There are things I'm afraid of...

People that can consume food while riding on the subway.

Accidentally saying Precious out loud when I see girls on the street that look like her.

The commercials with those abandoned dogs that have sad Sarah MacLachlan and Willie Nelson songs as a soundtrack.

The people who go to Disneyworld on Thanksgiving. I’ve done it once. Nobody was from a country that had deodorant.

The guy who is cooking my hash browns at the Waffle House between 2 and 4 in the morning.

Awful people from high school trying to get in contact with me – just because you got fat doesn’t mean you got nice.

That I will never finish the book that’s been on the nightstand for 2 years.

Math teachers.

People that say “You don’t want to die alone, do you”? Because in my head I’m thinking, “Yes. Because you know who doesn’t die alone? People on planes.”

Strip clubs that serve sushi.

Kings of Karma

This place is a daily reminder that survival of the fittest is more than just a concept – here it’s a way of life. Doors are rarely opened for ladies, the elderly never get any help while crossing the street, and the homeless insist on showing their penises to unsuspecting tourists. But in the dark world of cement and exhaust I have seen slivers of light…earlier this week on my way to work I had just gotten out of the subway when it started to downpour. I tried to cover my hair with my purse and run to work. A gentleman caught up with me and offered to share his umbrella and walked me an Avenue out of his way to my office building. He wasn’t creepy, didn’t ask for my number, and not once did I catch him trying to stare at my boobs. He just told me to have a nice day and went off into the mass of humanity that fills the sidewalks during the morning rush of the city.

Then yesterday morning at the same subway stop I was listening to my ipod and enjoying my morning walk to work down the Avenue. I passed by the café, the hat shop, the luggage shop, the grocery store, the shoe store, the sandwich shop and made my way to the crosswalk. That’s when I felt a man tap on my shoulder, “Ma’am, I’m gay but if you don’t mind me saying you have a cute butt.”
“What?” I asked.
“Your dress has been caught in your thong. I tried calling out after you but I don’t think you can hear me.”
“Oh my God- I’ve been listening to my music! Thank you so much.” I said half laughing and half mortified.
“No problem sweetie, I though you would want to know. Have a great day!", and off he went blending into the streets of the city- the second stranger to take a moment to be kind.

Thank you both, dear citizens of the city. I hope the kindness you have both shown to me is returned to you ten fold. Sorry if that last sentence sounds like a fortune cookie…I just don’t know how to say it any other way. Taking a moment out your day to prevent a woman from walking around with frizzy hair or unknowingly providing the world with gratuitous ass shots, is worth a lifetime of good karma.

Butterflies In My Stomach...

They say if you scratch a cynic you’ll find a romantic. I’m the most loving person you’ll ever meet (well one of the most, if you're reading this I bet you're pretty loving too.) but my problem is I have a hard time showing it, saying it, or acting like it. I'm pretty sure it's a problem. For me, when I get a crush on someone they are all I can think about, but if that person is standing next to me, expect the dumbest things to come out of my mouth. If I am near my “said” crush, I don’t recognize the words coming out of my mouth. Let me clarify, I actually hear the words coming out of my mouth, the disease is that at the same time the little voice inside my head is screaming, “Stop. Don’t say this. It’s not as funny as you think it is”, or my favorite, “Who is this idiot talking?” It’s like I’m a twelve year old in a grown woman’s body. Oh, and if "said" crush is wearing cologne or has that musky pheromone thing going on, forget it, I can’t even be near them. So in summation, I apparently can’t stand next to or hold a conversation with anyone I find attractive. I need to figure this out or look into joining a convent, if not, it’s going to be a lonely road my friends…

Drunken Kitties

I have a sensitive stomach. I’m not big on drinking but I have been known to get plain drunk so for the most part I have a hard time keeping up with my compadres. I don’t know if it can be considered such a thing, but if it can, I think it’s safe to say that when I’m out I’m the least drunk of the drunks. Except for the holiday party last year. But in my defense I worked my butt off that year-hence my less than stellar amount of blog entries. Nevertheless, I apologize to all the ex-boyfriends I texted that night, my co-worker who had to continuously pull my dress back down as it rode up my hips and settled on my waist (that last description reads sexier than the reality), and my poor roommate who not only had to put me to bed but pay for the pizza I had called in the order for and had delivered to the apartment while I was still in the cab heading home.

Last night I went out with my two girlfriends Koko* and Jojo* who I hadn’t seen for a week because I was out of town visiting my family. My friends are a sentimental bunch or they can’t pass up an opportunity to have a drink. I’m leaning towards the latter. We went to see a movie then headed towards a chain restaurant for a couple of drinks and a killer appetizer special. It’s important to note that it was a chain because 6 beers and 2 appetizers set us back 150 dollars. Ridiculous. Even more ridiculous was the guy who walked up to Jojo and asked her if she was Chinese. Jojo is from Connecticut but when she drinks all bets are off. Jojo is Latina – she’s worked as Jennifer Lopez’s stand-in on music videos so she’s never mistaken for Chinese. We all were dying to know what the hell this guy was talking about so I had to ask…“Why do you want to know if she’s Chinese?”

