A WOMAN IN FULL

Monkey See, Monkey Do...

2010-03-18T10:59:00.004-04:00

I don’t know what possessed me to be up early enough to get breakfast today on the way to work. I walked in to the restaurant and got into the longest line ever. To my left were a table of “gentlemen” in business suits. One of the guys looked to his co-workers and said, “What do you think?” They all laughed and then he turned to me and said, “My secretary just quit yesterday. Interested?” His ‘boys” laughed louder – probably desperate for this Neanderthal’s approval.

At first it just didn’t register what he was saying and what kind of sexist, petty, clearly unfunny man he was – we just live in such a day and age that I assume shit like this doesn’t really happen anymore. Perhaps in movies, but certainly not in real life. Apparently I live in a bubble. I just walked out of the restaurant without ordering in shock. As I was leaving, one of the guys called out to me, “Come back! We were kidding.” Really, dickhead? Look, I’m not an expert in comedy, but I’m pretty sure jokes are supposed to be funny.

I hope his secretary found a better job and didn’t leave because he made it such a dreadful and uncomfortable place to work. I hope she one day owns the company and manages to have as many babies as she wants while running the place. I hope he loses his job and has to come back as her secretary. Then I hope she explains to him that since the economy is so bad they can only hire him for 39 hours a week so unfortunately he won’t qualify for health insurance, but there’s a great Cobra plan he can sign up for that will keep him fully insured for only 700 dollars a month which I’m sure will be so easy to afford since he will be making about 12 dollars an hour if he’s lucky. And lastly, I hope this man never has a daughter.

Smells like ...

2010-03-07T01:26:00.009-05:00

a bad joke. Yeah, I said it.

(If the video doesn't appear, just type "Nirvana On Ice - Global Warming" in the You Tube search bar-you won't regret it, I promise.)

It wasn't until about a minute and forty seconds in that I realized this was completely serious. Somewhere Kurt Cobain was crying or laughing...take your pick. What have we been reduced to as a society? Is nothing sacred? Is anyone listening to these lyrics, and if so, why is the next logical step to make this song the accompaniment to a bad ice dance? Is everyone in the crowd high? Did anyone look at each other and ask what is this guy thinking? Was his coach fired at the last minute and this is what this guy came up with? Even worse, what if he paid a coach and a choreographer to execute this hot mess of a routine? And more importantly, why did nobody question what he was wearing. He doesn't look like Kurt Cobain, A Seattle resident, an early 90's grunge devotee, or even an extra in this movie:

Instead, this skater looks like the lamest Slayer/ Scorpion fan ever. The best part of this whole routine is everytime you hear Kurt Cobain growl out the phrase "my libido" during the Smells Like Teen Spirit chorus, this asshole on skates busts out a triple axel. The nerve.

This must have been how my parents felt the first time my parents heard Revolution by The Beatles playing on a Nike ad...

There are things I'm afraid of...

2010-01-12T21:01:00.000-05:00

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

2008-07-02T00:44:00.006-04:00

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...

2008-06-24T23:44:00.004-04:00

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

2008-06-19T01:26:00.004-04:00

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'

2008-06-05T15:37:00.002-04:00

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!

2008-06-04T13:12:00.010-04:00

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

2008-06-03T13:10:00.002-04:00

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....

You Gotta Represent.

2008-06-02T17:10:00.007-04:00

I spent the weekend in Sunset Park helping some friends with their stoop sale. It’s the New York equivalent of a yard sale but unfortunately, yards are something of an anomaly here in the city (that’s why we have parks) so you just put all your shit on your stoop and hope for the best. Now I never venture out to Brooklyn and what little knowledge I know of Sunset Park came from this little gem of a movie. Needless to say, Rhea Perlman and Carol Kane were no shows to the bargain fest where everything was priced to move for only 25 cents an item.

But who did show up, was this crazy little Latino grandma who had a million questions. Since I spent one glorious summer as a foreign exchange student in Mexico I by default was deemed by my peers as the official translator of the stoop. My translating went like this…

Me: "Como say di say ‘quarter’?” Cinquenta?

Stranger on the street trying to help me help the Abuela who’s looking through the junk at the stoop sale: “No that’s fifty”.

Friends having the stoop sale: “I thought you could speak Spanish?”

Me (to friends having stoop sale): “No. You said I could speak Spanish. I’m here for the Bloody Mary’s. Why am I the one selling your shit?”

Friend having the stoop sale: "What do you think is paying for the Bloody Mary’s?"

Abuela trying to buy shit: “No entiendes.”

Me: “Me either- Lo siento. Take everything and give me a quarter.”

Done. Or so I thought.

It turned out that the abuela didn’t leave. She was crazy town. Every time somebody would come by the stoop to look at something she would take it out of their hands and claim it was hers. I have never seen anything like it. We kept giving each other the ‘what do we do” face, because none of us knew how to handle the situation. The final straw was when an Asian woman who was looking at a puzzle priced at (you guessed it - a quarter!) became shell-shocked when the sweet little crazy ass abuela who we thought was “no habla ingles” turns to her and says “Hey China, go away, this mine.” The stoop sale was about to go down in flames. So my friend says to me, “Hey ‘Said’, go tell that lady she can’t call Asian people Chinese!”
“What? Fine. This is ridiculous.” I said, “But then what?”
“Then tell her to leave if she’s going to say racist shit and steal from the customers.”
“But I can’t speak that much Spanish’ I said.
“Do it.” They said, and proceeded to withhold my bloody mary until they saw results.
So I approached the abuela and said very quietly to her, “That puzzle costs three dollars.”

That’s all it took. She looked at me cross eyed and slung the trash bag of clothing she had swiped from other customers over her shoulder and walked off. I went back to the stoop and my friends were staring at me. “What did you say to her?” they asked. “Nothing. Just what you told me to say,” I responded casually as I poured my self a fresh bloody mary from the pitcher. But the truth was far more nefarious, because if there are two things I know about crazy people it’s this: Don’t mess with the prices at a stoop sale, and don’t withhold a bloody mary from a woman with a bitch of a hangover.

You Gotta Represent.

Textual Healing...

2008-05-29T17:11:00.004-04:00

I recently stopped seeing a guy because he texted me all the time. ALL THE TIME. I miss him but my thumbs don't. My only pride saver was that I told him we shouldn't see each other anymore by text. I thought for sure that would show him! I was trying to make a point that the texting had taken it's toll on me, but instead I just got a text back from him accusing me of having a "Sex and the City" moment. He tried to one up my break-up text with another text...I had to get out before carpal tunnel set in.

What's a matter with people now a days? I think technology is making us stupider. Spellcheck means people don't have to learn how a word is actually spelled. Calculators mean people don't have to learn how to do basic arithmatic. And worse, text messaging makes something as simple as a "Goodnight Call" obsolete. Now perhaps, Men Love Bitches and He's Just Not That Into Me but I would never admit that...the problem was his texting. I'm sure he was in love with me. They all are. It was the texting. Yeah, that's it...

Oh lord.

Reasons to Be Ashamed (A Photo Essay)

2008-05-28T14:44:00.007-04:00

This morning I woke up and decided to skip my

Which would have been fine except I forgot that this guy

is coming in to do interviews today.

As a result, I've decided to hide in my

To avoid running into that guy I ordered delivery of

But unfortunately, it didn't agree with me so I've spent most of the day in here

Which would have been fine except I'm wearing

so now everyone who could see my feet in there is stopping by here to ask me if I'm ok.

Awesome.

Let's Get it On ...

2008-05-27T16:00:00.007-04:00

I got a job promotion with too much writing. Then I got a job as a writer. Then I felt lazy when it came to writing anything not work related. Then I hated myself for neglecting my little bloggie. Then I wrote this....I come back to you with no fan fare. No fancy stories. No nuthin'. if anyone checks in...here goes.

My friend called me recently to tell me that he's in therapy because his ex-girlfriend told him right before she dumped him that he had a small dick. Yes, you read that right. During our phone conversations, which typically happen in the middle of the night when he's tipsy or pacing in front of his apartment building chain smoking, my friend likes to tell me true confessions. The conversations usually happen 3-4 times a year but they are jam-packed with me silently wondering, "What the F*ck is he going on about?" This was one of those moments...I mean, who says that? Is that kind of brutal honesty in personal relationships common? Wowza!

First of all, screw that girl. Maybe he does have a small one. Oh well. I'm not sure, and it's not exactly on my "to-do" list for the 2008-09 season. But the kicker of it was they dated for years and then she decides to tell him. Like her final way of saying, I'm leaving for a lot of reasons but the big one (or little one as she's claiming) is the one thing he can't change. It just seems all sorts of wrong.

Second of all, whatever happened to just parting ways with no one worse for the wear. Isn't there such a thing as too much honesty? If I ask someone, "Hey, do I look fat in this dress?" (Which by the way, I never have because I don't want to know the damn answer...) BUT if I did, would it hurt for someone to just say "It looks perfect on YOU" - that way you aren't categorically denying the fat part but you're not playing it up either- Eh, I like a little sugar with my truth that's all.

Third of all, I google searched "too honest" and I found this Cosmo quiz called : "Are You Too Honest?" Here's a mind-blowing sample question...

1) When you go to pick up your recently dumped pal, she's slobbed out. You say:

A) "Are you trying to stay single forever? Go put on something sexy."

B) "Oh, you can't wear that --- I'll look like I'm dressed like a tart next to you! Pretty please, go put on a skirt, as a favor to me?"

c) "You look adorable."

As far as I'm concerned, if you say any of those three things to your recently dumped pal, you're probably:

A) stupid.
B) a madam.
or
C) a patronizing ass.

I thought this quiz question would help, but I think it muddied up what I was trying to say -but that's what I get for trying to reference a cosmo quiz to illustrate a point. The same thing happens when I read that magazine - I get mad and I don't feel smarter. The point is this, be kind people. Even sarcastic cynics like myself can muster that up on a daily basis especially when I can see someone's down. If I may be so brave as to quote the great Marvin Gaye, "We're all sensitive people..."

Now act like it, dammit.

There Is Nothing Funny About Baklava

2007-06-25T12:41:00.000-04:00

Witness me bombing on IM...guess my sense of humor does not translate very well.

"Said" says:
Have you gone to Europe yet?

Greek dude says:
actually i plan on going to greece for a week in october mostly to take care of some family business

"Said" says:
oh cool. what do you have to do there?

"Said" says:
make sure the baklava factory is up to code?

Greek dude says:
My parents want to take care of some family affairs with me there basically

"Said" says:
baklava factory was funny.

"Said" says:
come on

Greek dude says:
yeah assuming they still make baklava there greece is slowly changing within the european union

Greek dude says:
def not the place my parents left in 1970

"Said" says:
oh

10 minutes pass

"Said" says:
Good luck with the baked goods.

Greek dude says:
What are you talking about?

Liars, And Tigers, And Bears...Oh My!

2007-06-22T12:06:00.000-04:00

In third grade my teacher was Mrs. Hallardin. She was the worst when it came to teaching math. She taught me all of my subjects unfortunately, so let's just say it was a bad year. One time, she asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. I said a lawyer. (Did I necessarily want to be a lawyer? No. Did it sound respectable at the time? Yes. I also thought LA LAW was a cool grown-up show...we all make mistakes.) She then said, "Lots of liars are lawyers." So basically I was dealing with a passive nightmare of a teacher at 8 years old. Was I a liar? not really. Let's just say, that at my elementary school they offered student club activities during the school day...in my mind (and in what I thought was a brilliant attempt at avoiding schoolwork/verbal abuse) I thought I was a member of every single club and was repeatedly chased down by Mrs. Hallardin and brought back into class.

Picture me 20 some years younger jazz boxing my little heart out...

INT. SCHOOL GYMNASIUM / STAGE - DAY

"Said" Woman is 8 years old in pig tails learning choreography for the elementary school spring production of "The Wizard of Oz". As a member of the "lollipop guild" she has just been given a solo and couldn't be happier that she doesn't have to do her times tables back in the classroom like all the other chumps.

Enter Mrs. Hallardin looking frazzled, dour, and angry because she had to walk somewhere.

Mrs. Hallardin
What do you think you are doing young lady?

"Said"
I'm rehearsing my part.

Mrs. Hallardin
You should be rehearsing math with the rest of the class.

"Said"
...but I thought the munchkins always rehearse on Wednesdays.

Mrs. Hallardin
They do, but you were just here at the flying monkey rehearsal on Tuesday.

"Said"
(mumbles under her breath)

Dreamkiller.

8 year old "Said" walks back to class with her head hung low as Mrs. Hallardin follows her closely behind. "Said" has been beaten this time, but secretly she's smiling on the inside because she knows that no matter what, she won't be like Mrs. Hallardin when she grows up with her white button down shrirts tucked into her ankle length skirts and her glasses that hang so far down on the tip of her nose that people spend more time wondering if they are going to fall off her face and be crushed by her mammoth sized feet than what she is actually trying to teach. ( OK...Maybe I got a little carried away here at the end.)

FIN

Thus began my career as an activity strong / GPA weak student. I swear all of the above really happened (except for the last line). Truth be told, I was the best damn flying monkey ever and the lollipop guild sucked without me.

Why O Why...

2007-06-20T11:58:00.000-04:00

I'd like to take a moment to talk about my favorite baseball team "The O's". I've loved the Orioles since I was a kid. I was born in Baltimore, and no matter where the military sent us or what country we were living in, watching the Orioles on TV made me feel like I had a connection to home. My first fish was black and orange and I named him Earl Weaver. I really believed Cal Ripken, Jr. was the mayor. Seriously, the first man I ever saw in his panties was Jim Palmer in those damn Jockey ads. (Yes, I called them panties, because if I have to use that awful word, then so do you.) Singing the National Anthem was the best because every time the word "O" as in "O say does that star spangled..." came up I'd scream it at the top of my lungs just like they do at Memorial Stadium, before it became the greatest place on earth - Camden Yards. It was like you could scream for your country and your favorite baseball team at the same time. Not many teams can boast that!

So on Monday morning, I received an emergency text message from my brother, "Perlozzo got canned...the bullpen coach is the interim manager while they look for a replacement...yet another sad day in Baltimore for O's fans." I took a moment to reflect on the constant disappointment which has been my loyalty to this damn team. It's been a rough decade to say the least. The last nine seasons have been losing seasons for us, and we're currently in last place in the AL East. Who are we, the Cubs? I don't want a legacy of pity. That's right, I said it. What's going to happen? Vince Vaughn, John Cusack, and Jeremy Piven are going to start crying? Enough. I'm almost starting to believe that the Orioles are just afraid of success.

In a recent interview with our newly canned manager, he was quoted, "I'd been in the organization a long time, so I pretty much knew what I was getting into," Perlozzo said Tuesday. "I felt I could make a difference. I truly believed I was the guy that could do it." I believed it too Sam. So long buddy. You did your best. Now come on guys, get your crap together and start winning something. The best year of my life can not be 1983.

Vintage Jim Palmer just because....

Revoke My Girl Card Now...

2007-06-15T13:20:00.001-04:00

I'm a bad girl. Not a "bad girl" in a sexy way, rather I do a bad job of being "girly". I am subjected to conversing with members of my sex all the time, but the thing is, I don't get what the heck most of my peeps are talking about. I spend most of the time smiling, nodding, and getting in one or two smart ass comments so it looks like I've been there the whole time. I'm starting to feel guilty that I could care less about "what guys are thinking" and "how many calories are in pudding pops"...seriously, these are conversations I've witnessed and/or have forced to be a part of because I physically can't pick up my desk, bar stool, or my seat on the subway and move it somewhere else. I've decided I can no longer live a lie and I need to confess a few things.

1) I have never dieted for bikini season/ wedding season/ hunting season by "starving" myself. When you confess that you are doing this, I don't think it is cute. It scares me. When I don't eat I get a headache and my hands start to shake. How can that be attractive?

2) Everything I know about sex I learned in comedy clubs and listening to girls talk. My Mom told me nothing about sex. Until college the only gyno I saw was a military doctor on an Army base. He didn't tell me anything either. In fact, I think just me being there made him nervous.

3) Pastels hurt my eyes.

4) There is no secret product that gives me thick hair or skinny legs. It's called genetics. I swear I'm not withholding information as a way to one up you with my beauty regime.

