Return To The Forbidden Planet

That's it folks. No more Pluto. Science has decided that Pluto no longer fits the definition of what makes a planet a "said" planet. I'd like to say for the record, that deep down, I never believed Pluto was a planet anyway. Pluto was always a Disney character. A lovable dog. Man's best friend. Besides, I could name every Disney character before I could ever name any of the planets, and I didn't even need a catchy acronym to do so. When I did have to memorize the planets, Pluto on the end was my get out of jail free card. If all else failed when it came time for Mrs. Mallardin's Astronomy quizzes, I knew that I lived on Earth and Pluto was in there somewhere; everything else I could remember was just gravy. Now all that has changed. After a vote among 2,500 geeks, ahem, scientists in Prague today, it looks like Pluto got the boot. I'm sorry Pluto. You never failed me, and I never forgot you for that.

What I find even more interesting is what these scientists claim makes a celestial body a planet...These scientists agreed that for a celestial body to qualify as a planet:

1) it must be in orbit around the Sun
2) it must be large enough that it takes on a nearly round shape
3) it has cleared its orbit of other objects

(That's it?)

Who knows what means anyway? The same could be said for my ass. Apparently, it fits within the parameters of the new scientific definition of the word "planet". Feel free to suggest a name for this new "planet". But try to stay away from cartoon character names this time. If I hear anyone refer to my ass as "Goofy" or "Pepe Le Peu", I'm going to be pissed.

(Not Very Nice) Thought Of The Day

One of my co-workers (who openly does not like me) had the fakest conversation with me in the kitchen at work. I imagine he was trying to feel me out to see if I had any idea of the infintisimal ways he was going to try to personally fuck with me and my job security today. As he stood in front of the microwave that was heating up my breakfast, I imagined the radioactive waves were penetrating his thick skull while slowly, quietly, and precisely giving him brain cancer.


(Hey, I told you it wasn't a nice thought.)

A-List

I have a list of things that I require in a person I spend time with . I have posted this in an online profile. I have done this because I'm in the middle of a dry spell (or picky.) I promise you it has nothing to do with my fear of abandonment, intimacy, or trust...ok, maybe a little. But a girl's gotta' get laid, right?


This is my list.

1) You can't look me in the eyes when you talk
2) You believe what you do for a living defines who you are
3) You're an uptight Conservative or an unrealistic Liberal
4) You don't have a sense of humor
5) You hang with meanies.
6) You hate reading
7) You can't fix my electrical stuff (i.e. surround sound, computers when they go haywire, my sweet ass ipod, etc.)
8) You can't lift heavy stuff
9) You can't remember the last time you donated something...
10) You cancel plans because you have to "work out"
11) You refer to women as "bitches"...and you aren't a rapper.
12) You're dishonest.

This is a response I got today.

my list
you
are creative ?
cook ? ( i am useless in the kitchen )
dont like talking on the phone ( i hate the phone, yuck )
like spontanious outings ?
good at receving massages ?
long waderings in central park ?
classical music ?
second acting broadway shows ?


(I think he may be unemployed.)

Lifting My "Spirits"

It's been a week and I am starting to get back to normal. I think? Oh I don't know. This whole thing just makes me so sad. Louisiana left for well, Louisiana. But she sends me texts (which feels like every hour) just to check in with me and see how I'm doing. Unbelievable. Bad shit happened to her, and she wants to make sure I'm doing ok. Biggest heart ever.

