Preditorial

Donut Royalty

2010-02-08T09:12:00.011-05:00

Okay, it's been a while since I updated this blog -- not that there hasn't been anything blog-worthy to write about (I did, after all, just get engaged!) -- but I'll skip rehashing all that's happened in the nearly 12 months since my last post because the only thing that REALLY matters is that I AM DUNKIN DONUTS ROYALTY.

("There's something I've been meaning to ask you. There's this thing I've heard, and if I thought for one second it was true I'd probably kill myself. Does your fiancee work - in a doughnut shop?" "Yes. A Donut King." "A Donut King! So is she like the queen? Are we entertaining royalty?" Quick aside, if you've never seen "The House of Yes" starring Parker Posey, rent it NOW.)

A fiend when it comes to the coffee I drink every morning, I've been a "regular" customer of the Dunkin Donuts (DD) located in the 47th/50th Street-Rockefeller Center subway station since starting a temp job nearby in mid-November '09. Each morning, I order the same thing: Extra large, extra pumpkin coffee light with skim milk. Last week, I was honored with the staff's acknowledgment of my "regular" existence when, without a word from me, they prepared my coffee; the honor inched me closer to "lesser commuter god" and away from "faceless customer."

Today, I was anointed, dubbed, knighted, what-have-you when, upon arriving to the DD counter, my coffee was promptly handed to me. Shocked and humbled, I stammered, "but...how...did...you..." to which one of the staff smiled and said, "we saw you coming from the train." That's right - I don't even have to be present to place my order anymore.

Crown, please?

More than a "donut lady in waiting" but perhaps less than an actual queen (a queen would get her coffee for free), I consider this a lifetime achievement award as a faithful DD coffee drinker.

As I savor every drop of hard-earned caffeine, I'm contemplating a few options for immortalizing this cup of coffee (dipped in gold? stuffed with someone's beloved dead pet?). How else to mark this watershed moment, my coronation as Donut Royalty? Perhaps I should write an acceptance speech to give tomorrow AM...?

With my trophy coffee...

Crime doesn't pay...really

2009-03-17T23:43:00.009-04:00

Since being laid off in late 2007, I've been able to string together enough freelance work to pay the rent (mostly thanks to friends and former co-workers who still find my talents useful). One of my current projects is simulating a web site via PowerPoint for the NYC Dept of Ed (another gig hooked up through friends/former co-workers). While the client is happy with the product thus far, my bank account isn't.

The problem? I can't get paid. Why? I have a record.

On Dec 30, 1991, I was sitting on Pompano Beach with my boyfriend (the Man I now live with) at 10:30 PM. No, we weren't doing anything naughty...except for being there after hours. A bright flashlight beamed into our faces and two cops (who apparently hadn't heard that Florida has enough REAL crime to rank 2nd in the nation) demanded we put our hands up. We were arrested for "trespassing."

In the back of the police car, the wanna-be lawyer in me sprang into action, demanding to know, "Do you HONESTLY think we're criminals?"

"Yes, you broke the law."

"And doesn't the law recognize different degrees of crime? Does sitting on a public beach warrant the same kind of police response as breaking into a home or stabbing someone?"

"Yes, when it comes to whether or not you broke the law, there is no grey area."

"Thanks for that insightful answer, RoboCop."

Where was RoboCop when Speedos were the rage? It's GOT to be illegal to show that much French Canadian ass on a public beach.

Okay, so maybe I didn't say that last line but maybe I did (my mouth never got that "be still when guns are near" memo). My Man kept shushing me, and finally hissed, "Are you trying to get me killed, white bread? I'm Latino, for Christ's sake!"

We were booked, fingerprinted, photographed and held in separate cells until our parents could come and get us. Although I was 18 and could post my own $25 bail, I only had like $10 on me. My Man was Li'l Man at the time and still a minor so could only be released to his parents. (You know, now that I think about it, if they wanted to play Super Cops that night, they should've charged me with statutory rape while they were at it.)

Anyway, two months later, I appeared before a judge to answer the charge of misdemeanor trespassing. The public defender suggested I plea guilty and hope for a fine. I told her "no thanks" and asked to represent myself. I pleaded no contest and started to explain to the judge that this was my first arrest before he interrupted me.

"You were arrested for sitting on a beach?"

"Yes, your honor."

"On a beach in South Florida?"

"Yes, your honor."

"Oh, now, THAT's a crime. Get out of my court room. What a waste of my time."

"So...?"

"Court withholds adjudication. Bail of $25 to be returned to defendant less $5 court costs. Now get out of here, Ms. Goddard, before you waste any more of my time."

How I wished Super Cops 1 & 2 had been there to witness my vindication but they were probably off somewhere arresting a senior citizen for failing to turn off their directional signal.

So what's wrong with this picture (aside from the fossilized man boobs)? Yes, even THIS is a crime in Florida. As of June 2008, it is illegal to feed pelicans: Feeding frenzy ends soon

As I collected the $20 bail from the court clerk (which I promptly returned to my Dad, who was busily scratching his beard, wondering why he hadn't ponied up money for law school instead), I could never have guessed that 18 years later:
1) I would still be with my Man; and
2) That the arrest would prevent me from being paid.

But, here in 2009, 1,200 miles away in Brooklyn, NY, I am both with my Man and unable to get paid. The NYC Dept of Ed (DOE) requires that all employees and outside contractors get fingerprinted (regardless of whether they'll be working directly with children). My prints came back flagged for the 1991 arrest. The DOE's Office of Personnel Investigation sent me a letter asking for a copy of the police report AND a copy of the court's official disposition.

Anyone who has lived or currently lives in South Florida knows this is no small task; it's an area that routinely screws up presidential elections. The place is the Bermuda Triangle of paperwork.

Tracking down the police report proved impossible: the Pompano Beach PD (where Super Cops 1 & 2 probably still rule as petty crimebusters) has since been absorbed into the Broward Sheriff's Office. Unfortunately, the BSO doesn't keep misdemeanor arrest records longer than 10 years. (I'm sure the rationale behind this policy is a mystery to Super Cops 1 & 2.)

As for the court's official disposition, I spent an entire afternoon on hold with Broward's Clerk of Circuit and County Courts, trying to track down which office would now have a file from 1991. Apparently, my record exists only in microfiche form at this point. I'm now "vintage crime" along the lines of something you had to fish for while doing an undergrad report on the effects of glasnost in Eastern Bloc countries.

Before I begin the Herculean task of expunging my record once and for all, I'm focused on getting the situation with the DOE sorted so I can get paid for my work. I found it somewhat ironic that I had to write a check for $20 payable to Broward County for certified copies of the official disposition.

Now coming full circle with my criminal past, I'm hopeful that I'll clear the DOE's Office of Personnel Investigation with the same flying colors I did in a courtroom over 18 years ago: "Get out of here, Ms. Goddard, before you waste any more of my time."

Note: How I wish I could get a copy of my arrest mug shot. I'm sure my hair was its own misdemeanor! I'll pay top dollar to anyone who succeeds in getting it!

Falling in glove

2009-02-16T00:17:00.016-05:00

I take far too much pride in the number of gloves I've lost over the past four winters: One (which was a total fluke and not my fault, by the way). If winter runs from Dec 21-March 21, that's about 90 days during which I could lose one. With a record of 90-1, I'm the f'n Mariano Rivera of winter glove saves.

Even if you don't live in wintry weather, I'm sure you can imagine how frequently one misplaces a glove while fumbling for phones, keys, money, handguns. Walk through the city tomorrow and you're bound to come across more lost gloves than Starbucks.

Maybe you've never thought about or noticed them before but when one can boast such a fantastic record as mine, it's hard NOT to see them. In fact, I can't stop taking pictures of The Lost Ones. Most are photos of gloves lost in ridiculous places (on the train tracks? both gloves? both palms down? how?)...

How did this happen? Was the owner of this pair Ming the Merciless who, after being skewered by Flash Gordon, fell and melted into the train tracks near my house in Brooklyn?

Just your standard "lost black glove" shots. Apparently, black gloves are the Honda Civics of winter wear.

...while others are of gloves placed by kind souls in spots where hapless owners may return to find them (seriously, though - what's the likelihood of this ever working as planned?).

After snapping the photo on the right, I was tempted to stick the middle finger up on this glove since it was slightly wet and temps were below 30.

What, you may be demanding to know, is my secret? It's elementary (really): Glove clips, or as I like to call them, "glove garter belts."

Silly blogger, glove clips are for kids!

Yep, the very same thing that parents use to keep mittens from wandering off the jackets of small children is what I've used since 2005 to secure my own. Based on crude observations of lost gloves, I'm guessing that most parents are hypocrites.

It reminds me of that nursery rhyme:
Three little kittens,
They lost their mittens,
And they began to cry,
"Oh, mother dear,
We sadly fear
Our mittens we have lost."
"What! Lost your mittens,
You naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.
You shall have no pie."

What a crock of shit. My money's on "mother dear" losing HER mittens the next day while rushing to catch the B train.

What really happened: "Mom, you lost YOUR mittens? WTF?!" "Yeah, you're always yelling at us for losing ours but you're just as naughty!" "Since we found OUR mittens, we'll be eating YOUR pie! Mee-ow!"

In the time since adopting Jr's accessory, I've gotten a lot of curious looks, laughs and praise to which I say, "Why should kids be the only ones to keep their gloves?" The response is usually, "That's so true!" but I doubt I've actually changed anyone's mind. I've yet to see someone my age with glove clips on their winter coat.

It's not that gloves are expensive (at least mine aren't); it's more about how difficult mine are to replace. If I was willing to admit the absurd amount of time I spend picking out a matching scarf/gloves/hat combo for each winter, you could appreciate why I decided to add a "glove insurance policy" in the first place.

I'm such a fan of them that last Christmas, I included glove clips as stocking stuffers for adults in my family. Unfortunately, my gift wasn't exactly received with the same appreciation I'd hoped for. Some looked confused, others insulted. What can I say? I had good intentions (and the clips were from the $1 rack at Target).

I expected the same reaction from my Man, after I gave him two sets of glove clips for his winter coat and leather jacket. After all, this a man who would pretend he didn't trip over a coconut even if it was just him and the palm tree on a deserted island. But after losing a second pair of gloves just one month into winter, my Man quickly strapped the clips on (black ones, of course).

Sure, it can be annoying to have your gloves constantly dangling around your wrists, but there's comfort in at least knowing they're still there. And yes, you may look like you're waiting for the short bus instead of the M104, but at least BOTH of your hands are still warm.

For those who are too cool for glove clips, it's okay, really -- I totally enjoy taking photos of your lost gloves.

p.s. Just realized that by writing this blog, I've now jinxed my record and invited the universe to take one of my gloves before winter ends. The good news is that my paranoia also means I've already taken precautions against such a fate: when picking out each winter's scarf/glove/hat combo, I always buy two pairs of the same glove. It's like I'm Mariano Rivera with Joba Chamberlain (or John Wetteland circa 1996) warming up in the bullpen. So, WHATEVER, universe!

Note: Gloves aren't the only winter accessory people lose. I snapped the shot below while waiting for the train earlier today. I would be so f'd if this happened to me (no scarf clips, no back-up scarf)!

The Grapes of Crap

2009-01-28T00:11:00.008-05:00

I'm not sure what the point of this blog will be but I've got an urge to write it. So, let's review:

I've been trying to get a Patriots NFL helmet cell phone charm from a vending machine at Pathmark for the last few weeks. A real crapshoot: I've sunk about $19 into the piece of crap machine and now own 35 helmet charms, none of which are the Patriots. I've been waiting to return to Pathmark while I recharged my mojo.

Well, after the gym tonight, it was on like Donkey Kong. Feeling revitalized and ready to take on the vending machine, I drove over to Pathmark thinking, "Yes, this is definitely the night I get that helmet charm."

After parking on the street outside, I gathered about $2.50 in quarters from my purse and headed in. And that's when the night took a hard left turn.

The vending machine's contents had been replaced and instead of cell phone charms, it was now hawking ping pong balls with NCAA teams' logos. WTF?! My eyes grew bigger than the balls inside the machine as I searched nearby stands to see if the charms were somewhere else. No, gone.

The Grapes of Crap book cover (what, you didn't have to read it in 8th grade?).

So much for ever getting a crappy Patriots cell phone charm. Deflated, I decided to take a photo of the new machine just for posterity's sake. And that's when my cell phone froze and crashed.

Crap! I rebooted and tried to take a photo again. Crash. Reboot. Crash. The Pathmark employees were growing suspicious of me hanging around, cursing my phone so I wandered the aisles, rebooting while grabbing a very random assortment of stuff (2 lunch bags, 1 liquid dish soap, 1 pumpkin spice coffee creamer, 2 birthday cards). I figured the phone would be working again by the time I got to the front.

Nope. No phone. No photo of new tchotchke. No cell phone charms. All crap.

Frustrated, I left with my craptastic bag of randomness only to turn the corner in time to see some asshole backing into my car. Outrageous! The street was empty except for my car and still, this craptard couldn't even parallel park without hitting mine. While my car rocked back and forth from the hit, I rushed over to accost the jerkoff.

As I neared the driver's side of his car, it occurred to me that he might get out and be a 6'5, 300-pound pile of crap. No matter, I had a lot of anger to take out on him. (Is it any wonder that I haven't been killed yet?)

"Hey, asshole! Are you completely incapable of parking a car?! You just totally hit my car even though you've got miles of empty street in front of you!! Are you retarded?!"

Luckily, the crapmonger who got out was neither 6'5 nor retarded. Instead, I was face to face with a young Hasidic Jew (who looked completely baffled as to why a woman other than his wife was speaking to him). I continued to rant and threatened to hit his car on the way out "since there's 2 blocks of space behind my car and I just don't know how I'll manage to get out without hitting something!"

It was not my finest moment. In fact, it was downright crapathetic. And, before I maneuvered to drive away, I'll admit: I hit his car.

Driving home, I thought of all the crap in my life (aside from the stupid cell phone charms): I'm unemployed and I'm running through my savings faster than Obama signs executive orders. Before leaving my car to go into the gym earlier, I'd been filled with such sadness and despair that I'd even wondered, "If I had a gun right now, would I shoot myself with it?"

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not usually prone to suicidal thoughts (even passive ones). I'm guessing that a headline I'd seen earlier in the day, "LA man distressed over job shoots wife, 5 children and self" had gotten stuck in my subconscious. I know, I know, I try to keep this blog lighthearted and funny, but I'm just not there right now. The good news is that the answer to my question was "hell no."

Anyway, so I'm driving home thinking over the crap sandwich that's now my life while trying to find the "silver lining." Yes, I thought, there are many things I don't have (self control being one) but there's plenty more that I do have such as perfect health, an incredible family, a loving boyfriend, amazing friends, an education, a warm place to come home to (for now). The list could go on and on until I'm giving thanks for running water and electricity.

"Yeah," I thought, "things are hard but they can't always suck." Just as I thought this, I pulled into the driveway of my building and pressed the garage door opener. Nothing. Pressed it again. Nothing. Again, again, again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Crap. Ah, the proverbial "last straw."

But then, the laughter took over. A deep, body-shaking laugh that freaked my neighbors out and saved me from tears.

And so, there's one more silver lining to be thankful for: I can still laugh (when I stop laughing, call the crapamedics).

A silver lining if I ever saw one!

I need a (crash) helmet

2009-01-20T00:31:00.005-05:00

My fanaticism recently jumped the shark, so to speak. It all started innocently enough with a few quarters. I made the leap from "fan" to "insane person" this weekend when I returned with a roll of quarters.

Perhaps if I was talking about slot machines and bus rides to Atlantic City, I could pass for "normal." No, I'm talking about a vending machine at my local Pathmark. You've seen the type before, just beyond the registers where kids whine for quarters as they pass temporary tattoos and giant gumballs.

The difference here is that I'm 35 and have access to a bank account full of quarters. I'm also a devoted New England Patriots fan whose cell phone always has some sort of charm hanging off of it. Can you see where the shitstorm is brewing now, just off the end of this paragraph?

Yes, Pathmark has a vending machine chock full of NFL helmet cell phone charms; several Patriots helmets are in clear view but nowhere near the bottom. I am determined to get my hands on one (just one, dammit!) -- it's only 50 cents, after all!

Three attempts and $19* later, I am now the not-so-proud owner of 35 NFL helmet cell phone charms, NONE of which has the Patriots' "Flying Elvis" logo on it.

"Collect all 32 teams!" screams the vending machine at Pathmark (left). At this point, I pretty much have. The "like I give a shit" helmets I've amassed so far (right).

The first night I encountered the helmets, I can't remember why I was even in Pathmark. It's completely out of my way and doesn't carry anything I like. Its only quality is that it's open 24 hours and is known to host some pretty entertaining characters after 1 AM (including me, apparently). If only I could access their security cameras and zoom in on the ridiculous look that must've been on my face when I first noticed the helmets.

Attempt 1
I had about $4 in quarters on me (between the change in my purse and what I had got back from my purchase). A small, childish voice in me kept thinking, "oooh, this is gonna be it, this time! Aw, man. No, THIS time is it, here it comes! Aw, man!" For all I know, I had my tongue sticking out in deep concentration as I rapidly slipped quarter after quarter into the machine. I left frustrated but naively convinced I would succeed if I went back the next night.

Attempt 2
Late at night again, same cashier on duty (now mildly interested in what I was up to). Had dipped into my parking meter supply from the car before entering. Total expenditure: $5, some pride and a good deal of optimism. Returned home that night to scour the Internet in search of a helmet I could buy outright, saving myself another trip to Pathmark. I was also concerned about the fast-growing pile of crappy helmets I'd accumulated...

Inventory from first two attempts yielded:
2 Oakland Raiders (both broken - they can't even get it right as toy plastic helmets)
1 Cincinnati Bengals
2 Arizona Cardinals (has ANYONE even seen a real live Cards fan before this season?!)
1 St Louis Rams
1 Washington Redskins
3 San Francisco 49ers (were these helmets made in the 80's?)
1 Chicago Bears
1 Atlanta Falcons
1 Miami Dolphins
1 San Diego Chargers

Attempt 3
Seems this Pathmark in Brooklyn is the only place one can buy NFL helmet cell phone charms (that aren't covered in corny rhinestones, anyway). More determined than ever to get mine, I returned several days later. Made it a point to hit Pathmark during daywalker hours so I could stop at the bank to get a roll of quarters first.

While crossing the street, it occurred to me: "This is why I'm an alcoholic. It's not because I forget where my car is when I'm drunk but because I don't know how to stop drinking once I start." Within seconds, the Addict in my brain menaced the Voice of Reason with a roll of quarters.

The look in my eye says, "They can't deny me both 19-0 AND a cell phone charm!" Next door: The machine that ultimately said, "Yes, we can deny you all that AND $10."

Leaving Pathmark without the helmet charm was the closest I've been to what the team must've felt leaving Arizona last year 18-1: So close, yet so far. Standing on the other side of the window in the freezing cold, I stared in at the machine, bitterly noticing several Patriots helmet charms trapped in the crap heap. I mouthed, "You will be mine" and dashed to the car.

Inventory from $10 roll of quarters:
3 Tennessee Titans (1 broken, perhaps in honor of Steve McNair?)
2 Houston Texans (Tom Brady's toenail clippings are more valuable)
1 Tampa Bay Buccaneers
1 Oakland Raiders (really?)
1 Green Bay Packers
1 Cincinnati Bengals
1 Buffalo Bills
1 Denver Broncos (great, now I have 2 and they have my offensive coordinator)
1 Detroit Lions (actually could be a collector's item after 0-16 season)
1 Cleveland Browns
3 Indianapolis Colts (damn you, Peyton! As if the VISA/Sony/Snuggie commercials every 5 seconds weren't enough!)
3 San Francisco 49ers (bringing overall 49ers total to 4!!)
2 NY Giants (the sting doesn't hurt as much now that Eli's post-season is with Oreo's Double Stuf Racing League)

In a cruel twist of fan fate, the last helmet to spit out of the machine was a Miami Dolphins one. As a Patriots fan whose 11-5 team didn't make the playoffs thanks to Ronnie Brown vs Patriots in Week 3 and Brett Favre's farewell terd against Miami in Week 16, this last helmet felt like the football gods flipping me off. Never one to care that small children are within earshot or eyesight, I gave them the finger back.

Not my best moment: giving a vending machine the finger in a crowded supermarket (left). Later that night, I modeled the Dolphins helmet that was the proverbial cherry on my $10 poop sundae.

Actually, there were several children around, including a boy who was keenly interested in what I was doing. I thought to ask him who his favorite team is and then offer him the crappy helmet if I had it. Then, in a somewhat adult moment, I realized that I can try to sell these unwanted helmet charms on eBay (why not? If someone was selling a Patriots one, I'd buy it -- for $19!). Seriously, if I can sell them at $5 a pop, it'd raise enough to cover my cell phone bill!

In the meantime, I'm keeping clear of Pathmark while I recharge my vending mojo, hoping that Attempt 4 will be the "charm" -- literally. My Man has expressed genuine concern about my sanity (I am, after all, technically unemployed and pouring money I don't have into a toy vending machine). He's afraid that I'm walking a thin line between safe driver and car wreck. He's even threatened me with, "I'm going to call your mother" (the ultimate threat between boyfriend/girlfriends, apparently).

Fine, put me in a crash helmet. As long as I get to take it off to make calls with a cell phone that proudly boasts a Patriots helmet dangling off the end of it.

* For anal accountant-types wondering how I have 35 helmets at 50 cents each but only spent $19, the answer is simple: some of the little plastic containers are blessed with 2-3 charms. Yep, I've gotten several that contained a crapfeast of helmets. In fact, there is a container in the middle of the machine that contains 3, yes THREE, Patriots helmets. The loser who gets this precious egg of joy will no doubt be a Dolphins fan.

As seen on TV

2009-01-11T15:22:00.009-05:00

I'm a people-watcher. It's probably the biggest reason I moved to New York City nine years ago. Whether it's observing feces-smeared crazy people from a safe distance on the train or taking in an angry woman's threats to sue Macy's for not letting her return a sweater, NYC is a hotbed of people-watching activity.

This fascination explains a lot about my TV-watching habits. For example, I've been super Real World fan #1 since its debut in 1992 and am thrilled that the new season 21 was shot in Brooklyn. Not only do I get to observe the show's first transgender roommate, I get to see it all happen in familiar settings ("hey, I've had lunch in that place where Katelynn is coming out to JD!").