5) I hate shopping. The thought makes my stomach churn. In fact, I just learned that Pucci is not a typo for Gucci.

6) Most of the time, when someone tells me they are about to PMS I take this as a lame advance apology, warning me for the bitchy behavior that they will soon be displaying.

7) I didn't know what granny panties were until someone asked me why I wear them.

8) I have never craved chocolate or ice cream.

9) If you have to constantly tell people how amazing your boyfriend /husband/partner/fuckbuddy is, it eventually starts to sound like the only person you are trying to convince is yourself.

10) Babies are loud. I don't look at one and think, "Oh how cute"... I think, "How heavy is it?" I don't want to hurt my back if I'm expected to pick it up and coo and cuddle with it. I can barely feed myself, how am I supposed to feed a baby.

11) Apparently as I was typing this someone was talking to me. I didn't hear anything until they yelled, "You don't listen. You're like a MAN." So add that to the list then. But chances are, they were talking about some girly crap I could care less about. So I feel lucky.

Oh well.

Pusher Man

2007-06-12T21:37:00.000-04:00

Every month I have to go to the pharmacy and deal with Abu. I don't know where he's from, how he got to NYC, or how he became my pharmacist. It wasn't my choice I assure you. One day he just showed up and he's been enraging me ever since. All I need from Abu are two things...headache medicine for my constant migraines and birth control for my constant need to not get pregnant. Instead I get thinly veiled insults and have to witness him humiliating customers left and right.

Last month when I picked up my birth control he wished me Happy Mother's Day. I mean really. He has my pharmaceutical history and my age right in front of him. He knows the deal. It would currently be impossible for me to have kids considering how long I've been taking BC (or as I like to call them, "Adult Breath Mints") but he still insists on saying Happy Mother's Day. It's like his little jab letting me know that I should be having kids by now and I should just get on with it. He also likes to tell me that for my age I shouldn't be getting these headaches. What the hell. Abu is not my mom. He also likes to tell me that I spend way too much for my prescriptions. Apparently he likes to moonlight as a middle eastern Suze Orman. What is he? Moroccan Medicaid?

The best was when he announced to all of the customers waiting for their prescriptions (because everyone waits for their prescriptions when Abu is involved - even if you call it in ahead of time) "Excuse me, but who here is waiting for the Valtrex?" Holy hell. Even more shocking was the girl who admitted it...wow. Brave soul. But I guess if I was waiting for more than half an hour in the back of an overheated drug store, I'd bite the bullet too, and just do what it takes to get the prescription and run. (I'd also like to make a note that the girl who picked up the Valtrex for what I can only assume is a raging case of herpes was gorgeous. One of the prettiest girls I'd seen. I felt bad for her. She probably trusted somebody enough to let them give her the herp...then I started to get really angry. Like there should be some law punishing people who knowingly give someone an STD...that's a whole other post. I am getting off track.)

See how enraged this little guy makes me! I'm starting to think Abu knows what he's doing. He's not stupid. The smart thing would be to switch pharmacies, I know. But it's so close to my apartment and I was there before Abu ever was...

Venting and Blinking

2007-06-04T16:33:00.000-04:00

I rarely know what the kids are into now a days. I'm a simple girl really. The fact that I can figure out how to write a post still amazes me. After a year of blog surfing, I have noticed on the margins of many blogs are these little icons that flash cutesy pie messages, appropriately called "blinkies". For your viewing pleasure, I have found 10 "blinkies" that are God-awful. If you have one of these damn things on your blog (specifically one of the top 10 worst I could find), stop it now.

1)

(If you love watching Will and Grace reruns to the point where you have to have a blinking message that subtley announces your passion for bad puns and regurgitated stereotypes, then you problem isn't your flamboyance-it's your bad taste in safe comedy that considers itself "edgy".)

2)

(Wow... you are sexually daring and you can write! I bet you love Sex and the City too! In fact, I bet every sentence you write ends in an exclamation point or three!!! Your blog is probably full of bad date recaps and crazy hook-ups that leave you so ashamed the only way to purge yourself is to anonymously confess your indiscretions to the entire Internet!)

3)

(If you call it a live journal, you are probably too dorky to be entertaining. I'll probably be subjected to random pictures of your cats in "holiday themed"costumes if I continue reading your blog.)

4)

( You my friend are a different kind of dorky if you need to put this "blinkie" on your blog. You are "convention" dorky. You probably speak Klingon and have a dusty basement full of things you collect.)

5)

(How can you even be on the Internets, yo'? You aren't even allowed to have electricity. I saw the movie WITNESS - I know what's up. Stop blogging and get back to milking.)

6)

(What's a matter with you? Why would you advertise sub-par fish meal that vaguely resembles sea-food for free on your blog? If the "blinkie" said "I love the cheddar biscuits at Red Lobster", then maybe I could understand. Maybe. But chances are, you probably consider White Castle fine dining, in which case you are a lost cause.)

7)

(Unless you are Prince, there is no excuse for this proclamation.)

8)

(This is so disturbing I don't know what to say. Even if you are NINEteen it still borders on some type of legal infringement. All it says to me is, "I went to high school, sat through sex ed., and all I got was this screaming baby." Unless of course you are an amazing time traveler who is actually writing a blog from the late 1800's and your life expectancy is only until the age of 22...then I apologize.)

9)

(This is only cool if you are from New Jersey. Actually, I take that back. This is never cool.)

10)

(Gross. Keep that kind of La Leche crap to yourself. Sometimes I try to eat while I'm reading blogs and this is going to make me sick on my keyboard. Fight for your right to breast feed in public all you want- but trust me, your kid does not want the world to know how long it sat on your teet.)

Secret Weapon

2007-06-01T18:55:00.001-04:00

I joined a softball team and we had our first game this afternoon in Central Park.

The good news: fresh air and summer fun!
The bad news: the opposing team brings this guy:

After the shock and awe of trying to hit a pitch off this guy settles in, all your left with is the lingering feeling that this "amatuer, casual, pick-up game" in the park is not going to end well...let's just say that if you witness the umpire asking for an autograph for his "son" before the game even starts, any hope of receiving some fair officiating is probably out the window.

And forget about any kind of support coming from the guys on our team! You would think Jessica Alba was on the pitching mound in a bikini with the way they all kept staring and smiling at sweet little Tiki. I've never seen men make googly eyes at other men before until this afternoon. We even had a guy get tagged out at first because he was too busy staring and didn't know the batter behind him was trying to get to first. It was a bad scene.

I think the game was called due to a new rule I learned about called "the gong rule". Apparently, if you are trailing by an obscene amount of runs with no hope of catching up they call the game out of pity. Who are the umps to decide that we have no hope of catching up when the score was only 16-3. Oh ye of little faith!

And another thing, to the photographers that showed up and started taking pictures...if I end up in US Weekly in the background of some "Oh look how down to earth famous people are" photo spread, just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time wearing black spandex and my mother's white reebok's... be afraid. there will be hell to pay.

Lullaby of Broadway

2007-05-29T11:59:00.000-04:00

Rosie O'Donnell is slowly killing me. She just bought the building across the street from my apartment and every morning at some god awful hour the jack hammers start blasting away at the concrete. It's so loud that I have to move out of my bedroom and finish my beauty sleep on the couch in the living room before I peel myself off the couch and try to head to work with a pounding migraine. My roommate has also given in to sleeping on the other couch in the living room to gain some sense of quiet. I looked over at her this morning and she had two bottles of Corona resting on each eye socket to dull the pain of her throbbing head. Now it's getting ridiculous. We're forced to use beer to take away the pain and it's not even 7 in the morning! This can't go on forever, I tell myself. After all there is only so much concrete in New York City, right? I mean eventually they are going to hit earth and the madness will be over. Dear God, please tell me the madness will soon be over! I want to call the police. I want to report the injustice. But the sign on the building says, "Future Home of Rosie's Broadway Kids, " and I feel like a jerk for even getting mad. Who doesn't like Rosie, Broadway, and Kids. So I lie there sleepless and take it. It's all for a good cause I tell myself. I can support this...for now. Say what you will about Rosie and her infamous feuds...Rosie vs. Hasselback, Rosie vs. Trump...but last time I checked neither of those other folks (including the real estate billionaire himself) bought a building and turned it around to provide a place for kids to do something constructive. So I will lie there with the pillow pressed against my ears and pray for the drilling to stop. But mark my words, the moment I hear any off key songs from the musical "Annie" being performed by screeching ankle biting children who claim to be the future stars of Broadway wafting into my apartment - I will call the police, because you can't murder show tunes like that and expect to get away with it.

The Dog Ate My Homework?

2007-05-23T11:42:00.000-04:00

I was sent to California. Then I was sent to Ohio. I got put in charge of the bowling team. I've been studying for the LSAT's but I don't know if I really want to go to law school. I got a promotion. My Mom had a cancer scare. I went to the Kentucky Derby. My cousin got in a car accident. His grandmother got in a car accident. My computer has been running slow. Something is up with my right calf muscle. Work is trying to send me on a seven city bus tour to interview crazy people. I was walking past a police station and a guy in a McDonald's uniform grabbed my boobs. I just found out from Oprah that 90% of all human beings have parasites that live in their bodies. It's been stressful. I might laugh. I might cry.

Horoscopes Don't Lie

2007-03-01T21:38:00.000-05:00

So this was my horoscope for the day....

Virgo
August 23 - September 21

A family member or other loved one may not be telling you the truth. In their defense, they likely think they are protecting you by shielding you from the truth. This is a time for you to trust your instincts, dear Virgo. If you are told something that simply doesn't ring true, check out the information yourself rather than accepting it at face value.

I have spent my day systematically calling everyone I know and accused them of being liars.

These Boots Are Made For Walkin'

2007-02-23T11:41:00.000-05:00

I work next to a shoe store. I always walk past it but never go in. We were given discount cards for the store as long as we can provide a work ID, so I thought, "Ok, enough is enough." As much as I hate shopping, I love cheap stuff.

I found a great pair of heels. Here's the problem- Jessica Simpson makes them. I imagine she piles all her extensions onto the top of her head with a scrunchie and hunches over a pile of red patent pleather and leopard print material and somehow manages to cobble up a shoe design from the back of John Mayer's tour bus. Then she ships the mock up to a factory in Japan where John translates her order in Japanese. It's a hobby, but a very lucrative one I'm sure. Somebody's got to foot the bill for all those dinners at Koi and Mr. Chow's.

She's got collagen looks, bleached out real and fake hair, big boobies, never has been caught lip-synching, a cute boy band ex-husband, a tall grammy winning current boyfriend, a wig business, a shoe line, and a hot Dad who has highlights. If I buy those hooker shoes, can they guarantee me that much fabulousness? If so, I'll take two pairs.

Sleeping With The Fishes...

2007-02-19T11:04:00.000-05:00

"He's not slow, he's just Southern."

That's what I would say whenever people stopped by to tell me that my Siamese Fighting Fish was not a "quick swimmer". He was a shade of magnificent blue and had gills that expanded with so much air that he looked like he could take on the world. He didn't need to move fast. He was a Prince, and royalty can take their time.

I bought him on Friday. That's right, Friday...and that little dude is D-E-A-D. DEAD. Don't judge me. I can keep plants alive for over a year so this can't be pinned on me. I am a nurturer. I don't even talk shit in front of my plants because I heard or read once that they are sensitive to what they hear, and that's hard for me because I am a shit- talker.

We had 24 hours together me and that little guy. You should have seen the way he lit up an office cube. People couldn't get enough of that guy. I have no idea what he must have gone through this weekend all alone. When I found him he was pinned between the glass on the side of the tank and the rock on the bottom of the tank. Anyone who tells you that you can't die between a rock and a hard place is a damn liar. He lived a solitary life, but he had to have it that way. Johnny at Petland told me so. I bought my little fishy the best tank. The best. He had a water purifier, gourmet Betta food, and a night light to keep him cozy. I spent 54 dollars on that little guy.

People have been kind. They keep me from wallowing in my sadness by filling the silence with small talk and munchies from Pax. They speak of my dear fishy in only the highest regard. People tell me that I did all that I could. Perhaps he missed his home back in...Siam? My boss has even stopped by to say sorry. I'm touched. There is a viewing until 1:00PM proceeded by a flushing/ "burial at sea" shortly after. Then I have to go back to the pet store to get my refund.

Good night, Raleigh "Woofy" McKutchin, my sweet Prince. You were not long for this world.

Miscellaneous...

2007-02-18T13:42:00.000-05:00

I wish my Aunt would get a new portable phone for her house. It's so big and has one of those metal antennas you have to pull out to get reception. Every time I dial a number I feel like I am unknowingly typing in a code that will detonate a bomb in some far off place.

Keep Your Head Down and Your Heart Open...

2007-02-14T11:10:00.000-05:00

Everything I need to know about love I learned from Renee Zellweger. She has taught me all types of things. The most important lesson being the classic "damsel" pose. Keep your head down but keep your eyes up...kind of like an expectant puppy waiting for a treat. Guys love that pose. She even used it in her wedding photo. So hence, proof that it works. Classic.

The first lesson I learned began with her character Dorothy Boyd in Jerry Maguire. Remember, if your man has a dream, believe in it. What? You want me to leave my job and work for your crackpot agency that may or may not have health insurance? Sure babe. It sounds like an amazing idea! You can do it. I believe. I will defend you to every cynic I know!

Dorothy Boyd: I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.

Cue: Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen

( Remember girls...head down!)

The second lesson I learned was that sometimes your man says some silly stuff when things get bad. If you find yourself in this situation and worry that what he says will have irreperable damage that will cause you to view him as pathetic cut him off and stroke his ego.

Jerry Maguire: I love you. You...complete me.

Dorothy Boyd: Shut up. Just shut up. You had me at "hello."

Cue: Secret Garden swelling to a heartbreaking crescendo.

The third lesson I learned was taught to me by Renee's character Mae Braddock in Cinderella Man. When your man is hurting, let him know that you hurt too.

Mae Braddock: Every time you get hit, feels like I'm getting hit too.

(Seriously, keep your head down or he won't believe a single word coming out of your mouth!)

In addition, Cinderella Man also taught me that even if I understand what my man does for a living, I should never really "get it". That way he always feels like he's a bit smarter. If at any point I feel like I'm getting too uppity I should remind him that he's the king.

Mae Braddock: Maybe I don't understand, some, about having to fight. So you just remember who you are...you're the Bulldog of Bergen and the Pride of New Jersey, you're everybody's hope, and the kids' hero, and you are the champion of my heart, James J. Braddock.

But probably the most important lesson ever instilled in me came from the animated film Shark Tale. Yes, even as a fish named Angie, Renee knows how to get her man. That's no small feat considering the rival fish was played by Angelina Jolie. But Renee did it with the classic, "I was here the whole time" bit. Well played Renee!

Angie: Are you that blind?

Oscar: At least she treats me like I'm somebody!

Angie: Yeah, well would she love you if you were a nobody?

Oscar: NOBODY loved me when I was a nobody!

Angie: I DID!

(See, even if you wind up as a fish suffering from unrequited love, keep your head down. Love will find you!)

Happy Valentine's Day!

Lies, Love, and Lipitor

2007-02-13T12:34:00.000-05:00

My mother is big on secrets…sort of. There always seems to be some little piece of information that comes to light that she has been withholding for years that more often than not has little to no importance, but sooner or later I find out about. There was the time in college that I went out with a group of kids from Greece and spoke in Greek with them. When I asked for the bathroom I was asking for the “place”. When I made a joke about a penis (Yes, I have always been a class act) I kept calling it “the thing”. When the kids explained to me what I was really saying I was so embarrassed. I called my Mom to ask her why she taught my brother and I “Baby Greek”. She responded, “Who needs to learn bad words so they can talk like that, anyway?” Huh? Good plan, Mom.

Last night I received a call from my cousin who’s a doctor. My Mom called him because she’s worried about my migraines and cholesterol level. Apparently when it comes to my medical woes, she definitely can’t keep a secret. My cousin tells me that everyone in my family (including my Mom) has high cholesterol and I shouldn’t worry, I just need to get on meds. What? My Mom has high cholesterol? When was she going to tell me? I walk out of the doctor’s office in a panic because he informs me that I have the cholesterol level of a Grandpa who has been eating rare steak and eggs for breakfast for the past 80 years, and she can’t speak up to say, “Don’t worry hon, it runs in the family.” Instead she accuses me of gorging on a wine and cheese diet, and keeps mum on the fact that she’s been on meds for high cholesterol since God knows when.