I have been surrounded by a lot of love in the meantime, and I didn't realize how much I needed some. My Mom and my Aunt came to visit and feed me. That's very big for my people. When in doubt, and you happen to be Greek, you eat. It makes you feel good and you don't have to talk about the heavy stuff that you should be talking about. We also did a lot of tourist-y things. We rode the Staten Island Ferry, went to the South Street Seaport, and got fitted for bras. My Aunt called it "lifting our spirits". She seems to think (courtesy of Oprah) that we don't know what size our boobs are. Apparently some guru who has a bra store on 90th and Madison is a frequent guest on Oprah and has convinced my Aunt that our lives will get better as soon as our bras fit us better. I have never been "fitted" for a bra. I usually go to Victoria's Secret and get the biggest one on the rack and make it work. It really is a simple process, unlike this one, which involves you standing topless in front of someone who has been trained to tell you what your size is just by staring. It's creepy, but it works. My boobs are now being supported by a 65 dollar bra (and a 25 dollar matching thong). I will be handwashing these puppies as to keep them far, far away from my Chinese Laundry Guy.

The crazy part is that according to these "booby specialists", I have a 36 F Bra size, which is roughly the equivalent of a Triple D Bra. Whatever. I just had a reduction, and I paid good money to ensure that I definitely don't have that size. I think these companies increase the sizes to make women feel better. Just a theory. I'd explain my theory further but it's so hard to sit up straight at the keyboard with these massive melons weighing me down.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

I wrote this two weeks ago, but I never got around to posting it...

Every summer my roommate (and her boyfriend) leave and I get a sublet who rents out their room for some jacked up price that gives them enough extra money to finance a mortgage on a second home while I'm left wondering if the stranger sleeping in the next room over has the potential to snap and kill me in a drug infused delirious rage. Essentially, they could give a shit less who lives with me as long as they aren't held financially responsible. Some of these sublettors really suck. Some rock. Some have even become my friends. This one happens to be 10 years younger than me. I'm trying people, but I can't help but feel like I'm raising her.

Despite the major hurdles, like when she locked me out of the apartment by putting the security lock on the door and passing out drunk within ear shot and not answering her annoying phone that was ringing "Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira at 4 in the morning that I called 20 times while I'm screamed into the crack of the doorway, "Open the damn door now!!!!" to no avail (I looked like Jack Nicholson in The Shining), or when the News reported Boy George had to do community service for his drug charges and she asked, "Who is Boy George?", she really is a sweetheart. Really. (I apologize for the run on sentence; I couldn't resist.) But I should send her parents a bill because I am doing some ground work here that they really should have taken care of a few years ago, preferably before they sent her out into the world (and into my apartment).

Here are some lessons I've tried to instill in New York City's finest intern and sublettor:

1) EAT A HEALTHY DIET IN ORDER TO PREPARE FOR YOUR FUTURE
-cheez-it's, papa john's, and easy mac go straight to your ass once you hit 25.

2) KEEP UP ON CURRENT EVENTS
-Being able to carry on a conversation about something pertinent will make you appear interesting. It will also take the focus away from the big butt you got watching "Laguna Beach" and bingeing on Ho-Ho's.

3) CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF
-If you put your clothes away instead of leaving them on the floor, boys will think you know how to "keep house", and the other people that come by to visit your roommate will never figure out that you and the bartender you picked up in the village are sloppy shagging in your room. By learning to not shed your clothes in the living room because you couldn't make it the extra six feet to your bedroom to snog, you actually end up looking classy.

4) DON'T CALL YOUR PARENTS DRUNK AT 2 IN THE MORNING TO TELL THEM YOUR WALLET HAS BEEN STOLEN...AGAIN
-They are smart enough to know you lost the wallet, drunkard.

So that is my community service for the summer. My apartment is an actual Habitat for Humanity. I really am making the world a better place...one wide-eyed college student at a time.

This is a sad update that I feel compelled to share:

On Saturday night my sublet was coming home at one thirty in the morning and she was sexually assaulted in our building. She was smart and she fought back (with words and with her strength) She was violated but will survive, both physically and spiritually. Her attacker wanted to bring her upstairs to continue assaulting her, but she was afraid that if she brought him upstairs he would kill us both. She took him on herself with strength and courage that I don't know if I myself posses. I don't know if anyone has done so much for me ever. I always have something witty to say, but when it comes to this, I am at a complete loss. My heart is breaking with gratitude and pain all at the same time. I can't stop crying when I look at her and feeling so responsible. I remained safe and I still feel so scared. I can't even begin to imagine how she feels.

