Police line: Do Not Cross!!!

I woke up to a bodybag blocking my front door. Seriously. I opened my apartment door on my way to work and there it was surrounded by police officers and a guy with a walkie talkie talking to who knows. He quit talking on the walkie talkie, to let me know I needed to wait inside my apartment for a few minutes until I hear a knock letting me know I was getting the all clear to come out.

My mind started racing because this was the craziet thing. I mean, I didn't hear anything last night. Who is in the bodybag? Were they killed or did they die naturally? Oh my God. There is an old creepy guy who lives in the building who gets really drunk and sits on the hallway stairs strumming bad guitar and yelling out incoherent lyrics. What if he died? He doesn't have any kids and he's a widow. Who are we going to call? What do you do when this happens? What if someone was murdered? Is there a killer in the building? When did this become my problem? Holy Shit. Then I get a knock on the door...

"Miss, it's okay to leave the apartment."

I slowly open the door and try not to look at the bodybag. I try to slide by, because I don't want my body to touch anything. "Is it okay to walk out?", I ask. "Yeah, no problem" one of the officers says. Then he adds "Hey guys, she loves asparagus!", which was a reference to the bright green "I heart Michigan asparagus" shirt that I'm wearing today. A few of the detectives start to laugh. I'm thinking, "How inappropriate. Someone is dead in a bag in front of where I live and all these people think to do is is crack a joke about a lame shirt? As soon as I get to work, I'm calling somebody and reporting this." They lift the yellow crime scene tape and I duck under it terrified and mad all at the same time.

I walk out of the buliding and I'm in shock. I walk halfway up my street and ask a passerby if they have any idea what happened in my building. "Where?",they ask. "Over there", I say and I turn around to point out exactly where I'm talking about. And that's when I see everything. I see the cranes and the lighting and the craft service cart and the trailors and then it hits me...I am in the middle of a movie set!!! I'm in my apartment this morning freaking out and nobody has the damn courtesy to tell me I woke up in the middle of a movie set! I appreciate the method acting in hindsight but lord, would a little warning to the actual residents of the building been that big of a deal? Just more evidence that my landlord could care less about what happens in the building as long as he gets his money. What concerns me more, is that I live in a building that looks like it could "realistically" have the occasional unsolved murder. Scary. Perhaps signing my October lease renewal is definitely something I should think about a bit further ...

I'm just sitting in my panties...

and I am loving every second of it! See, I hate clothes. I hate the way I look in them. I hate the way they feel on my body. I even hate shopping. When I was a kid my Mom would bring clothes home to me and I would try them on and if they fit I was done shopping. If you see me at Macy's or H&M it's because I'm having a crisis. The "said" crisis being a wedding I have to attend or I've spilled something horrible on a shirt and it's unacceptable for public viewing. I'm not a tomboy by any means that's averse to looking good, I just think the over-fahionable look pretty silly 90% of the time.

I have a short waist and I think that's part of the problem. If I lay my hand across my midriff right above my belly button, I have covered the entire length of my torso. My belly button is by my pinkie and my boobs (yes that's what I call them...I'm very mature) are by my thumb. Maybe I'm exaggerating slightly about my torso, but not by much. I don't know if the visual helps but it is important for me to make it clear to you what a freak of nature I am. My legs take up three quarters of my body. If you aren't into legs I'm not the girl for you. I think when God made me, he had every intention of turning me into the supermodel I was meant to be, it's just after he started with my legs he got tired. Really tired.

Yes, it's childish...

but Variety had this on their RSS feed:


"Greek B.O. to rise 25% in four years"


Apparently, that means box office.


(my friends send me the best emails)

What? No Boobs?

I went to see Clerks II this weekend and apparently (much to my shock and awe) I am not in the demographic of viewers the previews were intended for…dear god, if I were a man I would be offended at the crap they were trying to peddle. Apparently the only interests you guys have are beer, kung-fu, sports, and general ass kicking. (At least according to Hollywood.)

In addition, you are also unable to handle several words at once, because any movie that was previewed had one word titles like Crank (general ass-kicking), Fearless (kung-fu), Invincible (sports), and Beerfest (obvious).