I like to think of my people-on-TV-watching as a self-guided anthropology course. It's only a matter of time before there are graduate courses on The Real World (if there aren't already), which I'd be very qualified to teach. I'm guessing I'm the only person who bought MTV's The Real World Hawaii: True Confessions, a 1999 tell-all book that currently has a place in my home library alongside other anthropological classics such as The Harmless People and Aztecs of Central Mexico. Seriously, I could talk for days about the impact of The Real World on our culture (so I'll stop now -- you're welcome).

A quick glance at some of the more academic titles in my home library, including a BEHIND-the-behind-the-scenes look at Ruthie and her drinking problem (center).

After a childhood of Sesame Street and The Electric Company, I've been trained for this line of study. Beyond voyeuristic pleasure, people-watching-on-TV can be very educational. For instance, I learned many things today that I would've never known if it weren't for CMT's season 3 premier of My Big Redneck Wedding, such as:

1. You can get custom wedding rings in camouflage.
2. Limos also come in camouflage.
3. You can get married in a duck blind.
4. When writing your own vows, anything goes ("I will drink beer with him always").
5. Same lawlessness for wedding cakes, which can be layers of cupcakes, Zingers, Ho-Hos, Twinkies and Jello shots.
6. Wedding toasts are also a free-for-all ("buuuuuurrrrrrp!").

This show has fast become one of my favorite anthropological studies (is it any wonder that MTV owns CMT?). How else would I know that deodorant can also be used on one's face to prevent unwanted perspiration?

From CMT's "Biggest Redneck Wedding Ever" in which Tom Arnold made Elaine and Bruce's dreams come true in the muddiest beer fest yet. Here, Elaine demonstrates how she plans to keep dry in all that mud and beer.

My cat has herpes

2009-01-09T20:07:00.007-05:00

Even though I updated the blog two days ago, I'm compelled to write again to help process what happened earlier this evening (I try to limit entries to keep things interesting)...

So, I took my cat to the vet and it turns out the sneezing, runny nose and watery eyes I'd so been so naive to think were a kitty cold are actually symptoms of a herpes flare up.

Yes, at the tender age of 4, my cat Pumpkin has herpes.

Now, I can't vouch for her reputation prior to my adopting her last summer (for all I know, that far-away look she gets could be her reminiscing about dog-on-cat orgies), but I'm pretty sure she's been chaste the entire time I've had her. My other cat is a 12-year-old female tabby named Eve who doesn't seem to like a single thing about Pumpkin -- no kitty porn here.

So, I'm going with the vet's explanation that Pumpkin is an innocent who was born with the herpes virus. We can speculate about her mom's reputation but she, too, may have been born with it. I'm not in the blame game. Just trying to come to grips with the idea that cats get herpes, too. I was having a hard enough time with the idea that cats get colds (seriously, who knew?).

The vet advised that I treat this current flare up with Zithromax (another "cats can get this too?" moment) and try to avoid stressful situations for her. What qualifies as a stressful situation? "Something as simple as taking down the Christmas tree can be very stressful for them and cause a flare up like this." Really? So much for putting the laundry away -- I can't afford another vet visit.

I take comfort in the vet's advice that Pumpkin is not alone -- "feline herpes is just as common as herpes among humans, with nearly 1 in 5 adults infected." Not sure if there's a support group at my local Petco but I guess we can always start one.

Also, the vet says my li'l Pumpkin head can benefit from regular ingestion of lysine, an amino acid that competes with the herpes virus' growth. I've been told to get a $5 bottle of it from the drug store and sprinkle it liberally on Pumpkin's food. Dear God, what's the likelihood that CVS sells tuna-flavored lysine?

So, with a $30 prescription of Zithromax and a steady diet of lysine, she will be able to live a normal life. What a relief. Now she can do all the things I've always hoped she would do like kayaking, hiking, camping -- basically all of the outdoor activities that herpes victims like to do.

Yes, Pumpkin can feel good about that.

I had more fun doing this in Photoshop than any alleged "sane" person should.

One of the many, many herpes commercial spoofs out there (this one is a funny take on actors in those commercials).

Jury of my sneers

2009-01-07T19:58:00.015-05:00

Written today in real time via my phone's handy "MemoPad" feature...

8:15 Leaving the house for jury duty in downtown Brooklyn. Game plan is to say whatever the hell it takes to limit the obligation to today.

8:54 Am still on train, wondering--and kinda hoping--that jury duty is like detention: doors close and access denied after designated 8:45 arrival time. Of course, given that I've ignored every jury summons sent to me for the last 8 years, I'll probably be arrested when I finally get there.

9:00 After clearing security, I rush to the Central Jury Room to find that I probably could've stopped for that Dunkin Donuts coffee I'm now dying for. Nothing but a pre-recorded "Welcome" message playing on several TVs in a large room (similar to what I imagine most classrooms at the University of Florida are like).

9:15 "Welcome" message is mostly unconvincing "you're lucky to be here doing your civic duty as an American" stuff but ends with a threat that strikes home (as a person with anger management issues): "Wouldn't you want someone like you on YOUR jury if YOU were ever on trial?" Okay, so no fake epileptic seizure. I'll stay and get some work done.

9:30 Black guy with MC Hammer-type glasses comes out of side door to speak at large bench in front of room. As he goes down the list of do's and don'ts, I am busy trying to see if they're prescription glasses, at least.

9:39 First glance at phone for time check and Facebook status update. "Jennifer has finally been coerced into jury duty after being threatened with a bench warrant (geez). Why don't they do the same for people who don't vote?"

9:50 Still in the thick of the do's and don'ts of jury duty as read by MC Hammer (the carrot on the end of the stick being you get credit and don't have to come back for 8 whole years). Laptops are permitted but cell phone use is prohibited except in lobby area; however, I'm making an exception for my BlackBerry since it's technically a teeny tiny laptop with cool ringtones.

10:07 What's this bullshit about smokers being allowed to leave for 10 minutes at a time?! There's even a specific warning to us non-smokers that if we leave for 10 min and return with a coffee from Dunkin Donuts (is MC Hammer a mind reader, too?), we'll be marked absent and won't get credit for today. I'm tempted to ask, "what if I smoke a cigarette upon returning from Dunkin Donuts?"

Central Jury Room in downtown Brooklyn, where my ass sat like a good citizen for most of today. At right, smokers exercising the 10-minute reward the court allows them for having a bad habit. Isn't coffee considered a bad habit, too?!

10:30 Am happy to see several friends have already commented on my Facebook status. I'm struck by Jason Roeder's comment, "It's not that bad. I helped put a rapist in prison. Not bad for a Tuesday." I'm almost inspired to want to serve today. We'll see; it'll be a game-time decision.

10:35 Unsure if I'm free to email/text, I keep the BlackBerry held low in the purse at first, typing and scrolling on the sly like a kid cheating on a vocab quiz.

10:45 Am now brazen with the BlackBerry.

10:55 Man, I am REALLY productive when being held prisoner! I've already sent like 10 emails, all related to work! Mental note: Must have my Man lock me in the home office M-F, 9-5 from now on (with the threat of arrest if I fail to show up).

11:15 A quick glance at one of the TVs (now broadcasting CNN) shows that 1) Senate Democrats are going to approve Blagojevich's appointment despite vowing to block it just days ago; and 2) it's already 11:15! Woohoo! Only two hours til lunch break and, more importantly, that coffee from Dunkin Donuts.

11:20 Decide to start keeping notes for a blog about this, ya know, just in case it ends up being some profound, noteworthy experience. That and it's more interesting than the book I brought (The Great Bridge by David McCullough).

11:59 The girl sitting next to me is really pissing me off with her restless leg syndrome. Doesn't she realize that our chairs are attached like some juror chain gang?

12:01 Wow, this is really starting to feel like The Breakfast Club. Where's Judd Nelson when you need him?

12:10 I'm overcome with worry that my name was called and I didn't hear it because I was too focused on work or glaring angrily at the girl next to me (enough with the legs already!).

12:15 Some businessman just broke the imposed silence by talking very loudly on his cell phone. The entire room is now focused on him and collectively holding our breath until his phone gets confiscated. (They promised!) I feel a communal sense of outrage and longing for a time when cell phones were "car phones." Airplanes and jury holding tanks are now like the protected wetlands of Silence.

12:23 So hungry. Can't go on. Can't believe I haven't moved from this seat yet. Can't muster the energy to check out the juror "lounge" next door. Have resigned myself to eating the remains of a Greens+ protein bar. 40 minutes until lunch!

12:30 Still haven't been called. If they don't call me, do I still get credit for sitting here all day? MC Hammer didn't cover that in his speech earlier and now he's disappeared into that mysterious side door.

12:31 Why does this girl insist on torturing me by shaking her legs and thereby my chair? Wasn't I nice to her earlier when I politely suggested Cliff's Notes for the GRE (after noticing she had a study guide for it in hand)? Is this the thanks I get? And why haven't I moved if I'm so annoyed?

12:37 Yay! I've been called! Am now in a MUCH smaller room with two attorneys for a civil case. Am filling out a form that I think will definitely disqualify me. For instance, the last box under "Highest level of education" is "More than high school."

12:40 They just announced outside to the other jurors that they're breaking for lunch early. Everyone in my little room let out a collective groan (or, in Brooklyn's case, a collective sucking of one's teeth and shaking of the head as in "bitch, please"). Luckily, the two attorneys made an executive decision and are letting us go now, too! DD, here I come!

1:05 DD coffee in hand, I rush over to the Vitamin Shoppe to get my Man one of the 3,000 supplements he takes (such a devoted girlfriend to take 5 minutes of my 58-min lunch hour for him. Of course, I could've waited until after 5 when I'm free to run this errand). Luckily, I know Brooklyn Heights pretty well so I save time by making a beeline to my favorite sushi spot on Montague Street. Okay, so I've only been here twice before but it still qualifies as my "favorite" for today's purpose. I was tempted to go to the Chipotle across the street but know the result would be horrifying breath for the rest of the afternoon (that jury room is way too small for me to kick the funk like that).

1:29 Good news: the lunch special here is retardedly awesome (3 rolls for $9 including miso soup and salad). Bad news: eating 18 pieces of sushi really fast is really gross. I feel like I'm in the hot dog eating contest out in Coney Island.

1:30 After wolfing 15 pieces of sushi, have asked for check so I have enough time to get back to court and compose myself. How the hell do people manage to eat lunch in one hour?! Unemployment does have its benefits, I guess.

If I ever do end up on a jury, it's sad to think how easily I can be bribed: one extra large flavored coffee from Dunkin Donuts and more than an hour for lunch.

1:45 Back in the court house, going thru security. One of the guards asks, "Toy car blah blah bag?" Excuse me? "Do you have a toy car in your bag?" What?! I look at him incredulously. But before I can advise him to recalibrate the X-ray machine, I remember that I've got a Priority Mail box filled with Christmas presents in my bag. Yes, I'm a procrastinator who multitasks by schlepping packages to jury duty in the hopes that I will finally mail them.

1:50 Tragedy strikes! While struggling to layer the peed-on toilet seat with TP (Ladies: most of you lack the quads needed for proper hovering so please, until you're built otherwise, sit on the seat), my Burt's Bees lip balm drops from my coat pocket to the sticky bathroom floor and rolls behind the toilet. Must hose it with antibacterial lotion when I'm done!

1:53 Lip balm sanitized, I'm feeling adventurous after refreshing in the bathroom. Have decided to wait for 2 o'clock in one of the other juror holding pens (with windows, no less!). Wish I'd known about this room before. Would've saved myself some aggravation from the likes of Loser McLegs.

2:11 We're all back in the little jury room...except for the two attorneys (who apparently refuse to eat lunch like they're in a hot dog eating contest).

2:16 So, if neither of these attorneys comes back, do we still get credit for today?

2:20 Excitement! The guy sitting in front of me got up and started looking everywhere for something. Within seconds, nearby jurors were asking what he'd dropped. "An earring" Yawn. "A diamond earring." All at once, 4 of us stood up to help him search the floor and his belongings. Boredom and luxury items breed helpfulness, it seems.

2:27 Earring found (was stuck to the bottom of his shoe -- these floors are a testament to the power of dirt). Nearby female jurors offer earring-and-pony-tail-wearing man unsolicited advice about the best kind of earring backs and where to buy them. I fight the urge to offer advice about how men should never wear earrings and pony tails without Zubaz pants.

2:29 Attorneys arrive. No apology for delay except a bizarre diatribe on "new rules from Albany blah blah blah we used to be able to choose 10 people blah blah blah and then interview them while the rest of you sat patiently waiting to be excused but now we blah blah blah have to talk to all 21 of you before we can challenge you as a juror." In other words, get fucking comfortable.

2:35 Playing musical chairs in a room the size of my bathroom with 20 other people while the attorneys have us move to chairs they just assigned 1-21. On the way out to get the judge, a joke from the plaintiff's attorney: "Be right back with the judge and a complaint box."

2:44 The judge, who looks ripe enough for Century Village, comes in and advises us to cooperate, be fair and impartial. On the way out, he also suggests, "And don't get old."

2:46 Attorneys already arguing about the process (should we separate triplicate forms now or later? Ask questions to group or individually?). Collective groan. I take comfort in the little bit of Dunkin Donuts coffee I managed to save for later. Truth be told (and why not? I'm in a courthouse, after all), this is the worst DD coffee I've ever had. I wasn't expecting greatness, though; it's from one of those half-assed DD kiosks set up inside a KFC/Pizza Hut joint.

2:52 Attorneys now ready to question us...just as soon as they figure out the new process. Something about this being a civil case between a bicyclist and a driver who hit him. Bootleg DD coffee nearly finished.

3:05 There's gonna be a riot! The plaintiff's attorney is in love with the sound of his own voice. After mauling British/American history ("there was a war hundreds of years ago for your right to have a trial before a jury of your peers..."), the defendant's attorney interrupted and asked to speak with him outside. Meanwhile, an angry outburst erupted in the small room about "why is this asshole talking so much?" "Isn't this what the trial is for?" When the attorneys came back in, one young white woman in the back raised her hand and objected, "All of this seems tangential. We've been here an hour and you've yet to ask one of us a question. How long is this process going to take?" To which, the plaintiff's attorney answered, "this is going to take until tomorrow at the earliest" (collective "bitch, please!!"). Then, he asked to speak to HER outside. She was excused and came back to get her things saying, "Oh, snap!" which was odd for one who just used the word "tangential" so nicely. But, yo, I can relate.

A shot of the two attorneys doing what they seem to do best: haggling while we wait. In the foreground is Pony Tail Man, who briefly lost his earring, giving us something to do besides wait.

3:15 Attorneys are both outside--again--talking to another juror who managed to scream something objectionable in the short time we were all assembled in the room. I'm cracking jokes at the fast-growing outrage in the room. "Damn," I quip, "I should've told them I hit a bicyclist on the way here!" Collective laughter. "Where's that judge?" I demand. "From the looks of him, he couldn't have gotten far." More collective laughter.

3:30 Can't imagine why the plaintiff's attorney would want to pick any of us since we're clearly on the verge of forming a lynch mob. Is it any wonder that this case has been dragging on since 2004 if the jury pool is biased within the first hour of meeting the plaintiff's attorney? For the record: not a single potential juror has been asked a question in the 90 minutes since we returned from lunch.

3:45 Huzzah! After haggling outside with each other and another judge, the attorneys returned and we've all been dismissed from the case! Being openly hostile has its rewards! After high-fiving each other outside the juror fattening pen, we all wonder with wide-eyed fear, "what now?"

3:50 Back in the Central Jury Room, it seems a bond of friendship was formed by the hostage-like situation back in the little room. Several of us have opted to sit near each other in the larger room despite many open seats elsewhere. Like a Rainbow Coalition of disgruntled juror rejects, we formulate a new game plan as a team: ride out the remaining hour and 10 minutes, hoping to not get called for another case.

3:54 I'm thinking about what the word "impaneling" might mean (it's plastered all over the place and keeps getting announced in conjunction with random names). Can this word be used as an adverb to describe home decorating circa 1972?

3:55 A ray of Sunshine! No, really, Nancy Sunshine, Kings County Clerk, just announced that those of us who haven't been picked yet are being excused! All we have to do is wait for our name to be called to receive our certificate of completion. Now, time for the juror graduation ceremony! Am suppressing the urge to hum "Pomp and Circumstance" and congratulate fellow jurors on making it through the day without being selected.

Nancy Sunshine, clerk of Kings County, living up to her name.

4:10 A graduate of jury duty steps out into the cold, grey winter day, praising the Almighty with, "Free at last, free at last!" Spotted: Nancy Sunshine at the door, thanking each of us as we raced for the nearest exit. I thought to tell her about the jacked-up questioning process and terrible experience we'd just had but then remembered, "Free at last!" and "I don't care!"

4:20 Now in line at the post office next door to mail the long-delayed Christmas presents. Was thinking about how I basically bitched and moaned my way out of jury duty, worrying that perhaps I've cheated my state and country in the process. Am also feeling sorta guilty about my part in inciting the near-riot (and then smiling coyly when the attorneys returned to find torches and pitchforks).

4:40 Waiting for the train home, my mood lightens when I think of all the work I managed to do while fulfilling my civic responsibility. I'm especially comforted by the thought that it will be at least 8 years before I'm called again for jury duty. Here's hoping that plaintiff's attorney manages to select a jury before then!

Closing argument: If you don't want to serve on a jury, you can safely ignore all summons for about 8 years. After you've exhausted time and at least one allowed postponement request, show up very annoyed and be vociferously hostile. Justice may be blind but she ain't deaf.

A parting sneer on the way out of the courthouse.

Minding my own beeswax

2009-01-04T02:47:00.006-05:00

Next month will mark 14 years since I last had a drink of alcohol (no thanks to super douchebag chef Alain Ducasse for marring that streak last year -- see "What a Ducasshole!" blog). It will also be nearly 17 years since I quit smoking and 19 since I dabbled in drugs. During the intervening years, I've had an ocean of Sprite while steering clear of new addictions such as fantasy football and all-you-can-eat buffets.

And yet, my mind somehow managed to sneak in a very big one, right under my nose: lip balm.

Before today, moistening my lips with Burt's Bees honey lip balm was something I did every 10 minutes or so without thinking. But, while applying the gooey sweetness this afternoon, I remembered a seemingly-inconsequential exchange I'd had over the holiday with my Mom:

Sitting on her couch in RI, my Mom casually mentioned a story she'd seen on TV about lip balm addiction and how it reminded her of me. "Really? Why?" She raised an "are you kidding me?" eyebrow and returned to watching the "On Demand" yule log on TV. I went back to applying lip balm.

One week later, there I was, reaching for the Burt's Bees that's permanently stationed below the radio in my car. I recounted the story to my Man, who was sitting in the passenger seat, also applying lip balm. He scoffed at the idea. "Lip balm addiction. Please."

The idea continued to fester in my head. I Googled "lip balm addiction" on my BlackBerry and somehow managed an epiphany while weaving through heavy traffic on the BQE into Manhattan: "Christ on a moped, I've replaced alcohol and cigarettes with lip balm!"

Granted, enjoying my stick of goo won't ever have me wondering, "where did I park my house?" or "is this tracheotomy really necessary?" -- but it's still an oral fixation not unlike all the others I'd been so careful to quit.

And, I'm pretty sure it's an addiction: I tried going without it for the 20-minute ride home...and failed. Maybe it was the 28-degree weather outside or dry, heated air in the car but my lips "cracked" like Pookie in New Jack City with just one mile to go.

Smoking my tube of beeswax and then basking in the post-moisture high.

So, now what? Do I give this up, too? Take a Burt's Bees inventory and throw the cracksticks into the heap along with vodka and Marlboro Lights? That's crazy! I mean, even if I did, it'd take for-f'n-ever to unearth all of my sticky stashes -- there's a lot of honey lip goo flowing around here.

Consider this cursory glance around the apartment:
1. living room, on the stand near the couch
2. living room, hanging on the wall in my coat pocket
3. bedroom, on the bedside stand near my side of the bed
4. bedroom, on the desk by the computer
5. den, on the desk by the laptop
6. den, on the bottom book shelf
7. bathroom, two tubes still in packaging
8. dining room, at the bottom of my purse
9. dining room, in the outside zipper of my purse
10. right pocket of the hoodie currently on my body

Aside from being a great exercise to teach kids prepositional phrases, it's also a terrifying survey of lips whose thirst for beeswax seems unquenchable.

And, that doesn't even begin to touch the staggering number of J/A/S/O/N and Burt's Bees tubes in the apartment that belong to my Man, who is a bigger balmhead than me. He WEARS a tube of lip balm around his neck like a lifeguard, for crying out loud. His misplacement of my goo has led to many panic-stricken moments in which I race around the apartment like an asthmatic desperately searching for an inhaler. At this rate, our children might need lip balm in utero instead of amniotic fluid.

While I don't like the idea of being addicted, I guess there are worse things I could rub on my mouth every 10 minutes, like dog shit or random body parts (mine or otherwise). Today's realization just struck me as being a cruel joke: try as we might, we can never truly be free of addictions. Freedom is an illusion disguised as choice: good or bad, CVS or crackhouse, moisturized lips or black lung?

Addendum
I applied lip balm no less than 20 times while writing this blog. Thinking about it seems to trigger the impulse to apply. I'll bet fellow balmheads applied several times while reading.

Surprisingly, there's a lot of attention being paid to this topic by reputable media outlets (the Washington Post -- really?). Just a quick search online turns up a few interesting nuggets:

Get over your lip balm addiction
By Julia Feldmeier | Special to The Washington Post
December 28, 2008
(which concludes with) Reach instead for your water bottle. Most of us don't drink enough water, and the hydration will only help your lips.

Beating Your Addiction (from the BBC)
(which claims) Lip balm addiction is just another form of substance abuse. Over time you become dependent on it, and getting out involves some necessary and unavoidable discomfort. In truth, you don't need the product, because most of the time you create your own problem - by licking your lips.

Lip Balm Anonymous (a parody set up in '95 by a Web developer)
Lip Balm Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other so that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from their addiction. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop using lip balm and there are never any fees for membership as we are self supported through our own contributions. We are not affiliated with any sect, denomination, political organization, or institution.

Are Lip Balms Addictive? (a special page on Blistex.com)
(lots of blurbs from the media poo-pooing the idea of lip balm addiction) Excerpted from the Australian edition of Cosmopolitan Magazine, December, 2002:
"Since dry lips can be a chronic condition and balms provide immediate relief, habitual use may feel like an addiction," says David Leffell, a professor of dermatology at Yale University. "But there's no ingredient that causes a true chemical dependency."