This situation could have been avoided if my landlord had replaced the burned out lights in the hallway, that I, along with several other residents have repeatedly complained about. I want him to pay financially and with his soul. "Louisiana" shouldn't have had this happen. My landlord doesn't care about anything except his money. We asked for help and he didn't have the decency to return our calls. I believe in Karma, and I feel bad for him because he will eventually have to answer for his actions in this life. With sadness , Louisiana is going home on Thursday. I hope the city hasn't gotten the best of her...

I have included a picture of the view from my apartment. Gadget took the picture on my roof the last time he came to visit. This view was my own slice of heaven. I always thought the city lights shined for no one but me. I look at this picture and I know everything has changed. Things will never be the same here in this little apartment. I don't know how much longer I can live here and not be terrified by every creak in the floorboard or every thump of footsteps as they make their way up the stairs. I cry because Louisiana will never feel the joy that has filled my heart when I have stood on this roof , soaked in this view, and felt free.

Best Wishes Louisiana. You will be missed. I will forever be sorry.

Fool Me Once Justin, Shame On You...

I’m not into blogging about celebrities. Other people can do that much better than I can and with quicker wit. I even work in the “biz” (whatever that means) and I get confused by all the crap that is repackaged, retooled, and remastered out there. I usually can ignore it, but I can’t take it when it comes to Justin Timberlake. Do I hate him? No. I have never met him. But I think he is the biggest fraud of talent out there. He is manufactured and dependent upon others around him to hide his true lack of talent. Unfortunately, his dependency on women to keep him in the public’s eye is what infuriates me. I didn’t really put too much thought into him until the infamous “Superbowl…Oops, that’s Ms. Jackson if your nasty’s nipple debacle”. I can’t believe the FCC came down so hard on just her. Why was HE not held accountable as well. Hey “Timberloser”, it takes two to tango! You tried to declare it was a wardrobe malfunction when the “said” malfunction happened on the lyric of YOUR song at the poetic “I’ll have you naked by the end of this song”…you suck. I should have sued you for attempted murder because I almost choked on my cheetos and chili dip at halftime that year! The stage manager for the show I was working on at the time was also the stage manager for your halftime shitfest… you took advantage of her too by putting her and everyone else's job’s at risk, because you needed a boost to your album sales. Other female victims include but are not limited to…Cameron Diaz, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and Kylie Minogue….

His success is trivial. His terrible “I’m from the ghetto” accent that he acquired on the back lot of Orlando’s dangerous Disney studios should enrage the very people he tries to endear himself to. I’m done. I can’t. He’s keeping me from enjoying my day and I can’t give him that power. I must sound like a disgruntled Backstreet Boy. The bottom line, is that his album was only good because his producers were some of the most talented in the business. Those same producers make Paris Hilton sound good…check the album credits.

I’m only ranting because he is getting ready to “drop” his new album on us all. That means he’s about to do something stupid…again. I’m only trying to protect those I love. Brace yourselves and don’t say I didn’t warn you!!!!

ALSO...

HERE’S A REVIEW FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES ON TIMBERLOSER’S NEW SINGLE "SEXYBACK"…

Surely it’s not a coincidence that this song borrows a line from Mr. Timberlake’s most famous ex-girlfriend. Britney Spears once sang, “I’m a slave for you”; now he is singing, “Baby, I’m your slave.” With its slightly sadistic beat and purposefully repetitive melody, “SexyBack” evokes the vague menace of Ms. Spears’s best dance tracks. It’s the clammy, claustrophobic sound of a pop star in “shackles,” putting on a show for us.

ONCE AGAIN DEPENDING ON LADIES FOR HIS BEST STUFF!!!!!!

(I’ve also included a piece I found online. It made me feel better. Photos of his crimes are included….)