The movie was fun and even better was the sneak peek I got to see of Alvarez actually starring opposite Marky Mark in the preview for Invincible. So as a result, I don’t know how much longer Alvarez and I will be neighbors because he is obviously not in my lowly tax-bracket anymore…time to make my move! (By move I mean trying to muster up a sentence that upgrades me from mentally challenged to only a slight speech impediment.)

The Boy From OZ

I live across from Alvarez. New York city is one of those places where everyone lives on top of one another. The rich among the poor. The crazy among the sane. The famous among the not so much so...

I work in television and every once in a while, I get the pleasure and sometimes even the pain of dealing with legit and semi-legit celebs. When I first started out I would get so nervous because I never wanted to look silly or that I was "fazed" by it all. It didn't help that my friends would always text me with questions like, "Is he short like they say?" or "Are her lips fake?" especially when said "celebrity" was in texting distance. But the truth is, it's hard to get nervous when you are working because everyone is so DAMN nice. Not nice because everyone is filled with that celebrity niceness you see during the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony every year, or nice because they make an obscene amount of cash, but rather an over the top niceness towards you because they don't know who the hell you are. For all these celebs know, you wrote the copy they are trying to memorize in their dressing room or you happen to be Ron Howard's niece...It doesn't matter. You could be somebody important(in their mind).

The thing is, whenever I see Alvarez I freak. It's because I only see him in real life. I'm not at work so I don't have business as an excuse to talk. It's just me and my mind and that's a bad combo. I say some pretty stupid stuff on the fly. Hence why I hated improv classes. I always look at the ground but he always manages to give me a friendly, neighborly, "Hey" or "What's Up?". In response, all I can ever muster up is a barely audible, "Humph..."

What's "Humph.." you may ask? Well I don't have a damn clue. I have no idea where it even came from. The best I can come up with, is that it's the dummy's trifecta combo of three words I explain like this...the first word I'm trying to say is, "Hey", then insecurity creeps in, so I switch it to "Ummm", and then realize what an idiot I sound like, so I switch to "Phhh" which is the phonetic beginning of the word "Fuck" that I'm internally screaming, because once again I've managed to sound like a retard in front of Alvarez.

I think I freak inside because I've seen him naked on TV. So when he says something like, "Trash Day, huh?", when I'm trying to swing my plastic trash bag into the can, all I can think about is that time on OZ when he got thrown into solitary naked and started drawing pictures with his poo on the walls of his cell to pass the time. Thoughts like that creep in, and all I'm left with are responses like, "Yeah, trash day, humph..." When what I really want to say is, "You have the cutest butt. Ever."

UH OH! Brad is Mad!

Apparently, Brad Pitt felt the need to go on the Today Show this morning with some earth shattering news…The devastation in New Orleans from Hurricane Katrina is BAD…What??? Oh no he didn’t!!!! He followed up that statement with, what we need to do as a nation is find more cost effective ways of building homes that take up less energy…Brilliant!!!!! I guess that explains why he slashed the selling price of the home he once shared with Jennifer Aniston from $28 million to $24.95 million…you know, to make things more cost effective for the general public. His closer statement was, “Man, I got kids now. And it really changes your perspective on the world.” Awww…I’ve never heard that before!!! It almost makes me forget about his philandering ass…until this gem…wait for it, wait… “I'm so tired of thinking about myself. I'm kinda sick of myself.” You’re sick of yourself? How do you think I feel? I’m just trying to watch you and get my yogurt down without trying to gag.

As a former resident of Louisiana, listen to me when I say…Brad,Please…take a month off. Relax. And by relaxing I don’t mean renting out a small impoverished nation. I mean lay low. Read a book. Write a script. I don’t know if you can read or write, but they both seem like wonderful creative outlets that will keep you busy for a bit, and stop you from smiling in staged photo-ops in front of destroyed Louisiana homes. If you STILL insist on helping, pull a Sean Penn. Get in your wife beater and start wading through the water while trying to pull a tugboat with a handicapped person in it. In fact, bring your own camera guy to document it. That way I can SEE you doing something instead of doing random morning show interviews filled with you TALKING about obvious shit, and random sentiments that your PR person told you will somehow endear me to you. Shut your chiseled face! I’m not a morning person, and you blubbering while I’m trying get my breakfast on is killing me!!!