Bum blog

2008-12-08T16:58:00.004-05:00

While Christmas shopping the other day, I was reminded of a 2004 visit with family in England for the holiday. Most of my time there is spent with my Aunty Chris and Uncle Ron, a loving couple in their mid-60's who live in Birmingham. Packing up for a long drive to London to visit other family, my Aunt called to me from the car, "Jenn, babe, can you ask your Uncle Ron to bring my bum bag?"

Um, bum bag?

I went into their cozy little house to find Uncle Ron putting the final touches on our sandwiches for the ride (these are people who survived the Battle of Britain - there's no stopping for food on the way when there's plenty to be packed from home). "Um, Uncle Ron? Aunty Chris wants her bum bag," I said, suppressing laughter. He reached into a closet and handed me a fanny pack.

"Ohhhhh," I said, realizing yet another funny British-to-American translation. "In the States, we call these 'fanny packs.'"

"You WHAT?"

"Fanny packs."

"Go tell your Aunty Chris that. She'll love it."

So, off to the car I raced, bum bag/fanny pack in hand. I recounted the story for her and she howled with laughter until tears ran down her cheeks. What could be funnier than the act of actually wearing a fanny pack?

"Oh, Jenn! Do you know what a 'fanny' is in England?"

"Your butt?"

"No, it's your vagina! And it's not a nice word for vagina, either!"

And, so, that's how I learned "pussy" equals "fanny" and not "arse" in England. I thought of this story with fondness as I stood 15-people deep in line at Macy's in Brooklyn the other day (they have a very strict hiring policy: no IQs over 50). In my arms were two LeSportsac fanny packs.

For everyone born after 1930, there awaits a fate that seems as inescapable as BINGO: the fanny pack. What seems open for negotiation is when we decide to start wearing said utilitarian belt. For some, it comes with retirement age; for others (like my good friend Paula), it comes in your 20's shortly after the birth of a child. For me, it looks like it may be as soon as next summer.

While rummaging through the LeSportsac bin at Macy's, I came across a fun, colorful little number called "Frida Vibe." I held it up for inspection and then tossed it back in the pile with disdain: it was, after all, a fanny pack.

Then I thought of Paula, rushing around Coral Gables with her well-worn Gucci fanny pack bursting at the sides with papers, cell phones, keys. "This would make a great Christmas present for her," I thought (ignoring the fact that Paula is a practicing Jew). And so, off I went to purchase the curious item.

The line for the cashier was long so I had plenty of time to ponder the pack. I thought of the song "Camel Toe" by Fanny Pack, a group from Brooklyn that seemed intent on single-handedly making the fanny pack cool just by virtue of their name (note: none of them actually wear a fanny pack).

Then, I was reminded of another group now flying under the radar whose determination to bring back all things gross is a big as its girth: Leslie and the LYs. I couldn't remember if I've seen Leslie rockin' a fanny pack, although it's a very strong possibility. The woman loves gold lame, fringe and your grandmother's sweaters - so why not? Maybe fanny packs are the next big, ugly thing in fashion?

I vote Leslie and the LYs most likely to use Glamour Shots for album covers. Their "Blame the Booty" remix is in heavy rotation on my iPod.

And then the mixture of counter-culture cool and Paula's explanation of the pack's usefulness fused in my brain: perhaps I should have one of these ugly things, too? Why should only Disney tourists and aging queers have them? I examined the pack in my hand and thought of everything I could store in it while say, riding a bike in Central Park (what? I've done it!) or taking in a game?

So, I politely asked the angry customer behind me to hold my place in line while I went back for another pack. I worked quickly not because I worried about losing my spot but because I was afraid to think about what I was doing. I was about to buy a fanny pack, for me.

As I write this, I'm wearing the fanny pack, you know, just to see if I can do it. My man says I look like a gay carpenter.

Me and my new fanny pack (or pussy pack for those in the British Isles).

I'm still unsure of how I feel and wonder if I can manage this in public? The rest of my outfit will have to be really cool so people don't get the wrong idea about me (no black socks with flip flops that day!). Watch for my fanny pack's debut next summer, friends (my man has already warned that no less than 5 feet will be between he and I at all times).

While parading through the apartment just now, I noticed that wearing the fanny pack doesn't make me feel old or gay (like I was afraid it might). And, I now believe that somewhere deep in our Anglo DNA, Americans know that a fanny isn't a butt. How else to explain why we instinctively wear it in the front?

Does this blog match?

2008-11-20T23:04:00.010-05:00

I once saw an MTV "True Life" episode about teens with obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD for those who haven't spent years talking to shrinks -- um, like me) and I thought, "that sucks, having to count all the jellybeans and color-coordinate them before finally allowing yourself to eat them." What can I say? It was a moment where I felt safe enough in my sanity to feel pity for others more obviously afflicted than me.

So, it was with a little bit of shock the other day that I observed myself experiencing an undeniably OCD moment: On the train, I was filled with glee when yet another person with a red accessory boarded. Unbeknownst to him, the man with the red tote bag was the perfect addition to my already-assembled Red Team lineup. It was all I could do to keep from cheering when he sat RIGHT BESIDE the other Q train passengers who had also decided to wear red AND be on my train that day.

Check it out: Red shoes, purse, tote, jacket, ipod case AND earphones (hard to see but the hipster chick with the BLUE checkered suitcase has these)

"Yeah, yeah," you're thinking, "what's so OCD about noticing patterns?" Well, prior to the Red Team's formation, I had been happily relishing the joys of being on a train where all of the advertisements match. Yup, I take far too much pleasure in boarding a train made up entirely of Budweiser ads (as opposed to those that offer a potpourri of crappy technical school and skin care ads for Dr. Z).

I'm mulling over a petition to the MTA that all subway trains have matching ads like this one. Sorry the photo is blurry but Red Team members were growing suspicious of me, my glee and picture-taking.

I imagine what I felt at that moment--surrounded by a train AND people that matched--was similar to what the chick on MTV felt when she finally ate the jellybeans.

Until then, I never thought that OCD might also be on the menu (throw it in there with ADHD and whatever other acronym you'd like). In my youth, I don't recall having to wait a certain number of times before answering the phone or wearing my Burger King visor at a certain angle before operating the fryer. But, I guess that's my glitch: I fixate on things that match.

I have a very difficult time with the whole hipster paradigm of mismatched outfits. In fact, I'm deeply bothered by the entire population of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I know, I know, they're cool, I'm not. But, the confusion and sadness I feel in Urban Outfitters is not my fault; my wardrobe is limited not by bad taste but results from a psychological disability. And, you know, it really hurts my feelings when I overhear fashionistas say, "ugh, but it's SO matchy-matchy!"

I'm now on high-alert for other OCD symptoms such as checking every 5 seconds to see if the toaster is on fire. The closest I've come to new evidence is calling my Man from midtown the other day to see if I'd remembered to turn the boombox off. It makes me wonder what else is OCD about me?
- That I eat the same salad every night?
- That I've worn the same nail color since '94?
- That I only drink Dunkin Donuts coffee (even in Barcelona - sorry, Marni and Dan, but what were the odds of finding DD in Spain? I had to partake)?
- That I correctly punctuate text messages?

Or, that I always have to end a blog with a witty punchline?

Addendum: Yes, I know I don't really have OCD (more of a self-absorbed hypochondriac than anything). It's just funnier to say that I do. I'm sorry if I offended those who actually have it or know someone who does -- well, I know someone who does, too. He went through a phase where he couldn't open doors with his hands and would wear gloves or open them with his sleeve. Yeah, he was pretty much a freak.

I was a big tease

2008-10-22T23:20:00.016-04:00

I think I'm one of the few people who looks at old photos with the same apprehension that plastic surgery patients must have about pre-op snapshots. Instead of "dear God, how did ants never mistake my breasts for home sweet home?!" I have the pleasure of wondering, "Why did my parents keep buying me hair spray?"

Yes, for those who met me after 1991, I was a Jersey Hair girl. No, let's be honest: I did everything but snort Aqua Net. I've never been comfortable with admitting that I had a problem but I was outed on Facebook this week by my HS friend Amy, who posted a photo of me from 11th grade that would make Bon Jovi wince:

I only hope that this look is so 80's that its awfulness can be considered cool.

I honestly don't know what possessed me to do that to my hair. I don't recall anyone ever telling me that it looked good (which should've been a clue). I wish I could remember the acid-wash-wearing person who inspired me (so I can hate them) but I can't. Vats of alcohol left me drowning in dead brain cells so I don't remember much about the 80's, 90's and half of today (let alone which member of Bananarama might've sparked my interest in mousse).

Who's to blame for such a craptastic hybrid of mullet and ladder? I could blame MTV and movies (even pets had big hair back then). I could also blame my friends (let's face it, alleged BFFs: I would've been pretty if it weren't for that rats nest). But, in the hopes of making peace with my past and hair, I'll take the blame. I'm the one who spent hours teasing and sculpting that 4"-closer-to-God helmet, after all.

It's okay, Facebook friends from CSHS, feel free to leave the comments you've all been thinking: "Jesus, her hair looks better now that it's conforming to the law of gravity" or "So THAT'S what her face looks like!" I'm not afraid to talk about the flammable mess that once topped my head.

I mean, really, we all have something we didn't like about ourselves as teenagers (braces, baby fat, acne, bad makeup, ugly clothes, etc). Anyone who looks at their yearbook without cringing is either a liar or an asshole. Seriously, if you were perfect in high school, FUCK YOU (I probably wasn't friends with you then, either).

But back to the healing process...thanks, Amy, for helping me see that no matter how old I felt today, being young doesn't guarantee looking better. And much respect to my Man for helping me put down the hairspray and step away from the blow dryer in 1992; without him, I may never have felt the wind blowing through my hair again. In fact, I'd probably be bald.

In the interest of moving forward, here's one last look back at the "hair don't" I once thought was perfectly normal, possibly even cool:

A chronological retrospective of how my hair progressed in high school: big, bigger, biggest, and OMFG. Of course, "progressed" might not be the right word.

The youngest old person

2008-10-03T14:30:00.010-04:00

I visit South FL once every 3-4 months without much fanfare (I pick myself up from the airport) and yet, every time I come, this place manages to find a new way to freak me out -- this after living here for nearly 25 years.

I landed in Ft. Lauderdale last night around 5 and by 6, I was already rushing my rental car west toward dinner with my Aunt, Uncle, Cousin and Dad. They'd decided on the Olive Garden in Coral Springs because some awful person had given my Aunt a gift card to the place.

On the cell phone while waiting for my luggage, they asked, "do you know where it is?" Of course. It was where I first waited tables back in '92.

The outside of the place is still the same box (fitting since most of the "authentic Italian food" is delivered in boxes, too). Upon entering, however, the inside has been completely gutted (unless they singled out the Coral Springs one for special interior design treatment, I imagine the same thing has happened to all Olive Gardens?).

I felt like one of the old farts who used to come into Lundy's, a landmark seafood restaurant in Brooklyn where I last waited tables in '02. At least once a day, elderly customers would wax nostalgic to me about the 80-year-old restaurant, "I used to come here as a kid. Back then, only negroes waited tables here and the biscuits were always so light and fluffy..."

So, there I was, telling the young server that, like her, I peddled General Mills' own brand of "Hospitaliano" 16 years ago. Leaning in like a senior citizen about to let a whipper snapper in on a secret, I told her about the scam we ran during the bottomless soup/salad lunch rush (dropping the same check at different tables and pocketing any who paid with cash).

She laughed, saying they still did the same scam. "Imagine: I was only 5 years old then!" she observed, bouncing off to greet a new table.

Christ on a stick. I really am one of those old farts now.

It was surreal but things got even weirder after dinner. I dragged my cousin Frankie down to Galaxy Skateway in Davie for Round 2 of "Adult Skate Night in the Land that Time Forgot" (see "Time Travel to Another Galaxy" blog entry).

While shuffling to Clay D's "Boot the Booty," I spotted an Asian man who looked familar. By the third time I passed him, I was certain I knew him from somewhere but couldn't figure out where (a common occurance since alcohol morphed my memory into Swiss cheese).

By the time the DJ was mixing "Egypt, Egypt," I remembered who he was: the token attractive Asian guy at the Coral Springs Roller Rink. He was probably in his late teens/early 20's then but everyone in my middle school used to sweat him. I'm sure I knew his name when I was 12, watching eagerly as he laced up his speed skates, but my mind was now blank. I remembered only muscles.

I skated over to him and said, "hey, did you used to skate at the Coral Springs rink back in the day?" He smiled widely and said he used to go every weekend before it became a Pep Boys. That's when the editor in my head went on a "stay-cation."

"I knew it was you," I replied. "You used to be really built," I said, motioning to where his rippling muscles once were, now replaced by a sunken chest and middle-aged arms. I should've noticed the expression on his face (it was probably the same one I had when the server told me she was 5 back when I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old working at the Olive Garden) but I continued.

"You used to wear white tank tops all the time to show off your muscles." For some inexplicable reason, the asshole in me left the "what happened?" part unsaid.

So, that was yesterday. Feeling old and sorry for myself, I decided to do the only thing I can at this point to feel better: hang out with people way older than me.

My Dad lives in a retirement community (I'm proud to say he was one of the first Baby Boomers to infiltrate these particular condos) so today I made my way to one of its many pools, where a cluster of alligator-skinned senior citizens was floating in the mid-day sun.

From the moment I entered the gated pool area, all eyes were on me. "Who is that young person?" "Who does she think she is, being young here?" I propped my relatively-nubile body on a sun chair and fed myself grapes while reading, feeling quite happy to be the youngest person in a 1-mile radius.

Out of the corner of my eye, a lizard caught my attention, winking at me from where it was perched on the fence. It was a small, young lizard and seemed to be saying, "we're all animals, but at least you and I are the youngest."

At the Petco near my house in Brooklyn, these critters go for $14 a pop but they're as common as flies in South FL (maybe I should stuff a few in my carry-on?).

Must-pee TV

2008-09-07T21:19:00.005-04:00

After a bittersweet day at Gillette Stadium for the Patriots' home-opener (where I watched Tom Brady's knee get twisted like a pretzel from WBZ-Boston's mind-meltingly-awesome luxury suite), Jeremy and I were kicking back on the couch in Boston, flipping through the channels in yet another mind-meltingly-awesome suite at the Taj.

We stopped on Fox's new show, "Hole in the Wall," the American version of a very funny Japanese game show where people of all sizes have seconds to contort into shapes so they can fit through a hole in a wall or be pushed by it into a vat of acid-colored water. As we laughed at team Beer Bellies vs team Six Pack, I was reminded of the funniest game show ever: Spike TV's "MXC: Most Extreme Elimination Challenge."

If you've never seen it, think "Mystery Science Theater 3000" meets Japanese game show -- very funny Americans dubbing over a Japanese game show of outrageous and humiliating challenges. I'm not sure if it's still on the air, but there's plenty of footage on YouTube:

An assortment of highlights from the show. Best line: "here's Karen Griffin. She paints life-sized boogie men in children's closets."

With all the crap on TV, I can't understand how this one isn't on the radar. If I was a TV exec, THIS would be must-see TV (which is probably why I'm not a TV exec).

Better yet, I'd market it as "must-pee TV." Ya know, people always say, "I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants" but does anyone really pee in their pants from laughing? On the serious tip: watching MXC is the closest I've come to doing so.

If you're ever in desperate need of a laugh, I recommend watching clips of old MXC episodes on YouTube. Facing the very real threat of a Bradyless season, it was exactly what this grief-stricken Pats fan needed.

I'll be okay. Just on my way to the bathtub now with a dull blade.

Fancy words from a clitoris

2008-08-31T21:30:00.005-04:00

Saturday afternoon found me trapped on the couch, impatiently waiting for rain that never came. All week, the weather reports got me excited for the day's alleged thunderstorms (the only thing I miss about South FL). Disappointed, I remained on the couch for hours, waiting for something else to happen.

Determined to find brain candy on the TV, I unearthed nuggets of fun between channels 187 and 190 ("80 Hours of the 80's" on VH1 Classic and a "Prince Video Marathon" on VH1 Soul). Ah, the 80's: permed mullets, acid wash, Peter Gabriel's Africa phase and Prince's little purple boots.

But I soon found something funnier than Glass Tiger's "Someday" video (really, it summarizes everything that went wrong in the 80's). Caught between the two channels like some Balkan nation is CMT, the Country Music Channel (or "the channel I quickly skip over, pretending not to notice").

I'd never watched more than 5 nano seconds of it before; I thought it was an endless loop of "The Dukes of Hazzard." But while skipping past it, I stumbled across a show called "My Big Redneck Wedding."

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

Hosted by a surprisingly-tolerable Tom Arnold, the show follows the nuptials of the red state-iest rednecks who, through some giant legal loophole, are allowed to marry and produce offspring.

Yup, she got a pink shotgun as a weddin' gift. It's a right perty one.

The first episode I saw was about John and Gail, a couple from a place I'll never visit who live in a double wide trailer and deliver newspapers for a living. It was as if they'd won a "who can best exemplify every redneck stereotype there is?" contest. Consider:
* John proposed to Gail by peeing "marry me" on the road one morning.
* They decorate the wedding with beer cans (John drinks most of them the night before to finish the arch in time).
* While writing his wedding vows, John tells his granny that "I'd like to use fancy words but I don't have a clitoris" (i.e. a thesaurus for those with indoor plumbing).
* One of his vows goes like this, "I want to put your love into a locket, 'cause you're hotter than a Hot Pocket. We done it in the backseat and at the zoo, I don't care where we do it, as long as it's with you."
* Their wedding is held at an indoor flea market and includes a mechanical bull ride.
* John gets Gail's wedding gift at a bowling alley out of a claw machine -- a stuffed snow man he paid $38 in quarters for.
* On the day of their wedding, Gail is sent into a tizzy because she can't find her teeth.

A 5-minute clip from John and Gail's episode that includes John's lack of a "clitoris" to look up "fancy words." (View more episodes here.)

After setting the DVR to record future episodes, I realized that it was my lucky day: CMT was in the middle of a "My Big Redneck Wedding" marathon! Other episodes included mud, hog hunting, mud, deer skulls, mud, demolition derbies, mud and a Confederate-flag-waving-truck load of camouflage (every groom wore it and every bride incorporated it into her dress, veil and/or garter).

Between laughs, the fear started creeping up. I began to feel dirty. I wondered, is wearing camouflage one of Jeff Foxworthy's "you might be a redneck if..." jokes?

While I don't own any camo hunting coats, I sometimes wear camo pants to do bullshit errands and hang out. I mean, it was only a month or so ago that I was lamenting the loss of my favorite camo pants in the Grand Canyon (see "I lost my pants in the Grand Canyon" blog entry).

As I got myself off the couch and ready to go out, I announced to my man, "I don't think I can ever wear camo again after seeing that." A fan of camo himself, he reassured me that as long as I don't show up to a weddin' wearing camo, I'm in the clear.

Minutes later, I threw on a camo cap to hide my hair (which had been viciously attacked by humidity from rain that never came). Feeling like a Wal-Mart shopper in Central Florida on her way to buy bullets for the kids, I stepped out into the streets of Brooklyn. Fuhgetaboudit, ya'll.

"Camo cap" is probably a lot more tasteful than it sounds.

Doodle bug (me)

2008-08-24T12:17:00.011-04:00

So lately I've been seeing a lot of fake doodling in advertisements and it's really starting to annoy me. At first, I thought it was clever. I even felt a fond wave of nostalgia for the doodling that marks our youthful days. I'm to the point now where I'm starting to resent Madison Ave for doing such a bad job of it.

Case in point:

This is an ad for Kellogg's -- its design is like a giant cereal bowl of doodles kids can never escape.

Now compare that with doodles from my 8th grade yearbook:

Clearly, there's no comparison.

I think back on all the doodles I drew and shared with friends (especially Jenn Grill -- now Ritter -- my best friend and co-conspirator in a 7th grade attempt to sketch and make fun of everyone who lived in Coral Springs, FL).

None of my adolescent doodles mentioned a love of Captain Crunch cereal. Most of our sketches came from a place of pure evil; in fact, the capture of one landed me in detention for a week with "Admiral Asshole" (from the doodle pictured above).

Why would advertisers think they could safely mine such a treacherous shaft? I'm guessing it all started with 2004's "Napoleon Dynamite," whose innocent "ligers" were quintessential dork doodles.

Shortly after the surprise success of that movie, I started noticing t-shirts in Delia's, Urban Outfitter's and Alloy catalogs that were close representations of school-inspired doodles (thy muse being Boredom).

Ah, if only they WERE lifted out of actual notes, I might buy one. Nothing compares to the real thing. No advertising exec can match the evil wit of a bored 13-year-old.

And even if they could, it's unlikely that any corporation would want real doodles selling their products ("be a Cokehead like Kate" with someone snorting a can of Coca Cola off a mirror, for instance).

It makes me wonder: At what point do our doodles cease to be creative, clever, evil and fun? My adult doodle life is mostly my name in a cloud of lightning and bubbles. I've observed other adults doodling those lame-ass boxes within boxes (yawn!). It's sad what becomes of our doodling lives as we age. Does anyone do a good job of it over the age of 25?

Of all the nostalgic doodling going on in advertising now, I think JC Penney does it best (their throw-back "Breakfast Club" commercials are dead-on awesome). Check out their cute take on the classic "doodle heart" renderings we've all scratched at one point:

p.s. Incidentally, Molly Ringwald used doodle "product placement" back in 1984's "Sixteen Candles." Her 3-ring binder has "The Rave-Ups" doodled across the back (she was such a fan of the band that they later appeared in "Pretty in Pink" playing in the background of the club scene). Not sure how successful she was since the only people who bought their album were Molly and her sister, Beth.

Your stoopid

2008-08-13T17:26:00.007-04:00

So, my friend Jason Roeder (who suffered alongside me on our high school newspaper after it was hijacked by a harpie) is now posting a very funny video series, "Magical Jason: Secrets of the Professional-Caliber Magician" on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/user/JasonSRoeder).

His email about the humorous series implored friends to leave comments, ratings, bird seed, etc (actually, his exact directions were: "If you like what I've got so far, please do right by the vids: send or post the link, five-star, comment, etc. If you're unsatisfied, you can just say that you couldn't watch because your operating system doesn't have a required plug-in or whatever. For future reference, I'm VERY easy to trick that way.").