Last month Cameron Diaz extracted an apology from the red top tabloid, The Sun over claims that she'd cheated on Justin Timberlake. This month it's Timberlake’s turn, with news that he's extracted an apology - and a hefty wad of cash - from News of the World over their claims that he'd cheated on Diaz by shagging some stick-thin model with attitude and an eating disorder. Timberlake's solicitors had claimed that the story had damaged Timberlake's "personal and professional reputations." Which is some cheek, if you ask us. The former *Nsync star, sometime Mousketeer and one-time beau of Britney has publicly groped Kylie, let it all hang out on stage with Janet Jackson and generally rarely been out of the headlines over the last few years. Stories like the News of the World's are no more fake than most everything else written about the white(r) Michael Jackson. If you ask us, he should be paying the News of the World, rather than them paying him.


Shame! (Cameron...Will you help me, I want to be in movies!!! Love, JT)


Shame! (Janet...Will you help me, I need to be edgy!!! Word, JT)


Shame! (Kylie...Will you help me, nobody knows who I am in Europe!!! Peace, JT)


Shame! (X-Tina...Will you help me, nobody will come to my concert unless someone else performs!!! Just Chillin', JT)


Shame! You know her name!!!! How do I know? Because you won't stop mentioning it in every press junket and interview you are doing! We get it, you dated. Congrats! Now shut it.
(Britney...Will you help me, I need someone I can date who I can talk about forever so I can eternally gain sympathy. Ladies love a broken heart...after all, look at what it's doing for Nick Lachey!!! Cryin' A River, JT)

Rockin' The Suburbs

I had to get out of the city this weekend. I pride myself on winning the war against "The Big Apple." Oftentimes I walk to work and like a mantra on repeat, in my head I say, "You will not beat me." (I have no idea if that's to the city or the crazies I see everyday) I guess that means I'm neurotic enough after 5 years to be a New Yorker, but not crazy enough to look at Bellevue (crazy house) as a viable option. But this last week I just felt like the city was winning battles left and right. By Friday it didn't matter what you said to me, chances are I was suppressing the lump in my throat and holding back tears...and I had no real reason. It was way too "girly" and I had to do something.

I called my friend "Gadget" in Virginia. Gadget has been my friend since high school. He's married to a great lady and they have a beautiful baby. He's the closest thing to normal in my life, and he makes me think anything is possible. When I'm freaking out, he calms me down. When I'm upset, he assures me, "No, it's not you, it's them. When my computer is freaking out or I can't build the entertainment center I just bought, he's there to fix it. Everyone should have unconditional love in their life, and I have that with "Gadget". I'm lucky. He's my other brother.

"Gadget, I've got to leave the city. I can't take it."
"What's going on?"
"My power went out. I blew all my money on a hotel. Work sucks."
"How can work suck? You have the coolest job."
"It only sounds cool. Trust me. How do you feel about a last minute houseguest?"
"Really, you want to come down?"
"Please. If it's too much with the baby I understand."
"No, are you kidding me!!! This is great. My wife will be so excited and the baby is so beautiful. She's even more beautiful in person!"
"Do you need me to come get you?"
"No, I'll hop on a train. I'll be there in three hours."
"What do you want for dinner?"
"I don't care."
"Well I just IM'd the wife and she says whatever you want she will make. I'll go pick up some DVD's too. What haven't you seen?"
(Do you see why I love these people?)

As I made my way to Penn Station I saw a homeless man passed out with his dick in his hand. That was it. I knew I was making the right decision. I had to get out of here.My impulsiveness had found validation. All it took was a homeless man and some indecent exposure.

