If you feel like joining me on the guilty pleasure vomit train...

Southern McCunty has a new website in the works: (www.brookeparkhurst.com)

This is the neighborhood in which I work....

Classy.

Tuesday Morning Musings...

There are very few things that get me motivated and set in a jovial mood these days during my commute to work in the morning. The sudden cooler weather is helping, as is the fact that I am consciously defying bosslady's orders and wearing jeans today (my growing lack of tolerance to her bullshit is even invading my fasion decisions). That, and the amazing selection of tunes on my iPod this morning, courtesy of Joe. Nothing helps you start the day off right than 1) a cup of coffee and 2) Drive-by Truckers, Neko Case, and Carl Perkins. Now I suddenly have a craving for cheese grits.

Moving, Dead, or Dying

Apparently these are the three things necessary to qualify to terminate a yearlong commitment to the New York Sports Club. Utter bullshit. I went down to figure out the situation and speak with the general manager myself and after telling her that i'm just broke due to unforseen circumstances and can no longer afford the luxury of the gym membership, she told me that I had to prove I was moving by bringing in a lease, a bill with the new address, a letter from my current employer saying I was moving and/or switching jobs elsewhere, or a note from my doctor saying that I couldn't exercise due to medical reasons. OR i could transfer the membership over to a friend or family member who CAN pay for it on my behalf. I'm going to dig through some old papers/bills tonight to see if i have anything from my old Alabama address (though the date would probably give me away) or I am going to ask bosslady to actually craft a fake letter on our letterhead with her signature stating that I'm moving. Perhaps this will be a good indicator for her to realize I am underpaid. That's very unlikely.

Bound for the Nation's Capitol (or is it Capital?)

So....i know, i know, for a person who bitches about being broke all the time, I sure do take lots 'o trips. I'm very excited to announce that on the weekend of Sept. 22, I'll be heading to DC to bachelorette it-up with Clare and Terri! The Bama crew will reunite for 2 days of drunken reminiscing..and sayin' farewell to T-Bone as a single gal in the South.

Until then....this weekend is the NY state fair in Syracuse. I cannot wait to get out of the city for a long 4 day weekend! There will be fried Oreos, cheap beer, tattooing, butter sculptures, farm animals, and FREE concerts by both Foreigner AND Grand Funk Railroad. I'm totally stoked.

More internerd fodder...

for you blogheads.

http://ihavetwovaginas.blogspot.com/

And yes, she really does have two 'ginas. I read about it in Esquire.

ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!

I love Gawker's new column "Already, Over" where they bitch about stupid trends like media lay-offs, douchey hipsters, and cocaine. And today's edition made me swoon...literally. I love you, Gawker! I've pasted it below. It's that good. They're on fire today, what can I say:

Already Over: New York

It's a hell of a town. The Bronx is up, The Battery's - ah, who gives a shit where The Battery is. Who gives a shit about New York, really? It's as if some group of evil masterminds got together and said, Let's create a place that we can fill full of douchebags who aren't pretty enough to make it in Hollywood or charismatic enough to wind up in D.C. Furthermore, let's tell them how "creative" and "bohemian" they are, and let's make them think that they're the final arbiters of what the rest of the country sees, hears, and reads. But let's make sure that these are the most insecure people in the world, so that telling them that they make those decisions serves to fuel the rampant egomania and self-importance so commonly masked by insecurity.

And that's just the media industry.

New York City is over. It's a city with nowhere to go but up, and each up it goes it only gets uglier. (When we speak of New York City here, we are speaking of Manhattan, which is the only real New York. When you mail a letter to another borough you're mailing it to Brookyln, New York, or Forest Hills, New York, aren't you? Bitch and moan all you want about the vibrant culture of Williamsburg or the ethnic mosaic of Astoria, but let's face it: Unless you're on the big island, you don't count for shit. This kind of charming snobbery is another reason New York is finished, but we digress.) We've got a billionaire mayor but too many people squeaking by on the meager wages they earn folding your laundry or scraping the remains of your hundred dollar foie gras burger from its gilt-edged plate. Our infrastructure is a joke. Five years after terrorist attacks, the hole in the ground downtown is still so gaping that even this country's living embodiment of municipal incompetence feels free to make fun of us. Thirty years after the debut of The Ramones, those ridiculous haircuts are still the height of fashion. And don't get us started on the Meatpacking District.

Right now, as you read this, millions of kids around the world are thinking, I'm going to grow up and move to New York, where people will understand me. Those kids are douchebags, but, more importantly, they're right: They will be understood by the douchebags already here. They will also be resented, backstabbed, and made fun of for their unfamiliarity with the ways of the city by people who have conveniently forgotten their own, slightly less recent, unfamiliarity. New York is, at this point, a giant recycling factory, unable to contribute anything new to the culture while proclaiming that the latest remix is actually a bold step in a new direction. Our music is a joke. Our museums cost too much and challenge too little. Our theater, the great white way that supposedly marks another notch in the superiority bracelet we all wear around our wrists, offers either appalling fringe material that wouldn't pass muster in Muskogee, or melodies so nondescript they make one long for the coma-inducing saccharinity of mid-period Lloyd Webber. Broadway as currently composed is primarily an occasional employment plan for B-list celebrities who are between failed sitcom pilots. Our great opera house is a mess; our most famous concert hall is built on top of the subway. Which is not terrible in and of itself, in that when you're at Carnegie Hall, at least you're not in the subway, that overheated mass of teeming humanity which seems to exist primarily to educate us in the ways of hating of all races, not just the ones our parents carefully taught us to despise.