Jason's second video, "Dizzy Ball," slips in a reference to "Space Jam." Nicely done.

As I dutifully attempted to leave a comment, YouTube prompted me to sign in, like some self-important bouncer at a cheesy over-40 night club in Sunrise, FL. Disheartened, I almost clicked back to the kitty porn I'd been viewing when I remembered that I'm a YouTube member.

Thanks to the one video I posted back in January, I was able to leave Jason some encouraging words. My only video is the one I taped off my Uncle Mark's TV of me on the NFL Network asking Tom Brady a question at the AFC Championship press conference (my panties are still drying, BTW). Its posting had one mission: so I could share it with all of my Patriots-loving family and Patriots-hating friends.

"Magical Jason" comments successfully posted, I decided to check out how MY video was doing in the comments/ratings department. Surprisingly, 1,175 people have watched the video since I posted it six months ago (I have a big family but not THAT big). Better yet, THREE people actually left comments.

Excited to see what kinds of comments my super-awesome reporting skills had elicited, I clicked on the video. Not sure what I was expecting but here are the caveman droppings I discovered:

Jeterfan906 (4 months ago)
what a fuckin douchebag any other athlete beside football player and theyd get fined so much there next paycheck wouldnt even come

walkontheocean8888 (6 months ago)
tom Brady is having a shitty day. Suck it Tom!

madness410 (6 months ago)
my name is tom. fuck you.

I've now watched the video three more times to try to understand how these comments apply. I am now giving up. I think the first one, "my name is tom. fuck you." pretty much says it all (although he gets points for correct spelling and punctuation).

Clearly, the bar for YouTube comments is subterranean. I worry that the 15 seconds I took to compose a coherent thought in response to Jason's "magic" was 14 too long. What a loser I am for using logic and grammar. What a waste of capital letters. Using one booger-encrusted finger, I should've just banged out "your stoopid" on the keyboard.

Listen, I get that the rules are relaxed here but are we at the point of being so relaxed that we're comatose? Who started this "if I write it online, it doesn't have to be literate" trend?

Or, is it naive to assume that laziness is to blame and not ignorance? Does the proliferation of email, text messages and IM offer a terrifying snapshot of the illiterate masses?

Seriously, are we THAT stoopid?

Oh no Katy-DIDN'T!

2008-08-07T00:31:00.007-04:00

After 6 endless days working with perfectly cute Girl Scouts (and 5 torturous nights spent cursing an obnoxious bug outside my hotel window), I was free to return to gritty reality and NYC on Tuesday morning. I happily made my way down through the woods to my car, which had sat in a cozy parking lot surrounded by a babbling brook, Bambi and bugs since my arrival a week before.

As I sped down the Taconic toward the Saw Mill Parkway and away from Westchester, I noticed a small, bright green spider peeking out from behind my side mirror. Figures, I thought. Could the bug be any other color after a week with Girl Scouts? I wouldn't be surprised if it could spin a web of rainbow sprinkles.

Then, about 4 miles down the Saw Mill, I was shocked to see a gigantic green bug crawling on the lower right corner of my windshield! It was a katydid, the very same kind of bug whose sound was closest to the anonymous one that had annoyed the shit out of me all week (see previous blog, "I'm calling the cicada cops").

The bug on my windshield looked just like the one I heard (whatever that means).

As I sped closer to a 12 o'clock meeting in midtown, I figured the bug would eventually blow away. But, even at 70 mph, the only indication of speed was his antennae blowing wildly in the breeze and an occasional leg shift to steady his grip. Not wanting to be directly responsible for his death, I refrained from using the windshield wipers (I was unsure if this was the same bug whose demise I had been praying for).

About 30 miles later, I merged onto the Henry Hudson (aka West Side Hwy) and paid a toll as I entered Manhattan. Perfect chance for the bug to fly away...but it didn't. I snapped a picture of it as a taxi sped by just south of the GW. The bug seemed just as determined as I was to get to midtown.

This picture cracks me up (and almost inspired me to write a children's book called "Katy-did-it" about the adventures of a bug...almost).

As I exited at 96th Street, I decided to get the bug off my car as I would be parking in a garage and his doom would be sealed in such a place. I pulled over on Riverside Drive where the trees were still thick enough to afford a lush new home for my stow-away.

I figured I could pick him up by the wings and fling him into a nearby tree; however, the second my hand neared his weird bum, he made the most obnoxious noise...the SAME NOISE THAT HAD KEPT ME UP FOR THE LAST 5 NIGHTS!!!

Vengeance was mine.

I began flicking him with glee in my attempts to get him off the car. It was a mixture of joy (to discover the culprit at last!) and resolve (to get this bug out of my life once and for all). The noise became louder and more frequent but still, he refused to fly away.

Thanks to his loud and obnoxious eeh, eeh, eeh's, a group of two well-dressed mothers and their perfectly-coiffed children walking on the sidewalk took notice of my efforts. As he walked up my windshield and over the roof of my car towards the road, I felt their stare. I had to pretend to care. I could not flick him into oncoming traffic. Dammit.

To stop my cruel flicking, one of the mothers suggested I pluck a leaf from the tree and use it to relocate the bug (she'd probably been a Girl Scout). I followed her advice and as I placed the bug into a nearby tree, the group erupted in cheers and high fives (they were all probably Girl Scouts). I left before anyone started singing "Make new friends, but keep the old..."

As I drove away, I fumed about the upper west side momsters thwarting my revenge. But, the anger dissolved when I realized that they probably live in some $4 million brownstone on a block near where I left the obnoxious katydid.

Sleep tight, I hope that bug keeps you up all night!

(L) 96th Street and Riverside where I resolved to rid myself of the bug and (R) the tree where the bug is probably still making a nuisance of himself.

I'm calling the cicada cops

2008-08-01T23:42:00.007-04:00

So, I'm staying at a conference center deep in the dark woods of Westchester county (about 45 minutes north of NYC) for a 6-day training gig I'm doing for Girl Scouts of the USA. Each 15-hour day is kicking my ass if only because I have to be up with the sun each day (as opposed to going to sleep right before it peeks over the horizon).

Heavy with exhaustion, I crawled into bed last night around 11:30. Just as my head hit the pillow, a horrific bug started making the most annoying noise right outside the window. (Of course, the windows of my room were open to the night air; I welcome the sounds of my beloved crickets!) It's hard to describe the irritating noise but I'll do my best "hooked on phonics" attempt:

ehh, ehh, ehh
ihh, ihh
ehh, ehh, ehh
ihh, ihh
ehh, ehh, ehh

On and on it went without ceasing. I figured a cicada the size of a cat was behind it. I lay there wondering if it was close enough to swat or set on fire. After 10 minutes, I begrudgingly closed the windows, cursing the evil bug for drowning out the sound of crickets and delaying my sleep.

But even with the windows sealed, the noise persisted as though it was in the room. I covered my head with pillows. No use. WTF? It was hard to believe that here I was, in the middle of a veritable nature preserve (complete with deer, bunnies, chipmunks, and wild turkeys) and I'd have an easier time falling asleep back in Brooklyn.

As a matter of fact, if this bug was a neighbor in Brooklyn, I could've at least called the cops on it. I'm sure its decibels were enough to qualify for a noise ordinance violation. Unfortunately, Bambiland doesn't have cicada cop patrols.

Nearly 40 minutes later, the bug was still ehh, ehh, ehh, ihh, ihh-ing and I'd moved on to wishing hateful things on it. Seriously, as a member of the food chain's basement, there has to be at least 50 things willing to kill and eat this bug. Where were its predators when I needed them? Was the owl busy getting its talons done?

So, now it's Night Two, another long 15-hour day behind me. I just returned to the room after a welcome break off-site with Tania and Tom Tom (who kindly drove here from CT and invited me to a yummy belated bday sushi dinner in Chappaqua -- our server was a very aggressive female Don Ho impersonator).

And who do you think is busy outside my window again?

I'm blogging about this now with the hopes that he'll tire or be eaten by the time I'm done. Plan B? There are 40 teenage Girl Scouts here with me who had 10 tons of sugar earlier tonight at an ice cream social. My guess is that one of them is on a sick enough sugar high that I could entice her into hunting the bug down and killing it.

As a trusted adult (insert evil laugh), I might be able to convince her that there's a new patch available: Bug Exterminator.

Just searched online for the obnoxious bugtard responsible for all the racket. The closest I came was the common katydid. I just find it hard to believe that something this harmless-looking could make such a vile noise:
Obnoxious noise

Don Ho, the source of a different kind of annoying noise (aka "Tiny Bubbles").

Goodbye, 18-34

2008-07-30T14:50:00.006-04:00

So, today is my 35th birthday. [thud]

That was my ego collapsing into a hot old mess on the floor.

No, I'll be fine. As long as I don't LOOK my age, I'm cool with it (incidentally, if you didn't get me a present or card, it's okay as long as you tell me I look 12). And as my friends will attest, I certainly don't ACT my age.

So, what then is the point of counting up the years if it's only to see how many candles to put on the cake? (At this point, I'd need a cake the size of a twin mattress.)

Well, I guess there are some biological reasons why age is important. In fact, turning 35 is especially traumatic because of them. When I turned 30, my Mom said, "I hope you don't plan on waiting much longer to have children because after 35, the risk of having a child with Down's Syndrome increases 50%." Yeah, it's times like that when you wish your Mom wasn't an RN.

Birth defects aside, I think I'm most afraid of filling out surveys and forms now. Goddamn whoever invented "age brackets." I dread the first time I have to check "35-44" instead of "18-34." [Ugh. Did somebody just close a window? I need air!]

Here's a word of advice to all my 18-34 friends: live every minute like a fucking rock star.

I didn't believe the old people when they first told me but it's true: life really does start to speed up as you get older. Days and weeks become months and then years faster than Seth Rogen churns out movies.

One day you're in high school and the next, you're 3 years away from the 20-year reunion ('sup, class of '91). The only thing that remains besides hazy memories and crappy yearbooks is student loan debt (at this rate, my grandkids will inherit mine).

In honor of birthdays and the years when 35 seemed like retirement age, here's a trailer from one of my favorite movies, 1984's Sixteen Candles...enjoy!

The most quotable movie EVER!

I'm afraid of me 30 years from now

2008-07-17T18:02:00.003-04:00

In the process of re-doing the old roommate's room and transforming it into a home office/guest room, I became obsessed with throwing things away and buying stuff. It was like "Trading Spaces" took my apartment over, except they forgot to give me money and someone else's place to ruin.

Well, I haven't ruined anything (yet). The home office/guest room is coming along nicely (will post photos of it once I'm done, no doubt). I've dubbed it the "boogie down" room as I'm going with an old school hip hop theme. In the meantime, I've got some nice pieces in there, repainted the ceiling a crisp white and then one wall a gorgeous sky blue.

While I was in Target getting a new power drill to put the corner desk together, I passed by a stack of microwaves on sale for $40. Hmmmm.

I thought of the big, brown microwave in my kitchen, the one my Dad gave me waaaaaay back in '97 when I moved in with my boyfriend. Bigger than most compact cars, the microwave was already a fossil when he gave it to me -- but, it worked. And that, with my experience in childhood poverty, was enough reason to keep it for the next 11 years.

But here was Target offering little white ones for $40 (yes, they're made in the USA - I checked). The proverbial angels appeared on my shoulders to duke it out, except they were Rachael Ray and Suze Orman:
"Aw, it's so cute and only $40!"
"Yes, but the one at home works."
"True, but this one would perfectly match the other things in my kitchen."
"So what -- since when does one need to accessorize in the kitchen?"
"I do! Plus, the cute one will free up much-needed counter space."
"Okay, but what would you do with the extra 2 inches?"
"What WOULDN'T I do with an extra 2 inches?"
"Is this just for the kitchen?"

Finally, Rachael Ray won and I bought it (along with the power drill and a box of Goldfish to inhale on the way home).

It was a much harder decision than one would expect about a microwave. Part of me felt a sentimental attachment to the old microwave with its faux wood paneling on the sides. After all, my Dad had given it to me. It was like a family heirloom (that zaps the living shit out of things).

(L) The old microwave--with a water bottle nearby for perspective--awaiting its removal while the new microwave (R) leaves ample space for whatever it is that one does in the kitchen.

When I got home, I delicately opened the new microwave's box, just in case I had second thoughts and decided to take it back. But once it was on the counter top, shiny and white and taking up a significantly less amount of space, I ditched the box. Getting rid of the old microwave was a different story, though.

Placing it in the hallway to be removed by the super the next day was tough. I put a Post-It note on it boasting, "I work!" with a happy face below, just in case a neighbor wanted it (or collects first-generation microwaves from the '80's). Thankfully, I didn't see it tossed outside on the sidewalk with the other trash so perhaps someone adopted it after all? (sigh) I'd like to think so.

Every time I use the new microwave, I'm overcome with a terrible fear as I wait for the food to cook. What will I be like 30 years from now if this is what it's like for me to part with stuff at age 34? I don't want to be one of those old ladies with plastic on the couch (because it was the first one she bought) and who still uses her first toaster. I don't want to smell like moth balls, either.

And I've been waiting a while for food to cook in the new microwave, ironically enough. It doesn't have half the nuking power of the old one (I guess they really DON'T make them like they used to). Things such as popcorn and soup take twice as long to heat (Suze Orman's angel is cursing me for the money I'll now be wasting on electricity).

But, it's nice to have something smaller that matches the fridge, blender, toaster and coffee maker. That's the price of progress and fashion, I guess. Sorry, Dad and Suze.

I lost my pants in the Grand Canyon

2008-07-02T00:20:00.005-04:00

Okay, so today was a very emotional day for me. Since returning from a 4-day trip to the Grand Canyon nearly 2 weeks ago, a little voice (one of the many in my head) had been quietly nagging me to check the whereabouts of my favorite pair of pants. Today, I finally listened to that voice (who by now was smugly humming A Tribe Called Quest's "I left my wallet in El Segundo").

Everyone has a favorite something or other in the closet -- shoes, jeans, t-shirt, Honduran boy, etc. Me? I had a favorite pair of camouflage pants. I say "had" because they're gone.

The last time I wore them was on the flight to Vegas, where I met my Dad. After getting the Shelby GT-H Mustang, we made like Elvis and promptly left the building for the Canyon. The last time I saw them was in the cabin we rented; they were in my luggage, awaiting their next tour of duty.

I've heard of traveling pants but... The last photo of my favorite camouflage pants was taken somewhere on the border of Nevada and Utah. At least they went out with a 350-horsepower bang.

The horrible realization that they'd disappeared first began to dawn last Thursday when I couldn't find the black belt I usually wear with them. Luckily, I tend to buy things I like in two's so I had a back-up belt waiting (grrrr, if only I'd done the same years ago when I bought those pants at Macy's!).

It wasn't until today that I fully realized my all-time favorite pants are no longer with me. I checked my luggage again, I texted my cousin in Vegas, I called the two hotels where we had stayed, I even called my Dad to see if he accidentally packed them (they are, after all, camouflage and could easily blend in with other clothing). Nothing. The pain in my heart was as though I'd lost a friendship.

Oh, you think I exaggerate. Seriously, I've had easier breakups than what I felt today. Not only did they make my ass look great (camouflage is a wonderful thing), their soft fabric was versatile -- light enough to wear in the God-awful humidity of South Florida and scorching heat of Nevada while heavy enough to wear on a cool fall night in NYC. Ugh! The more I think about them, the harder this is to accept.

After searching the Internet high and low for a replacement pair (I found a distant cousin of my pants on eBay and am now the highest bidder but it's no consolation), I lamented the loss while on the phone with Paula, my friend in Miami whose shoulder is harder to cry on than a desert cactus'.

"Damn, Jenn. You really are white trash. You lost your pants while on vacation with your Dad? What the hell?"
"When in Rome, bitch."
"No, seriously, how exactly did you lose your pants? You saw the Grand Canyon and said, 'if you think THAT's a gaping hole, check THIS out!'"

I expect other friends will offer the same sort of comforting, especially Jeremy who banned camouflage anything about six months ago. I can still hear him now, "Camouflage is never in season. Period."

I think the hardest part is imagining my pants in some pile of trash somewhere (no doubt, Jeremy would approve), carelessly tossed in with the hotel's garbage or perhaps already baking in an Arizona landfill. I guess the happiest fate I could wish my pants is that they're at home in some poor hotel worker's closet. I can only hope that whoever found them doesn't share Jeremy's opinion.

God hates my left leg

2008-07-01T01:14:00.005-04:00

A little background: I went to the Grand Canyon a couple weeks ago with my Dad for Father's Day, rode around in a convertible Mustang GT the entire time and basically bathed in scorching hot sunlight for 4 straight days. I hid my face under a wide-brimmed hat and blanketed my skin in SPF 45 sunblock the entire time. I returned to NYC a slightly-tanner version of my pasty self (i.e. I was a bit grey).

This weekend, I joined Dan, Susan, Marni, Doron and Julia for a round of pitch and putt golf out in the Far Rockaways, the spit of sand that divides Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic. Although I brought the very same sunblock I'd used in the Grand Canyon, I decided that the morning sun and northern exposure didn't warrant another bath in the stuff. So, I pitched and putted the 18-hole executive course with sunblock on my face and arms only. What resulted is mind-boggling:

As a redhead, I've had my share of burns but nothing quite like this.

My neck sustained a slight burn but the worst of it was reserved for one area on my left leg. I got a sunburn on back of my left knee and half of the kneecap (the right leg escaped unscathed). How did this happen? We were teeing off in a different direction at each hole so there's no reason for just one leg -- and one PART of the leg -- to be burned. It's just bizarre. And it hurts.

I came home and doused the back of my knee and half of the kneecap with cold aloe vera from the fridge, wondering how on earth I managed to do this. How to explain it? "I accidentally poured burning hot stupidity on my knee?" "Turns out, some asshole on the course had a magnifying glass pointed at my knee?"

Seriously. WTF? As a kid, all of my major cuts/scrapes/injuries happened to my left leg (it has the scars to prove it). In summer 2005, I tore my left calf muscle playing soccer (was on crutches for 2 months, had PT for 6 months and can never play again). Now, I get this weirdo burn just inches from where the gimpy remains of my calf muscle are. Does God have something against my left leg?

A watery grave decision

2008-06-24T01:51:00.009-04:00

So, I'm on the phone with Shay earlier, wandering around the apartment as I'm talking when I notice that one of my 10+ fish has died (I have four tanks in the living room: two 10-gallon tanks and two 20-gallon). It is one of my fantailed goldfish who--until today--had managed to live 3 years despite being bloated beyond reason and constantly swimming upside-down.

"Shit," I mutter as I scoop him up into the net, "should I flush him? He's pretty big." Shay offers her backyard for a proper memorial service but I worry that he'll be rotted by the time I schlep out to her house in LI again.

"Damn, Jenn, that's the problem with your fish living so long," Shay observes. "They grow too big to flush."

Agreed. Against every gut instinct in me, I flush the bloated goldfish (about the size of my fist) down the toilet.

I quickly realize that I've made a terrible mistake as the toilet water begins to rise up to its seat. Flush after flush does nothing to help the situation; clearly, he's stuck somewhere in the labyrinth of porcelain pipes I neglected to consider.

Not sure why I always have to illustrate the blog but this was too interesting to pass up: a $299 "Fish and Flush" toilet (www.fishnflush.com/order.asp).

Several hours later, I'm on the phone with J-Sok, recapping the failed toilet funeral and wondering how I'm going to sell the "I don't know what's wrong with it" story to my super tomorrow. J-Sok jumps on yet another opportunity to berate my skills as a pet owner.

"Wow. One of your fish died. What a surprise. Do you buy pets with the sole purpose of killing them?"

"No, this fish lived nearly 3 years, J. He had a good life despite suffering from fish gout."

"Why the hell did you flush him anyway? Why are fish the only pets that we flush? You wouldn't flush a hamster or cat. Why flush a fish? Don't they deserve to be buried, too?"

"I don't know, J. Maybe it's 'cause they're used to being in water so the toilet makes sense somehow."

Back to the bathroom to try another round of plunging but to no avail. Next, I try snaking an unraveled coat hanger into the winding pipes to dislodge the fish. Several unsuccessful attempts underscore my desperate need for Liquid Plumber. I resolve to run out for a bottle in the morning. In the meantime, I'm trying to dissolve the scaly corpse (I poured a half a bottle of bleach in the toilet -- at the very least, it will be clean enough to drink out of).

Why so much effort? After all, I generously tip my super at Christmas -- why try to fix it on my own? Simple: I'm afraid he'll discover the fish tomorrow and don't care to cement my reputation with him for bizarre behavior (a string of crazy roommates including one anorexic alcoholic who was carried out by EMS twice in the month she lived here laid the foundation for 4G's legend).

Whether I'm eventually outed as a fish flusher or not, I've learned my lesson: fish deserve to be buried, too (especially when they're bigger than a gerbil).

Other Brooklyn Zoo news:
I have given up on keeping crickets as pets. After several batches, only one qualified as a "success" (with me being lulled to sleep by actual cricket sounds). Unfortunately, that batch died while I was out in the Grand Canyon. I returned to find their hollowed bodies huddled in a corner of the cozy terrarium I'd made for them. Yes, J-Sok, I'm a bad pet owner.

I'm now searching for a CD of cricket sounds. Suggestions?

Catching up with crazy

2008-06-13T12:55:00.010-04:00

* denotes partial truths that will be explained

So, I haven't written anything the last few weeks because of back-to-back deadlines that kept me chained to the desk.*

* explanation 1:
Even in the midst of pressure cooker deadlines, I find ways to rationalize treks out to the Mall at Short Hills with Jeremy (it was an emergency; he needed Gucci shades for his African safari) and a weekend at 5-star hotels in Washington, DC (we were scouting locations for an upcoming photoshoot -- we had to test them out for ourselves first, um, just in case. You know how cheap Mormons can be -- the Ritz Carlton may have suffered in Mr. Marriott's wrinkled hands).

At one point during the "I'm so busy I'm going to die" weeks, I was walking on the Upper East Side with Jeremy, iced coffee in one hand and Bloomies bag in the other, saying, "You don't understand; I just don't have any time!" It was then that I realized how crazy I am.

I was so busy that I was unable to do even the most simple things like shop for food.*

* explanation 2:
In addition to being time-starved, the fridge looked like an anorexic's dream because for the first time since I got laid off and began life as a full-time freelancer last October, I didn't have the cash to restock it. Up until then, I'd been fortunate with the checks coming in just as regularly as paychecks. But then there was a month-long lull.