I get off the phone with my cousin and call my Mom to ask her why she’s failed to mention that high cholesterol runs in the family and she responds with, “Why would I tell you about Uncle Tony, he’s not a blood relative. He married into the family.” Again, WHAT? I call to ask her about her cholesterol and she manages to continue withholding and hang another relative out to dry. Very sneaky. I try to end the conversation by saying that from now on, so that we don’t get sidetracked, we need to have a theme for our phone calls. Tonight’s theme is “You need to disclose immediate family medical history starting now”. I ask her to repeat the theme to confirm that she understands the gist of the call. She repeats, “So you want me to tell you stuff”. Ummmmm…close. It’s not exactly what I’m asking her for, but it’s a start. Later that night she texts me, “I think Zza Zza’s goofball husband just wants that baby’s inheritance and so he threw his hat in the ring just in case he has the magic DNA.” Ummmmm….once again, I see there has been some miscommunication. I requested her to disclose OUR immediate family’s medical history and she gives me pressing DNA information regarding Anna Nicole’s baby. Very, very, sneaky, Mom. I’m on to you.

My Gift To You...

2007-02-07T12:51:00.000-05:00

I am a kind person. Some may go so far as to say I am one of the most generous people they know. A perfect example of my generosity would be my “Nick’s Valentine” pajamas that I have been trying to give away since about this time last year. Was it my smartest purchase ever? No. Was it my most inebriated purchase ever? Undoubtedly, Yes. By purchasing these PJ’s that I thought would be “oh so cute and funny” to wear on Valentine’s Day for “Nick the Dick” which trust me, was a definite step up from “Chuck the Fuck” I was in turn buying a one way ticket for chick-flick Friday’s and being set up on some of the worst dates ever. Back to my generosity…

Nick is a common name. A few of my friends have dated people named Nick and I always get excited because finally I can give these PJ’s away. A male co-worker had a friend named Nick and as a favor to me, tried to give the PJ’s to him, to give to the girl he was dating. It must be a curse, because these PJ’s have been given away three times and the relationships have yet to last to a single Valentine’s Day. The PJ’s keep coming back to me like a damn boomerang. They have never been worn, so this year I am trying something new…If you are dating someone named Nick who is a real jerk, or have a friend named Nick who is dating a girl he can do much better than…give them these PJ’s. The relationship will be over before you know it and everything in your life will be back to normal. Ladies, you will get your life back and gentleman, you will get your drinking buddy back and free from that chick who was killing his spirit. Consider it a gift from me...

They Say A Big Storm Is Coming to Florida This Weekend

2007-02-02T11:52:00.000-05:00

Yay! Superbowl weekend is here and I couldn’t be more apathetic about the whole thing. Now before you go thinking “Wow! A girl who hates the Superbowl. How original.” Let me clarify…I love sports. If there is an office pool, I’m in it. If it’s March Madness, I’m probably in charge of brackets. My love of sports is two fold…I love teams from places I’ve lived, and I really love any team that happens to be playing any of my ex-boyfriends favorite teams. There is nothing better after a hard day than curling up on my couch with a glass of wine, turning on Sportscenter, and checking in to see which of my ex-boyfriend’s is having a bad night because their beloved (insert name of random sports team here) have gotten their asses kicked.

So here’s the problem with this year’s Superbowl. We have the Chicago Bears playing the Indianapolis Colts. A few years ago, I lived in Chicago so I should be loving the Bears. I remember at one point in my childhood, before I even understood what the song was about, I could sing every word to the “Superbowl Shuffle”. I remember my Mom being half-mortified when she saw me dancing around the house like Walter Payton in my PJ’s singing,

“Well, they call me Sweetness and I like to dance,
running the ball is like making romance”!

I say she was only half-mortified because nothing compared to the time I brought a boom box down to the dining room during a dinner party and began lip-synching to the soundtrack to “Purple Rain.” But I digress. The point is, I have a couple of ex’s lurking around Chicago and even a recent New Yorker who is probably still wearing the “Property of the Chicago Bears” sweatshirt that I bought him last Christmas, who are really rooting for the Bears. This does not sit well with me.

On the other side is the Indianapolis Colts. As someone who was born in Baltimore, I am morally opposed to any success the Colts may achieve. When the Colts knocked the Ravens out of the playoffs this year, I wrestled with quiet fury. It was as if Baltimore had knocked Baltimore out of the playoffs. Unacceptable. Even as a Greek, I continue to have a hard time sporting our traditional flag colors of blue and white because I don’t want to ever be mistaken for a Colts fan.

So here I am. Stuck in the middle. There will be no sweet victory for me. Unless of course I relish in the bloating of bingeing on 7 layer dip and drinking my weight in alcohol, or I win in the office pool. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it can sure make the pain a bit easier.

Fashion Victim

2007-01-31T12:15:00.000-05:00

I find the over-fashionable to be boring and pathetic. It seems to me that all the bells and whistles that come with fancy clothes really boil down to a beautiful distraction. Yeah silly girl, there is a situation in Darfur but first make sure you get on the waiting list for that 1,000 dollar purse!

This used to never bother me until I had to be confronted with the over-fashionable on a daily basis. I have to share office space with a magazine that deals in all things high fashion and culture. So the conversation in the halls, if you happen to run into one of these fashion drones and are forced to make small talk, tends to be vapid and leaves you feeling dirty and a little less intelligent. It’s like everyone on my floor came out of central casting for “The Devil Wears Prada” and “Ugly Betty”. Until I saw it with my own eyes I would have gone on thinking those shows were filled with sweeping generalizations and overblown stereotypes. Nope. Those people exist, and the girls pee on the seat in the bathroom (Too much information? Perhaps, but I’m doing everything in my power to demystify these heathens.)

Now, there is one straight guy who works in that office so heaven forbid if the girls he works with see you talking to him. It’s like those girls are plotting something very weird for him and he has no idea. When he walks past me I tend to turn into the wall of the hallway and pretend to really be interested in bad office art, to avoid any menial conversation that will in turn make me a target for a bunch of mean girls. He stopped me once in the kitchen to tell me I was wearing a great t-shirt. I responded by saying, “No. It’s stupid.” Great answer! I was mortified and didn’t leave my office for the rest of the day. God knows what he must have thought, but he had no idea that by speaking to me he was putting my life in jeopardy.

This morning I witnessed one of the fashionistas asking my co-worker who her colorist was, because she was looking for something a little more boring to do with her hair. My co-worker responded, “This is my natural color.” Awkward.

Suddenly the fashionistas focus in the work kitchen shifted to me:

“Oh my God, who makes those boots? They are great!”

Why are they asking me, I just want some water.

“Ummmm….You mean the name of the cobbler?” I asked, innocently. I always say, veiled sarcasm is the best deflector.

They just stared. They must think cobbler is a dessert and I’m stupid. Fine. I left the kitchen remarkably unscathed. While I shouldn't’t value their opinion, I couldn't’t help it. I went straight to the bathroom and lifted my leg on the sink counter so I could see my boots and thought to myself, “Yeah, those bitches are right. These really are great boots!” I guess in the end, sometimes I like being vapid too.

New Year, New Fear

2007-01-29T11:38:00.000-05:00

I have a fear of driving. I'm not afraid of much in this world, but driving scares the bejesus out of me. For the record, I went to take my driver's test when I was 16 wearing a mini-skirt and a white blouse that was as see through as I could get without my mother losing her mind. Not one of my finest moments, but I was desperate. Up until my having to take the exam, my only experience behind the wheel, was driving once on a Kentucky highway that the locals affectionately called "Dixie Dieway" while my Mom screamed in terror while simultaneously my brother screamed at her for making him come along and put his life on the line "before the big game on Friday". Strong support system, I tell ya'. Surely with that much driving practice under my belt, passing the exam was going to be a piece of cake.

During the exam, I felt that I was taking way to long to parallel park and I was compensating by giggling at the instructor's bad jokes. At the end of the exam, my instructor asked me to stay in the car while he spoke to my mother privately. It was one of those moments when I could hear the blood pumping in my head. I was trying to read lips but I got nothing. In my mind the conversation went along the lines of the instructor telling my Mom, "Ma'am, your daughter is dressed like a low-rent flooze. This is the DMV. We have standards, you know." Whatever was said between the two of them I'll never know. My mother's version is that the conversation went like this, "She shouldn't ever get behind the wheel of a big car like the Jeep you have her in now. She should only drive in emergency situations." To this day I say bullsh*t, but it's hard to call your parents out on the white lies when you're dressed like Britney Spears coming off a three day bender. I never got behind the wheel again...that is until yesterday.

I had enough of waiting to learn how to drive all over again. I suddenly found myself screwed, because my new promotion (*ahem* different job title same pay) at work requires me to fly to places and (gulp) drive! So, I went to Budget, rented a car, and went for a drive. My friends were all shocked and quietly worried for me. I brought along my roomie for support and paid through the nose for every bit of insurance those car rental places dole out. I think I bought so much insurance that even if I hit a deer, Budget would remove the carcass, turn it into deer jerky, and donate it to the food kitchen of my choice. Manhattan driving was the easiest. I got to yell at tourists, honk at cabs, and shake my head in disapproval at the horse-drawn carriages. The one thing I know is nobody ever really crashes their car in Manhattan. You never go faster than 20 miles an hour in traffic. The most you get are fender benders and side scrapes. It's the pedestrians that should be scared. The highway is what I always have feared. It's the idea that some kid just saw Fast and the Furious or finished up a totally kick ass game of Grand Theft Auto 22 and wants to show off on the road in front of his "boys" is what scares me.

In the end I survived! I even told the lady in the toll booth it was my first time driving through the tunnel and that I loved her very much for taking care of the roads. She was very nice about the whole thing . At Budget they were proud of me too (possibly relieved) that I made it back in one piece. They also mentioned that Driving Schools offer "nervous driver programs" that may be a cheaper alternative to renting a car every time I wanted to practice. I asked if anyone who worked there had taken a class, and they all started laughing and said, "No, we're from New York City we don't drive. We don't even have licenses!!!!" Nice. You got me this time Budget.

Nervous Old Saint Nicholas

2006-12-24T19:36:00.000-05:00

My love of the arts came from my parents. My mother made sure we were exposed to the theater and always made sure my brother and I took the time to enjoy reading and writing. My father made sure we knew about music...everything from classical to Motown. Do that to children long enough and they start to crave crap. Hence, my love for TV. My parents, quite reluctantly, started me off gently when it came to my viewing selection. A little public television here, a little Electric Company there ( Hey you guuuuuuuuys!!!!!!), and that was all I needed.

When my younger brother got into TV and started to develop different tastes, a war was declared. Who would get to watch what they wanted on TV, was dependent upon who turned on the TV first. Since we were a one TV home, strategy had to come in to play. So on Saturday mornings, I had to make sure I was up by 6:30 am to sit through some random televised church service that I pretended to watch with interest just so I could have control over the TV at 7:00am when the cartoons started. There was no sharing when it came to Saturday cartoons. Sharing was for the playground...babies went to the playground. Big kids watched Thundercats.

It was early one Saturday morning before Christmas and I had staked out my place in front of the TV, when I heard my Dad creeping down the stairs.

"Hey Kiddo, what are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm waiting for cartoons to start." It was a Saturday, what did he think I was doing?

"Well I have a favor to ask you. I need to help Santa, do you want to come with me?"

My curiosity was piqued.

"What do we have to do?" I asked.

Here was Dad's Christmas fib..."Santa told me he's really busy this year, so he wants me to pick up some gifts for you and your brother at the mall. Do you want to come show me what you and your brother were going to ask Santa for?"

I bought it hook line and sinker. I jumped in the car eager to assist my Dad in shirking his Christmas shopping duties. I didn't even have to fight for the front seat. It was going to be a great day! Heading to the mall, we were listening to the radio, telling jokes and being generally annoying. Being generally annoying is what we do. Apparently for my Dad, this meant grabbing my leg right above my knee. Some people think that's a great tickle spot. I didn't. It threw me and I reacted with instinct. I balled my fist and whacked my Dad in the crotch. I saw it on TV once. oops. BIG OOPS. Dad swerved the car and hit me in the back of my head. Because the car swerved, the side of my head hit the passenger window. I started screaming!!!!! My Dad freaked out and assured me that if I calmed down, promised never to hit him him like that, and swore not to tell Mom, I could have anything I wanted in the store. Sweet.

We went into the toy store and I went nuts. Shopping is so much better when blackmail is involved. I got Transformers, My Little Pony's, and two Cabbage Patch Dolls. I even got a Princess Leia costume. This was awesome!!!!! As Dad and I carried all my new toys out to the car, I noticed something on our windshield.

"Dad, There's a note on our car!"

My dad walked around to the side of our car and lifted the windshield wiper that held down the anonymous note. It read:

"Hey Asshole. I was in the car behind you. I saw you hit your wife. I've got your license plate number. I'm calling the cops."

The color left his face and I think I saw my Dad panic for the first time. I read the note and all I could think of was how weird it was that someone would leave a note like that. My Dad turned to me and said, "I think we have to tell Mom what happened now." All I could think to say was, "Well, do I have to return these presents then?"

We went home and told Mom. The cops never contacted us. I didn't have to return the gifts. In fact, we all got a lot of gifts that year. That's my Christmas story. Happy Holidays.

You Can Take The Girl Out of Russell Springs, But You Can't Take The Hillbilly Out Of The Beauty Queen

2006-12-19T00:07:00.000-05:00

According to news reports, and I use the term "news" quite loosely, Miss USA, who hails from Kentucky, is having trouble here in the big city conducting herself like "royalty". I also use the term "royalty" loosely. She's accused of going crazy with cocaine use (maybe someone asked her if she "wanted to ride the white pony"...Kentuckians love horses, she could have gotten confused), taking gentlemen callers back to her pageant apartment, lesbian make-outs with Miss Teen USA, and underage drinking. Isn't that a Saturday night at any sorority house now a days? As a result, they want to dethrone her...the horror! We all know that getting dethroned as a beauty queen can be devastating to one's career. (read: Vanessa Williams) So I can understand why this abomination to the sanctity of all that is right with the world is taking media precedence over the situation in Iraq.

See, when people want to gain US citizenship they have to name 13 colonies. I think the true test, would be to have these citizen - desiring hopefuls name 13 Miss USA's. If they can do that, they must really want it, because let's be honest - who cares who wins these damn pageants anyway?

As a Kentucky beauty queen myself - "Second Runner-Up Miss Hardin County, Y'all", I sympathize with Miss USA. The pressure can be overwhelming. I stood next to the person who stood next to the person who actually won, but let me tell you, I too started to freak out as I held my plaque and tried to look out into the crowd of onlookers clamoring to take my photo. As thousands of flashbulbs sparked trying to capture my beauty and grace, the only photo they ran in the local papers, was the one of my mouth open wide and my fist in mid-air pump. It was very Arsenio Hall-esque...quite a timely pose, considering the year. But the photo had a twinge of sabotage to it. Jealousy is a bitch, Miss USA. I've been there. Even though I lost that crown to a black girl who did "Kah-Rah-Tay" as her talent ( Yes, it was an impressive victory considering we lived in Kentucky...those judges must have have thought themselves quite progressive) things were never the same for me. After my second runner-up victory, whenever I went to the Waffle House to get an order of hash browns scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, peppered, and capped...I could feel the stares. Those stares let me know, I was not honoring the crown. I was making bad choices.

I know first hand that beauty can be an ugly business, Miss USA...but hang in there. As for those reports that you made out with Miss Teen USA, how could that possibly be your fault? How were you supposed to know how old she was? Kids look so much older nowadays! Keep your head up and wear that crown with pride. That tiara shines for no one but you...

It's His "Cool World", We Just Live In It

2006-12-14T11:18:00.000-05:00

I was walking home from work the other night night around 9 PM. I know I shouldn't walk alone in the dark at night (Thanks Mom, for putting the fear of God into me that I am a candidate for all types of awful attacks. When my old roommate was assaulted, my Mom actually called me and requested that I dye my blond hair brown because I would get less attention and she would feel better. Yup. Let's just say she's the nervous type.) But I had put in a long day, and I swear I could feel my ass start to spread in my chair somewhere around four in the afternoon. If I didn't walk home I was going to turn in to a twinkie tush.