It's Almost All Greek To Me

I want to learn Greek. I'm 100% Greek and I have a minimal grasp of the language. I know the basics. The basics any five year old would know. I can say this is my mouth, hair, nose, ears, tongue, teeth, etc. It's like I was taught from a flow chart that hangs in any kindergarten classroom.

I can also tell someone I love them and what time of day it is depending on the greeting. I can also say hello and goodbye, which thank God is the same word. At least the Greeks decided to make something simple.

I also know when I'm in trouble. In Greek I can understand when I need to shut up (both formally and crass...I guess it depends on the present company)as well as when I will be spanked when we get home because I have misbehaved in public. This hasn't happened in a while, considering I have lived on my own for 10 years...but we're Greek, you never know. Either way, I have a working knowledge of the Greek phrases for most insults and threats of violence which, though they may not come in handy on a daily basis, are perfect for use in case I have any intrest in becoming a bi-lingual dominatrix.

I also need to win the lottery...trips and lessons don't pay for themselves you know!

IM of the Day

(OR HOW TO DEAL WITH A LATERAL EMPLOYEE WHO THINKS THEY ARE YOUR BOSS)

july4th: well what do we do?

july4th: both of us have voiced concerns

july4th: it's either put up with it or leave

me: this is the part where one of us says "kill her"

me: she ends up dead weeks later

me: we had nothing to do with it

me: but somehow we get arrested and spend our lives in jail

me: she wins.

me: and i get raped.

me: lesbians LOVE me

me: i think it's my voice

me: and the fact I'm built like a brick shithouse

july4th: I was thinking earlier that you looked a little like a shithouse

me: you are an ass.

july4th: you are a shithouse

"Oh What A Night"

I am at a hotel in Richmond, VA tonight having arrived early for my cousin's wedding tomorrow. My family doesn’t arrive until the morning, so I am left to my own devices. This hotel is dead at 11:00pm with the exception of the "Visions Dance Club" located in the lobby. It's a nightclub for the over 60 crowd that like to shake it to "Oh what a Night" but not in a "happy time" kind of way...rather a more of a "I had a rough week at the office, I'm in the middle of my third divorce, let's go down to 'Visions' and get my dirty on" kind of way. I tried to go in for one drink but I was overwhelmed by the AARP manmeat. There are definitely some places single women should never go alone, and a bad dance club in the lobby of a quazi remote Holiday Inn is definitely one of those places. It's like "Cocoon" on Viagra down there.

Brooke Shields hates me.

I have to go to my cousin's wedding in Virginia this weekend. It's a Greek wedding that's going to be formal dress in 95 degree heat. Who does that to people they love? Greek weddings mean a lot of dancing. A lot of dancing means a lot of undergarments designed to tuck and suck you in. A lot of layers in the southern, sticky, humidity means I run the risk of dehydration. It can't be good.

I don't know of anyone who receives an invitation to a Greek wedding who goes, "Oh wow! I can't believe they thought of me!" It's more like, "Dear God. What did I do to deserve this?"

As soon as the invitation arrives, I know that I have 48 hours before the phone starts ringing off the hook...

"What are you going to wear?"
"When are you getting there?"
"Are you going to wear your hair curly or straight?"

(Mind you, all of these questions come from my mother.)

Yet the only question I want the answer to is, "Is there going to be an open bar or not?"

With this wedding in particular, the trouble started when I went home to visit my family in Maryland for Memorial Day weekend. As soon as I got there my Aunt sat me down and asked why I didn't bring my dress home for her and my Mom to look at.