As a result, I was down to things that had been festering in the fridge for a month (witness the RED mold in the yogurt -- I didn't know it came in that color). The sad truth is that most of the stuff in the fridge either belonged to my long-since-vacated roommate or was a condiment (is that a food group?).

I began eyeballing my cat Eve, wondering how much of her is white meat. I reconsidered after she cleaned her butt WITH HER OWN TONGUE and ended up returning the Chanel perfume I'd bought at Bloomies to free up some cash. Priorities, right?

1. My new food group: Ketchup & Friends.
2. Everything in this row was thrown out upon further inspection (except the condiments, of course).
3. Contained 1 rotting avocado, 1 object that may have been an apple once and 2 pieces of dark chocolate (I’m saved!).
4. No treasure chest like its next-door-neighbor: contained 3 yellow onions (that were supposed to be yellow, thankfully enough).
5. Not edible. Just a posse of icepacks lurking in the background, waiting for a migraine.
6. Extra pie crust from when I made a quiche...for a Christmas party.
7. Cereal. Note: the fridge does not contain any milk (aside from #14, which counts only if you’re high).
8. Starbucks drink. I have NO idea when/where this item appeared in my fridge but I suspect was my roommate Teruko’s. Note: she moved back to Japan in Aug. 07.
9. The only truly edible item in here: homemade onion/green bean soup in chicken stock.
10. Blueberries my Mom bought for me while I was in RI for Mother’s Day (10 days before this photo was taken). Not for nothin’ but I ate them with #15.
11. All of these belong to my cat, Eve. One is her antibiotic (post-tooth surgery), another is her canned food, and the 2nd shelf item is a jar of baby food (green peas, which she loves).
12. This is where the science experiment was being conducted. I never knew mold came in red until I opened the Stonyfield yogurt. Is this what happens when organic foods die?
13. My last roommate’s coffee creamer. Note: Nikki moved out in March 08.
14. A bottle of aloe vera I bought after a severe sunburn (following a trip to FL...in 2003).
15. Recently-deceased cottage cheese (had expired 2 days prior to this photo). I ate it. I mean, those dates are just guidelines, right? Cinammon can kill the taste of anything, BTW.

Anyway, so now I'm back after making the last mega deadline at 7 Wed. morning -- have been recovering ever since. Spent most of Wed. afternoon sitting on a park bench overlooking Sheepshead Bay, thinking about how ironic and crazy life can be (one week you're starving and trying to decide if salad dressing goes good with toast; next week, you've got money in the bank and are sleeping 3 blocks from the White House)..

Chillin' by the water, watchin' swans, readin' a book, hatin' the letter "g."

Yesterday was errand day: went into the city to finally pick up my roller skates (new wheels, trucks and bearings! The repair only cost me $6 less than I paid for the skates in '85) and buy the sofa/lounge/bed for my soon-to-be-boogie-down-room (formerly the roommate's room and now a guest room/home office with a hip hop flava).

Today is packing day: I leave tomorrow morning for Las Vegas (yuck) where I'm meeting up with my Dad for the Father's Day trip of a lifetime! I'm treating him to 4 days on the north rim of the Grand Canyon and a scorching fast drive through the painted desert. Our chariot? A black and gold, convertible Shelby Mustang GT from Hertz (awwwwwwwwww yeah). It will be an amazing, memorable time for both of us, no doubt (gas prices and environment be damned)!!

As I was packing now, I decided to try on my skates just to be sure all is well. I have since discovered that my apartment could easily double as a roller rink -- the hardwood floor is DIVINE (although my neighbors downstairs probably think otherwise).

Will be doing the hokey pokey in the living room later, fo' sho'.

If I could save time in a bottle (or cell phone)

2008-05-20T16:47:00.010-04:00

Whenever I'm in desperate need of a break from my desk and chair, I've been doing a little spring cleaning around the house, getting rid of the dust bunnies, etc. Today, I came across my recently-departed Motorola cell phone. It was time for another shipment to Cell Phones for Soldiers.

If you haven't heard of it, it's a great charity that collects old cell phones and takes the profits from repurposing them to buy phone cards for U.S. soldiers serving in Iraq so they can call home. It was founded by a teenage brother/sister in their Norwell, MA, garage and has since grown to a national organization supported by companies such as AT&T. www.cellphonesforsoldiers.com

Anyway, I boxed up the Motorola (which had been a faithful servant up until this Jan. when I upgraded to the BlackBerry Pearl) and began to tape the package when it occurred to me that all of my contacts (and perhaps some questionable photos) were still on the camera phone. I quickly unwrapped the box.

Although I'm sure the charity wipes the SIM card or whatever, I'm too paranoid to take any chances. All those years of my Mom warning me about David Walsh got me thinking of scenarios worthy of a Hollywood script (weirdo in upstate NY doublewide gets my recycled phone -- contacts, photos and all -- then falls in love with a photo of my teeth and calls all of my friends in an attempt to track me down, finally succeeding when an unsuspecting family member divulges the location of my pearly whites).

Deleting the photos proved harder than the arduous task of erasing my 100+ contacts. It was like I'd opened a time capsule from the last year of my life and couldn't rescue any of it (the phone no longer has service and nothing to attach to a PC to retrieve data).

It's amazing how one can slip right back to a time/place with a simple trigger like a song, scent or image. The pic of cloud-to-ground lightning just beyond Yankee Stadium's outfield immediately evoked the feeling of my hair being blown about as I juggled peanuts, soda and hot dogs while laughing with Bolo about how we were about to die watching A-Rod's quest for #500.

The strong sensory link is why I never wear perfume again once I abandon it -- it seals that time of my life in a bottle forever (e.g. Tommy Girl is sooooo waiting tables in Boca Raton circa '96).

A bit blurry (and trippy considering it's a camera phone taking a picture of a camera phone) but you get the idea.

Anyway, as I grudgingly deleted photo after photo, I laughed at what the weirdo upstate might think of some of them:

7/18/07 -- 1 photo of blue parakeet on sidewalk
"Was she walking her pet budgie?"
(More sane than it looks: walking to the train @ 110th/Broadway after work, looked down at the sidewalk to see an odd blue bird hopping around with the other li'l brown city birds. WTF? Yes, it was a parakeet quite healthy and at ease with the others, just looking for spare change, I guess.)

8/24/07 -- 2 pics of man working out at gym
"Is she a stalker like me?"
(Sometimes, but this was consensual shower-nozzle masturbation material of my man)

9/12/07 -- 3 shots of my teeth
"Practicing for Rocky Horror audition?"
(Nope, just before/after pics of my left front tooth; there was a long-standing chip in it courtesy of a Wild Turkey binge at Andrea's when I was 14. I didn't want it fixed for sentimental reasons but the dentist insisted; it has since reverted to its former chipped self...yay!)

1/5/08 -- 5 pics of giant brown wet thing and nest of hair
"Have I died and gone to heaven?"
(No, perv. My goddaughter Jordyn has free reign of my cameras, including cellular. This was a self-portrait of her eye and younger brother Phoenix's dreadlocks)

Since it wasn't classified material, I decided against deleting my 20+ photos of various flowers (I'm a big fan of them as screensavers) and 10+ photos from the Bjork concert at Radio City (that way, whoever gets my phone will think I'm a really cool botanist).

I also decided to leave the mysterious photos of my man and I on Roosevelt Island's elevated tram (with the 59th Street bridge glowing eerily in the background); I just didn't have the heart to delete such a fond bit of memory. (sigh)

What really surprised me about all this was that the phone's battery was still full at 3 bars despite sitting in a dark corner of my closet since January. Is that what happens when we don't use them 24/7?

BTW, if any of you know how to quickly wipe the memory from a Motorola 5236A, kindly keep that info to yourselves. Thanks!

How now, eyebrow?

2008-05-17T14:19:00.008-04:00

So I'm at one of the thousands of nail salons in my 'hood the other day, getting a $5 manicure when the nail technician (and I use that term loosely here as I'm sure she's an indentured slave on loan from Vietnam) says, "you wan eyebrow wax too?"

"Um, no thanks. Why? Do I need an eyebrow wax?"

"You try. You like. Eyebrow wax make look better."

"No, I like my eyebrows the way they are. Thanks for offering, though."

As she put the finishing touches on my manicure, I kept thinking about her offer. Were my eyebrows in that desperate need of trimming? Was I that offensive to look at?

The nail drying machine was, of course, situated right in front of a mirrored wall so I had plenty of time to contemplate the eyebrows while my polish dried. No, I concluded after careful inspection, I was not Groucho Marx. The nail tech offered it, I rationalized, out of some forced labor agreement with the head salonista.

As I drove home, I kept looking in the rearview mirror at my brows, thinking about their evolution from wild untamed redwoods as a youth to landscaped lines of auburn as an adult:

When I got home, I found a photo of me pre-plucking (damn you, Tweezerman!) p.s. how is it that I was pastier living in South FL than I am now in NYC?

And now, at the urging of my man, I've been trying to return the brows to their natural state. But like the Florida Everglades at the incompetent mercy of the Army Corps of Engineers, it's hard to restore something that's been fucked with beyond recognition.

See, I was blessed with the burly British genes of my father (who has one large caterpillar on his face for eyebrows) so unlike many women, my brows grow thick and fierce. I'm incredulous that I now have to pencil in what was once naturally there. And yet I'm still addicted to plucking -- in my plight to grow them back, it's hard to resist the urge to remove stray hairs.

Why is it that as we grow into adult women, we feel the need to remove what's natural and add what's not? I never saw my Mom plucking her eyebrows and yet it's something I eventually came to do in my early 20's. How did facial hair get such a bad rap? Men? Media influences? [shrug]

Don't get me wrong: Although I shop at health food stores and eat flax seed regularly, I'm no Birkenstockette. I'm not about grow the unibrow back. There are some things I can't allow to grow on my face. With a Dad whose beard rivals the Gorton Fisherman's, I'm just grateful the nail tech didn't ask "you wan lip wax?" too.

Dad?

The entire city can stand under my umbrella (ella, ella)

2008-05-13T17:24:00.006-04:00

Rainy days in the city are salient reminders of two things:
1) how polluted this place is (I don't care how Sarah Jessica Parker tried to sell it in the opening credits of "Sex in the City," nothing says "ew" more than getting splashed with grime water by a passing bus/taxi);
2) how many assholes live here.

Case in point: "Umbrellassholes" who take up entire sidewalks with their satellite dish-sized umbrellas. Every time I think I live in a city of 9 million, these fucktards remind me that for some, it's a city of one.

On my way to meet Jeremy last Friday, my normal-sized umbrella was attacked and nearly ripped from my hands by a passing umbrellasshole. Later, I found refuge from them in the dry confines of a cab, where I took this photo of one in midtown Manhattan (I was safe to observe their behavior like some wildlife photographer sitting in a blind). Notice how the umbrellasshole's circus tent is twice the size of the umbrellas carried by nearby peasants:

How I wished for a passing car to soak this man with a puddle of grime water.

Living in such close proximity to so many people demands that we make little sacrifices like keeping our feet off the subway's seats and wearing deodorant. We'd all like to remain dry on a cold, rainy day but for some reason, umbrellassholes are so self-important that their right to remain dry supersedes all others.

Here's a quick way to check if you or someone you know is part of the problem: if you can fit more than two assholes comfortably under your umbrella, you're an umbrellasshole.

For the turds out there whose umbrella's have their own zip code, here's a big, wet middle finger. I hope your awning-of-an-umbrella also doubles as a lightning rod.

I know this lady looks super uncool, but she's a winner in my book.

Reality check: some of my closest friends are umbrellassholes (Bolo has been spotted with a golf umbrella many times on the streets of Manhattan...bad Bolo, bad!)

Unemployee of the month

2008-05-07T02:41:00.010-04:00

Not too long ago, I wrote about how I miss having a "real" job if only because I liked people watching on the train to/from work. ("Real" jobs: you get to leave the house and pretend to work all day, as opposed to freelance where it's actual work 24/7 or starve.) Tonight, after yet another 14-hour work day, I found myself missing something else: the web sites that once kept me very busy at a "real" job.

To counter the grimace I used to get from my boss upon arrival, I'd kick the day off with a laugh thanks to www.icanhascheezburger.com, an amusing collection of animal photos with captions written as though the pets wrote 'em:

One of my coworkers dreamed of having her cats featured on the site. Last I heard, she'd submitted several photos but was still short of the necessary "cheezburgers" (votes) for acceptance. This is what happens to childhood dreams when people work long hours in cubicles, I guess.

Then, when it became necessary to look busy and have a screen full of text, it was off to craigslist's "Missed Connections" (http://newyork.craigslist.org/mis/) to catch up on the strange and sad postings of New York's hopeless romantics, for example:

STARBUCKS 103rd street - "You are so beautiful" sign, in the window - m4w (Upper West Side)
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Reply to: pers-671044440@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-07, 12:40AM EDT

Hey, I really hope you see this - I'm the guy who wrote on the piece of paper outside the window tuesday afternoon. You were in a pink top, with short brownish hair and dazzling eyes.

You have this delightful and infectious energy about you, and I'd like to get to know you - in any context (romantic or not) it doesn't matter to me, I'd just like to know more about you.

While most of the postings are about people searching for that someone they saw at the diner (but just didn't have the matzoh balls to talk to at the time), others leave you feeling kinda dirty, as in:

Unicorn 22nd st - looking for the guy I fucked last night - m4m - 35 (Chelsea)
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Reply to: pers-666640957@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-03, 6:37PM EDT

Hi,
To the guy in the plaid shirt I fucked last night - you must be in you're mid to late 40's or early 50's (no offense). I'm the short bald guy with the stache in the brown bomber jacket
I wanted to say that I must have been crazy to do that with you.
You seem like a nice man and I can't believe that I had unsafe sex with you.

Why did I do it and why did you let me?

I don't do that and I have been so careful - up until now - and have tried to be "good". I drank too much, ate too little and mostly was just desperate to touch someone who wanted to be touched as well.
Listen, all I want to say is that I am sorry and that I should never have done that. I've always tested negative ( it's beyond hopeful) but I hope you too.
Mostly I think that these quick instant gratification moments with strangers are just what they are but I also think that "together" we prey on each other's weaknesses and loneliness.
I apologize for my delusional behavior.
All the best

And still others are straight up Janice Dickinson:

you punched me in the head. - w4m - 22 (East Village)
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Reply to: pers-666651635@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-03, 6:47PM EDT

I was walking up Bowery at about 2pm on a Friday afternoon -- I didn't know love was headed my way, but you did, and you were. You screamed "Get the fuck outta my way!!!" as you approached me on your bike, which had an extra wheel attached to the handlebars (clever.) Your unkempt, fly-ridden long mane of hair was blowing in the wind, or rather, I imagine it would have been, if not for the layer of crust upon it. And then, just as you got close enough to whisper a sweet nothing into my ear, you reached out with your left hand and punched me. In the head. You punched me in the head, and then continued on your magical journey, still screaming "Get the fuck outta my way!" Well, I just wanted to say thank you, thank you for getting into MY way on that providential afternoon.

And while just a bit off-topic from being a "missed connection," this is probably the most amusing post ev-er:

who put the dead bird in my mailbox? - w4m - 27 (crown heights)
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Reply to: pers-668364506@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-04, 5:24PM EDT

a) how did you get into my mailbox in the first place, it is locked
b) did you kill the bird?
c) it died horribly, that much was clear
d) you're psycho
e) do I know you?
f) if I do know you, I don't want to know you
g) if I don't know you, what did I do to inspire you to put a dead bird in my mailbox?
h) I don't know how to disinfect a mailbox from a dead bird, I'm worried about diseases and have used five different kinds of cleaner but still feel like the bird's still in there still and like my bills and my catalogues and my coupons have dead bird on them
i) it was a hummingbird, I looked it up - they don't even live in New York - this is so f*ing psycho, I can't believe this
j) are you the mailman?
k) I'm always nice to the mailman
l) the super didn't care when I told him what happened
m) the neighbors didn't care either
n) do you have some kind of problem with birds?
o) don't put anything else in my mailbox
p) unless it's an apology
q) no, I take that back, I don't even want an apology
r) what am I supposed to do with this bird - it's in bubblewrap in a bag in a shoebox in the freezer right now - am I supposed to bury it - where? how? in a construction site where they've jackhammered through the concrete - where is a person supposed to bury things in this city?
s) I could drop it in the Gowanus canal, but that seems undignified
t) I could drop it in the ocean, but the ocean is so big and it is such a small bird
u) I could drop it in the toilet but it would probably get stuck
v) I hear this whirring around my ears every time I go to the mailbox and I'm pretty sure it's ghost bird, and I'm all "it wasn't me that killed you, bird!" but still the whirring doesn't go away until I get to the stairwell
w) am I supposed to eat it - maybe you were trying to feed me - don't you know I'm a vegetarian?
x) if this was Ricky, I'm gonna beat your ass, mama told you stop bothering the zoo
y) if this was Gina, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, how many times I gotta say I'm sorry?
z) I could drop it off the roof, maybe it will reincarnate while falling and I can start reading my mail again

For those with "real" jobs, a friendly note of caution: these sites are highly addictive. Seriously, being able to spend quality time on them again may just be the spark that gets me in the job hunt.

Time travel to another "Galaxy"

2008-05-03T01:30:00.003-04:00

A month or so ago, my cousin Frankie (age 29) texted me one night: "guess where i'm at." The possibilities seemed endless. "Um, in a hotel room with Marv Albert?" I texted back. Frankie replied, "no, galaxy skateway in davie!"

For most grown-ass adults, the reaction might be "why?" or "who cares?" As one who still has her first pair of Riedells and enjoys skating in Central Park's circle at 72nd Street, a little part of me died when the last indoor skating rink in NYC closed two years ago. So, it was with too much excitement that I texted back (flush with jealousy), "NO F'N WAY! We're soooo there when I'm in FL next month!"

And so it went. I arrived in FL last Thursday morning and was at Galaxy Skateway that night for "Adult Skate" in Davie with my cousin and his friend. Just like that, I was transported back to middle school (this is a good thing). As we pulled into the parking lot, I wasn't sure what I was more afraid of: falling on my ass or OD'ing on nostalgia.

See, my formative years were spent on roller skates. When I was in elementary school (1978-83), I went every Wednesday with an after-school program to Galaxy Skateway in Margate, FL (about 15 miles north of Davie). Skating on hideous brown and orange rentals (with a bum wheel coated in gum) on a dangerously-smooth cement rink, I grooved to disco like Cheryl Lynn's "Got to Be Real" and early hip hop like "Pack Jam" by the Jonzun Crew. "Good Times" (think Chic) for real.

Then, from 1984-87, I spent nearly every Friday night skating with my friends round and round a much nicer hardwood circle at Coral Springs Skating Rink (now a Pep Boys). I say "nearly" because I was grounded for an entire summer between 7th and 8th grade (a most sinister attack on my social life by the 'rents). The first "big ticket" item I ever bought myself was my Riedell 2-stripe speed skates. After saving all summer between 6th and 7th grades, I finally bought them ($106 is a lot of babysitting and b-day $ for an 11-yr-old).

By that time, skating had evolved to "shuffling" so my friends and I would line up in pecking order (alpha female first and so forth -- the alpha usually had a brush in the back pocket of her Guess jeans). We'd shuffle for hours around the rink to jams like Trinere's "All Night" and Egyptian Lover's "Egypt, Egypt." When our feet throbbed from shuffling, we'd line up again (in our socks now) to perform dances such as the Cabbage Patch for whatever boys happened to be watching. Luckily, 14-yr-old boys are easy to impress.

Flash to April 2008 and Davie's Galaxy Skateway (where I'd never been before). On the outside, it looked just like the one in Margate. I worried how I'd do on a cement rink but was happy to see it was a hardwood one just like Coral Springs'. From the weird bullet-proof glass booth they make the cashier sit in at the front entrance (it's only $10 to get in -- how much money could possibly be in the register?) to the stale carpeting and "Donkey Kong" video games, it was as though time had stood still.

Not sure what the purpose of a clock is in a place where time doesn't exist.

I rushed over to the skate rental counter (brown and orange skates still in operation) and happily told the ancient man behind it that I wanted speed skates in size 8. Yep, they now rent Riedells (oh, what that would've done for my rep in 6th grade!). Giddy with excitement, I laced them up and hit the floor (not literally, thank God) before Frankie grew tired of my "and then this other time" stories.

Because it was "adult skate night," the DJ was playing old school songs from the days of 12" singles. Hea-ven! MC Shy-D's "Gotta Be Tough" was the first song, then K.J. an' da Fella's "Get Retarded (Now Go!)," then the Megatrons' "Rock the Planet" and then my head started spinning. No wait, that was the jacked up wheels of my skates about to take me into the wall. Ugh! Rentals still suck even when they're Riedells? WTF?!

Me and my cousin Frankie embracing the non-brown skate.

Okay, back at the rental counter to get a different pair, this time size 7. Perfect! (trick: if you can wiggle your toes, you'll be on your ass) Back on the floor, I quickly found myself shuffling again, even after all these years. By the 20th time around the rink, I started to realize why my legs were built like a brick shithouse as a teenager. My cousin's friend (who had come with her inline skates only for exercise purposes) shouted to me, "ugh, I wish they'd reverse the skating direction so we could work the other leg!"

"Whatever, weird adult lady," I thought. It was as though I had time traveled to another "Galaxy" and was once again feeling my 8th grade self (but now a very satisfied 36C). Granted, I wasn't as good as the other adults whose shuffling skills suggested they hadn't missed a Friday night since '88. There were even skate dance crews in the center of the rink and girls in Guess jeans! With the triangle and question mark logo, no less!

In fact, it was so '80s skating rink that the social pecking order was also very much intact despite the fact that most of us were in our late 20's and 30's. This became very obvious during the "speed skate" session where only the "coolest" were on the rink (with the lights turned up so all could observe and approve of their coolness).

Wait, reality check: I was in Davie, FL. At a roller skating rink. On adult skate night. It was a dorkfest, probably. But for just a few hours, it was sooooo cool to be back in '86.

Lights on for the "cool" kids while I finally got my shuffle on in these rentals.

For those who have no freakin' idea what "shuffling" is, this is close enough.

OMFG on UES

2008-04-22T01:08:00.004-04:00

Hi, my name is Jennifer and I'm addicted to the CW's "Gossip Girl."

[group: Hi, Jennifer.]