Halfway home, I notice a group of three very large, menacing looking men walking towards me on the sidewalk. I move to the right of the sidewalk to let them pass. That's when it happened. Just like a movie. A bum steps forward shaking a cup at the group of men and asks for spare change. They shake their head to let them know it's not going to happen. Then the bum takes a closer look and starts screaming, "It's Brad Pitt. It's muthafuckin' Brad Pitt!! Holy Shit, ya'll. That's Brad fuckin' Pitt!" Let me clarify, the bum wasn't yelling. He was SCREAMING!!!! Like a girl. Or as a Frat boy would say during a flag football play gone wrong, "Like a little Bitch." Seriously, this homeless guy was dancing and squealing with delight. I felt like I was in a bad Chapelle Show sketch.

I turned to look and I did catch a glimpse of Brad Pitt. Perhaps I imagined it, but I swear I saw him pop his collar and nod in a way that said, "Yes, I am muthafuckin' Brad Pitt." Because face it, if you're that famous what else can you do? You can't walk on the street with the plebeians, that's for sure. He was so good-looking that suddenly the idea of marrying him, adopting our own Tsunami baby, and travelling from country to country making the world our own personal hotel room, seemed like a totally reasonable plan. But actually, I was more fascinated with the homeless dude. He went from starving to star-fucker in two seconds. What kind of celebrity obsessed culture do we live in, where suddenly the need for food and shelter is surpassed by the sighting of the hot guy from Thelma and Louise?

Bright Lies, Big City

2006-12-06T11:43:00.000-05:00

My roommate thinks I need new clothes. I don't. She says I have cute outfits but I need more of them. Fine. I pride myself on living minimally. Closet space in most NYC apartments is non-existent. So,what's the point of having all of these clothes if you have nowhere to put them, right? But the deep dark truth is...I hate shopping. I hated shopping so much as a kid that I would rather just let my Mom do it and suffer the consequences later. It made for some horribly atrocious outfits. When I go back home to visit I cringe at so many pictures that are up around the house because I never looked my age. I can't even recognize myself in those pictures. Anyone who sees the photos can't believe it's me in the pictures. I didn't look like a teenager not so secretly trying to pass for 21, like so many of my peers. Instead I looked 35. My high school yearbook photo looks like I'm a real estate agent. I'm not going to describe in detail what I was wearing, but I'll give you a hint..."fuschia business suit with a white camisole". All of my peers were listening to "Whoomp There It Is" and I was dressed like I had to close a deal on a property listing. It's a miracle I had friends. The only reason I haven't burned that yearbook is because somebody took pity on me, and had enough mercy to run the picture in black and white. It's my my dirty little technicolor secret.

Cheaters Never Win

2006-12-04T16:39:00.000-05:00

I joined a "sports club" this weekend. On purpose. I paid a week and a half's worth of salary over to some mystery organization located in a large space that permeates the faint stench of day old sweat that has equipment set up for me to work out on and feel sore as a result of...they call this beacon of pain and suffering a gym. The last time I joined a gym I was trying to get in shape for a guy I had met long distance who was coming in for a visit. He had told me that since we had last seen each other he had run a marathon. As a result of my amazing lack of forethought and a senseless quest to find more bullshit we could bond over, I told him that, "Yes, I too loooooove to run!" I ended up running so much that I broke my right ankle. It buckled not because I tripped or got caught up in a shoelace, rather it broke under the sheer stress of the bouncing impact of my hot body. ( I believe my doctor's exact words were, "Your body is clearly not 'built for speed')

Before that bad idea, the only previous time I had run, that did not include me searching for safety or shelter from the rain, was almost 20 years ago in fifth grade when I ran the fastest mile in my class and was chosen to represent my elementary school in the annual county cross-country meet. What I failed at the time to mention to my gym teacher or my parents, was that I had no idea when we were running the qualifying race in gym class, that we were being timed. I certainly wasn't into running so I did what any quick thinking kid would do, who had no interest in sweating for the "health of it' - I cheated. That's right, I'm coming clean... I cut the corners in the field and nobody noticed or seemed to care, because when I came in with an under 7 minute mile everybody was so happy for me. Maybe everyone else knew that whichever kid came in first would have to run it all over again...this time in front of their family and kids their age, from not only their school, but every elementary school within a thirty mile radius. Well the joke was on me because on the day of the county races, which I repeatedly begged my parents not to attend, I ran that mile. I ran the fastest and hardest any kid who had never run a legitimate mile before could run, and I came in last. It was the longest 20 minutes of my life. I came in as last as last could be. I would go so far as to say I may possibly hold the record for the slowest mile ever at the county level...

So here goes nothing... they say the third time is a charm. Perhaps if I try running for me and not for somebody or something else, I may travel a bit farther...but chances are, I may not fare so well. Because as much as I may have grown in other ways, one thing has remained the same- I hate to sweat.

Coco B. Wear

2006-12-01T14:39:00.000-05:00

Tonight I am going to a Kickboxing/ Muy Thai event. I originally agreed because I thought I was going to watch some kickboxing matches and then be served some cocktails... or see some very Thai men do some kickboxing. I don't know. I've never been to a live fight before and it seems very primal and stuff. I hope they serve nachos. Regardless, I am dressed as trashy as I possibly can at work (without being asked to leave) because whenever I see boxing matches on TV all the ladies look like they could be or at one time were married to Ice-T. I'm calling today's outfit "seasonally inappropriate".

Whatever Muy Thai boxing may be, through my research (ummm Google) , it seems to have sparked the following online thoughts by the denizens of Muy Thai boxing fans who spend their days in chat rooms (no doubt perfecting their latest death grips) :

1) If a shaolin student were to go against a muy thai boxer, and both of them has about the same level of experience, who do you think would win? Why?

2) I think overall, muy thai could beat most of the Chinese Boxing style. For example, some praying mantis styles focus more on speed and use several actions to take down his opponent. While doing all of this, a muy thai boxer would just execute on strong roundhouse kick and it would all be over.

3) Finally some people realize that styles don't win fights people win fights. All this, would drunken shaolin beat mantis or can kung fu beat Muay Tai crap is getting old. Talking isn't going to answer anything. If someone wants to test his or her style against other styles that is great. However, whether they win or lose has little to do with their style or the other persons style it generally comes down to who is a better fighter and has more fighting experience.

Wow!!! Looks like tonight is going to be bloody and geeky. I hope that in addition to the nachos they serve beer. I'm going to need something to wash down all this ass-kicking!!!!

Any Takers?

2006-11-30T12:41:00.000-05:00

From: Jimmy The Greek - Passionate greek looking for my soulmate, are u?
Male, 56 - Divorced
SANTA ROSA , CA - United States

Ethnic Background: Greek

Sun, Nov 26, 2006 12:52PM

Subject: U know a lady 4me?& i send U to greece &5k4U,TY

So last night I checked into my pathetic online dating website and this message was in my mailbox. Is this guy serious? Wow! Just so I can make it clear what is being asked in the subject line it seems that "Jimmy The Greek" wants to know if I can find him a "lady". If I do find Jimmy "said" woman, he will send me to Greece and give me 5,000 dollars. As ridiculous as the offer sounded, I had push it just to see how far I could go.

I called my Aunt and asked her if by any chance she would be interested. She got a good laugh but alas, she was not a taker. Yes, I want the ladies in my life to find love, but more importantly I have a credit card that needs to be paid off. I had to find another option.

I proceeded to work on my pitch and called my Mom. She answered the phone with,
" Well guess who's on the the other line? I'm in the middle of talking to your Aunt and she says you are trying to 'pimp' her out!"

"Mom, she did not use the word pimp."

"Hon, Are you seriously going to ask me about this offer?"

"Well, it's a win / win situation for everybody, Mom. One of you gets a boyfriend and the other one gets to come to Greece with me."

She was not impressed with my logic.

"Your Aunt thinks you are being funny. I know you're only half joking."

"So that's a no?" I asked.

"It's a no."

"Fine." But it was worth a try.

They're Comin' to America...Today!

2006-11-29T15:16:00.000-05:00

Ahhhh...Switzerland!

Home of the Alps, Fondue, and the weird guy who sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger sitting next to me at dinner...

I have two friends that love to throw dinner parties and have a pre-set seating chart in order to insure conversation and create a flow for the evening. The food is guaranteed to be good so I put up with the pretentiousness of it all...including the dessert wine. It's like Gosford Park only set in Brooklyn, and instead of rich people- there's us.

Swiss guy just became a citizen so he was all about letting us know that the citizenship test he just passed made him an expert on all things in the "good ole' U.S. of A". In between courses of Hanz* asking us why in English the word "Ottoman" can describe an empire as well as a chair; We were subjected to Hanz* cross-examining us in regards to what we actually knew about our own country. Hanz* was going to give us a "friendly" dinner quiz. When someone who sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger gives you a quiz, it doesn't sound friendly. It sounds more like you are on a train somewhere in Europe duing WWII and you are being asked to "Show your papers!" When it was my turn, I was asked to name the original 13 colonies. Easy!!!! Ha!!! So I started:

1) Maryland - (I was born there, so it was a gimmie'!)
2) Virginia- ( ok, I'm on a roll)

ummmm.

ummmm.

panic.

Great! I mean, at one time I knew this. It's just buried way back in the far reaching corners of my brain. To stall for time, I casually mentioned that the 13 colonies are represented in the stripes of our flag which was sewn by Betsy Ross. (Ha! Did you know that?) I can tell you some stuff about the guy who wrote the National Anthem, a Mister Francis Scott Key. Heard of him? (Anyone? Anyone?) Nobody was impressed. I was really going to have to do this. I continued...

3) New York - ( Had to be one)
4) Massachusetts - (Tea party)
5) New Hampshire - (It was a guess, but I know a lot of white people live there.)
6) Connecticut - (Same reason as number 5)
7) Delaware - (Washington crossed it. So it had to be around back then. Wow, this is the worst reasoning ever)

Half way.

ummmm.

ummmm.

Go to the South!

yes!

Here goes nothing...

8) North Carolina- (?...Holy crap!)
9) Then...South Carolina - (For real? How can some Dixie flag waving place have been one of the original colonies? Shouldn't they have evolved just a bit more by now? Oh, at this point I'll take anything.)
10) Georgia- (total guess)

My brain was starting to hurt. Come on, already!

11) Pennsylvania- ( Why did I not think of that earlier? The damn liberty bell. Duh. First capitol.)

Then I just blanked. I couldn't do it. I wanted to eat. I gave up. You know what I forgot? Rhode Island and New Jersey. I forgot a state so small it still calls itself an island, and I blanked on the home of Bon Jovi. Whatever. I think I did pretty good, but not good enough for Hanz*. While he relished in his victory I reminded him that for someone who hails from a neutral country, he wasn't acting so damn neutral. He mentioned that the Swiss also have the largest stockpile of defense weapons...perhaps that was a veiled threat to back it up. I took it as an open invitation to mention to all the women sitting at the table that an interesting fact about the Swiss is that it wasn't until 1990 that all women in Switzerland finally gained the right to vote.

Immediately the tables were turned and Hanz* was suddenly the one being quizzed by a table of five women. As his panic set in, I sat back relishing the most recent victory at the table and enjoyed my meal in peace. Welcome to the land of opportunity, Hanz*!

* Swiss guy could have been named Franz. Not sure. Don't care.

Water, Water, Everywhere...

2006-11-27T18:45:00.000-05:00

I spent Thanksgiving with the men in my life...all seven of them. Some travelled in from out of state and some took the subway. They arrived on Wednesday night and stayed through Sunday. I hadn't planned on hosting a five day dude fest, it just sort of happened. Even my brother drove up for the festivities. I had plans already to eat Thanksgiving with friends in Brooklyn, but as the big day came closer to arriving, I started to get the not so casual, "Hey what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" phone calls. Finally I caved and put the word out that my house was open but I was not cooking. I'm not their girlfriend or their mother. I had my own plans, and while I would bring leftovers I couldn't promise a feast. I would be in Brooklyn for the dinner and if I came back into the city and the apartment was trashed, there would be hell to pay. As they began to arrive Wednesday night everyone came bearing their own version of Thanksgiving. There were card games, board games, cigarettes, albums "we just had to hear", and 12 varieties of beer. There were tales of wonder, work, survival, and quests of love won and lost. There were tears, laughter, and pleading with people to "just take a fucking shower, already." There were some brutal rounds of the card game "Bullshit" and marathons of "Balderdash". There was also one guy who took off his pants within an hour of arriving and spent the weekend in his boxers unless it was his turn to get snacks. He didn't put on pants until it was time to take the train back to Yale ( I hear that place is really selective about who they let in)... It was like a holiday home for wayward boys. In line with the Thanksgiving holiday, I was thankful for every moment.

See, I have a lot of guy friends. In fact, it's always been that way since elementary school. I grew up on ARMY bases and all that seemed to be around were guys. It wasn't until 8th grade that I realized the possibility of being found attractive by the opposite sex existed when I was asked to a dance at the teen center on the Army base where we lived. I never had a school girl crush and boy bands seemed as lame to me as the girls who would scream with glee at the mere mention of New Kids On the Block or sight of a band sticker on a trapper keeper. There was something about mob mentality that I never identified with anyway. It was so prevalent in the military that my family did everything to resist it. We would smile at functions and come home wondering what was wrong with everyone around us... As a result, we were a miserable ARMY family.

Most women in my life comment on the amount of guy friends I have. But I am always quick to point out that I have just as many friends that are girls and I am more than happy to share. There are women who embrace the fact that they can only be friends with guys...ummm, that's a problem. You have to have both and you can. I've heard some guys say that it is impossible to be friends with girls - that somebody inevitably has feelings and its not being addressed. Perhaps at some point the thought comes into play...its only natural and who doesn't want companionship. But something greater is missed when you try to fit your friendships into neat little compartments of what is the norm or what is expected.

Sometimes I go to work functions or parties with my guy friends if their girlfriends can't make it or they just want to hang out. I'm a safe bet. Let me clarify, I am friends with the girlfriends of these guys...and not in the fake "let's be cordial because we have to be" kind of way. I hang out with these girls when the guys aren't around. We have our own friendships independently. But, inevitably at these parties somebody will always ask if "said" guy friend and I are dating. I always say, "No we're friends". I hate it when people say , "We're JUST friends" because that implies that being a friend is not enough. Most of my friends have been friends of mine for over 10 years, so I try to explain that this is someone I've grown up with. I always feel that it's not a good enough answer for some people. So while I smile and answer their questions politely, I look over at my buddy and think, " When can we get to a bar and just hang out. What is wrong with everyone around us?"

Talking Dirty

2006-11-17T11:41:00.000-05:00

It takes a great deal to gross me out. I have a pretty strong stomach for the most part. For example, I broke my kneecap at the World Trade Center right after 9/11. I was walking with a friend to work, wearing tennis shoes, and I fell right into a hole in the sidewalk. I didn't even feel my knee twist around to the other side of my leg. Everybody else around me freaked out. I think that was the scariest part. My friend kept repeating like a mantra, "Don't look down, Don't look down." Even when the fireman and the ambulance got there to help me I could tell by their faces it wasn't good. I didn't feel a thing. I think my body just shut down. Even in the emergency room I held it together. (The morphine may have had something to do with it.)

My point, is that I think, perhaps naively, that I can handle some gross stuff. But yesterday I reached my breaking point. I am convinced that this city, in big and small ways, may be out to get me (or at least get me to hurl.) It started when I ordered lunch at work. I ordered a Philadelphia Roll from Empire Szechuan. That may have been my first mistake... I thought a Chinese delivery place could make good Japanese food. I open my lunch and there is a live centipede / thingy with antennae crawling in and out of my sushi like it wants to play hide and seek. Gross. Puke. When the delivery guy came back to pick up the food he wanted to see the bug. So he dug through the sushi and put it in a separate container in front of everyone. Gross again.

