includes a large spaghetti dinner. But let’s look closer:

The spaghetti area is the only portion that has literally been peeled away. This means that someone was bored or hungry enough to longingly scrape his or her nails against the poster as if it was scratch-’n'-sniff or something.

I respect the effort (though I personally would have gone for the garlic bread first), but I wonder if finally peeling away the top layer of poster was at all gratifying. To me, that’d just be a huge letdown: No, it’s really not food. You lose. Maybe it would have been better to just wonder and wonder and never find out.

Tomorrow marks my first official full-time job that I’ll actually be interested in. Past employment gigs of mine (read: TEMPING) have included making sure visitors to a valve factory in Melrose Park, IL put on their safety goggles before entering “the plant.” I spent another summer “tweaking” foreign IT workers’ resumes into Tekmark Global Solutions’ official format (in other words, translating them into English). There was a Quizno’s across the street.

Worse than actually sitting at these jobs eight hours a day was having to answer the phone: “Good morning, Henry Valve” and “Good afternoon, Tekmark Global Solutions.” Believe it or not, I actually had to write that second one out for a few days. It probably wasn’t so much that the text was difficult. I was just in disbelief that that was the company’s name and that I was supposed to say it.

Sometimes the phone would ring and I’d literally have to stare at my post-it and practice the phrase before picking up. And sometimes I started laughing after the trial run. Seriously. I’d answer the phone saying “Tekmark Global Solutions” followed by a giggle.

I think that must have been somewhat on purpose. I might have figured that if I appeared to be lighthearted about having to say that name, maybe the callers would “be on my side” or something… and not make fun of me on the other end of the line for saying those three words together and in that order.

But that makes no sense. The people obviously knew who they were calling. Most of them were the job-seeking foreign IT workers themselves, and my giggling probably confused the hell out of them. The others were from Tekmark Global Solutions’ headquarters in Edison, NJ. What did I think, that one of those times, someone would notice my sarcastic twang and suddenly commiserate with me: “Oh, I know, I think it’s such a ridiculous name, too!”

No. Turns out my laughing benefitted no one. This is why I was ultimately not Tekmark Global Material. (Even though when I left, they gave me a forest green company polo.)

Although — one time, I came really close. I thought I had really clicked with one of those corporate schmucks because right after I answered, a concerned-sounding man said, “Yes, hello. I seem to have a major global problem.” Ha! He was being facetious! I rejoiced, and blurted out “Well, sir, we’ve got your global solution right here!” Turns out the caller was my dad, who phoned at least twice per morning to hear me say “Tekmark Global Solutions” and then make fun of me. Awesome.

In conclusion, don’t mock the company if you have to answer the phone. But if your dad calls to mock of the company, totally do it and talk loud enough for the guy down the hall to hear you and then have to send you out to retrieve him and his fat gut an Italian Beef sandwich “as punishment” but it won’t really be because you’ll get yourself a pizza puff!

Last Thursday on my way to class, I encountered my grad school friends Matt, Maggie, and Zach:

I had a rolling suitcase and a few minutes to spare, so I casually propped it against a scaffolding pole and leaned against (sat on) it to chat with them. But within five minutes, the luggage barreled out from under me and I completely wiped out onto the ground.

Zach managed to capture a blurry “after” shot of me laughing hysterically. I think the people walking by for freshman orientation were really impressed! If anything, I calmed their fears about having to be suave and savvy in New York City. Now they know that there’s at least one person nerdier than them.

Hello … hello again! (totally ’80s guitar riff) I have Internet again! The Time Warner Man defied my expectations completely and showed up. Now I have no excuse for not obsessively updating my blog while obsessively not updating DR.

After entering The Room, Time Warner Man walked up to the TV and said, “Is this the TV?” I assumed that after doing a double-check over the rest of my living space, he’d become more confident in his guess - so I didn’t respond. Indeed, it was the TV, but why should I have given away the answer? But then the man actually turned around and waited for a reaction. I considered shrugging helplessly. But then I just nodded.
The new apartment kicks ass! But there is one glaring problem. The paint color turned out to lean towards the “rosey” side of the “nice rosey orange” spectrum. I never looked at the paint after I bought it, so this is my fault. (Your runny nose, Larry having a blog, and the overwhelming April-May profits of the 23rd St. Nuts for Nuts cart are also my fault.) The painting occurred while I was romping around the Midwest, so I wasn’t there to stop it. But I wouldn’t have anyway. It’s not that bad. It’ll be like a test of character! Uh, you lose.

So much for my brilliant plan to offset the dark brick wall (wouldn’t any color have done that?). Or maybe I’m overreacting. Here’s a low-quality preview of the paint:

Notice that the orange is just dying to come out. But it can’t. It’s being suffocated by the parasitic pink, rendering a hue that can generously be classified as “coral.” But we all know it’s really “pink.” Below is an alternative:

Okay, that was intended as a joke but it seems my “joke” looks better than my reality, so I’m not even going to attempt other colors. I would probably stay up all night and waste time on the computer if I did that. Oh wait.

It’s really not that bad. I have a lot of stuff to throw on the walls, and the color does kind of remind me of a Matisse painting. (I’m not one of those people who name-drop painters, BTW. Matisse is the only artist I know. Are there, like, others?) Plus, anything’s better than white. Plus:

Check out this cute sweet shop across the street. It actually says “ice cream artisans.” I am pumped. I’ll have the pink kind!

I’ll post silly pics of last weekend soon. Amazingly, I’m tired before 5.

I just ventured to the roof deck for the first time unescorted. When I say “escort,” I don’t mean some dashing young man who brought me on his arm up to the roof. I mean like, the super. Or my sister, or Rebecca or something. In other words, nobody important.

However, I did manage to snap her photo. Here it is:

Isn’t she pretty? She was getting maximum sun by having her toe pointed like that.