I mean, how could I NOT be? As a fan of such amazingly-scripted teen classics as "Heathers," "Sixteen Candles," "Breakfast Club," "Clueless" and most recently, "Juno," the show appeals to my need to see impossibly smart and attractive young people acting cruel, clever and outrageous.

A mixture of witty dialogue and teen reality show over-the-topness (think "My Super Sweet Sixteen" and "The Hills"), "Gossip Girl" even has a dash of old school flava thanks to some well-timed adult melodrama (Kelly Rutherford from "Melrose Place" plays the gold digging mother of one of the show's stars).

[group: Really? Wasn't she also on that short-lived black soap opera, "Generations?"]

(yes) Anywho, don't take it from me (I'm totally sleep-deprived and unable to do the show justice in my brainmelting state). New York Magazine has a great cover story, "The Genius of Gossip Girl," that will explain everything: http://nymag.com/arts/tv/features/46225/

BTW, I love how Dan forwards links to articles he himself hasn't read (weirdo). Here's the Cliff's Notes version: http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/story?id=4683880&page=1

One of the "OMFG" promos for the show hyping its glorious return from a writer's strike-induced hiatus.

Anyway, I'm very fortunate to have a great support group that shares my addiction.

[group: Aw, thanks!]

Um, no, not you. I'm talking about my friends Jeremy, Dan and Susan.

[group: (collective sad face emoticon)]

Anyway, after helping each other through this difficult time (i.e. the writer's strike and the show's 3-month absence), we celebrated the return of evil, headband-wearing bliss tonight. After trying unsuccessfully to secure a room for our little support group at The Plaza (where much of the show is taped), Jeremy hosted a "Gossip Girl" viewing party at his apartment on the Upper East Side (duh, where else?).

Three words: Best. Pizza. Ever. Oh wait, and the show didn't suck, either. In fact, the strike was the best thing that could've happened for us fans. It gave the writers time to regroup and script us something better than yet another ho-hum masquerade ball or sappy "Blair and Dan sneaking off to romantic W'burg" scene (nothing says "romance" like waste transfer stations).

After the show, we reflected on what we'd just learned (um, stealing your snotty frienemy's Valentino dress is okay if you can produce a hottie to appease her anger after?) and reaffirmed fave quotes ("who just turned 12?" "(please take your dirty package off the table) Oh, if I had a dime for every time I've heard that one"). Then, Dan pointed out that Jeremy's TV is HD, but we'd watched it on basic cable (ew). OMFG, NO GG in HDTV on UES? WTF?

On the train home (411: "What city and location?" Blair: "Brooklyn, it's in NY, I think."), I had another OMFG moment. It occurred to me that there might be something wrong with a 34-year-old woman who enjoys watching a high school hyperdrama. I thought of the innocent friends I recently tried to recruit to share in my addiction like some vampire or Scientologist (sorry, Tania). Was I masking the problem by seeking comfort in numbers?

Okay, alright already! (sigh) I recognize that my addiction could be a symptom of a larger problem: a refusal to grow up and buy a house or something.

[group: Breakthrough!]

(sob) Every time I turn on the TV, it's a reminder that I'm avoiding "grown-up" things like, um, whatever grown-ups do. (sniff) Shouldn't I be watching other crap like "House" or "CSI" -- no, seriously, what do normal people in their mid-30's watch?

[group: How the hell would we know? We're in the same "still shopping at 'Forever 21' boat as you, sister.]

So be it. Whether it's some rebellious act against my inner adult or just a harmless love of witty banter spoken by those least likely to say it, I'm not about to stop watching. My name is Jennifer and I'm addicted to "Gossip Girl." Thanks for letting me share.

p.s. if you haven't caught an episode yet and like the same kind of junk I do, the CW's site has your fix. You can watch all the fun you've missed: http://www.cwtv.com/shows/gossip-girl/episodes
(consider yourself bitten -- you know you love me, xoxo)

Snapped on the way to Jeremy's house (cue GG intro, "Hey, Upper East Siders. Spotted on Park Ave racing toward a certain media mogul's apartment to indulge in a TV show well below her age demographic: J looking like a 34-year-old in denial.")

My pet needs a pet

2008-04-14T22:22:00.006-04:00

Last Monday, my roommate of 6 months moved in with her boyfriend, taking her incredibly large but surprisingly friendly cat with her.

It's been a strange transition for me so far with the room vacant and no plans to fill it (my man is finally moving up to NYC next month). I kinda like the room empty if only because it leaves so much to the imagination. I bought some frames for its walls tonight (figures that I'd buy frames before furniture) but have no idea where I'll go next with it.

Anyway, while it's been a strange transition for me, it's been a very difficult one for my little cat, Eve. In 1996, I adopted kittens who I named Adam and Eve. Sadly, Adam passed away last June from cancer. It was a very emotional time for me and especially his twin sister who had never been apart from him her entire life.

When my roommate Teruko moved back to Japan in August, the quest for a new roommate began. I decided on a cool chick named Nikki from Colorado because she seemed sane and she'd be moving here with a cat (whose company Eve desperately needed).

In October, Nikki and Machiatto moved in. At first, the cats didn't seem to like each other but by Christmas they had grown tolerant of the other's company. Their relationship had just advanced to the "stalking-and-chasing-each-other-like-freaky-cats-do" level when Nikki informed me in March that she'd be moving. Since Nikki and "the bob cat" left last week, Eve has been inconsolable.

On the rare occassion that she wanders the house, she meows incessantly the entire time. I've found her several times in the vacant room, facing an electrical outlet while meowing very loudly at it. After doing a lap of the apartment, she races to find me (still meowing) and doesn't leave my side for hours. When I'm on the phone, she meows the entire time. When I'm in the kitchen, she meows the entire time. When I go to the bathroom, she's still meowing. When I get into bed, she meows at me until finally falling asleep near my pillow.

Eve in the 2nd bedroom next to her new friend, the electric socket.

Granted, she's always been a "talker" but never to this (annoying) extent. Before, her meows were limited to food prep and wakey-wakey time. Now, it's an all day, all night meowfest. And, I awake to find one of Machiatto's toys that Nikki left laying in front of my bedroom door (despite me putting it back in the living room each time). Tonight, for the first time in her 12 years, she sat on my lap.

I know people have a tendency to read too much into their pets' behavior but I think she's in a great deal of emotional pain. I need the cat whisperer or something.

If she's been traumatized by all this coming/going of people and pets in the apartment, I wonder if I should get another pet to keep her company? But, getting another cat doesn't appeal to me and my schedule is just too unpredictable to get a dog.

Hmmmm, how crazy would it be for me to get her a pet guinea pig or hamster? If I did, how likely is it that I'd come home to find her knawing on its head?

Curious to see if there's an alternative to getting a live pet for my lonely pet, I Googled "pet's pet" and found "Snuggle Kitties," conveniently defined by the site as:

SnuggleKittie™ (Snǔg’l Kĭt’ĭ) noun. 1. A stuffed animal with a heart beat and heater. 2. An item to cuddle, curl up or sleep on for comfort. 3. A snug, cozy friend for animals that eases crying, loneliness and separation anxiety. 4. An award-winning virtual mom. See also friend of animals and your pet's pet.

While I can't be sure that dropping $30 on a "Snuggle Kitty" will put an end to Eve's 24/7 meowing and overall neediness, I'm 100% sure that doing so would qualify me for official "crazy cat lady" status. Actually, blogging about it is probably proof enough for a complimentary "Cat Fancy" subsription. Shit.

Truth in advertising

2008-04-13T17:19:00.001-04:00

Nothing much to report except I was just watching one of my guiltiest pleasures ("Keeping up with the Kardashians" on E!) when this commercial came on:

Love it! If I'm ever in need of a preggo test, I'll be sure to give my $ to Clear Blue for making me laugh today!

Unsound thoughts

2008-04-12T00:55:00.011-04:00

After a quick 2-day trip to RI, I was making my way back down 95 to NY, singing along to Kid Sister's "Pro Nails" when the sound suddenly cut out. I checked the iPod -- nope, still playing. I unplugged it, replugged it, checked all connections. Still, nothing.

After 10 minutes of tinkering, I resigned myself to AM/FM radio but found it wasn't working, either. Although all lights indicated the radio was on and emitting sound, I heard nothing. Hmmmm...after nearly 12 years of being my car, had it finally tired of playing crap booty music?

I was still 45 minutes outside of NYC and entering the hateful part of CT where the scenery takes a back seat to aggravating traffic. As the traffic began to build, so did my level of panic at the prospect of facing it without music or sports radio. What would I do? How would I pass the time between brake light flashes?

I'd have to do the very thing I'd been avoiding: think. Not that I mind thinking but between my family's health in RI and the eternity of work waiting for me at home, the thought of thinking made me think otherwise. So, I gave my mind stern directions for its wandering: as long as it didn't think of family or work, it could go where it pleased.

As the distance between me and the city decreased, the spectrum of thoughts increased. My mind is prone to think of pretty random shit; once, I was hard at work when I became distracted:

"Is there a city in the United States called 'Far Enough?' I'll bet there is. I mean, if I was a pioneer on a wagon trail headed out West, I probably would've called it quits in Ohio and said, 'okay, this is far enough.'"

I had to know the answer. After 30 minutes and one exhaustive Google search, I concluded that despite it being such an obvious (and awesome) name, a US city of "Far Enough" does NOT exist. I came across a few unusual city names along the way, though, including "Truth and Consequences" in New Mexico (the story of how they got the name is no where near as interesting as I'd imagined: http://www.truthorconsequencesnm.net/area_TorC_ralph_edwards.htm).

So, where did my mind go in the quiet of my car?

I wonder if anyone has studied technology's impact on obscene phone calls? It's been at least 10 years since I've gotten one.

And damn, I bet prank calls are like cave drawings by now, too. I mean, how can kids today prank call anybody with all the technology that's evolved since I was a kid? Between Caller ID and *69, what's the point?

Wow, that's a huge chunk of my teenage life that'd be missing. I wonder how many summer days and nights I spent with my friends prank calling random people? There's the time me and Meagan spent a whole day taking turns calling people:

"Hello (in proper British accent), is Mrs. Bubbles there?"
Prank victim: "No, I think you have the wrong phone number."
"Oh (still British accent) I'm sorry, she must've popped."
CLICK

Or the time we stayed up all night watching crap TV commercials and prank calling the operators who were "standing by":

"Hi and thanks for calling to order 'Memory Power!' Who am I speaking with?"
Me: "Uh, I don't know! I can't remember my name!"
CLICK

Damn shame if kids can't do stuff like that anymore. Kids are smart; I'm sure some have figured out ways to get around technology. Hey, if they do still prank call, how come I never get any?

Of course, when I got within 2 miles of my destination, the radio's sound came back on. I guess my car has a loose wire connection or something (I can relate). Incidentally, if you know of anyone who does prank or obscene phone calls, please give them my number.

I don't have anything to illustrate this blog except two videos (in honor of random thoughts):

Jesus rocks

2008-04-05T01:04:00.002-04:00

After just one week of basking in the mind-melting joy that is my bedroom, Fresh (the new fighting fish) was found dead today in his bowl. I was shocked. As I flushed him down the toilet, I mused, "something's fishy here."

I mean, c'mon, that's it? After nearly an hour in PETCO conducting "fin offs" and closely weighing my options, he only lives a week? I began to examine the variables and how Wally lived nearly 3 years while Fresh only lasted one week. Hmmmmm...

Uh-oh. After Wally died, I replaced the bowl's aquarium rocks with decorative ones I'd bought at Ikea a few months back (after just one Sunday at Ikea with me, my Mom dubbed it "I-Kill-Ya" and refuses to ever step foot in the place again).

I didn't realize they could be poisonous but now that I think about it, I'm sure the rocks were made in either the Phillipines or China (most Ikea products are). I mean, if they make toothpaste with antifreeze, what do you think they coat deocrative rocks with?

I feel awful. Fresh was likely poisoned by Knaster (no, no, not a chemical but Ikea's weirdo name for the rocks I bought). Damn you, Ikea, and your impossible outsourcing of allegedly Swedish goods!

So, I stopped at the pet store tonight and bought aquarium-specific rocks (no fish yet). I feel really good about these new rocks if only because they were made by God and blessed by Jesus. Seriously. I checked the back of the bag just to be sure they weren't plutonium and was very surprised at what I read:

"If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out." It is the desire of the Estes Company that the stones in this bag will cry out about the quality of product, and the integrity, honesty, and dedication of the owners and managers of this company. There is a reason why we find it so very important to hold on to these principles. If you want to know more, you can call us at 973-890-2220, or check out our website - www.estesco.com"

What the...so, of course I went to their site when I got home and found a very detailed explanation under the "Our Beliefs" tab as to why THESE rocks won't kill my next fighting fish. In fact, they'll probably ensure his soul's eternal salvation:

So, I've got aquarium rocks made by fishers of men. I feel good about that (it beats rocks made by Communist dictators). I'll get a new fish next week, I guess. Worst case scenario: I wake up one day to find a multitude of fish and bread loaves floating in the bowl with it.

The 10-minute tourist

2008-04-03T21:41:00.008-04:00

My eyes have been devouring pages about the American Revolution for the last couple months (going back to Ellis' "Founding Brothers" and more recently, McCullough's "1776" and now "John Adams)" so it should be no surprise that they saw the world around me today in an old, new light.

Still, I was surprised as I made my way to a workshop this afternoon in lower Manhattan. Emerging from the subway at Stone Street and Broadway, the sight of Battery Park no longer evoked images of Madonna's pyramid jacket and Roseanna Arquette hitting her head. Rather, the first thing I imagined were British ships, the Phoenix and the Rose, racing up the Hudson before crowds of awe-struck Continental Army soldiers and a helpless, frustrated George Washington.

Running my usual 10-15 minutes late, there was no time to pause and soak in the area's historic aura. (Yes, in spite of the yellow flourescent glow from Au Bon Pain and McDonald's, there are many corners in lower Manhattan where one can be transported back to a simpler time.) As I rushed down Pearl Street, I noticed a large colonial building and made a mental note to check it out after the workshop.

Turns out, the building was none other than the Fraunces Tavern -- the heart of the Revolution in New York City (as a meeting place for the Sons of Liberty before the war and the site of Washington's farewell address in 1783). I've walked by this building at least 20 times before in my life but it wasn't until today that my brain made the connection.

For 10 minutes, I stood in amazement -- it was as though I'd never seen it before. And for 10 minutes, I was a tourist in a city I've lived in for 8 years.

[Note: People who live in NYC go to great lengths to avoid looking like a tourist. It starts by wearing the "Manhattan uniform" (i.e. all black) for the first year you're here, walking faster while appearing disinterested, etc. This front devolves to a simple exasperated grunt at tourists who take up entire swaths of sidewalk while examining their blanket-sized maps of the city.]

Anyway, it was 10 minutes before I finally crossed the street to look more closely at the tavern's facade. Feeling the cold brick with an ungloved hand, I closed my eyes and wished I could open them to see for just one minute what the street around me might have looked like then. A taxi's horn jolted me back to reality and 2008 where my stomach was impatiently yearning for a Chipotle salad from around the corner.

A photo I took of the Fraunces Tavern with my BlackBerry (a REAL tourist would've used a 35mm Canon Rebel)

While reading "John Adams" on the train home, a cool kid in my head threatened to kick my ass. I started to wonder, "Am I becoming one of those history dorks? You know, the kind that show up on Flag Day to re-enact a battle or something? How close am I to dressing up as Abigail Adams to give tours of a field Alexander Hamilton once took a crap in? Oh. My. God. Those people are like 2nd cousins of Trekkies and Star Wars 'tards! Am I on a slippery slope to geekdom?"

Nah, it's just a phase. Next month, I'll move on to some other subject (Dan's been campaigning for fiction and the "Youth in Revolt" book he got me for Christmas -- it's got the word "revolt" in it so should be an appropriate segue). Just in case, maybe I'll make it a point to visit the "cool" section at Barnes & Noble and get a book about heroin or Chloe Sevigny.

Whatever comes next, my perspective is forever changed. Old buildings are new, familiar places are foreign. Beyond the "great hookah bar here," "passable late-night grub over there" and "that Dunkin Donuts never makes my coffee light enough," another layer has been added to my mental map of NYC. If it makes me a dorky history buff or annoying tourist every now and then, I'm cool with it.

(but if I start wearing FDNY hoodies or churning my own butter, please stage an intervention...thanks!)

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did fall in

2008-04-01T17:21:00.009-04:00

(props to Nakeba for sending me this! Miss you, mama!)

In case you missed it, a man in Kansas called police late last month to report that his girlfriend had been sitting on the toilet for 2 years. He claims he asked her every day to come out of the bathroom, to which she would reply, "maybe tomorrow."

Medics rushed the woman to the hospital where the seat was surgically removed because her skin had fused to it. This is no April Fool's -- check the story: Woman sits on boyfriend's toilet for 2 years

...and video:

I'm most amused by the part of the video where the reporter somehow manages to say without a trace of laughter, "neighbors say they didn't know he had a girlfriend."

No, that's it. I'm done. It's just too easy to drop a load of jokes about those freaky fly-over states, so I won't stink up the blog with any more. I'll leave it to you to do whatever it is you do do with this kind of information.

But before I wipe it from my mind, there's one question I need to relieve myself of first: did she at least do a courtesy flush every six months?

Today's fresh fish

2008-03-29T16:15:00.000-04:00

I’ve been mulling over an odd question for the last two days: what is an appropriate amount of time to mourn the loss of a pet fish before buying a new one?

I guess if I was religious, I could turn to a belief for an answer -- it’s good for stuff like that. Hindu? 13 days. Jewish? 1 week. Muslim? 3 days. Daytime Dramish? 2 minutes (5 if your fish is in a coma or believed lost at sea).

It’s been 10 days since I returned from FL to find that Wally the Fighting-for-His-Life Fish died while I was gone (so I’m not even sure about the date I’d begin counting from as part of a mourning period). Faced with an empty bowl on my bedroom wall and nothing to dictate my mourning period, I followed my gut (and aesthetic values) and headed to PETCO today.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time examining the 20+ fighting fish on display. Before his agonizing death, Wally had lived nearly 3 years (so this new fish could be staring at me night after night for years to come). I stared at each fish, gauged how I felt if they stared back and then gave a thumbs up or down.

Out of respect, I was also very cognizant of a need for one that didn’t look like Wally (despite the sane half of my brain saying, "get another red one and call it a day before I imagine a bus and throw myself in front of it"). But so many colors to choose from! Purple, light purple, blue, dark blue, greenish teal and multicolored, even! It was too much for someone who deliberated six months over a paint color for a 5’ x 9’ dining room wall.

Luckily, I’d stopped and shopped in Stop n’ Shop across the street before hitting PETCO so there were frozen goodies in the car to consider. I finally settled on a vibrant blue one because he did so well in the "fin off." (Similar to a "walk off" in modeling where two models strut to see who will make the show, I’d held a "fin off" by positioning top candidates next to each other to see whose fins would flare best and who had the most moxie. At that point, the sane half of my brain was hit by an imaginary bus and died.)

I’ve since named him "Fresh" (get it? as in "fresh fish") and am very happy with him so far. He’s fiesty and flashes the same "hateful humans, shutting your eyes for hours at a time!" look that Wally used to give me every morning. I don’t feel bad about getting him 10 days after flushing Wally so I guess I’m doing alright by my own religion.

"Fresh" in his spacious new digs, staring at the dinky contraption he'd spent God-knows-how-long in before I saved him from an anonymous death in it at PETCO.

Go Greyhound (and leave the disinfecting to Lysol)

2008-03-26T00:31:00.003-04:00

After returning from a week in FL on Wednesday, I was off again on Friday -- this time to RI for Easter weekend. So, it was so nice to wake up in my own bed this morning (okay, afternoon) feeling refreshed and thoroughly disinfected after a scorching hot shower of Lysol last night. That's what happens when you "go Greyhound," I guess.

Yes, even though the past month has included luxurious stays in 5-star hotels such as the St. Regis in New York, the Taj in Boston and the Fairmont Turnberry Isle in Miami, I decided to take the bus to Providence. David McCullough's "1776" is partly to blame (seriously, I can't put the book down) as is Amtrak, that crap excuse for transportation. Where they get off charging $190 to ride trains that sit on the tracks for hours waiting to make a left turn is beyond me.

So, for $50 R/T, I headed to the Port Authority on 42nd Street to catch my 6:15 PM bus. For what it's worth, I wasn't *really* slumming it -- there is one level below Greyhound in NYC: the Fung Wah bus out of Chinatown to Providence for $25 R/T. They only recently banned chickens as carry-on baggage and I've heard horror stories about passengers being routed to Hartford and made to dine at unkempt Chinese restaurants affiliated with the busline (i.e. Chinese mafia). In light of this, Greyhound seemed like a safe bet.

But the sights and smells of Port Authority quickly had me re-thinking my choice to leave the driving to them. I mean, it's not often that I give change to a homeless guy while waiting to board a plane or train.

Immersed in a thick fog of bus exhaust and Budweiser breath inside the terminal, I began to hallucinate that a posse of flying rats was trapped in the long, narrow terminals and kept dive-bombing the line I was standing in. No, those were real pigeons. Then, I hallucinated an argument between a 20-ish black guy and a shrunken old white guy who were standing in line for Atlantic City. No, that was real, too:

"What? Don't tell me where to stand! I'll stand where I want to! Who the hell are you? You can't make me move!"

(mumbled response from black guy)

"I don't pay taxes anymore 'cause I'm 84 years old! I go to church every day and the good Lord takes care of me. Yes he does. The good Lord takes care of me!"

(mumbled response from black guy and curious looks from other passengers)

"That's right! I'm 84 years old and I drink a quart of milk every day. A QUART of milk! Want to see me punch a hole in this wall? C'mon, dare me! I'll punch a hole right through this wall!"

(mumbled response from black guy and nervous looks from other passengers that they were about to see an 84-yr-old with a broken arm)

"What, are you guys chicken?! I tell ya, I drink a QUART of milk every day! Dare me to punch a hole in this wall. Here, watch me do it!"

(84-yr-old moves 2 steps over to where the brick wall has a plastic-framed advertisement and softly punches it)

Soon after the excitement of standing in line a la Port Authority, I was finally on board my Greyhound when a horrible thought occurred to me: I can't pee for the next 4 hours. I mean, I could pee, but it would be in a rocking port-a-potty (and if the terminal's bathrooms were any indication, I'd be better off suffering kidney failure on the way to Providence). Suddenly, the urge to pee was all I could think about despite relieving myself only 20 minutes earlier.