"Why do you want to see it?" I asked.
"Because we all want to be prepared" she said.
"For what?" I asked.
"For the wedding!"
"It's a wedding, not an apocalypse. What are we preparing for?"
"We just want to make sure you look nice, is all" she said.
"I'm a fully functioning adult. I know how to look nice. Besides,it's already paid for."
"Well what does it look like?"
"I don't know. You want a picture?" I asked.
"Well your Mom and I don't want to look nicer than you." she said.
Then my Mom chimed in, "You never get a second chance to make a first impression."
At first I was mad, because I could have sworn that last piece of advice came from a hair commercial. And then, it suddenly became hilarious to me that these women were implying that any opportunity I may have to meet my future husband at this wedding may be thwarted by their undeniable beauty that they were making every attempt to mask, for the sake of my future happiness. Clearly I come from a long line of well-intentioned but slightly delusional women. But truthfully, all I kept thinking was,"Are these women serious or have they been drinking while I was on the Amtrak down from New York?"

After my weekend home with the family, I arrived back in New York to my apartment with the brand new US WEEKLY sitting on my kitchen table. I decided I deserved to flip through some mindless drivel before I got back to thinking about my real life. I kicked off my shoes, put my feet up on the couch, and nibbled on some Junior Mints (that's the poor girl's Bon-Bon's.) There, in my lap, out of the blue, on PAGE 61 OF US WEEKLY was Brooke Shields. IN.MY.DRESS! Holy Crap. The fact that I bought a dress that a celebrity could fit into (or vice-versa) blew me away...(Actual photo of Brooke Shields in "said" dress has been included in this post for your viewing pleasure.)

Against my better judgment, I called my Mom.
"Ummmm.Mom?"
"yeah?"
"I have a picture of my dress. It's in a magazine."
"What magazine?"
"US Weekly" I said half mumbling.
"What's it doing in US Weekly?"
"Brooke Shields is wearing it," I said
"Is it a maternity dress?" she asked.
"No, Mom. Come on. It was before she was even pregnant."
"Do you look like her in it?" she asked.
"Yes, Mom. I've lost 30 pounds and I've gained a foot in height. Brooke and I look like twins. It's scary."
"Well, I was just asking. Dresses always look different on, than they do on the hanger."
"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked.
"Nothing," she said "I just didn't know if I ever told you that."
"Yes Mom, since I was two!!! Just tell your sister that she can go to the grocery store and see my dress in a magazine at the check-out. Now can everyone just calm down?"
"Yes honey. We just worry because we love you."
"Goodnight Mom"
"Goodnight, Kukla." she said. (Kukla means babydoll in Greek, a term only used when someone is trying to butter me up.)

An hour later the phone rings. It was my mother.
"Honey, your Aunt just went to the grocery store and looked at your dress."
"Yeah?"
"It's beautiful!" she said.
"Are you being serious right now?" I asked, in shock.
"Yes, but we want you to wear a shawl."
"What? Are you for real? Why?" I asked, annoyed because I had only myself to blame, for calling her in the first place.
"Well you are much bigger up top than Brooke Shields."
"But it's going to be like 1,000 degrees at this wedding!!!" I pleaded.
And then it hit me...

"Wait Mom, I'm not going to wear that shawl unless I see a picture of it. You and your sister begged me to let you know what that dress looked like. I did, and now I'm getting screwed here. You want me to dress for a funeral, when we're going to a wedding! No picture, no shawl!! I got you a picture, now it's your turn."

My Mom held her ground by staying silent and then letting out her loud, long, strained exhale. The exhale that quietly screams, "You cause me so much pain that it even hurts to breathe." Finally she spoke,"You will bring the Brooke Shields dress. We will bring the shawl. That's it. And please, for your Grandmother, blow out your hair. She doesn't understand what the hair gel is all about."

Dear God. What did I do to deserve this...

A real live niece of my Uncle Sam...

Just some thoughts on July the 4th...

I have a friend who's birthday is on July the 4th. I highly suspect that deep down she believes those fireworks go off in her honor every year.

I have a hard time believing people who say, "I support the troops but I don't support the war". It sounds patronizing. That's like finding out your daughter is a stripper and saying, "I support your career but I don't support the whole sweaty, naked, dancing for dollars part." If your daughter is a stripper you're pissed. Say it. If we're at war and you don't agree you're pissed. Say it. When you separate the issues it gets confusing... for the strippers and the soldiers, not to mention the simple-minded people we have running this country.