We could go on, but what's the point? You know it as well as we do; New York is broken, and it's not going to get better. Sure, you may deny it. Your ire may be up. "The greatest city in the world," you may be yelling. (Also, the last city to get any sort of public restroom system; apparently the stench of hobo excrement is just too appealing for us to do anything about.) "If you hate it so much," you say, "why not move somewhere else?"

Read our screed over again. Then remember: We write Gawker. Where else in the world would we live but somewhere so utterly already over?

What you should be reading:

Because it's fucking hysterical.

http://fakejew.blogspot.com/

Also, the world is coming to an end:

FROM GAWKER (and according to AD AGE Magazine):

Hey MySpace kids: Want to read a magazine? If you answered yes, you may be in luck. MySpace is actively considering whether to launch an ink-on-paper magazine to complement its insanely popular and remarkably valued online property. The editorial mix would likely cover standout MySpace members and their interests, from music to their social scene.

In case you didn't know:

Pluto is no longer considered a planet. For real.

http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/08/24/pluto_is_no_lon.php

Rhode Island and Boston Weekend Pics

No captions yet...

http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a77/daniellemcclure80/Rhode%20Island%20and%20Boston%20Weekend/

Fall 2006 Fashion Trends

Has any else noticed how vests have returned? I just don't think I can support this look in the 21st century. I rocked the faux-tuxedo ruffled shirts and I fully enjoy the princess/poofy short-sleeve thing (not to be confused with the VERY ugly peasant shirt sensation), but I believe matching paisley vests were worn back in '88 when my sister and I posed for a family photo. I had a perm and a gnarly pair of thick plastic glasses...so nope. I don't think I can do it. AND cowboy boots are back and they're still being paired with longish dresses. This will NEVER be okay. I don't care who can pull it off. And my disdain for all things large and WWF-esque belty remains, though last summer it was more of a "hanging off of the hips look" and this summer/fall it's "keep it snug, right the ribcage/titties sort of thing." Bleeech. It looks retarded. Plus, I would like to point how disappointing it is that I can not rock the very adorable (admittedly douchy, hipster-friendly), but cute outfit that pairs the ballet flats with the skinny jeans (which, are always it seems in stone-washed black or very dark denim..what's up with that?). My body type, unfortuantely, does not allow the newfangled "skinny" look. At all. Where are the cute jeans labeled "stumpy"? That's what I want to know.

Gym membership bullshit

So in effort to conserve funds, I've decided to terminate my gym membership. $70 bucks a month really is too steep for me, and considering I haven't stepped foot inside that place since the blackout, I figure it's best to just pay the $50 fee and start dieting (or join Joe's ghetto, and far less conveniently located beefcake gym for $130/year). Anyway, I called yesterday to inquire about the whole cancellation process, as I knew there'd be a fee. I was surprised it was only $50, but here's the kicker. Apparently you have to provide a written letter stating why you no longer want membership there. Wha??? When I explained that it was an expense I could no longer afford, they requested I either bring in a paycheck stub and/or a letter signed by my employer. What the fuck? This is the most absurd thing I've ever heard. First, doing either does not prove anything. The ridiculousness is extremely amusing, as I basically laughed in the face of the manager on the end of the line when she told me this. I'm walking down there tonight after work myself to see if I can get to the bottom of this retardedness.

What you should be watching:

Weeds. Season 2. Showtime. Mondays @ 10 p.m. Still brilliant.

More reflections on the emotional/financial plight of a soon-to-be 26 year old

First of all, I would like to say that I am not one to seek pity so this post isn't intended for that reason and I don't expect "poor Danielle" comments. I just have to get this off of my chest. I think i'm fairly self-sufficient both emotionally and financially. Even though I bitch about money, and my friends give me shit for being cheap, at least I don't ask for it. I'm probably too proud, but whatever. God knows my parents aren't (can't?) giving it to me at will, and Joe is hardly a sugar daddy, aside from taking care of the cable bill, allowing me to pay my half of rent in 2 portions each month, and buying me booze (and drugs). I never expect anything from anyone around Christmas or for my birthdays--and if they ask, I usually request money to pay off some bill. I don't spurge on $100 jeans or shoes. I shop at Old Navy and fucking Payless for christssake. And even though I expect to have a slightly lower salary due to my career choice in publishing and my desire to stay out of the corporate/cubicle world of it, I can't help but feel utterly lost and hopeless when it comes to days like this when I feel the incredible burden of my student loans, credit card debt, shitty salary, and inability to save up for something better bearing down on me like a ton of shit-filled bricks. What's worse, is that no one gets it. None of my friends, at least it seems. Who no doubt have, if in a pinch or bind, the comfort of knowing they have family to turn to for a couple extra hundred bucks to get them through a rough patch. Some even get it when they don't ask or even need it (lucky fucks). And that's fine. Good for them. They're fortunate. That's not my point. My point is, when I have a bad day like this and i just want to talk about it and let out my frustration with the attempt to seek some solace, the last thing i want to hear from the person on the other end of the conversation is "I don't know what to tell ya..." I hate this phrase. It does nothing to comfort me. I don't want you to tell me anything, just listen goddamnit and tell me everything is going to be okay! If my mom actually read this blog, I'd insert "yes mom, I'm talking to you..." but she doesn't so guess who get's to hear/read my frustration. That is all. And I swear to fucking god if someone comments "I don't know what to tell ya", I'll stab you in the face. Not really.