Other thoughts came to mind, too:

The Port Authority should not allow beer to be sold or consumed prior to boarding a bus. Period. Otherwise, nose plugs and breath mints should be handed out like candy.

Not everyone on Greyhound is a beer-guzzling ex-con. In fact, some are beer-guzzling college students. I sat next to a girl from NYU with a large Chanel bag and nose ring who used her $2,000 laptop to play video games the entire way.

How is it that bus drivers don't hit the same traffic I do EVERY GODDAMN TIME I ATTEMPT THE SAME DRIVE UP 95? It was 6 o'clock on a Friday night before a holiday weekend and that guy didn't hit the brakes once. WTF?

Conversation is a lost art that only Greyhound passengers still practice. Behind me was a Dominicana from the Bronx and a Liberian guy from Pawtucket. Despite being complete strangers, they managed to chat like old friends the entire 4 hours (mostly about his desire to learn Spanish and the merits of chicharone).

Is it weird to be offended when your seatmate gets up the SECOND an empty row becomes available? Did I smell, too? Had the pent-up urine saturated my skin by the time we got to New London?

I survived the trip, had a nice time with the fam in RI for Easter and managed to put a huge dent in "1776" along the way. In fact, finishing that book is the reason it's taken me nearly two days to blog about my little social experiment. No, seriously, you've GOT to read this book...it's well worth the kidney and can of Lysol it cost me.

(some cheap bitch happily disembarking from a Greyhound bus in Providence)

Speak now or forever kvetch about it

2008-03-20T01:36:00.010-04:00

I just returned from a week in South FL. Now that I think about it, I'm in that cultural wasteland pretty often for one who claims to hate it so much. Oh, quick update: while I was gone, Wally the Fighting-For-His-Life Fish died. I can't help but feel like I wished death on him and guilty about the relief I now feel. He was flushed tonight at 11 PM and leaves behind one stinky bowl.

Anyway, I digress. If I learned one thing on this trip (besides that my skin is too white to ever live there again), it's that regret is a bitch. The good news: it only took me about 15 minutes to process this truth and act accordingly. Unfortantely, the bitches who gave me cause to regret were no longer available for smacking.

It all started when I boarded a 6 AM JetBlue flight to Ft. Lauderdale last Wednesday after working all day/night to meet a deadline. Partially delirious from sleep deprivation, I settled into my seat and eye shades with the hope of slipping into a 3-hour coma.

Suddenly, my New Jersey yenta radar went off as three middle-aged yakkers in track suits approached the row of seats directly behind me (after waiting tables in Boca Raton, my radar can spot a NJ yenta in Bloomies from a Loehman's two states over). I comforted myself, "no, they can't possibly gab the entire flight. People fly JetBlue to watch TV, right?"

Wrong. Not only are NJ yentas completely immune to 30 channels of Direct TV, they are also unaware that the seat housing said TV belongs to another person. After leaving the gate, the seat bumping began as the bitch-behind-me unloaded her goods into the flap. I fumed, "What tremendous load of crap could this woman possibly be putting into that little slit of a pocket?" In Touch? Oprah's latest book-of-the-month selection? Bladder control medication?

Whatever it was, she seemed to take each item out, remember that she was supposed to be rehashing the Hawaii vacation with her sister harpies and then put it back in. Couple this with the fact that she was about 100 pounds overweight with a knee that couldn't get enough of the tray table.

Somewhere over North Carolina, I lost my shit. I ripped off my eye shades, turned around and glared at her through the sliver of space between seats. I firmly demanded, "could you please stop banging the seat?!" A wide-eyed "who me" was the only response. "There," I thought, "that ought to do it." Sleep seemed assured now.

Instead, it became a source of hushed "did she just say something nasty to you?" and "these people" comments amongst the coven. I gave up on sleep somewhere off the coast of Georgia. I regreted not going completely apeshit but figured I was on vacation now and bound to get my zzzz's eventually.

Then something strange happened. As I was walking off the plane, I heard them whispering behind me like 3 teenage girls in a high school hallway. "She looks like one of those..." was all I managed to make out. What?! They're talking shit about ME?! I wheeled around and took my sunglasses off so they would know I'd heard. But for some reason, no sound came out of my mouth to match my evil glare.

What the hell was wrong with me? A fight with people clearly in the wrong and 110% deserving a verbal lashing?! I live for this shit! I felt impotent. Maybe the venom can only be unleashed after 8 hours of sleep, I wondered as I continued to walk. My humiliation grew as I sized up the trio: one gaunt blonde with a bad haircut; one completely forgettable brunette and then the bitch-behind-me (a matronly hippo wearing a fanny pack...a fugging FANNY PACK, for crying out loud!).

As we entered the bathroom, one whispered to the bitch-behind-me, "hee hee, keep your hands and feet to yourself in the bathroom stall." I turned around and glared at them again. But, again, no sound released from my mouth. I fumed in the bathroom, thinking of all the horrific things I would usually say (e.g. "you know, when I first turned around on the plane, I expected to see a 4-yr-old so you can imagine how surprised I was to see a ONE HUNDRED and 4-yr-old"). What the HELL was happening?

I continued fuming all the way to Hertz where my Mustang awaited (it's the only car I've rented since last June in New Mexico -- I even budget a speeding ticket into each trip). Pushing the bad thoughts from my mind for a minute, I explained to the woman behind the counter that I prefer Mustangs with leather interior and spoilers, if possible. She replied that my reserved Mustang was the only one available.

Oh well, I mused as I walked out to the car, still thinking about all the other deliciously vile things I should've said. Cursing myself for forgetting the "we don't regret the things we do, we regret the things we DON'T do" motto, I started to notice Mustangs in the Hertz lot.

By the time I reached my car, I'd seen at least 3 other Mustangs with spoilers and leather interiors. I was very disappointed to find that although mine was a brand new black one, it lacked both a spoiler and leather interior (and the Sirius satellite radio was installed outside of the dash! Ew!). In fact, it looked much like an '08 Honda Accord coupe (I drive an Accord coupe in NYC so why would I want to rent one?).

I started to put my luggage in the trunk but then thought, "why am I going to pay all this money for something I don't like? How angry will I be with myself if I drive out of here with this alleged Mustang?" The image of those yucky women loomed large in my mind. My morning of regret was over.

Despite no sleep and the annoyed looks I'd get back at the Hertz counter, I took the luggage out and marched back inside. I explained that there were other Mustangs available and insisted that I be put in one of them instead. 20 minutes later, I had the keys to a hot red and black Mustang with leather interior, a spoiler and "Mustang" written across the side (Sirius radio in the dash!).

Before peeling out into the scorching FL heat to find an A/C to sleep in, I managed to notice one small detail: the license plates on my Mustang were from New Jersey (but at least they didn't talk).

Me in da Mustang (no regrets, bitches!)

Even Gia (my man's dog) was down with the spoiler. See, she's checking it out in this photo.

My fighting (for his life) fish

2008-03-10T19:33:00.008-04:00

So, I'm faced with a troubling situation about my fighting fish Wally (whose name is short for "Wallflower" 'cause he lives in a bowl nailed to the wall near my bed -- see photo). Here's the deal...

Before I left to spend Christmas with the fam, I wanted to be sure Wally was all set with fresh, clean water. I brought his bowl into the bathroom to do a quick water change per our usual. And that's where the crisis and my current predicament began.

Since I got Wally over 3 years ago, he's developed a knack for launching himself out of the net when I transfer him from the bowl to his holding tank (a small cup on the side of the sink). Trouble is, I don't have a parachute or a stunt double for him and he ends up landing on the bathroom floor.

It's happened like 3 times now out of the 40 times I've changed the water. Each time he does it, I shriek for 5 seconds while desperately trying to delicately pick him up and put him back in the holding tank (with him doing the quiver the entire time, of course). Within an hour, he shakes off the dust bunnies and shock as though nothing ever happened (he's got to keep his tough guy image as a fighting fish, ya know).

This last time before Christmas, however, was longer than 5 seconds. He'd wedged himself far in the dark corner behind the sink. It felt like 3 minutes (but was probably 15-20 seconds) before I finally got him back in the tank. I wished for Santa Claus to bring him new gills and left for the week, hoping I'd find him okay when I got back.

I thought it was good news to find him alive, if not still dazed, when I returned. I now realize that perhaps it was bad news. It's been over 3 months now and he hasn't sprung back; instead, his health has been on a slow decline ever since. I guess my wish should've been for Santa to flush him down the toilet?

And that's where the problem is: I can't flush a fish that's still alive down the toilet! I think Wally has a right to live and who am I to take that away? I like him, too. I looked forward to falling asleep while watching him swim angrily above my head, cursing me and my ability to close my eyes.

But, a big part of me also thinks the life Wally has now may not be worth living. His breathing is very labored and he hasn't eaten in over a month (I give him food pellets that dissolve in the bowl but I can't imagine it's been helpful). His latest thing is flipping completely over on his backside and laying on the bottom of the tank for hours...still breathing, still fighting.

Every night, I watch him intently for signs of improvement but then resign myself to the hard truth that he is dying. What. A. Slow. Death. Seriously, I don't think even I could hang on this long if I fell off a building and drowned for 20 seconds immediately after (the human equivalent of his accident).

So, I keep looking for a sign like Terri Schiavo's image in my toast. Nothing. I'm torn between the right to live and the right to die. What would Jesus do? What would YOU do?

On second thought, I shouldn't claim to be all that concerned about ethics. I mean, if I did, would I keep a fish imprisoned in a bowl nailed to the wall?

p.s. yes, I keep a kamikazi fish in the same bedroom that I keep the pet crickets (see previous "Jiminy Crickets!" blog). Speaking of which, here's the news from that side of the room...

The Cricket Update
I started with 10 (or was it 11? am I a bad pet owner?) and can now only verify that 3 are still in there. Not sure if the survivors ate the others or what. I give them food and refresh their "water pillow" once a week so maybe it was the low humidity? [shrug]

As for the 3 who have made it this far, two are female and one is male (he's either very happy about it or, if he is in fact a homosexual deaf mute, not too happy). The females, of course, are KICKIN' ASS! Their legs/antennae are approaching cockroach levels of grossness. In fact, my crickets are so big that I can almost see their wings! (As you may recall, a cricket's wings are the source of that wonderful noise I've been dying to hear all these years as I fall asleep.)

But, alas, to date: NOT A SINGLE CHIRP. Just the sound of my brain caught in an endless loop of "should I flush Wally?" "no, Wally is one of God's creatures!" like some goddamn right-to-life protest.

WTF in today's NYT

2008-03-07T17:03:00.003-05:00

Not sure what to make of this story from today's NY Times: "A Man’s 6-Pack Can Serve as His Castle" (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/07/us/07beer.html?th&emc=th).

Basically, this guy in Houston, TX (TX? shocking!) would wait on baited beer breath for the local grocery store to get its beer delivery. He would then stock up on 8-10 CASES of beer, drink them and then "decorate" his house with the cans...over 50,000 cans and tabs in all.

The house was just designated a folk art museum after a $400,000 restoration project that took 7 years (fumigation ain't easy, folks). I'm especially interested in the caption that appeared below the guy's photo:

"John Milkovisch, left, with his wife, Mary, spent 20 years at work on what is known as the Beer Can House."

Surely, the NY Times can do better! Here's one:
"John Milkovisch, left, with his wife, Mary, who spent 20 years huddled in a corner, hoping John would forget it was 'sex with deer' night."

So, whaddya think? Pioneer environmentalist? Unsolved Case #451 of Houston's shamed AA chapter? And what do you think the cause of death was? I'll bet it was lead poisoning (those old houses are death traps!).

Will work for long commute

2008-03-01T00:53:00.008-05:00

While I don't miss having to get up at ungodly hours (i.e. before 11) and then pretending to "work" all day, there is one thing I miss about having a full-time gig in the city -- besides a regular pay-check -- and that's riding the train to/from work every day.

And what a train ride it used to be! See, I live out in the "sticks." My neighborhood is 1/4 mile from the ocean in SE Brooklyn (in an area much like South Florida if you compare the number of seafood restaurants and New Yorkers here). It's a good 45 minutes door-to-door to midtown Manhattan, which means I pay LESS rent and get MORE time to people watch on the train. It's a win-win situation, as far as I'm concerned.

Anyone who knows NYC knows that people watching is the number one sport here. Forget what you've heard about baseball or football. No, it's checking out the crack head in a wedding dress who's dancing around the fountain down in Washington Square. Or, cheering the half-naked Indian on as he prances around a hookah pipe at the footsteps of the 72nd Street Circle in Central Park.

(seemingly-normal and VERY fit guy I photographed using the B train as his personal gym. His workout lasted from midtown all the way out to Prospect Park where he exited sweaty and with one less thing to do when he got home. Let's hear it for multi-tasking and creative use of space!)

I used to be so entertained by these random encounters that I bought a Moleskine journal to keep in my purse and record the most memorable ones. Take the entry from 3/29/07 as an example:

"An old scraggly homeless man, toothless & bearded just announced to the 1 train @ 72nd: 'I'm going out to have a cigarette...somebody hold the doors. I'll be right back. Anybody want any coffee? How many sugars?' And then he exited the train. Some smiled, some laughed. I went back to sleep."

And that's the one thing that really depresses me about freelancing. Unless I start inviting meth addicts and homeless women covered in their own feces into my home, chances to observe these people are severely limited.

So, I guess my job search should include the following criteria:
1) boss must less than 103 years old (unlike my last one);
2) boss must not be in desperate need of psychotropic meds (again, last boss);
3) office must be in Manhattan and far enough away to afford sufficient time for people watching.

Oh, and salary in the mid-80's would be nice. Let me know if you hear of anything along these lines. Thaaaaanks!

How I didn't sleep with Madonna

2008-02-27T19:13:00.006-05:00

For the first time in 34 years, I was completely unable to fall asleep. It was the most frustrating thing and I'm not sure what the problem was but if it ever happens again, I'm going to knock myself unconcious with a blunt object.

It all started last Thursday just before midnight. I had to be up at 5 Friday morning to collect Jeremy from midtown by 6 (we were heading up to Boston for yet another weekend of complimentary luxury...this time at the Taj, formerly the Ritz). At the last minute, we decided to leave @ 6 because snow was expected mid-morning.

By 1:30, I'd yet to fall asleep and the anxiety level was growing. I imagined my brain was a frozen Windows operating system: I kept hitting CTL+ALT+DEL but to no avail. The system would not shut down. By 3, I was pretending to sleep but fully aware I was living a lie.

I looked outside and saw that snow had already begun in earnest. I texted Jeremy: "no point in leaving @ 6 to beat the weather. it's already here. let's leave at 10." Worried that he wouldn't make it to Boston in time for happy hour, Jeremy replied, "if we leave at 6, we can sit in traffic that much longer."

I tried changing my environment and moved to the living room couch. By 4, sleep had not arrived but the realization that my fish are totally OCD did. Every one of my 4 tanks was alive with crazed fish pacing repeatedly in the same hurried pattern from one end of the tank to the other. I'd hoped their swimming would relax me but instead, I found myself wondering if they make Adderall for amphibians.

After 20 minutes, I decided sleep was not forthcoming and began getting ready to leave for Boston. It was the worst possible scenario: sleep deprived and driving on snowy, unplowed roads at high speed. But, a $2,000 a night luxury suite at the Taj overlooking Boston Common awaited. So, off I went.

After stopping at Dunkin Donuts for liquid crack, I warned Jeremy that I hadn't slept and was therefore liable to crash or strangle him at a moment's notice. As we drove through the slush out of NYC and into Connecticut, my brain began to disconnect from my body.

Sensing a head-on collision with delirium, I plugged the iPod in and set its playlist to Madonna (common ground for Jeremy and I). This led to forced consciousness and 50 miles of "top 5" Madonna video lists...

Top 5 worst Madonna videos (this was hard to keep at just 5)
1. "This Used to be My Playground"
2. "Love Don't Live Here Anymore"
3. "American Life"
4. "Love Profusion"
5. "True Blue"
(runners-up: "Me Against the Music," "Who's That Girl?" "You'll See")

(what's with the flag PowerPoint presentation?)

Top 5 best Madonna videos (this was equally as hard to keep at just 5):
1. "Express Yourself"
2. "Open Your Heart"
3. "Like a Virgin"
4. "Hung Up"
5. "Vogue"
(runners-up: "Rain," "Material Girl")

(no one does cone bras and nipple tassles like my girl M)

Top 5 WTF Madonna videos:
1. "Fever"
2. "Erotica"
3. "Deeper and Deeper"
4. "The Power of Goodbye"
5. "Bedtime Story"
(runners-up: "Jump," "American Pie," "Get Together," "Nothing Really Matters")

Top 5 most-unappreciated Madonna videos:
1. "What It Feels Like for a Girl"
2. "Hollywood"
3. "Frozen"
4. "Secret"
5. "Bad Girl"
(runners-up: "Don't Tell Me," "Music")

Top 5 most-depressing Madonna videos:
1. "Take a Bow"
2. "Oh Father"
3. "La Isla Bonita"
4. "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina"
5. "I Want You"

I found it especially hard to remember the videos as we listed each despite saying it just 2 seconds before. So, I recorded the lists on my phone's voice notes; unfortunately, I also forgot to save the note. Kids, this illustrates why you shouldn't stay up all night cramming for an exam: sleep deprivation robs you of the ability to remember stuff.

If my Madonna "top 5" story doesn't convince you, maybe a Harvard study will:
http://sleep.med.harvard.edu/news/24/Study+Finds+Sleep+Vital+for+Memory

Missing from Harvard's study is my "Top 5 Reasons Why Sleep is, like, Important:"
1. It helps generate HGH (Human Growth Hormone), without which Roger Clemens would look like Screech.
2. Dreams are a great way to live out fantasies involving crocodiles.
3. If rats are any indication, you'd die in 28 sleepless days (of course, you'd probably collapse into sleep before dying but the coffee table you'd hit on the way down might finish you off).
4. What fun is a yawn/fart/stretch in the morning if you're awake before doing it?

And finally, the 5th reason why sleep is important:
5. It helps you remember stuff like putting gas in your car before attempting to drive 230 miles. Yes, by exit 91 in CT, my car's idiot light came on indicating that it was about to run out of gas. When I left NYC, I had 1/4 tank and even sped by gas pumps on my way out of a rest area (although I did pause to think about checking the window washer fluid levels).

150 miles later, the needle was absolutely BURIED below "E" as we crossed into the no man's land between CT and Rhode Island (population: one seagull, Jeremy and me). Luckily, my car sputtered into the ONE gas station located off exit 92. It was the closest I've ever come to being disowned by my Dad (he said he would do so if I was ever stupid enough to run out of gas).

Anyway, I finally fell asleep Friday night sometime after 11 in a fluffy, feather-filled bed at the Taj, snow still falling softly outside in the hushed streets of Boston. I'd like to say it was the best sleep ever but I awoke at 2 AM thanks to my Mom's snoring (she'd joined me for the weekend) and I ended up sleeping on a couch in the suite's living room.

Thankfully, there were no OCD fish nearby.

(Boston from our 16th floor windows: during snow; after snow)

(the room where I finally fell asleep, complete with a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush)

What a Ducassehole!

2008-02-20T20:59:00.007-05:00

Sunday marked the 13th anniversary of my sobriety. Yep, I haven't had a drink in 13 years. That's 676 weeks; 4,745 days; 113,880 hours and 23 minutes (but who's counting?).

I can't be sure because shit really was THAT fugged up back then but I'm pretty certain my last fall-down-the-stairs binge was Feb. 17, 1995. I only know this because it was the Saturday after Valentine's -- oops, just looked it up and seems I've been celebrating the wrong day all these years (we didn't have the Internet back then, OKAY?). Whatever, it was Sat. Feb. 18. Doesn't matter -- I still don't know what day I had my last sip of alcohol on because it wasn't important enough to remember at the time.

I always say, "ugh, if I'd known then that it would be my last drink, I would've filled a shopping cart at the liquor store and holed myself up in a Motel 6 for the weekend." And that pretty much sums up the problem. I'd been drinking since I was 11 and was starting to black out so it was time to nip it in bud. Even though I was only 21 (and hadn't even made it to the nut-flavored liquors yet!), I did my time in AA and it's been nothing but Sprite ever since.

I usually spend the anniversary by myself, reading through my grandfather's notes from his own stint in rehab (he'd been drinking all his life and spent the last 17 years of it sober) but this year would be different...

Jeremy had invited me to dinner at world-renowned chef Alain Ducasse's new restaurant, Adour, at the St. Regis as part of his review for West Palm's Simply the Best magazine. Turns out, they put him in one of their best rooms, the "Tiffany Suite," a massive suite overlooking 5th Ave. and Central Park. Free dinner at a 5-star hotel? Crashing in a $5,000 a night suite twice the size of my apartment? Duh! I threw on my best H&M dress and headed out.

(the view of 5th Ave. and Central Park from one of the "Tiffany Suite's" many windows)

The restaurant's decor is meant to look like you're at the bottom of a champagne bottle, which should've been my first hint. After a less-than-impressive meal (Jeremy's had better halibut from Lean Cuisine), we ordered dessert. While I waited for my tea to steep, I tried a leaf-shaped chocolate that one of 10 people serving us had brought.

My lips immediately pursed as the taste of alcohol filled my mouth. I looked around the room in a panic: how many strokes would I cause among Adour's elite clientèle if I were to spit the chocolate back out? My mind raced for an answer -- wasn't there a scene about this in Bridget Fonda's crappy American take on "La Femme Nakita?" My one remaining brain cell couldn't remember (kids: this is a lesson in binge drinking's long-term effects: do it only if you want to depend on friends and family to remind you of things like your name for the rest of your life).

I swallowed the chocolate and looked at Jeremy who, between sips of his Jameson and gingerale, had wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I explained that I'd been poisoned, ironically, on my 13th anniversary. "Well, as if we didn't need another reason to hate this place AND the French!" he replied.

When the maître d' approached to see how we were enjoying our desserts, I cross-examined him:

"Excuse me, what is in these chocolates?"

"Zees iz zhe passion fruit, zees iz zhe prailine and hazlenut, and zees iz zhe vanilla rum."

"I see. So the ONE chocolate I ate was filled with vanilla rum?"

"Oui."