My family shops at the FSK mall. It was named for Francis Scott Key who is buried in that town. He wrote the National Anthem. Since we shop there, I guess that makes us patriots and capitalists. I love this country.

People want to change the National Anthem to "America the Beautiful". The main arguments are that the words to the current National Anthem are too hard to remember and the tune is too difficult to sing. My thoughts are this...If you can't remember the words to one song, you're not going to remember the words to the other one. Stupid is stupid. If you find singing a song one of the more difficult things you have to do...you must have an awesome life.

Have a great Independence Day everyone. Whether you are in a "Forrest Gump" or "Born on the Fourth of July" kind of mood, I hope you take the time to reflect. Best Wishes to all!

I am not a morning person.

I never have been. If you see me up early, chances are I haven't gone to bed yet. Needless to say, I am not a highly functioning person in the morning and some of the biggest mistakes of my life have been made before noon. I'm thinking about this because I was in Chicago this past weekend for work and also to catch up with some old friends. While in a cab on Michigan Avenue, I passed by an office of a newspaper and thought about my first temp job there. I remember how excited I was, because usually, whenever you think of temp jobs the most horrible assignments come to mind, like filing mounds of dusty, yellowed, papers that no one would even notice if they went missing or licking envelopes for invitations to parties that everyone at the company but you has managed to score an invite to.

But this assignment was different! I would be at a real newspaper just "helping out" when needed. I didn't know what that meant exactly, but I was sure it was going to involve sitting at a desk waiting for reporters to yell out leads or lunch orders. The only problem was that you had to be there by eight in the morning! I had heard of people getting up at eight in the morning, but having to actually be someplace by eight seemed a bit barbaric. Regardless, I managed to stay so excited for my first day of work that I couldn't sleep at all. I got out of bed, put on the Today show (because that's what people who work DO in the morning) and tip toed around the apartment getting ready, so I wouldn't wake up any of my roommates. I had some extra time, so I decided to pack my own lunch (which I never do). I made a basic sandwich and grabbed a 7UP out of the fridge. I didn't know who it belonged to , but I'm sure they wouldn't miss it.

I took the bus in to work and got to the floor I would be working on. I was told to sit at my desk and someone would be by shortly to give me my first assignment. While I was waiting I decided to put away my lunch. If my mother had taught me anything, it was that salmonella was a killer, and I was sure a twenty minute bus ride in Chicago humidity with a mayonnaise soaked turkey sandwich was playing with fire. I chose to play it safe and pull out my brown-bag sandwich in one hand and my soda in the other and set out to find a fridge. I went around politely introducing myself to my future co-workers until the office kitchen was in sight. As I walked toward the fridge, my fellow employees looked away and scurried off to wherever they had scurried from. Winning them over was going to be harder than I thought.

The morning passed by rather quickly with very few assignments. The only interruptions came sporadically when people would stop by my desk to ask if that was really my lunch in the side door of the fridge. I couldn't believe how much these people lived for their lunch break. Why were they so obsessed with food? Maybe they were asking because they wanted me to sit at their table later. I had no idea. I didn't even know if they had a lunch room. Sadly no one asked, and I was left on my own when I was given a break to eat.

I decided to go outside for lunch and enjoy some fresh air. I sat down on a bench, unwrapped my sandwich, and popped open my soda. I took a bite of my sandwich and washed it down with a sip. Suddenly my mouth filled with the most disgusting taste and I spit everything out all over the place. I looked down at my soda and saw that in my zombie like morning stupor, I had actually mistaken a can of Heinekin beer belonging to my roommate for my 7UP! Ummm, no wonder everyone at work wanted to know if my lunch was in the fridge. Either they were impressed with my audacity to bring a beer to work on my first day or they were taking bets on how long the new office drunk would last!

It turned out,that anyone who said, "I bet she won't even last a day" won, because I was so mortified I didn't even walk back in. I just waited for the next bus and made it home in time to watch Oprah. I hope whoever won the office pool that day took their winnings, went to Happy Hour, and had one on me. In the end it all worked out for the best, I soon found out that bartending didn't require you to get to work until five at night!