I get on the train and find the only empty seat. The ticket guy comes by and I hand him my ticket. He asks the man next to me for his ticket. The man flashes his ID, whispers something to the ticket guy, and then looks at me.
"I didn't see a thing." I tell him and I start to laugh.
He doesn't laugh.
This is going to be a long three hours to D.C.
Turns out I'm sitting next to the "Train Marshall". Is that even a real thing? In all honesty, I have no idea what he does but the ticket guy repeatedly stops by to tell him stuff. It's all very weird, and a little too dramatic, but I can't resist calling him "Secret Agent Man". At least he smiles. We end up talking for most of the trip. I don't know what he is "securing" on the train, but he can have a full conversation while doing it. He asks me a lot of open ended questions. I point out that I grew up in the military and have lived on bases most of my life and I know that he's asking me questions that will require me to answer more than a simple yes or no. He laughs again. At the end of the trip he asks me for an email because he would like to write me sometime. I have no idea why. I hand him my business card and tell him he can try doing a background check... but I don't own property, I pay my taxes on time and correctly, and I've never been arrested. I also mention that I was an RA in college and I will piss clean. (I didn't say the last part, but I was thinking it.) I don't think he will write. I'm in the middle of a dry spell people that isn't exclusive to civilians or government officials...but at least I have a story that starts, one time on a train...

Gadget picks me up at Union station and we drive to beautiful, suburban, Herndon, Virginia. It's like Heaven. I see Target, Safeway, and people that say hello when they pass you on the street. I get to the house and his wife and baby are waiting and they really are beautiful. It's quite a sight, and I just start crying. I can't help it. Everyone says they have a beautiful baby, but she really, really, really, is. I should also mention that on our way home he stopped by the grocery store to pick up two dozen roses. One for his wife and one for his daughter. Amazing.

His wife's best friend is hanging out at the house this weekend too. He just got dumped by his fiancée and it's like the white elephant in the room. I love that they are such a great couple that both of their best friends are welcome anytime, and they take us both in when we need it and no questions are asked. Her best friend is wearing his NRA hat. I know he's only doing this to get me angry so I call him out on it right away. Gadget is conservative as are most of my friends that grew up in the military. I do my best and I try to keep the politics to a minimum around everyone but sometimes I can't resist. "NRA" loves guns. He even got Gadget into it and that pisses me off. Gadget went to VMI so he started with guns there but it was never a hobby like it is now. NRA even bought Gadget bullets for Christmas last year and I flipped my shit. I kept asking if Jesus would want bullets for his birthday. NRA always tries to get me to go to the gun range with him. He thinks if I shot a gun I would feel differently about it. He has a lot of good arguments. I usually end the argument by saying, "It's not you I'm worried about, it's everybody else." NRA says that he loves target practice because it's like an eternal quest to hit a bull's eye. I tell him he should try golf because I hear a hole-in-one is pretty difficult and it sounds like the same damn thing only less violent. We are at an agree to disagree point in our friendship. I tell him I'll go to the gun range when he hits a hole-in-one. I think I've bought some serious time.

We had comfort food, watched movies all weekend, and played with the baby. It was the best mini-vacation ever.

I took the late train back into the city. I was so relaxed. It didn't take long for me to realize I was headed into the madness. In Philadelphia a mom and her son got on the train and she took the seat next to me. Her son sat in the seat directly across the aisle from her. He was no more than 14 and was reading Lolita. The creepy part was that he kept reading sentences he didn't understand out loud and asking his Mom to explain what they meant. He shouldn't know what Nabokov is writing about. It was weird. What do I know? Maybe the world is right on point. Maybe it's me. Or maybe it's just New York City.

CONnED by Ted Danson

It was bound to happen sooner or later. My power went out during the damn NYC heat wave. It was horrible. I was lying in my bed around midnight trying to get to sleep because I had a massive headache from the heat. The lights were already out, but the fans came to a deafening silence and that's when I knew I was fucked.

"The power's ouuuuuuuuuuuttttt.", yelled my sublet from her bedroom.
"Yeah, this sucks!" I yelled back.
"What are we going to do?" she yelled.
(Please head, do not explode. You are filled with 10 Advil, 2 Allegra, and 2 snorts of Flonase).