Weird guy: “Because she’s got beautiful eyes.”

JoJo (to weird guy): “You need to not speak. Stop talking now.”

Weird guy: “Are any of you Chinese? Because you all have pretty eyes.”

Me (to anyone): “I love this guy!”

KoKo: “I’m not Chinese but I’m from Kansas.”

Me (to KoKo): “Can’t you be Chinese and from Kansas? "

JoJo (to weird guy): “Why are you still here? You need to walk away. Now.”

Weird guy walks away.

Other highlights of the bar included KoKo asking the bartender if she knew a song by Alabama about wheat farmers and if she thought she dressed like a lesbian. For the record KoKo is in fact a lesbian. KoKo also wears bandanas and shops in the men’s department at stores and is shocked when I tell her she dresses like a pre-pubescent teenage boy who’s really into surfing. In KoKo’s defense she says JoJo and I are the girliest friends she has. Now Jojo will kick anyone’s ass for looking at her sideways and I’m well, me, so it’s safe to say KoKo needs more female influences in her life. We’re trying – Koko has been wearing eyeliner lately and makes it a point to let us know when it’s on.

Later, I got into a discussion with the bartender about how there are no good places to dance in Brooklyn. KoKo who is very proud of Brooklyn said I wasn’t giving Brooklyn a fair shot. I said the only people who dance in Brooklyn that I’ve seen are the Mexicans who turn their taquerias into strobe lit discos after a certain hour. KoKo proceeded to tell the bartender that I was half Mexican so I wouldn’t come off as racist. I don’t think the bartender fell for it.

At the second bar I made out with a stranger. Ko and Jo swore he was cute. Unfortunately, I was the only one sober enough the next morning to remember the reality. But if they insist he was hot, who am I to ruin my street cred?

At the third bar KoKo got into a fight with a wall in the bathroom and came out with bloody knuckles. While I was wrapping her hand in bar towels we wisely decided to call it a night. It turns out that I am the only one that remembers this bar. My only proof that any of it happened was that Koko woke up covered in drunkenly applied band-aids.

After we crashed at my place the next morning KoKo dropped JoJo off at work and took me to lunch. JoJo puked at work and I hurled outside the front window of the car just as we passed through Columbus Circle. To the construction worker whose boots narrowly missed my bile – I’m sorry. I truly am. But chances are, at some point in your life you probably lived up to a stereotype and harassed a girl who felt so uncomfortable that she wanted to throw up. That one was for her. What can I say? I have a sensitive stomach.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty and debaucherous.

Swappin' and Lovin'

Dear CBS,

Don't cancel "Swingtown". I know that the first episode hasn't even aired yet, but it looks delicious. People will hate on your show. That's okay. You are summer fun. Porn-staches, wife-swapping, and bad seventies stereotypes are just what I've been waiting for. And no worries, what you can't get across in over the top obvious dialogue you can always make up for with a kick-ass 70's soundtrack. So if you can't show "swapping" you can always just film a closed door and play "Oh What A Night" in the background. We'll get what you are trying to do. I can't wait. Seriously people, Harvey Wallbangers at my place tonight. Just make sure you leave your keys in the glass bowl by the front door...

Love,

"Said"

Newsflash: Office Work Sucks!

I know at work when you grow up they sometimes give you your own office. I know that's supposed to be exciting and something you can call home about and say, "Hey look Ma, my own office!" Well let me come clean. Having my own office sucks. You know who laughs at my jokes now? Me. That's it. I'm talking to myself alot in here and I'm starting to sound crazy. I guess I have always sounded crazy but I could never hear it over the sound of deafening laughter coming from my co-workers. By deafening laughter I mean pity laughs. I haven't gone totally delusional.

It's like they took me out of gen pop and stuck me in solitary.

Now people knock on the door and ask me if they can come in to chat. Yuch. Whatever happened to throwing paper airplanes at my head to get my attention?

I have to make decisions and stuff.

Most importantly, I have to remember not to turn into this guy...



...because he is an asshole.
Wow.

60 Minutes Makes Me Happy

I saw a great report on 60 minutes back in February ( I know. It's a bit late), that Danes (that's people from Denmark for everyone who didn't see the report...why they don't say they are Denish instead of Danish is beyond me) are the happiest people on earth. Really,Denmark? Oh how quickly we forget about Hamlet and Ophelia, now those were some happy Danes! I'll give them Brigitte Nielson though, she seems like a bowl of laughs. But I'll take Viggo Mortenson. He's half-Dane and half-hot. I digress...

Apparently, high expectations and the pressure we put on ourselves to succeed are to blame for all the misery over here in the States, "That pressure is a result of high expectations; wanting it all is a bacterium that stays with us from youth to old age - wanting a bigger house, fancier car, more stuff. And when we get more, there’s always someone with even more stuff, who's just as unhappy. Some suggest that the unhappiest zip codes in the country are the wealthiest, like the Upper East Side of New York." Hey 60 minutes, that's my zip code. Who said this quote? Some? Who is this "Some" person who suggested this? Dammit - I am happy. Do you have any idea how happy an elevator building with a doorman makes me? I bet "Some" never lived in one of those! Pshawwwww....