Later that night when I got to my apartment, I was expecting to breathe a sigh of relief because my landlord supposedly had sent an exterminator while I was at work to take care of the roaches that have been invading the kitchen in my apartment ( by invade I mean one or two but everyone has a breaking point.) I walk into the bathroom and not only is there a roach in the bathroom sink now doing a happy dance, the toilet seat has been left up and there is urine on the floor! What? Nobody in my place has a penis or pees standing up!!!!!!! Triple Gross. I guess that not only did the exterminator forget to kill the bugs, he also forgot to put the seat down. I cleaned that bathroom from top to bottom and tried to disinfect my person in the shower. I don't know if I will ever be clean. This city has officially grossed me out.

Friends Don't Let Friends Drink And...

2006-11-16T18:30:00.000-05:00

Something about the flyer was bothering me. I couldn't stop thinking about it. The Macy's One Day Sale. Oh.My.God. I had to be there. I was sure I had seen these flyers in the mail before, and more than sure that this one day sale happened more than one day a year, but regardless, I was committed.

It could have been the red wine. It could have been that I was watching "Friday Night Lights" on its regularly scheduled Tuesday night time slot. (I mean, come on! Is "Saturday Night Live" on Thursdays? No! Now stop. It's confusing.) I don't know what it is...but something about "Friday Night Lights" makes me want to get married, move back to Kentucky, and get domestic with some polyester shorts wearing football coach. I picture myself proudly beaming in the stands, as I watch my husband down on the field, yelling until he is red in the face and the veins are sticking out of his neck, "Pass the God damn ball, Fletcher!" I have no idea who this Fletcher is, or why he isn't passing the ball but he definitely has a solid, southern name. In hindsight, I have no doubt that this fantasy was fueled by the Shiraz.

On Wednesday morning, I woke up at seven, hopped in the shower, grabbed my foldable shopping cart, and got to Macy's by eight in the morning ready for the bargains I had circled in my flyer. I got there and it was a madhouse! Macy's had only been open for 10 minutes but people were tripping over one another, screaming, and sweating as if they had been trapped in a dark coal mine for days. Why had I never heard of this phenomenon before? I went straight to house wares because according to my domestic delusions from the night before, I decided I needed/could not live without a set of pots and pans. Who was I becoming? Yuck.

Apparently I wasn't the only one drinking during "Friday Night Lights" because the place was packed with homemaking ambitions...there were lots of foreign people yelling out shopping strategies in their native tongues, confused husbands and boyfriends clutching shopping lists and politely asking any woman that would give them the time of day, "Is this what I'm supposed to get?" as if we knew how to decipher a stranger's handwriting on a crumpled list, and off-duty doormen who had been bribed with the promise of a "healthy holiday cash bonus" if they stand in a miserable line with "said" purchases for their upper east side building occupants.

By the time I was done, it was a little after 10 in the morning. I still had to get to work. I had left with a set of 12 brand new pots and pans and an impulse purchase of an 18 piece set of glass Pyrex bake ware. Ummmm...I have never baked in my life. I don't even have a mixer. (Who is this person who woke up needing kitchen things and where did she come from?) I think the only meals that are going in those dishes are things that require layers of cheese to be melted. As I dragged my rolling cart of kitchenware to work, some ass on the street chimed in with, "Hey baby, I want to come to your Thanksgiving." What did that even mean? Was he assuming that because I’m dragging kitchenware across town, I love cooking, and I can't wait for Thanksgiving? Did it even occur to him that maybe I was just a drunk with a bad idea?

As I rolled my cart into work, sweating, panting, and extolling the virtues of my amazing savings, it was pointed out to me by several sources that you can shop at Macy's online and still get the same discounts. Oh. Ummmm...didn't think about that. Good laughs were had by all. At least when it dawned on me that I had forgotten to get the set of knives I had circled on my flyer, it wasn't so traumatically heartbreaking or physically challenging. All I had to do was point and click...once I sobered up.

Shits and Giggles

2006-11-13T14:48:00.000-05:00

I recently learned of the term "FU Money". Basically, it means that you are beyond rich. That your money is not just money, but Fuck You money and you can do with it whatever you want because what do you care, you're that fucking rich !

So, at work we got into a discussion of what we would do if we had "FU Money". I think my idea is so "FU" that I may see a return on my investment. My idea is this...if I were so rich that I could care less what people thought, I would release an album of remastered "Po(o)p Hits" that I sing (with a choir as back-up), cleverly titled, Greatest (S)hits: Volume 1. Because yes, I believe there will be a strong enough demand for future volumes of this crap.

This groundbreaking album will feature the time-treasured classics:

The Greatest Poop of All - Whitney Houston

Pooploose - Kenny Loggins

Poop (for my love)- The Pointer Sisters

It's Raining Poop - The Weather Girls

I'm All Out Of Poop - Air Supply

My Poop Will Go On (Theme from Titanic) - Celine Dion

and

How Am I Supposed To Poop Without You - Michael Bolton (upon viewing the list, my co-worker requested and I have graciously accepted to sing this at her wedding)

Other Suggestions/ Song Requests include (but are not limited to):

Forever Your Poop - Paula Abdul

Glory of Poop- Peter Cetera

California Poopin' - Mama's and the Papa's

A Woman's Poop - Alicia Keys

Hey Poop - The Beatles

and

Poopalicious - Fergie (for the kids)

Please respond immediately because this album is expected to sell out and definitely not available in stores...

International Relations

2006-11-09T11:31:00.000-05:00

I was checking my Stat Counter and saw that someone from England typed in a Google search bar " 'You look nice' in phonetic Greek" and were led to this post in my blog. In response to the "Googler" I have constructed this letter in case he/she ever chooses to return to this site.

Dear Idiot who obviously just saw the 'Borat" movie,

This is a blog. Not a tutorial for accents. Nor am I a dialect coach. If you insist on learning how to say "You look nice" just like Borat, so you can impress and annoy your friends...please don't. They will hate you, if they don't already. FYI - Borat isn't Greek. Not even close. In fact, he's not real. He's made up. I don't want to ruin the mystery for you but Borat is played by an actor named Sacha Baron Cohen and the character is from Kazakhstan, a real place (nowhere near Greece) that was once a republic of the former Soviet Union. The closest Greece ever comes to Kazakhstan is when they face off in the occasional soccer (or as you call it football) match. Yes, Kazakhstan has a team !!! But you should know that, right? Isn't soccer (oops, football) the only thing you people do over there in between successfully avoiding routine dental check-ups and serving up tasteless food? Or do you not like sweeping generalizations either?

Kisses from across the pond,

"Said" Woman

If Loving You Is Wrong...

2006-11-06T10:52:00.000-05:00

I was watching an episode of Oprah, sometime between one and two in the morning, and they featured an interview with Jessica Coleman. She is serving a prison sentence for murdering her child when she was 15, putting it in a trash bag, then placing it in a duffel bag, and then handing it to her boyfriend who threw it in a quarry after stuffing the bag full of rocks to weigh it down. Heartbreaking stuff.

Here's what I don't understand....Jessica has a boyfriend. A new boyfriend, even though she's in prison...and she wants to be a Mom one day. How does that work? How do you explain that away and convince someone that, "Hey, I'm good this time. Promise."? I'm not saying that she doesn't deserve to be loved. Everybody does. But Christ. I've never been arrested and I can't get a date...I was even in DARE. The whole thing makes me feel really good about being single.

Then there's Amy Fisher. She slept with someone as grotesque as Joey Buttafucco and thought it was a good idea to blow his wife's face off when he tried to end things. Eventually someone married her! Apparently, the whole, "Hey, I like old sweaty married Itallian guys and killing their wives is a totally reasonable way to secure my love!" didn't scare off the groom or come across as a tad bit reactionary. Once again, I believe that everyone deserves to be loved and that the children are our future. But enough already, how much of an "edge" do you need these days to get a guy's attention...I was in the National Honor Society. Doesn't that count for something?

This Is Not A Movie Review

2006-11-06T10:35:00.000-05:00

...this is a review of the people I am forced to share space with whenever I go to the movies. On Friday I went to see "Marie Antoinnette" at the movie theater. Yes, I was taking a chance by going to a late show in Times Square, but I thought to myself, " No kind of nutjob would possibly go see a period piece on a Friday night unless they really wanted to see the film." Wrong.

Let me start off with the guy who jumped over two rows to get the only empty seats left within reasonable viewing distance from the screen, even though I had already courteously asked if those seats were taken and was walking down the aisle politely saying excuse me, along with my roomie, the way civilized people do in order to get to "said" seats.

Hey asshole, you stole our seats! I know I don't own them, but you jumped over two rows to get to them when you clearly saw I was making my way down the aisle to reach them after I had asked if they were taken. Yes, people booed you and started yelling at you, but that didn't faze you. All you could hear was the annoying sound of your girlfriend yelling at you in Russian, "Who cares about those girls. Just sit. " (I had my roomie translate. Shockingly, you two nit wits aren't the only people who speak Russian in New York!) Apparently when the "Iron Curtain" fell, it landed on your stupid head forcing you to forget any sense of politeness. Even when the sweet gentleman with the baggy pants offered to " kick your fuckin' ass yo", I asked him to refrain because the last thing I would want, is for you to have a poor opinion of Americans. Because I, my well mannered comrade, am an advocate of peace.

Next, was the possibly homeless gentleman sitting behind us in the movie loudly clearing his sinuses while simultaneously looking through plastic bags.

Sir, how many plastic bags can one man carry into a theater? Yes, Soffia Coppola does direct exceptionally long films, but were you expecting to camp out? I don't know if I or you will ever have the answer, but what were you looking for in those bags? For the love of God, the movie was so long and you never found what was in those plastic grocery bags! At some point didn't it occur to you that maybe the object you were searching for was simply gone? And what, pray tell, was lodged in your throat so deeply that the only soundtrack that was heard during the film was the sound of your throat being cleared and the snot being sucked back into your already stuffed head? Do you think that perhaps whatever you were looking for in the bags was actually lodged in your throat? You should see a doctor. If coverage is a problem, just go to the ER. Sooner rather than later...and leave behind the plastic bags. Nobody wants to hear the incessant "crunching" sound of plastic if they are already waiting to see a doctor.

And then there were the dirty college kids sitting next to me, who chose to forgo the individual seat option, and lift the armrest so that they could lay on each other as if they were in their dorm room about to get their "dry hump" on.

Ewwwwww. Why must you be so grimey? When you started picking through one another's hair and giving each other scalp massages it got weird. You ended up looking like orangutans on the Discovery Channel trying to give each other tongue baths. And boyfriend of the "hippie" girl you met in your feminist literature class... are you really that stupid? Were you really shocked to find out that Austria and France were "like so far away", and that they could only get there in a "horse and buggy"? Horse and buggy? Did they look fucking Amish to you? Idiot. I bet you're a history major. May I also recommend in the future that you stay away from carbonated drinks? I realize that the soda was giving you gas and causing you to burp, but did you have to blow it in my direction just so she wouldn't notice? Trust me, she noticed. Every time you expelled, your belly ballooned like a fraternity boy who took in too much air during a keg stand. But I wouldn't want to offend you by comparing such a cool dude like yourself with greasy skin and muttonchops to a fraternity guy, because after all, those guys take showers.

Everybody's Talking At Me

2006-11-02T16:22:00.000-05:00

Politics are personal. You can blog, cry, bitch, whine, and write letters to anyone that will listen, but at the end of the day all you did was let it be known what your opinion of the situation may be...Nobody ever changed their political affiliation over a well-crafted op-ed piece (no matter what the New York Times may believe. ..While I don't know if anyone who works at the New York Times does in fact believe this, they strike me as a bunch of pretentious twits who actually think people have the time to read and hang on to every word written in that damn monstrosity of a paper. How am I going to hold down a job, respond to opinion survey pop-ups on my computer, and watch TiVo'd episodes of Nip/Tuck if I'm supposed to read that whole thing? When will I have time to eat? No thank-you.)

So, in regards to the whole John Kerry said this and President Bush said that...blah, Blah, BLAH!!!!! Who cares? We should care as citizens, but we're not given the chance because somewhere along the line politicians forgot about policy and got lost in the politics. They are just talking heads. There is a war going on and we need to find a solution ASAP. Instead it turns out that there is a possibility that Bobby Brown was cheating on Whitney Houston with a video ho who goes by the name "Superhead"! What? This is news? No, this is a distraction. Focus people. Focus.

...and that's my personal opinion on politics.

Booo Humbug!

2006-11-01T14:30:00.000-05:00

For Halloween I decided to be a Latina Beauty Queen. Let's just say it involved fake eyelashes, a bad-ass pair of spanx (those who don't know what spanx are...consider yourself lucky) and lips outined in dark brown with a light pink filler. At the end of the day, I couldn't take the pain of my undergarments, so I changed into my street clothes and walked home leaving only remnants of my costume on...just my plastic crown and gaudy eyelashes. At a stoplight a guy in a van pulled up to the curb and coooed, "Hey Pretty Princess...", so I responded with, "Hey creepy guy in 'The Silence of the Lambs' van." Everyone on the sidewalk waiting for the light to turn laughed. He did not. Instead he yells, "I was talking about your costume, bitch." All I could think to say was, "That's no way to talk to a Princess!!!" The lesson here is never underestimate the classiness of bad lipliner or the men who find that type of look attractive.

Red Light Discount (Or Why I Can't Be A Councilwoman)

2006-10-30T11:04:00.000-05:00

I have no political desires...that I know of. If I did, I would be remiss to tell you that I shop at a porn store near my house. Yup. For Movies. But not THOSE kind of movies. I think the store must be one of the few survivors from the Giuliani era that focused on the clean up of 42nd Street and Times Square in order to make the neighborhood more "tourist-friendly".

I have my reasons for shopping there and it has nothing to do with my desire to see "Hot Flesh In Action" or "Ali Baba and the Forty Sluts". (I made those titles up, so if those titles do in fact exist, I wholeheartedly apologize to the artists that painstakingly contributed to the making of what I can only assume to be quality films.) Unfortunately, I can't resist the new releases of mainstream movies that they get way before the release date. I have no idea why porn stores get these films in advance but its awesome and a horrible facade all at the same time. See, they keep the mainstream titles in the front section of the store so there's no mixing of genre's if you will. So to the general public walking by, everything looks sweet and charming. In turn, little Johnny who is standing on the street with his parents looking into the store window at the movie poster of "The Wedding Crashers", has no idea that he is 10 feet away from the very films he will be desperately trying to download off limewire 5 years from now.

I can rarely go in a porn shop alone. Usually I bribe one of my girlfriends into going in there with me after a few drinks and casually mentioning, "Oh before we go home I need to stop by the store to pick something up...is that cool?" Who's going to argue with that, right? The only problem is that even though the alcohol provides me with enough liquid courage to walk in, it also fogs my brain as to what I do and do not own as far as my movie collection is concerned. Embarrassingly, I have to admit that I have had to give away surplus copies of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", the morning after one of my "said" shopping sprees. Classy, I know.

After my friends initial shock once we walk into the shop, and they get over the fear of "What if someone I know sees me in here?" They really are amazed by the selection...and the customer service is hard to beat. I mean, how many places do you shop at nowadays have employees that really take notice when you walk in? I have never seen staff so helpful. Of course, it is a bit odd when I take my selections to the register to pay (always in cash) and the guy behind the counter can't stop blowing kisses or telling my friends and I how beautiful we are. It really is a great, albeit slightly creepy self-esteem boost. You take what you can get, right? Okay, maybe not. But what's the alternative? Have you been to Blockbuster lately?

Spoiler!

2006-10-27T16:07:00.000-04:00

There was a time in my life when I was a slave to what was on Television. As a kid, nothing was going to come between me and the family TV on Thursday nights when it was time for The Cosby Show and Family Ties. I would have to make sure my homework was done, I had eaten dinner, and I was ready for school the next day or else it wasn't going to happen. 8:00 PM waited for no one. If I wasn't ready, the show went on without me. If I had to go to the bathroom, I held it till commercial. But now, all that has changed. In the world of Tivo, DVR, old-fashioned video recording, and buying a season's worth of episodes at a time, the ability to watch the television shows you want when you want has become more convenient then stopping your life and sitting in front of the TV.