I was not about to continue this conversation at high decibels because that took up too much energy, and I hate sweating. I called one of my friends and asked her to call me at 9AM so I could get up for work and then went out to try and look at the fuse box. Whatever that is...I mean really, I just flip the switches from one side to the other and that's supposed to solve everything. I'm not a believer. Rightfully so. No juice. I call Con Ed and they had nothing to say. All I get is, "Well, we have a lot of power down because of the heat wave but regardless, we can't do anything unless your landlord calls."
(That last sentence was paraphrased. No one who works in customer service at Con Ed would use the word 'regardless'. Too fancy).
"It's one in the morning. How's that going to work out?" I ask rhetorically.
"I don't know", she says.
(Oh she wants to play).
"Well what do you know?" and I hung up on her. It got me nowhere, but it felt good.

"Do you want to go to a hotel?" I asked my sublet.
"Oh my God. Yes."
"Well pack up, because we are SO out of this sweat box."

I pack an overnight bag and call a co-worker with my new dilemma.
"Hey I hope I didn't wake you." I ask.
"Not at all. What's up?"
"My power is out and I'm trying to figure out what to do."
"Our air-conditioner is out." she said.
"Does your fridge work?" I asked.
"Yeah.Why?"
"Could I leave some groceries with you and then have you bring them to me at work? I know it's a lot to ask, but I spent too much damn money to let them waste."
(Please,please,please say yes. My head is throbbing and thinking about money makes it worse. I hate numbers. I hate math. I think I have dyscalculia. That's like dyslexia for math...that's a word, right?)
"No problem. Hey where are you going to stay?"
(Did she say yes? She did! Thank God. She said yes! I love her).
"I guess a hotel."
"You could stay here, but it will be uncomfortable. Do you want me to make a reservation for you online?"
"Please?" I ask, afraid that I'm asking for too much.
"Really, it's no bother. Just give me you credit card info. and I'll do it for you. I can't sleep anyway because my AC is out. Swing by with the
groceries and I'll give you the reservation confirmation."
"I'll hop in the cab now. By the way have I told you that I love you?"
"Yeah, about 20 times. It's starting to creep me out."
"I'll be there soon!" I said.

My sublettor is packed and ready to go. Her idea of packed is putting everything she owns into five extra large duffel bags. She is 5'2" and has bags that weigh twice the size of her slung all over her body. She looks like one of those worker ants trying to carry a whole chunk of pineapple across a picnic blanket. You know it's possible but you can't believe the ant thinks this is going to work.
I shine my flashlight at her and say, "This is only for the night."
"You never know" she says.

Back-story: She's from Louisiana. Last time she had to leave her house she didn't get to go back. If she's evacuating "temporarily" she's not screwing around. Who am I to argue?

Armed with our flashlight, my frozen TV dinners, and 6 overnight bags we make it down our stairs. She is grabbing on to me so tight that I'm starting to feel like her Mom. I keep reassuring her its ok. We get downstairs and we see a Con Ed truck. Salvation. I go up to the guy and tell him about our power situation.
"Did you call Con Ed?" he asked.
"Yeah Asshead", is what I'm thinking.
"Yes. But you're here, so can't you look at the fuse box or generator thingy?" I ask.
"Nah, doesn't work that way. I'm here to make sure this manhole doesn't get overheated." he says.
"What about the human beings stuck with no air or electricity? Who worries about them?" yells Louisiana.
"C'mon Lady. It sucks for everybody." he tells her.
I get Louisiana into a cab before she looses it, and we head to my co-worker's to drop off the groceries and pick up the reservation.