More reasons...

to hate this cunt. Can you count them? I spot two.

http://belleinthebigapple.blogspot.com/

Worldly

I greatly admire my dear friend Tyson, who has traveled to nearly every conceivable country on the planet (yes, he's one of those accomplished youngsters whom I envy to the point of infuriation). If you haven't checked out his travel blog, which is linked to my site below, go to it. http://www.tysontrips.com/. It will make you crave new experiences and adventure and inspire you to learn new cultures and not waste a moment of your life wondering "what if i had....". Or at least it did to me today. But maybe it's just my mood and probably the PMS. At any rate, definitely check out his amazing photos. Cheers, TY!

Reflections on my birth...

In one month I will turn 26, or as my mother so delicately put it, "You'll be over the first hump!" Great. At 26 years old, what have I achieved really? Not much considering when my mom was 26 she was caring for me as a newborn. And some people I graduated high school with have squeezed out THREE kids by age 26. Not that I want to be a parent in any way, shape, or form (ever, really)--but it does begin to bring things into perspective. I can't even wrap my brain around the concept of having a child now and it both baffles and amazes me that people my age do it (and often willingly!). I can barely afford to pay rent in my overpriced, too small (and let's face it, shitty) apartment, I split a bottle of wine or a sixer with Joe about every single night, I'm drowning in debt (and i don't even have a masters degree), and I treat my beloved weed-smoking apparatuses as delicately as a new mama would for her bobbling-head offspring. Obviously, I can hardly admit to being an adult, so the idea of having something not only grow inside of me and shoot out of my 'gina, but also have that amount of responsibility is far-flung. But is that so bad?

I'm torn, I suppose. Mostly because I think that if I haven't given myself over to domestication, owning real estate (though I do think i will cry tears of joy when i move into new digs, apartment or otherwise) and cleaning up kiddie shit and vomit, that I should at least have accomplished more career-wise. But let's face it, I seemed to be on a fairly decent track (first job out of college = dream job) until I began to imagine that the grass could always be greener and decided to uproot myself to the East Coast. I have spent basically 9 months temping and now 9 months in literary/publishing hell. And interviews after interviews have not proven to be fruitful in the least bit. I have made a personal vow to quit this job (or at least give my 2 weeks) by my birthday but the thought of going back to a life of temping (even though I was getting paid more than I am now) is scary and as much as I hate to admit it, I'm doomed to be a 26-year-old (maybe even 27) waaay underpaid editorial assistant. I can't afford this shit lifestyle anymore. Girl has a shitload of bills to pay! At any rate, my freelance writing gigs are giving me a little bit of self-worth (and cash). If only I could afford to parlay that into a fulltime freelancing career.....

When I think about what other people my age are doing (some I know personally, others I don't), it makes me envious to the point of infuriation. Some are writing books, others are running magazines (not working at...RUNNING!), writing screenplays, some are cashing in on amazing marketing ideas (Youtube, Collegehumer.com)or jetting off to exotic places and meeting incredible people. It's absurd. Where's my big idea? I probably smoke too many drugs. Seriously, though. Every day I see a web site or marketing concept that just blows me away. Case in point: http://www.sexybeaststyle.com/(why didn't i think of that?) and then I discover that the brainchild is 23 years old. Fuuuuck.

Sigh. I need a break, big time. Career change? Dream job? New city? A lotto win? I'll take whatever comes my way first as long as it allows me to enjoy myself more than worrying about my goddamn student loans to the point that i wake up in a cold sweat at night. Are these symptoms of that so-called "quarter-life crisis"? I don't really know, but whatever it is, 26 isn't going to be much fun unless some changes happen.

The Weekenders

Last weekend Joe and I went up to Rhinebeck, a little town on the Hudson, to hang out with his parents and uncle at his uncle's amazing and adorable "country" house. Here are a few pictures:

http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a77/daniellemcclure80/Rhinebeck%20weekend/?

Next weekend we hit up Rhode Island and Boston! I love the summer....

Beat The Heat The Daily Show Way!

Cooperstown Weekend

I'm too tired to write up a full post right now, but i've added some captions to the photos which are on the first 3 pages of my main page in photobucket because i'm a dumbass and didn't create the right album and also a lazyass who refuses to spend the additional time transferring the pics to said album.

http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a77/daniellemcclure80/