As wonderful as technology is, it also has its drawbacks. You can quote me on that. I don't commit to much, but I can commit to that sentence. See, technology has made it difficult to talk about your favorite shows with friends because there is always someone in the group who's in earshot, that thanks to technology, hasn't seen the episode and puts out an APB barring anyone from further discussion regarding "said" show. While I can understand the desire to not hear "spoilers" and to enjoy one's viewing experience, at a certain point it just gets selfish.

Witness "said" conversation:

Person #1: "Oh my God, I just saw the best episode of Lost last night!"

Me: What happened? Did they all get found?

Person #1: No, dummy.

Person #2: Don't say anything, I haven't seen the episode and I want to be surprised!

Me: Relax, If they're found they have to change the name of the show. You'll hear about it.

Person #3: (new to the conversation) What are you talking about?

Person #1: Lost.

Person #3: Don't say anything. I haven't seen any episodes yet this season. I'm going to watch it after they run the first eight episodes and catch up while they play the re-runs. I need to find out what happened to the guys in the hatch.

Person #4: (really new to the conversation) What hatch?

Everybody: (angrily) On LOST!!!!!!

Person#4: There's a hatch on Lost?

Me: Ummmm....how long have you been watching?

Person #4: I'm only through the first couple of episodes. I have it on DVD.

Me: You might want to leave the room.

Technology has destroyed the art of gabbing about shows. Thank -you fancy pants Technology!!! It use to be that instead of gossiping about people we knew, we could gossip about total strangers on our television with wild abandon!!! Everybody was safe...now we have nothing better to do except turn on each other. Look at what happened in the conversation cited. Total Anarchy. There are now 5 more people on the planet that have another "thing" they can't all share with each other. So now, thanks to Technology we can't discuss sex, religion, politics, and "Lost". Technology, when will you stop?

Inconsequential Events Involving People On The Idiot Box

2006-10-25T14:22:00.000-04:00

I was sent a mass email today that included Jeremy Piven as one of the recipients. I said out loud, "Hey, I just got this mass email and it's got Jeremy Piven's email in it."
One of my co-workers asked, "Is it "The" Jeremy Piven?"
I said, "I don't know, It didn't have the word "The" before the name Jeremy Piven."
Some booed. Some hissed. The guy who sits next to me muttered, "You're such an asshole."
Really? That's all it takes? Jeez, Touchy Crowd.

On my lunch break I was stuck walking behind Oliver Platt who was freeballing it in a pair of sweatpants (Don't ask. I just know) and Vans without socks in 40 degree weather. Why does he have to walk in the middle of the sidewalk while my cheeseburger rapidly loses heat? It's cold out. Why is he waddling around like Frankenstein (Yes. That's what he looks and walks like when you get that close) when its so damn cold out. Put on some socks and get a move on it, Oliver.

Where Does Olive Oil Come From Anyway?

2006-10-23T15:09:00.001-04:00

I went grocery shopping last night and it wasn't until I got home that I realized I didn't get any olive oil (that's EEVO for all you Rachel Ray zombies) for a recipe I wanted to make...basically the whole reason for me going to get groceries in the first place! I never get the basics for groceries. I am an impulse grocery girl. I buy by recipe. Not smart, but I'm on the go for the most part and the food will go to waste if it sits there. Hate that. I needed olive oil, so I went down to the bodega on the corner. And there he was...my knight in a dirty apron!

This guy at the deli is the cutest one-armed Arab guy on the planet. serious. I would go so far as to say insanely fine. He could tell I was looking for something on the shelf out of my reach and he came from around the counter to help me get the olive oil. Okay, so he dropped it, but he was so damn charming. He asked me what I was making and then told me he had to pick up some stuff himself because he was meeting some friends for dinner because they meet every Sunday to cook together and hang out. How cute is that? Maybe it's cuter because he has one arm, because usually if an Arab guy tells me he's going to meet up with some buddies, I'm gonna secretly wonder, "Ummmm,Why?" Yeah, what an awful thing to say. I know. I'm kidding. Sort Of.

Then I started to imagine my life with my one-armed Arab boyfriend.

It's got to be hard enough being "generically middle eastern" these days. People must get suspicious. Look at him up and down, try to "read" him, then they see he has one arm and it must confuse them. Make them wonder, "Is this guy harmless or a total bad ass?"

What about us? What if we have to move one day or something falls behind the couch? I have a bad back. Can he help me lift heavy stuff or am I going to have to call my platonic guy friends. But then the platonic guy friends might not show up because they know I'm with the one armed Arab guy now. Hmmmm...

Will he be affectionate in public? What about hand-holding? Is that out because I would want to hold his one hand and then he's left defenseless? He has to be able to protect himself from the crazy tourist in an American flag trucker hat who just flew in to the city to see where the towers fell and thinks he's spotted a terrorist...

How much can he make from a disability check anyway? 700 a month? Is he a citizen? Will he pressure me for a Green Card? Will his friends call me insulting names in Farsi or whatever they speak? Will we have to have the Burka talk? UUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

Then my head started to hurt. It's was all too confusing and intense... this whole world climate thing and then deciding to cook my own meal instead of getting delivery. I can't handle both. Besides, I had to get home before Desperate Housewives.

Leopard. Spots. Bird. Feather.

2006-10-19T13:03:00.001-04:00

I don't think people change. We can change the color of our hair, the color of our eyes, how much we weigh, how big or small we want our boobs to be, etc. but we can't change who we really are. Maybe that's a good thing. Well it's a good thing if you're asked to compromise your values and you remain strong...good for you. But it can also be a very bad thing. It can be a bad thing if you are an ass. Because once an ass, always an ass.

I surf MySpace online and it's a virtual yearbook of high school jerks who got swollen and decided to have kids. Why? Why do the worst people in the world breed? I'm not saying everybody who breeds sucks, because I know of a lot of fine, upstanding, kind, sensible, people who have kids. But they are outnumbered by the dummies. bigtime. As I surf these pages of people who list "Proud Parent" in their profile it scares me to death. The guy who would whack people in the back of their head with a cafeteria tray during lunchtime? Yup. A little boy. That girl who would sleep with whoever you were dating, just to see if she could? Check. Three angry girls. Those guys that were super cool and made anyone who wasn't in their "crew" feel inadequate? They all found women stupid enough to think they were still cool, ignore the jock physique that had given way to beer gut, marry them, and poop out a whole other generation of uninspired clones. Scary stuff.

I'd like kids one day...I think. It seems like a lot of work. I have a pretty strong work ethic, but even when I visit with decent people that have children, I get exhausted and can't wait for the kid to lie down so I can get a quick nap in too. If I can't handle it, how do the worthless lot I went to school with manage it? Most of the breeders I have mentioned were some of the laziest, spoiled, and pampered kids I knew. What are they teaching their spawn? How to be even more excellent at being useless, mean, and non-contributing members of society? I want to teach my kids to be better than me, to make the world a better place, to be kinder, to show compassion and love (not exactly what I'm doing right now, but I never claimed to be perfect), and never loose the ability to find the joy and laughter in most everything. Instead, I fear I will be spending most of my time teaching my kids how to avoid getting beat-up in cafeterias, protecting themselves against VD, and how not to take it personally when kids far less creative and talented make them feel inadequete for having dreams. I guess I could save my kids the pain and just homeschool them, but I'm not very smart. I'm smart enough to know that much, and that's more than I can say for most people.

Diamonds Are Not Always A Girl's Best Friend

2006-10-17T13:31:00.000-04:00

I went to meet him at a Greek restaurant. We're both Greek. Why must we eat Greek food too? Are we trying to prove our ethnicity? Perhaps do a dialect quiz? Yuck. Everything about this seemed like a bad idea, including the fact that it was a blind date, but I agreed to go. My bad. oops.

I am always a big proponent of "what if' so I never try to to say no when someone asks me out or tries to set me up unless I know that there is no way in hell I can even have a conversation with the person. It's not because I'm hoping for a free meal, because I have so many food hang-ups it's crazy...like if you start talking about a hospital I feel sick- I have to plug my ears and chew. The same thing goes if people are laughing around me when I eat- I'm afraid I will start laughing too, and as a result choke, so I plug my ears and chew quickly so I don't start cracking up...Yes, I am odd...but cute odd, not odd-odd. Just nod and pretend to agree...

I walk in the restaurant and I figure it's my date when he says to the host, "Oh this must be her." A little subtlety would have been nice. I feel like the wait staff is staring at me. Is that busboy smirking? Super. Now the whole world has been informed this is either a blind date or this guy's hired escort has shown up for the evening. Ok...he is too old for me. period. end of discussion. There is a laundry list I could tell you of why this is a no-go, but let's leave it there for now. You know in two minutes whether or not these things have potential...why sit through dinner? Drinks are the way to go.

As we are walk to the table, he says that he bought me a gift and he wants me to open it when I get to the table. uh...wha? Once we are seated he pulls out a jewelry box. I open it and it is a bracelet with the "evil eye" that is designed to ward off bad wishes, jealousy, etc. Old world superstitious stuff...you get the picture. Maybe he knows something I don't know. I give him the "thanks but you shouldn't have". I'm not an ingrate, it's just awkward. Then he tells me he was sorry he missed my birthday and can he make it up to me? "Oh no worries", I say. (It was more than a month ago-I'm over it...)

At the end of dinner, the waiter suggests bringing out dessert. "Oh, no thanks," I say. Apparently, the waiter wasn't suggesting dessert- I misunderstood. He was informing me it was being brought out. My Greek Romeo ordered a "birthday" dessert. Around the corner come the waitstaff singing "Happy Birthday" with a candle shoved into a piece of baklava. I didn't know that was even possible according to the laws of physics. They also brought out another present. I have never met this old dude until tonight...is this candid camera? Somebody has to be watching this! He bought me a t-shirt that had the word "Koukla" (the Greek word for babydoll) bedazzled across my chest. That's right, BEDAZZLED! I'm so embarrassed. I thanked him again and got the hell out of dodge.

I'm wearing the shirt and the bracelet today. Part of it may be guilt, but the other part is that I knew if I didn't bring proof to work that nobody would believe a word of this...I've never gone out on a date and come out of it with props...or worn such a God-awful shirt in public.

Tis' The Season...

2006-10-16T13:04:00.000-04:00

I love the fall. There's something so cozy about the whole thing. Fall makes me want to be in a couple. So, I've got a date tonight. Not excited. At all. I date seasonally, apparently. (Yeah, Yeah, I'm an ingrate. I'm not sure if ingrate is an official word but oftentimes my parents may or may not have called me that repeatedly as a child.) I want to be looking forward to this date, trust me. But I have never met the guy (blind date) and he wants to pick me up from work in his car and get something to eat. Nice idea in theory, but also the MO of a murderer. What if he's s a crazy person? Who in the city who drives a car anyway? I told him to pick a restaurant, and we can meet there. He got all bent out of shape because I wanted to meet him somewhere, "like I didn't trust him". (Yes Alex, I'll take obvious assumptions for 500 dollars! Ding,Ding,Ding, Survey says "Yes, Dummy") Well I don't know him. What does he expect? I was taught "stranger danger" as kid. No matter what, I was told never to get in a car with a stranger...even if they did promise candy- even if they had "Alexander the Grape's" or "Fun Dip"!! As a child of a dentist, either one of those candies were liquid crack to me...

So maybe tonight won't be awful, but odds aren't great that this is going to be awe-inspiring. But I'm trying people. They say scratch a cynic and you get a romantic - and no, I don't know who "they" are. Oh, who knows what will happen, but if you get invited to the wedding...don't mention this post. There really is something about the fall that is romantic - and by romantic, I mean "I need a damn boyfriend." And by, "I need a damn boyfriend", I don't mean dealing with a moody guy that I've never met. God, I love the fall...

Same Old Song

2006-10-12T19:15:00.000-04:00

Last night I was given tickets to a James Blunt concert at Radio City Music Hall. Who was I to say no? I love free stuff and I wanted to see this guy. What I know about James Blunt : 1) His song is overplayed 2) His other song is dangerously close to becoming overplayed 3) He was a soldier in the British Army 4) His girlfriend is a supermodel named Petra Nemka-Something who I never heard of until the Tsunami, and 5) Oprah loves this guy.

He was good, in an "acoustic guitar guy you could have gone out with in college, but would never admit to" kind of way. Regardless, he was trying to work it big-time. One guy and a guitar aren't enough to fill that huge space. He kept asking the crowd to stand up, but it's really hard to rock out to "You're Beautiful". And the jokes about getting the crowd to take off their clothes so he could "have something to look at" came off as creepy rather than cheeky. (I mean, really. You're already dating a supermodel. How much do you need at this point?) When he played his one song everyone knew, there was a huge screen that played a video of him swimming shirtless with supermodel mermaids. It looked like a Vogue inspired homage to the movie Splash. Odd. Pasty white Brits shouldn't make those kind of creative decisions. I don't know if you can be a British solo act anymore. It seems like those people do better in groups.

See, I love seeing concerts at Radio City because for reasons unknown to me, people aren't going ass-crazy, jumping up and down, and yelling woo-hoo after every sentence the artist mutters. The only part that has gotten funny to me is the obligatory speech every musician makes 2 or 3 songs into the set that goes something along the lines of, "Wow! This is a dream come true. I'm playing Radio City Music Hall. Hello New York! Woo-Hoo....." Okay dude, I get it. You are excited. We are all excited. Let's keep it going. I have work in 10 hours.

When I lived in some of the worst places this country has to offer I could tell nobody was ever excited to play my high school sports lovin', K Mart shopping, Hardee's eating town. In my mind, I imagined the artists playing had gotten stoned out of their mind at some Hollywood fancy pants music producer's home and lost a bet or were dealt a bad hand of poker and the only way they could get out of it was playing this shit gig. It always felt forced on the part of the musicians and I would feel sorry for them. I feel bad for people in Mud Lick, Kentucky that have to hear a defeated Billy Ray Cyrus slur his way through an Achey-Breaky Heart remix and say, "This is a dream come true! I'm in my home state playing Mud Lick!", because they all know he would much rather be at a place like Radio City...Woo-Hoo!

She Talks To Angels...

2006-10-09T17:12:00.000-04:00

AND DEMONS! Oh holy hell. When will it ever end?

On Saturday I took the new roomie out for drinks to celebrate the new move in! I even invited some friends of mine out to say, "Hey guys! See, she's cool, right? Right?" Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was the fact that she swore she was a master at Skeetball and proceeded to demonstrate her mad skills, as well as clue us in to "tricks of the trade" that vastly improved our own skeetball scores...instantly. Regardless, we were hanging on her every word. Until...

She casually mentioned that Ghosts often appear to her. (Ummmm,what? C'mon! This can't be happening!) According to the girl that I have commited to sharing a living space with for the next 12 months, she grew up with a ghost in her house. She gave a detailed description of how this ghost was a "menacing" spirit that would move her Mother's keys when she set them on the counter, and that the ghost was so upset when they decided to move, that he flooded their house the day they sold it.

Pardon the expression, but Jesus Christ! We lived together before, why is this just now coming up? Nobody at the bar was even fazed by anything she was saying. Just listening and nodding with baited breath. Don't get me wrong, learning the secret to a mean game of Skeetball is pretty cool, but is it enough to totally ignore the fact that this story is a little freaky? Of course it is! Because they don't have to live with her... I DO!!!!!!

It gets worse.

Apparently, she has also had a ghost caress her face when she was crying. Then there was the time she was completely awake and a swarm of bees filled her bedroom. They went away when she hid under the covers and started praying...

Oh ok.

Now I've prayed for some crazy stuff before, but it usually involved getting my period or winning the lottery. I hope to God I never start a prayer off with, "Dear Lord, Thank you for this food and please make the bees in my room go away." Because the truth is, I've never been bitten by a bee. I don't even know if I'm allergic, but I'm not in the mood to find out anytime soon.

I think I heard once that ghosts only appear to certain people. Fine. I better not become one of those "people". As long as any ghost that visits stays in her room and doesn't invade our common areas like the living room, bathroom, and kitchen, I can't really complain. So that's it. I'm living with the Ghost Whisperer. Wish me luck.

PAINting Sucks

2006-10-04T13:25:00.000-04:00

So I have learned many things this time around with my apartment, and the whole "moving in/moving out" situation. Even though I myself am not going anywhere, I can't help but feel as if I'm moving as well. I'm moving in to a new situation with a new person with new quirks, peeves, and traits...all things that I will have to adjust to, but at the same time all these things are challenges that I welcome.