The drop off and pick up went smooth, but my head is about to explode. It turns out, that at a mere cost of $224.00 dollars, Louisiana and I had a reservation at the Radisson on 48th and Lexington. We get there with our reservation from Hotels.com and they have no idea who we are. They are sold out of rooms! Could this get any worse? I show them the confirmation and they get a manager. He comes out, apologizes for the confusion and tells us we will have to wait in the lobby until he can figure out what to do. I tell him we love AC and the couches look comfy so just let us know. Louisiana and I hit the couches and we are out. About 45 minutes later the manager (with security...we must look like dangerous sleepers) wakes us up and tells us he can't find a room that we requested but if we are willing to share a full size bed they can put us up for the night. I felt like there was no room at the inn and suddenly the heavens opened up and found us a full size manger. We have been blessed! It is now three in the morning. I have to be at work in seven hours, which isn't bad. I can handle it.

Louisiana and I crawl into bed. She snuggles into me. "Hey Lover!" I say, and start to cry with laughter. We can't stop laughing. We watch an episode of Becker on the hotel TV and it is the funniest show ever. That's when you know you are totally and utterly at the breaking point...when anything Ted Danson says seems like comic gold. Louisiana says she has to write a term paper on what she has learned this summer about her internship in auditing. I tell her she should write her paper on how in spite of all the obstacles this summer she still shows up at that internship in auditing. She agrees. I ask her why she wants to be an auditor anyway. She mumbles something about Sudoku puzzles and falls to sleep. Moments later she rams her knee into my ass. It's going to be a long night, but at least I'm not sweating. Even better...I think my headache is gone.

From the depths of hell (AKA my closet)

I found an amazing black silk skirt! I forgot I owned it. It was on a hanger just hanging out, but for some reason had slipped the corner of my mind which holds my pathetic inventory of clothes. It was like Christmas in July (or the first day of August to be exact). I put it on and it fit, wasn't wrinkled, didn't smell, and actually went with a top I had been wanting to wear for a while. I looked cute, it was long and flowy, and I was ready for work. Even walking down the street I felt good about my choice. I think it made me look taller, or thinner, or blonder, or something...

I get to work and soak in the compliments. "Is that new?" and "What a great outfit?" reaffirmed my confidence that I was looking good. Man, why didn't I have a date tonight? Damn. All this wasted on an office of ladies. Ladies who love me, yes. But nonetheless, not the kind of love I'm talking about. After a few hours of work, I get up from my desk and go to the bathroom. I'm in there smoothing out my skirt in front of the mirror and I run my hands over the back of my skirt and there it is. The Biggest. Rip. Ever. It's across my right butt cheek and even better...I decided to go commando today. No panties. I had my reasons. It's hot outside and the silk picked up panty lines like crazy...even on a thong. Now I panic. There's something empowering about not wearing panties and being the only one who knows, but there is something heart stopping about knowing your ass is hanging out at work and everyone can know.

I leave the bathroom and whisper to my co-worker, "Hey, do we have a sewing kit here?"
"No, dude. Why?"
"Look!" (I do the spin and she sees the damage)
"Go down to production, maybe they take a sewing kit out on shoots?" she suggests.
"Why do they need a sewing kit?" I ask.
"Who knows. But I can see your butt. Doesn't hurt to ask."
"Good point."

I walk down to production and find another co-worker who I've worked with on a few shows. Reliable. Trustworthy. A girl. Thank God! "Hey I was wondering if we have a sewing kit here?"
"Why would we have a sewing kit?"
"You know for shoots...and stuff."
"What stuff? Why would the camera guys need to sew?"
UUUUUUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!! Good point.
I explained the situation as delicately and quietly as possible. She came up with two options for me. One, was to staple the damn hole shut with a stapler. The second option was to use electrical tape. The thought of stapling a skirt and making a big hole bigger wasn't as appealing as just doing damage control with black electrical tape. If anyone wants to be stared at during a mundane day at the office, then let me highly suggest walking to the women's room with a large roll of electrical tape and a pair of scissors. You will be noticed.

I walk in there and get to work. The tape isn't sticking to the silk skirt. DAMN. The only thing that works is if I stick the electrical tape directly on to my skin. Come on!!! So now here I am, sitting at my desk with a 2 by 2 square of electrical tape on my left butt cheek. Classy. Suddenly, I don't feel as cute as I did earlier.