One of the new lessons that I'm learning, in addition to the fact that spackle, cleaning supplies, and tools cost a lot when you buy them all at once, is something that I have always known but never seem to accept...that reality will never live up to the fantasy!

My new roomate and I decided to overhaul our apartment. To fix everything that needed to be fixed. To paint the entire place as a way of starting over. To bond. MISTAKE!

Holy Crap! Painting is hard work. What the heck? There are flyers posted throughout my neighborhood that say "Any size room painted - 89 dollars" but nooooo, not me! I had to bond. Had to force myself to make a memory. Curses! There is no room for sentimental B.S. when you are trying to get things done with a new apartment. Any commercial that you have ever seen on television that depicts painting your home as a "fun" time is a damn lie!! Nobody paints, "Will you marry me?" on the wall, eating pizza is hard when your hands are covered in semi-gloss latex paint, and painting across someone's back while they are working is not the laugh-fest they make it look like on TV. The reality is, I can't feel my legs, my neck feels as if its permanantly arched backwards from all the time I spent trying to paint my ceiling, and my fingers feel like they are on fire from trying to hold a steady paintbrush.

My new roomate's furniture hasn't arrived and the aerobed has a hole, so we're sleeping double until her furniture gets here. I swear I have more sleepovers as an adult than I ever did as a kid. It's a good thing we're both ethnic and can understand cramped sleeping styles. It's also a good thing we're both the same religion because when I woke up to the sound of her praying to Jesus to take the pain from her arms away, I just got up and got her some Advil...instead of calling the loony bin. If anyone reading this ever decides to paint, don't do it. Hire someone. If you must do it yourself, screw the ceilings! Oh yeah, and bonding is overrated.

Buh-Bye!

2006-10-03T12:10:00.000-04:00

The old roomates are out, moving boxes are gone, and my new roommate is in!!! Finally, I can experience what it is like for two people to live in a two bedroom apartment! Don't get me wrong, living with an engaged couple had it's perks.

Some things I'm really going to miss are:

1) The random sublettors they overcharged to stay in their room while they worked at some sub-par summer stock theater that paid peanuts, for the "art" of it.
2) The public displays of affection and drunkeness.
3) The Party Poker programs that were mysteriously downloaded onto my computer.
4) Having to bear witness to consistent use of unoriginal pet names.
5) Loud "actor" sex that my family and friends had to uncomfortably overhear while visiting.
6) Paying half of the rent when I was only using one-third of the apartment.
7) The amount of television I had to watch in order to avoid having a conversation.

Here's to new beginnings!!!!

Find A Penny, Pick It Up...

2006-09-29T15:22:00.000-04:00

I need good luck. Not that things are terribly bad, but things can always be better, right? It's all part of my ongoing process to better myself along my journey of existence by systematically "out-lucking" people. I believe that outside of certain factors (i.e. education, poverty, health) things are pretty much a level playing field for how successful you can become, so you have to rely on luck to do the rest.

"But wait!”, you say,” What about those jerks I know that always seem to be getting ahead because they lie,cheat,and steal?"

Well I'm not talking about those people. They don't count. In fact, they suck and they will have to deal with their own karma later down the road. I'm talking about us. Normal (relatively), Hardworking (matter of opinion), and Honest (as long as you don't count cheating on a diet.)

So if my non-researched theory backed up by absolutely no scientific evidence holds true, "Almost all men are created equal...not including aforementioned mitigating factors, of course."

This leads me to my latest point of obsession...the abandoned penny that has been left on the floor of the bathroom stall at work.
Why do you tease me penny? Why do you sit there day in and day out knowing that perhaps you have the ability to change lives? If I pick you up does that make me gross? Desperate? Archaically Superstitious?
You have consumed my thoughts. I have even waited patiently, Penny. Made small talk with people using the facilities, but even they don't see your beauty and my curious yet hopeful question, "Hey I dropped some change in there, is there any left that I missed?" falls on deaf ears and quiet rumbles of disgust. Even the custodian has given up hope and left you alone to wallow in the germ infested stall of ungratefulness. But not me. I will wait. It’s just me and you penny. Or is it "you and I"? Does proper grammar even matter? How can it, when all that truly matters is Lady Luck...

Blinded

2006-09-27T16:48:00.000-04:00

So I was working late at work this week and an email with this picture is sent to me by my boss. Fine.

I really can't recall ever having a conversation about the "Hoff." Never. Not once. Maybe if I had a conversation in the kitchen at work discussing David's "said" artistic merits, I can see the relevance. All I am left to wonder is "Why"? and dear Lord, "What does this say about me"?

I may have an image problem around here...

I put it as my desktop image and left it up all day...nobody said nuthin'. I really wanted someone to tell me it was offensive so I could be like, "Yeah? Really? Well talk to the boss...that's who sent it!" But nope. Nobody cared. I guess Hasselhoff has been so lame for so long, that it's just not funny...even if he is sodomizing puppies. Or maybe it's me, maybe I've been the one that's been so lame for so long and it's just expected that I would find Hasslehoff to be Hi-fuckin'-larious.

Like I said, I may have an image problem around here...

Never Underestimate The Bad Taste Of ...

2006-09-25T13:14:00.000-04:00

Me...

I have an addiction to seeing films. Well I guess films are considered "good" stuff and movies are "not so good" stuff. So let me rephrase and say that I am addicted to watching crap. No, I'm not fooling myself into thinking, "Hey, this may have potential". I literally know this movie is probably going to suck, but I don't have much going on so I will attend. But lately Hollywood is churning out poo all over the place...even too much for a low standard loving movie hack like myself.

Case and Point- Hollywoodland and The Black Dahlia

These movies were released within two weeks of one another... (as if anyone was going to forget the film noir shitfest that was just dumped on them the week prior!) I wish I could go on about how awful it is knowing I've lost four hours of my life on these movies, but the more time I spend obsessing, the less time I have left on the planet to complain about the fact that...

We are about to be bombarded (well let me clarify and say "I" because I am sure I will be the only one who willingly sees these films) with Infamous, which is another version of Capote. Even in the previews they allude to the possibility that we might not give a rat's ass, by using the tagline, "There's more to the story than you know." Really Hollywood? Really? Are you assuming my only knowledge of Capote's experience while writing "In Cold Blood", was the amazing world that Phillip Seymour Hoffman invited me into? Wow. you got me.

Surely, even Truman Capote, one of the most self-involved writers of his time, is looking on all this and saying, "Enough already! I'm sick of me!"

So in summation let me say that I ain't picky, but come on! Cut the crap ,Hollywood. Seriously. Cut the crap films and leave them on the editing floor. The world will be better off for it.

And by the way, somebody out in Hollywood owes me $10.75 for the cost of my Black Dahlia ticket. I'm not asking for anything back on Hollywoodland because I snuck into The Covenant right after. See, I can be fair.

Sad But True...

2006-09-19T22:07:00.000-04:00

Phone conversation:

MOM: Why did you call me earlier?

ME: I'm worried about my eyes. I got up from my computer at work and everything around me was blurry.

MOM: Sounds like you need glasses.

ME: That's what I thought, so I made an appointment to get my eyes checked, but then I realized I have to cancel.

MOM: Why?

ME: I booked an appointment to get my hair done at the same time.

MOM: Your hair is taking precedence over your eyesight?

ME: Pretty much. I'll get farther in this town as a blonde, than I ever will wearing glasses.

MOM: That's awful. Is this because of that "Bergdorf Blondes" book you left here last time you came to visit?

ME: Ummmm, Maybe?

MOM: You waste your money on paperbacks.

Black Out

2006-09-18T18:16:00.000-04:00

Work was too much for me to attempt today. Trying to "look busy" was exhausting me. It seemed a perfect time for me to reward myself for getting halfway through Monday by walking to Macy's to get the new Chanel Nail polish in Black Satin. I saw it in a magazine and thought, "Hey, I can wear that." After all, Lindsey Lohan, Hillary Duff, and 3 blondes from 2 different MTV shows can't be wrong. Right?

So I walked on down to the counter to get some trendy goodness. I asked for black satin and the counter lady looked at me like I had three heads.

"It's all gone." Helga told me with feigned dissapointment. Yes, the lady looked like she was a Helga.

"Well can I place an order?" I asked.

"No".

"No, why?"

"It's all gone. Limited edition." she said. "But you can find it on ebay for 200 dollars."

I left speechless.

Chanel nailpolish costs 18 dollars a bottle which is already a crime, and it made me realize I can go to Walgreens and get the same color by Wet and Wild for two bucks. ..all I need is a good topcoat to do the trick. Who pays 200 dollars for nail polish? Seriously, tell me who you are and why you do it...I will get Sally Struthers on your ass!!!! Shame on you Chanel, and shame on you Ebay sellers who upsell. But more importantly, shame on you crazy consumer-person who buys from Ebay...do better things with your money.

But thank-you Walgreens. I like you.

Because Your Kiss Is On My List...

2006-09-17T02:00:00.000-04:00

100 THINGS ABOUT ME !

1. I spend most of the day laughing.
2. Guys younger than me love me.
3. I sleep better when I am naked.
4. I spoke at my college graduation.
5. I'm loyal. To a fault.
6. I love March Madness, University of Miami Football, and the Baltimore Orioles.
7. I drink one Diet-Coke a day.
8. I want a dog, but I don't want the work or the less spontaneous lifestyle that comes with it.
9. People never guess my age right. Or my weight.
10. I am not afraid of change (this includes coins).
11. I could live on a diet of Pizza and Sushi.
12. People compliment me on my legs at least once a week.
13. I still dance in front of my mirror.
14. I like my hair.
15. I'm not a big fan of ice cream.
16. I can't type.
17. I was in a beauty pageant.
18. I am a fan of Karaoke and can sing a kick-ass version of "Hit Me with Your Best Shot."
19. I wear fake nails because I can't stop picking at my real ones.
20. I get bad migranes when it rains.
21. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. I hated it even when I was a smoker.
22. The state of Texas makes me nervous.
23. I don't trust boys once I find out they are in a band.
24. I get embarrassed whenever I have to list to people all the places I have lived as an ARMY brat. I feel like after the 14th place, people start to think I'm just making shit up.
25. I don't think I meet many smart people now a days.
26. I secretly despise the New York Yankees.
27. I can't stand Yams or Chinese Food.
28. I hate the way I look in glasses.
29. I am a military dependent, as well as a liberal. The only people who don't think we exist, are narrow minded liberals.
30. I don't really enjoy coffee.
31. I wish I could paint.
32. I was an awful waitress.
33. I find most actors to be self-involved and obnoxious.
34. I can have a conversation with anyone.
35. I don't know how to whistle.
36. I hate going to bed at night because I think I am going to miss something when I fall asleep.
37. I wish I was a lawyer, because there is a lot of unjust shit out there that I want to fix and a lot of obnoxious people I would like to sue.
38. I'm not fooled by the Angelina Jolie "Feed The World/ We are the World/ Do they know it's Christmastime" do-gooder stuff.
39. I love hugs.
40. I have laughed so hard I have pissed my pants.
41. I try to tell my Friends and Family "I Love You" as much as I can.
42. It freaks me out that people can see my name on TV in the credits of whatever show I am working on.
44. I tried out for my high school cheerleading team because it was important to my Mom. I made the Varsity team as an 8th grader and I couldn't even do a cartwheel...they said they gave me a spot because I was the loudest.
46. I'm kind of setimental, but I have a hard time showing it.
47. At night I have a fear someone will try to break into my apartment, so I lock myself in my bedroom.
48. I broke my kneecap at the World Trade Center.
49. If I died tomorrow, I would be happy with all of the things I've seen and done.
50. I'm full of contradictions.
51. I feel so lucky to have a college degree.
52. If I were to describe my writing style, I would have to say "Awesome".
53. I have had plastic surgery numerous times...and have no regrets.
54. I think naps are overrated.
55. I was always on Homecoming and Prom Courts in High School. I didn't win crap.
56. In college, I redeemed myself by dating "Mr. University of Miami".
57. I love betting on the ponies and make it a point to meet up with my Kentucky girlfriends every year to go to the Derby.
58. I had to get spinal surgery and the doctors put metal rods in my back. I lived in a wheelchair for a year. Looking back, it seems like that happened to someone else.
59. Other people's children exhaust me. Which is a shame, because they really are cute little people.
60. My father has been gone for 10 years now and I still think about him every day.
62. I find that the mountains of North Carolina are one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.
63. I like boys who are super nerds or super jocks, but I can't seem to find either lately.
64. When I was in pre-school my Mom got called in for a meeting with my teachers because I was kissing all of my classmates. My Mom covered for me by saying, "We're Greek. That's what we do."
65. I have worked as a comedian and professional actress in several national shows. One of my proudest moments was when I got my Equity card.
66. My brother has more natural talent than I do.
67. I hope I look as good as my Mom when I get to be her age.
68. I love living in New York City.
69. I feel blessed every day.
70. I have been in a bar fight.
72. My favorite drink is a Dirty Vodka Martini Straight Up with Olives.
73. I don't think I will ever be a morning person.
75. I don't win many things, but when I do, it's usually something really kick-ass.
76. I don't like the rain unless I am in bed.
77. My favorte number is 13 and I've got a thing for Ben Affleck. I guess I like the types of things that most people usually fear.
78. I love reading and writing poetry. I have even had one of my poems published.
79. Going to Disneyworld is amazing. As a cynic, I always am looking for proof that maybe it really isn't the "Happiest Place On Earth", but I can't find any evidence. But I did go backstage once, and saw "Mickey" without her head on. Yup, Mickey is a 5"1' Cuban girl.
80. My toes look weird to me.
81. I can speak a hint of three languages.
82. When I was in middle school, I spent my summers at Vacation Bible Study, listened to Christian music, and went to a Baptist Church...even though I am Greek Orthodox.
83. I'd like to go back to the "Roaring 20's" and try being a flapper, so I could show off my "gams"...but then I would want to come back right away.
84. When I lived in Miami, my hair was usually a hot mess.
85. The first time a boy told me I was beautiful, I was in 8th Grade.
86. I stop watching American Idol once they pick the contestants.
87. I think about food a lot.
88. I think technological puchases are smart, even though I know a new version of the product will soon be on the market.
89. I love going to movies by myself.
90. I avoid conflict at all costs.
91. I get nervous around people once I find out their astrological sign is Aries. I can think of one exception.
92. I know proper grammar but I prefer catch phrases.
93. I have no working knowledge of Math. I think I have dyscalculia.
94. I tend to be late to work.
95. I have a fear of driving.
96. I cry at the opening ceremony of every Olympics.
97. Sometimes I will call my Mom at 2 in the morning just to talk.
98. I love the state of Kentucky. I didn't live there long, but in my heart, its home.
99. This is the longest amount of time I have ever spent thinking about myself.
100. Today is my birthday.

Do I Look Like I'm Trying To Work My Way Through Nursing School?

2006-09-15T11:56:00.000-04:00

I took a cab home last night. I specifically stated my street and avenue. My cab driver got the street right, yes, and missed my avenue by one. Mistakes happen. Fine.

Until...
I realized he had stopped in front of a strip club near my house.

He said, "Here you go, Miss".

Excuse me???

I said, "I'm trying to go home. I don't live here."
Then I repeated my address so there was no confusion this time.

I wonder, did he think I was looking to be entertained, or that I was the entertainment?????

At least he called me "Miss". There's something to be said for manners... Jerk.

Seems Fishy to Me

2006-09-14T11:32:00.000-04:00

Last night I had a friend come in to NYC who was visiting from Chicago. I had to kill some time before we met up and I had a killer craving so I found a sushi joint nearby the hotel where we were meeting. I walked in and asked to sit at the sushi bar. As a former waitress, I hate taking up extra space at a table during a dinner/ lunch rush when I can easily sit at a bar and get my meal on.

As I looked around I noticed the only Japanese people in the place were the two sushi chefs working in front of me. All the other men in the restaurant, including the waitstaff, were wearing Yarmulkes. Ummmmmmmm...

What? I checked out the menu. I had stumbled into a Kosher sushi restaurant. So I look around. There is nothing remotely Japanese going on in this restaurant. All I see is a Menorah and paintings of historic events in the history of Israel and Judaism. Okay. I can handle this. But I know that my Kosher friends don't eat shellfish. As someone who has lived in Maryland, and craves crabs, I'm not sure how anyone can handle this. God loves lobster. I just know it. If I get up, I won't get to explain that, "Hey, I just happen to really like shellfish. You know the spider roll, the tempura fried soft shell crab rolled in rice and seaweed? I need it. Now." Instead if I get up, I will be a racist. A Jew hater. But that's the farthest thing from the truth. I love Jews. Seriously. I've even slept with a few.

So I eat my bagel roll ( which is a Philadelphia roll with smoked salmon) and deal. I wonder what the Japanese chef thinks of all this...do Mexicans get mad at Taco Bell? Do Itallians find Olive Garden offensive? Do the Chinese hate Panda Express?

Or perhaps the Japanese chef is Kosher and I'm the idiot. Fair enough. But at the end of the day, I still get to eat oysters!!!!!!!! (As long as it is a month ending in the letter 'R'.)

PT Barnum Was Right...

2006-09-12T11:13:00.001-04:00

Two events of note:

1) Last night during the Presidential Address regarding September 11th, the only word President Bush stumbled on was "Intelligence".

2) Justin Timberlooser's album "drops" today.

(Proof positive, that in this country, you don't have to be very talented to get very far.)

This Little Light of Mine...

2006-09-11T22:30:00.000-04:00

I can see the "Tribute in Lights" where the World Trade Center once stood, shining through my apartment window. It was cloudy earlier and I was getting upset that I couldn't see them, but the clouds have now broken and the beams have made their way into my living room. I count on the lights every year to make me think, to take a moment to reflect. New York City at night can be so quiet . Especially tonight. Maybe the city just knows. It knows to be still, to take a moment to breathe, to be at peace. Times like these make me believe that the city is a person. The sadness is always palpable on September 11th. Tonight I pray for many things. I should do that more often.

Ken Olbermann Kicks Ass.

2006-09-11T22:01:00.000-04:00

This was passed along to me and I felt compelled to post it in case anyone chooses to watch...
This commentary by Ken Olbermann was profound, touching, and poignant. May it not get lost in the media saturation that surrounds this day...

This Hole In The Ground

Half a lifetime ago, I worked in this now-empty space. And for 40 days after the attacks, I worked here again, trying to make sense of what happened, and was yet to happen, as a reporter.

All the time, I knew that the very air I breathed contained the remains of thousands of people, including four of my friends, two in the planes and -- as I discovered from those "missing posters" seared still into my soul -- two more in the Towers.

And I knew too, that this was the pyre for hundreds of New York policemen and firemen, of whom my family can claim half a dozen or more, as our ancestors.

I belabor this to emphasize that, for me this was, and is, and always shall be, personal.

And anyone who claims that I and others like me are "soft,"or have "forgotten" the lessons of what happened here is at best a grasping, opportunistic, dilettante and at worst, an idiot whether he is a commentator, or a Vice President, or a President.

However, of all the things those of us who were here five years ago could have forecast -- of all the nightmares that unfolded before our eyes, and the others that unfolded only in our minds -- none of us could have predicted this.

Five years later this space is still empty.

Five years later there is no memorial to the dead.

Five years later there is no building rising to show with proud defiance that we would not have our America wrung from us, by cowards and criminals.

Five years later this country's wound is still open.

Five years later this country's mass grave is still unmarked.

Five years later this is still just a background for a photo-op.

It is beyond shameful.

At the dedication of the Gettysburg Memorial -- barely four months after the last soldier staggered from another Pennsylvania field -- Mr. Lincoln said, "we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."

Lincoln used those words to immortalize their sacrifice.

Today our leaders could use those same words to rationalize their reprehensible inaction. "We cannot dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground." So we won't.

Instead they bicker and buck pass. They thwart private efforts, and jostle to claim credit for initiatives that go nowhere. They spend the money on irrelevant wars, and elaborate self-congratulations, and buying off columnists to write how good a job they're doing instead of doing any job at all.

Five years later, Mr. Bush, we are still fighting the terrorists on these streets. And look carefully, sir, on these 16 empty acres. The terrorists are clearly, still winning.

And, in a crime against every victim here and every patriotic sentiment you mouthed but did not enact, you have done nothing about it.

And there is something worse still than this vast gaping hole in this city, and in the fabric of our nation. There is its symbolism of the promise unfulfilled, the urgent oath, reduced to lazy execution.

The only positive on 9/11 and the days and weeks that so slowly and painfully followed it was the unanimous humanity, here, and throughout the country. The government, the President in particular, was given every possible measure of support.

Those who did not belong to his party -- tabled that.

Those who doubted the mechanics of his election -- ignored that.

Those who wondered of his qualifications -- forgot that.

History teaches us that nearly unanimous support of a government cannot be taken away from that government by its critics. It can only be squandered by those who use it not to heal a nation's wounds, but to take political advantage.

Terrorists did not come and steal our newly-regained sense of being American first, and political, fiftieth. Nor did the Democrats. Nor did the media. Nor did the people.

The President -- and those around him -- did that.

They promised bi-partisanship, and then showed that to them, "bi-partisanship" meant that their party would rule and the rest would have to follow, or be branded, with ever-escalating hysteria, as morally or intellectually confused, as appeasers, as those who, in the Vice President's words yesterday, "validate the strategy of the terrorists."

They promised protection, and then showed that to them "protection" meant going to war against a despot whose hand they had once shaken, a despot who we now learn from our own Senate Intelligence Committee, hated al-Qaida as much as we did.

The polite phrase for how so many of us were duped into supporting a war, on the false premise that it had 'something to do' with 9/11 is "lying by implication."

The impolite phrase is "impeachable offense."

Not once in now five years has this President ever offered to assume responsibility for the failures that led to this empty space, and to this, the current, curdled, version of our beloved country.

Still, there is a last snapping flame from a final candle of respect and fairness: even his most virulent critics have never suggested he alone bears the full brunt of the blame for 9/11.

Half the time, in fact, this President has been so gently treated, that he has seemed not even to be the man most responsible for anything in his own administration.

Yet what is happening this very night?

A mini-series, created, influenced -- possibly financed by -- the most radical and cold of domestic political Machiavellis, continues to be televised into our homes.

The documented truths of the last fifteen years are replaced by bald-faced lies; the talking points of the current regime parroted; the whole sorry story blurred, by spin, to make the party out of office seem vacillating and impotent, and the party in office, seem like the only option.

How dare you, Mr. President, after taking cynical advantage of the unanimity and love, and transmuting it into fraudulent war and needless death, after monstrously transforming it into fear and suspicion and turning that fear into the campaign slogan of three elections? How dare you -- or those around you -- ever "spin" 9/11?

Just as the terrorists have succeeded -- are still succeeding -- as long as there is no memorial and no construction here at Ground Zero.

So, too, have they succeeded, and are still succeeding as long as this government uses 9/11 as a wedge to pit Americans against Americans.

This is an odd point to cite a television program, especially one from March of 1960. But as Disney's continuing sell-out of the truth (and this country) suggests, even television programs can be powerful things.

And long ago, a series called "The Twilight Zone" broadcast a riveting episode entitled "The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street."

In brief: a meteor sparks rumors of an invasion by extra-terrestrials disguised as humans. The electricity goes out. A neighbor pleads for calm. Suddenly his car -- and only his car -- starts. Someone suggests he must be the alien. Then another man's lights go on. As charges and suspicion and panic overtake the street, guns are inevitably produced. An "alien" is shot -- but he turns out to be just another neighbor, returning from going for help. The camera pulls back to a near-by hill, where two extra-terrestrials are seen manipulating a small device that can jam electricity. The veteran tells his novice that there's no need to actually attack, that you just turn off a few of the human machines and then, "they pick the most dangerous enemy they can find, and it's themselves."

And then, in perhaps his finest piece of writing, Rod Serling sums it up with words of remarkable prescience, given where we find ourselves tonight: "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices, to be found only in the minds of men.

"For the record, prejudices can kill and suspicion can destroy, and a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own -- for the children, and the children yet unborn."

When those who dissent are told time and time again -- as we will be, if not tonight by the President, then tomorrow by his portable public chorus -- that he is preserving our freedom, but that if we use any of it, we are somehow un-American...When we are scolded, that if we merely question, we have "forgotten the lessons of 9/11"... look into this empty space behind me and the bi-partisanship upon which this administration also did not build, and tell me:

Who has left this hole in the ground?

We have not forgotten, Mr. President.

You have.

May this country forgive you.

Engine, Engine, Number 9...

2006-09-11T12:48:00.000-04:00

...on the New York Transit Line, if the train should jump the tracks, pick it up, Pick It Up, PICK IT UP!!!

Being that it's September 11th and all, I was thinking of Firefighters, Firefighters make me think of fire engines, fire engines make me think of Black Sheep's old school hip-hop song that is now stuck in my brain...

For real though, some of the girls I work with are going to the firehouse around the corner to take cupcakes to the firefighters there. Come On!!!! My first instinct was, "you whores. you total whores." Do firefighters want cupcakes on the fifth anniversary of September 11th? It seems odd or so damn sweet I can't decide. Either way, I'll donate to the cause. If I don't, I'll look cold and like I could care less about 9/11. The truth is, I could care less if these girls get laid, and I have to give money to them to buy cupcakes so they can put on lip gloss and trot over there and come back to the office giggling about the "cute" firefighter...that they met on my dime! I can't believe I'm going to give them money. UUUUGH...

One of the girls in the office called the New York Fire Department to get the number of the nearest firehouse so they can decide where they can take their "goodies". The NYFD answers the phone, "Fire Department. Where's the fire?" They really say that! I wanted to get the number from her just so I could call back and hear them answer the phone. That way when they ask, "Where's the fire?", I can say, "In my pants!" Who's the whore now?

I love beefcakes, I mean, cupcakes.

Hate It or Love It

2006-09-08T19:17:00.000-04:00

"Indifference is the kiss of death". Huh? What? Yup. I think I'm suffering from indifference (or my blog is.) Sorry folks, but I've just been feeling not quite myself lately...When I was in high school my Mom ripped out a fashion ad with that quote on it and gave it to me. It was advertising shoes and the ad featured a bright purple suede shoe. It made no sense to me but I thought it looked cool so I hung it in my locker next to my mirror. I looked at that ad all the time.

In retrospect, my Mom (I think) was passively trying to convince me that the bright purple suede jacket she had just bought me was not as ugly as I thought it was because "see even fashion magazines think purple suede is in" and "it cost a lot of money". My Mom ,at the time, was big on getting us things that she thought were nice because we needed to learn to have an appreciation for finer things. Once she turned into a single parent that philosophy wasn't as progressive or important...obviously. But that's a whole other post...What that ad did teach me though, is that the last thing I ever wanted to be thought of in this life was "indifferent" or "apathetic".

So it really bothered me that I had been feeling all kinds of "out of sorts" lately. I think I had just turned all my anger, confusion, and stress into indifference because that was the best way for me to get out of bed and show up at work. A girl needs to eat and keep a roof over her head...I think.

I've been hiding behind the, " If you don't allow yourself to feel you can't get hurt" kind of philosophy lately, and it turns out, apathy, is not hot. See sometimes Paris Hilton may look apathetic, or "hot" as the kids say, but that's misleading, because deep down she's not, it's just her lazy eye that makes her appear that way. Wonky eyes are a tricky thing. (That has nothing to do with nothing, but I felt compelled to mention it anyway.)

My apathy had to do with my sublet leaving, my regular roomies returning, my ass landlord, and my poopy job (which is not, nor ever will be cool.) Well I'm done feeling bad for me and I need to get back to being awesome. the world needs it.

You know who else needs it? Fiddy Cent. He got arrested today and brought to the precinct across the street from where I work. All I saw was his fancy Lamborghini. It showed me that, see everyone has problems, but his will probably cost more than mine...and more people will give a shit. So Fiddy, you got 3 weeks buddy, to get back to being awesome. That's all I took. the world needs it.

Return To The Forbidden Planet

2006-08-25T00:07:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-24T11:35:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-23T15:26:00.000-04:00

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"

2006-08-22T12:21:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-15T00:20:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-08-09T19:18:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-07T10:50:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-03T14:09:00.000-04:00

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)

2006-08-01T11:38:00.000-04:00

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.

Police line: Do Not Cross!!!

2006-07-31T13:37:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-07-28T23:27:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-07-25T14:14:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-07-24T17:15:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-20T10:43:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-07-17T12:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-16T14:40:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-11T19:23:00.000-04:00

(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"

2006-07-08T00:22:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-07-05T22:41:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-07-04T14:05:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-07-03T22:13:00.000-04:00

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!

I think my Chinese laundry guy loves me...or something.

2006-06-28T21:19:00.000-04:00

Let me start off by saying I am not a "Woman In Full" of herself. Granted, I get my fair (or unfair, depending on how you look at it) share of harassment, but I do not think a plethora of men are out there clamoring to "get with this". BUT...I'm pretty sure the Chinese guy who picks up and drops off my laundry to my apartment is "catching feelings". It all started last year when I noticed certain garments (i.e. panties) were not coming back with the rest of the clothes that I had sent out to get cleaned.

At first I panicked...
"Why would someone take my panties? Did they even take them to begin with? What if they are just lost? Misplaced? Maybe the Chinese guy put them in the wrong bag..."
Then insecurity...
"Who am I to think that my panties are sniff/trophy worthy?"
(That's right...you read that one correctly.)
Then I got mad...
because I only wear sets! I'm not neurotic about much, but in case I'm in an accident and have to go to the hospital or I'm semi-nude in front of a significant other I need my matching sets! (Note: "said" significant other currently does not exist so the best chance anyone is going to have of seeing me in my panties is to show up at "said" hospital.)
Now matching panty sets are expensive. I did the math. When I get a set they cost 40 bucks! I was missing 12 panties total...That's 240 dollars!!! All it takes for something to be considered major theft by law, is that if what has been stolen, is valued at 200 dollars or more...and what I mean by law is the "law according to me." A crime had been committed! I had to stand my ground.

After calling several friends who advised me not to call the police, because my idea of filing a "Missing Panty Report" would not be taken seriously by the NYPD, I decided to put on a mismatched underwear set and try to find their missing brothers and sisters who may be lost at the cleaners. I walked in and let the cleaners have it. My Chinese guy was speechless. I tried to kindly explain to him, as simply as possible that I'm not accusing anyone of anything, but I'm missing panties and I find it odd that these are the only things that are missing. He stared at me for a few seconds until an older gentleman behind the counter(who kind of looked like the old Chinese man who sold Gremlins out of his Chinatown store basement) spoke up and asked, "How do you know they were here in the first place?" I thought this was a "young grasshopper" moment that you see in old kung-fu films where I was about to be tricked, so I remained calm and I explained to him that I only wear matching sets, therefore, only matching sets are sent to the cleaners and that when I only get half of the sets returned to me, I become greatly alarmed. My Chinese guy looked confused, so old man explained to him in Chinese what was going on. My Chinese guy then hit himself in the head with his hand. Old man apologized and said they would look for my panties. I left the cleaners and hurried home, afraid that any one passing me on the street would know that underneath all my glamour I was a disheveled, mismatched mess.

A week later, I got some panties back. Seriously. My Chinese guy brought them to my apartment himself. They were folded, cleaned, and wrapped in plastic in a brown paper bag. He kept apologizing and bowing. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't wear them. Where had my panties been? Did someone who washes clothes there take them home and then feel guilty? Were they sent home with a different customer who returned them? Were they trapped between the washer and dryer and then rescued by my Chinese guy? I'll never know, but I do know that those panties will never touch my body again.

After that ordeal, my relationship with my Chinese guy has changed. Now, when I call the cleaners he says my first and last name after he says hello. That guy doesn't speak a lick of English but he can say my name. He recognizes my voice and they don't have caller ID. I know because I stopped by and asked. He came to pick up my clothes yesterday and brought a sunflower. Maybe he treats me well because I stayed as a customer. I have no clue. But I'll always wonder two things about that Chinese guy-

1) At the moment the old man told him what had happened to my clothes and he hit himself in the head with his hand...Did he do that because he was embarrassed or because he was busted?

and

2) Does he get health benefits? I could get with a guy who has a good health plan. Nothing is sexier than those five little words, "Blue Cross and Blue Shield".