"Figures. You should inform guests before if anything has alcohol in it. See, as of 5 minutes ago, it was 13 years since I've had any so if I go back up to my room and clean out the mini bar as a result of eating this chocolate, I'm comin' back down after to kick your ass."

(stunned silence) "Madam, we are very sorry..."

"At the very least, you're paying for the mini bar."

I'm sure it was the first time anyone physically threatened Jean Paul after he asked, "and how iz everyzing?" Jeremy nearly choked up a lung laughing.

No, I didn't drink anything as a result -- please, it's going to take A LOT more than a piece of chocolate to knock me off. Even so, I can't help but feel like my precious record has been ruined. Like, I was throwing a no-hitter up until Alain Ducasse squibbed a stupid piece of "chocolat" through the infield grass.

It's a matter of pride when it comes to the record I've touted all these years. How can I say, "I haven't had a drop," now? It's like the Patriots saying "yeah, we won 'em all...yep, all except for that one at the end." Well, at least I'm 4,745-1 (damn you, Ducasse!).

(WTF face outside "a dour" restaurant the next day)

Gammy was a "Rolling Stone" ('til she read it)

2008-02-13T20:06:00.002-05:00

Even though I just wrote yesterday about my wonky eye and I try to limit my time here (MySpace is virtual quicksand), I just GOTTA share an email I got from my grandmother today -- she's hip like that. Well, maybe not THAT hip.

See, she ordered a magazine subscription to help my 9-yr-old cousin Mandy raise funds for her Girl Scout troop. What happened next is a funny, poignant example of generational differences:
1) My "Gammy" is a member of the Greatest Generation
2) My Dad is a Baby Boomer
3) and Britney Spears is, um, a member of Generation Y the Hell Not

My grandmother's email in its entirety:

Hi Jennifer,
I ordered a magazine through Mandy's Girl Scout group to benefit the them. Without thinking about it, I just checked off the least expensive magazine. Well. it was "Rolling Stone". Wow! Was I surprised when I started to read an article about Britney Spears! What a potty mouth! The actual bad words are in the story. Needless to say, I had no idea what I was buying!

I checked with Aunty Nancy to see if I could transfer it to Frankie or your dad. He (your dad) happened to call her while we were talking, and he was all for the idea. That's the type he enjoys.
I called the customer service line to request it be sent to your dad instead of me. They said no problem and it will be sent to him starting in March.

Imagine, a 77 year old broad, living in an elderly highrise getting "Rolling Stone"!!! That's funny!!! I got some strange looks when the mailman came!
Take care. See ya.

Love,
Gammy
xxx ooo

(she SO could've pulled off that bald look)

p.s. the email is also a good example of how far Rolling Stone's hipster stock has fallen.

p.p.s. I love that my grandmother refers to herself as a "broad." I'm going to start saying that, as in "that broad Britney really knows how to entertain!"

p.p.p.s. see what happens in the lull between football and baseball? First I write about Paris and now Britney. (sigh) Imagine how different this country would be if Pat O'Brien had been forced to play outside instead of clipping from his mom's People magazine between nose bleeds?

It takes a big girl to admit she has a bigger eye

2008-02-12T23:54:00.006-05:00

Back when I had a full-time job, I used to block out my old (and I mean OLD) boss's nonsense by perusing gossip sites like egotastic.com and pinkisthenewblog.com. I remember laughing one day when they wrote, "Paris Hilton and her wonky eye made an appearance last night on the red carpet." Ha ha! Paris and her wonky eye!

Not so funny anymore. In the past week, I've seen two photos that clearly prove what I've long feared and never wanted to admit: I, too, have a wonky eye.

(received this one tonight from my friend and former co-worker -- a photo she'd taken of me and my Man last December: the evidence is now irrefutable)

How to correct this? Do I accept it as Paris has (that jewel of morality and respectable behavior)? Or do I simply apply more makeup to my right eye to balance things out? Should I say "arrrrrgh" when I smile for the camera so it appears intentional? Or do I put my a-mazing Photoshop skills to work on my own face?

Not sure what my course of action will be (if anything). In the meantime, I'm sorry, Paris, for laughing at your wonkiness. I laughed too hard, too soon.

ADDENDUM
Seems I'm a natural freak of, um, nature and Paris is, well, just a freak. According to The Evil Beet (http://evilbeetgossip.film.com/2007/01/19/wonky-eye-mystery-solved/), Paris' wonky eye is the result of an eye-lift gone wrong. So, I take comfort in learning yet another piece of info that widens the gulf between she and I.

Jiminy Crickets!

2008-02-09T03:24:00.000-05:00

Here's something you don't read every day: I just bought 10 pet crickets.

Ever since I left the suburban sprawl of South Florida in 2000 for the concrete confines of NYC, I've desperately missed the sound of crickets. It's not that there aren't crickets here; it's just that my apartment is situated 4 stories up between 2 towering blocks of brick and concrete. The only crickets up here are those being eaten by birds.

Why not get one of those sound machines? I have one and the crickets on it sound like nails on chalkboard. And, as part of the "meadow pond" experience, there's a splooshing noise every 8 seconds that I presume was supposed to sound like a frog jumping into water (but sounds more like someone dropping a deuce).

So, for the last eight years, my travels have been partly inspired by the need to hear crickets again. I mentioned this to my man last November as we fell asleep to their soothing sound in FL. It wasn't the first time I'd told him how much I miss them. I mused, "maybe I'll buy some and keep them in my room as pets when I get back to Brooklyn." He shot up from the pillow, "but that was going to be my Christmas present to you!" Confused, I asked, "you were going to buy me crickets for Christmas?" Yes, it was to be one of my gifts (he's cute and thoughtful like that).

He got me something else for Chrimbo but the conversation cemented the idea; as much as I'd missed the sound of crickets, I'd never seriously considered buying them to keep as pets. So, this week, I headed to the store to get all the gear I'd need to have a happy cricket colony in my bedroom. At long last, I'd have sweet chirping to lull me to sleep every night!

As I searched the amphibian aisle, one of the employees (no doubt counting the minutes until the store closed and he could return home to his D&D game) offered to help. He showed me a horrible contraption with feeding tubes and said, "this is the best way to keep crickets."

"Why would I want to keep them in that?!"

"So you can easily feed them to your snake or gecko or whatever."

As I explained that I intended to keep them as pets, I realized it was like explaining that D&D is a recreational game for pre-teens.

After many odd looks and careful consideration about my crickets' new digs, I rushed home to soak the peat moss and prepare their 2.5 gallon tank (seriously, it's such a lovely smell to have damp earth in your bedroom -- highly recommended for those who like camping or getting lost in forests).

I went back out to the pet store to get my crickets. As I looked over the selection, I was faced with a terrible realization that somehow hadn't occurred to me yet: crickets are bugs. I was picking out bugs to keep in my room. Um, yuck? (Honestly, if one of these suckers escapes, my first instinct will be to squash it.)

So, I opted for 10 baby crickets ("nymphs" as I later learned) who don't resemble cockroaches as much as their adult peers do. Yes, I know eventually these 10 crickets will grow but by that time, I'm hoping I'll have a relationship with them that transcends looks.

(bit blurry but whaddya want for a camera phone?)

When I got home, I released them into their gorgeous forest floor of a tank, turned off the lights and waited. And waited. And waited. No sounds. No chirping. Nothing. Nothing but the same sirens and "are you tawking to me?!" in the distance. I called my man to inform him of the problem. "Leave it to you to buy the only deaf-mute, homosexual crickets in the store," he replied.

Perplexed, I went online to research why my crickets weren't chirping. Turns out, I bought field crickets in their early adolescent stage (here's an interesting fact: crickets live one year -- who knew?!). At this point, they're wingless and crickets chirp by rubbing their wings (contrary to the popular belief that they rub their legs). And they won't grow wings for THREE FUGGING MONTHS!

Three months? I gotta wait 3 months to hear something?! No way, I'm going BACK to the pet store tomorrow to buy the ugliest, cockroachiest adult male cricket I can find! Mind you, most people buy buttloads of crickets at a time to feed their hungry snakes and lizards. "Yes, I'd like to buy ONE cricket, please. Uh-huh. Yes, THAT cricket." My roommate suggests I go in a bizarre outfit and whacked out hair (more so than usual) and really play up the crazy cricket lady part.

What an effort this has been just to get a sound most hear every night without any effort at all! I hope you fall asleep tonight with the windows wide open and the most profound appreciation for that sweet lullaby (forgetting, of course, the image of the gross bug making it)!

p.s. clearly, I've yet to recover from the Super Bowl.

ADDENDUM
Lest you think I'm totally nuts (and why would writing a novella about buying crickets make me nuts?), I learned in my research that the Chinese and Japanese have long kept crickets as pets for the very same reason I now do. In ancient China, the chirping was so highly regarded that the ladies of the Imperial Palace kept crickets in small golden cages on their pillows, so that they might fall asleep to the song.

Other interesting cricket facts (from Wikipedia):

* Crickets chirp at different rates depending on their species and the temperature of their environment. Most species chirp at higher rates the higher the temperature is (approx. 60 chirps a minute at 13°C in one common species; each species has its own rate).

* The relationship between temperature and the rate of chirping is known as Dolbear's Law. In fact, according to this law, it is possible to calculate the temperature in Fahrenheit by adding 40 to the number of chirps produced in 15 seconds by the snowy tree cricket common in the United States.

* To hear the mating call of other crickets, a cricket has ears located on its knees, just below the joint of the front legs.

* "Jiminy Cricket!" was originally a polite expletive euphemism for Jesus Christ (as in, "Jiminy Crickets! This was a long ass blog about crickets!").

Shock and Awe(ful)

2008-02-05T23:56:00.000-05:00

It's been two days now and I'm still not sure if I've got this right: we lost? The Patriots lost the Super Bowl? We were on the losing end of 17-14? We're 18-1?

(goddamn Tuck!)

(c'mon, seriously -- WTF?!)

Yes. We were out-coached, out-defended and just plain out-played. Brady spent most of the game on his back (and kept getting up for more 23 times) and our defense couldn't come up with the ONE play that would've sealed the deal.

I think Sunday was the closest I've ever come to crying over a game. If it weren't for the fact that I wasn't alone, I probably would've. But with my Dad, Uncle Albert, Aunty Jane and 3 younger cousins in the room, I had to man up and shake off the urge to curl into a fetal position under the coffee table.

Here's where it gets worse: I had flown to my Uncle's house in Orlando, FL, to watch the game (it's become a bit of a family tradition to watch it alongside my Dad and Uncle -- guess we've had a pretty good run of it as Pats fans). So, on Monday, I had to fly back to NY in the only warm piece of clothing I had: the Patriots hoodie I'd flown down in.

I heard it from every Giants fan on the plane, at the airport, on the train, and in the lobby of my building until I reached the safety of my apartment where I finally curled into a fetal position under my sheets. I slept for 14 hours, hoping to wake up and find it was all just a terrible dream.

It wasn't. Super Tuesday: Dan the Man's phone call woke me up. He wanted to give me the play-by-play of the ticker tape parade going by his office window in lower Manhattan (aka the "Canyon of Heroes"). As I thanked Dan for his call, I made my way to the kitchen to find a dull butter knife. I've been slowly slitting my wrists with it ever since.

Well, not really. I managed to clean myself up, vote and head into the city tonight for a friend's one-man show in the Village. I found the courage to phone up my two Giant fan friends, Bolo and J-Sok (who had attended the parade earlier), and see if they wanted to meet for dinner after. It was time for me to take my lashes.

When we met up later, I was surprised at how easy they went on me, especially after all the smack talking I'd done on the road to 18-1. What nice friends I have -- they only showed me one photo of Eli hoisting the trophy the entire dinner.

Maybe I'll remember their kindness next year...maybe.

p.s. shout out to Jimmy Johnson who reminded us after the Super Bowl of his '86 and '87 Hurricanes -- in '86, they had a perfect season that ended with a huge upset by Penn State; in '87, they had another perfect season and won the national championship. Yes, I know it's college football and probably apples to Orange Bowls, but it made me feel just a little bit better. Thanks, Jimmy (sniff).

Holy shit! I was on the NFL Network!!!

2008-01-30T23:05:00.000-05:00

Okay, so last I blogged, I thought perhaps I might be on the NFL Network's coverage of the Patriots' AFC Championship pre-game press conference at Gillette Stadium on Friday, 1/18. Well, HOLY SHIT! I was!!!

Note: the delay for blogging about this is partly because I'm still walking around pinching myself and others just to be sure it wasn't a dream.

Thanks so much to my Aunty Diane and cousin Beth for their head's up DVR'ing! Imagine their surprise when they tuned in for the Pats' press conference and saw my smiling face in the crowd of reporters! Thanks, guys!!!! YOU ROCK!

Thanks also to my head's up choice of seats upon entering the press conference. After confirming that there wasn't a pecking order that would force me to grab a seat in the rafters, I chose the ideal spot for taking in the greatness that is Patriots football: dead center. It turned out I had also positioned myself in the direct gaze of the NFL Network's cameras. Yay!

It was great to check out the full press conference at my Uncle Mark and Aunty Diane's house (who are super fans 1 and 2). Without my knowledge, I'm on camera a couple times (snickering at stupid questions and Belichick's "is that a question?" retorts -- again, am I the ONLY person who thinks he's hilarious?).

So, without further ado, the video I taped off their TV of me asking Brady a question: (note how composed I am...well, up until I can't take it any more and melt)

Oh, and if that weren't enough, I went to the AFC Chamionship game that Sunday with my Dad and had the most amazing, memorable time ever (thanks SO MUCH, Jeremy! the seats were AWESOME!!).

I'll never, ever forget walking along Route 1 with my Dad up to the stadium, bundled from head to toe but still somehow cold, smelling the tailgater's fires, hearing the crowds up ahead and turning to my Dad to say "thanks so much for being here to enjoy this with me!"

It doesn't get any better than that...especially when your team wins and heads to the Super Bowl!!!

Tom Brady. ’Nuf said.

2008-01-18T20:15:00.000-05:00

So, I thought that Sunday, Dec. 16 was the best day of my life (on the set of the NFL Today show all day, meeting Dan, Boomer & Coach, getting Dunkin' Donuts coffee delivered) but today far surpassed it. I'd like to write a novel about today but need to go to bed for an early day at Gillette tomorrow so...

As part of my freelance work for Watch! CBS Sports magazine, I was invited to attend the Patriot's press conference for Sunday's AFC Championship game. Of course, I accepted (duh).

(me @ the Patriots' AFC Championship pre-game press conference @ Gillette Stadium! this photo appeared on the front page of the Providence Journal's business section on Sat. 1/19 for a story about national media staying in the city's hotels for the game...um, okay, Providence -- work that angle!)

My game plan was to keep a low profile and not say anything...which lasted longer than most would expect. Out came Bill Belichick (am I the only person who finds this guy HILARIOUS?), then Mike Vrabel (MUCH bigger in person), then Tedy Bruschi (is he the nicest guy on the planet or what? I want a Tedy Bruschi bear just like him), then Kevin Faulk (a lot shorter than I expected).

Then, the grand finale: Tom Brady. At this point, I'd asked nothing (but taken lots of photos with my new BlackBerry Pearl -- everyone else was doing it!) but then a reporter asked Brady a question about keeping his adrenaline in check. He said, yeah, it's hard, gotta keep focused on the game at hand, etc. but he also said that it was a particularly hard thing for him to do. I was like, WTF? This guy is known for being cool in the pocket, nerves of steel and all that. Then, I remembered: isn't this the same guy who TOOK A NAP BEFORE HIS FIRST SUPER BOWL??

I couldn't resist the urge any more. I had to speak. I tapped the NFL Network guy on the shoulder and asked for the mic next. He agreed. As Brady was wrapping up an answer to another question, I took a deep breath, my own adrenaline going like mad, and said (transcription from www.patriots.com):

Q:Wondering way back to your first Super Bowl against the Rams, it was reported that you had taken a nap in the locker room prior and now you're talking about the adrenaline and keeping it in check; what's changed over the years?

TB: I think I was naive back in the day. My first couple years, I thought it was easy. I got to the Super Bowl, hey, this is no problem, you start a few games, you're in the Super Bowl and U2 is out there playing in the field. It was a great environment. I think we all look back on that Super Bowl, any time it's your first time in those experiences and everything felt like it was so out of control, you can look back and realize how much fun it was. Now you kind of know what to avoid so you lose a little bit of that naivete as Mr. Kraft would say and you just focus on whatever you need to focus on. The adrenaline, it comes and it goes. I think for me the more prepared, the more comfortable I feel with what we're doing, I think the more relaxed I'll be. I think adrenaline is a little bit different because you get very excited when you run out in front of 75,000 people, and especially in a game like this, and those emotions just play out.

Check the video at http://www.patriots.com/mediacenter/index.cfm?ac=videonewsdetail&pid=30402&pcid=82 (my question starts at 9 min. 7 sec. and his answer ends at 10 min. 28 sec.) -- Brady is all smiles the entire time (giggity giggity), esp. at the end when I jokingly reminded him about the TV audience that's also watching (but then realized I don't want to nerve him out and screw up my own team so I tell him to forget about the TV audience). Oh. My. God.

But then, the day is capped by national media picking up on my I-can-die-now moment (it was a press conference, after all)...

The Associated Press writer covering today's press conference used Brady's reply to my question in the article he filed. The article, "Chargers QB Rivers 'optimistic' he can play in AFC championship game," has since been picked up by news outlets that subscribe to the AP wire service (i.e. A LOT, including the Sporting News, ESPN, Yahoo, AOL, USA Today, etc.)

From the AP article:

Tom Brady, whose best games often come in the biggest settings, was typically more composed, joking about a future in Hollywood.

For all his experience in pressurized settings, the Patriots quarterback suggested he had more trouble nowadays when it came to keeping his adrenaline in check. Brady was reminded that six years ago, right before playing in his first Super Bowl, he took a nap on the locker-room floor. Brady wound up as the game's MVP in a win over the St. Louis Rams.

"I think I was naive back in the day," Brady said. "I thought it was easy."
http://www.usatoday.com/sports/football/nfl/chargers/2008-01-18-injuries_N.htm

Okay, I'm going to try to sleep now (operative word: try).

p.s. my Uncle Mark and cousin Manda say I was on the NFL Network's coverage today. Luckily, they're HUGE Pats fans and DVR'd it. Can't wait to see how it looks!!!! Again: Oh. My. God.

Every (winter storm) cloud has a silver lining

2008-01-11T22:05:00.000-05:00

All day, I've been thinking about the weather. Now that I'm finally done working, I can ruminate about it here (like you care).

So, it started raining at 9 last night --- just a cold, hard rain...nothing dramatic. At 3 am, it was still raining as I was getting into bed but then there was a huge thunder clap outside. And then another. WTF?

The storm continued until morning (making my dreams were VERY interesting). In the mid-afternoon today, another round of "severe thunderstorms" rolled through. I kept thinking, "WTF? Am I in South FL in mid-July or New York City in mid-January?"

I've heard thunder in the winter up here before. Once, during a blizzard, I swear I heard several thunder claps (no one believes me). In fact, including last night's performance, I think I've heard more thunder in NYC than I ever did in South FL during the month of January.

My curiousity was piqued. I Googled "january thunderstorm nyc" and was comforted by an old NY Times article:
"The weather system that produced yesterday's rain, thunder, fog and warmth, in which much of this winter's deep snowfall vanished, might be considered a garden-variety thunderstorm in July. But it comes to New York in January about once a decade." (http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C01E1DC1E39F933A15752C0A960958260
A Bit of July, Sort of, in January By WILLIAM K. STEVENS Published: January 20, 1996)

Okay, once in a decade -- that's cool. But ever since Al Gore invented global warming, it's hard to shrug these oddities off. I had to research today's storm further. Was it so ordinary? Maybe even a sign of global warming? An omen from God about my Patriots?

The part-time blogger and full-time weatherman at mattnoyes.net ("THE New England weather analysis page and blog") assured:
"This clash of airmasses and the strong upward motion of the air resulted in a remarkable phenomenon - January thunderstorms with a surface temperature in the 30s! A situation like this is known as 'elevated instability' - favorable conditions for thunderstorm development removed from the ground by a few thousand feet, located above a cold, dense dome of air."

Again, seems like run-of-the-mill meteorology -- not a sign of impending doom. Then I checked weather.com:

Special Weather Statement

KINGS (BROOKLYN)-NASSAU-QUEENS- RICHMOND (STATEN IS.)- 1:42 PM EST FRI JAN 11 2008

...STRONG THUNDERSTORMS WILL IMPACT KINGS...NASSAU...QUEENS AND SOUTHERN RICHMOND COUNTIES...

AT 1:36 PM EST...NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE DOPPLER RADAR WAS TRACKING STRONG THUNDERSTORMS ALONG A LINE EXTENDING FROM PERTH AMBOY TO 6 MILES NORTHEAST OF COUNTRY LAKE ESTATES TO 8 MILES NORTHEAST OF HAMMONTON... AND MOVING NORTHEAST AT 55 MPH.

THESE STORMS WILL BE... NEAR VERRAZANO-NARROWS BRIDGE BY 1:50 PM. NEAR CONEY ISLAND BY 1:55 PM. NEAR FLATBUSH BY 2:00 PM. NEAR ROCKAWAY BEACH BY 2:05 PM. NEAR KENNEDY AIRPORT BY 2:10 PM. NEAR MANHASSET BY 2:15 PM.

INTENSE CLOUD TO GROUND LIGHTNING... SMALL HAIL...AND DAMAGING WINDS UP TO 50 MPH ARE EXPECTED WITH THESE STORMS. IN ADDITION...VERY HEAVY RAIN...WITH RAINFALL RATES OF UP TO 2 INCHES AN HOUR...IS OCCURRING WITH THESE STORMS. THIS COULD CAUSE PONDING OF WATER ON ROADWAYS... AND MINOR FLOODING OF POOR DRAINAGE AREAS.

LIGHTNING IS ONE OF NATURES NUMBER ONE KILLERS. REMEMBER...IF YOU CAN HEAR THUNDER...YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH TO BE STRUCK BY LIGHTNING. MOVE TO SAFE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

Jesus, Joseph and Mary! I immediately began planning my escape route off Long Island. With the Belt Parkway permanently jammed thanks to somewhat interesting scenery, I had no choice: I'd have to swim across NY Harbor to Sandy Hook, NJ.

Even though the storm ended hours ago, I'm still thinking about it. I doubt it's part of global warming. Remember 2004 when there were icebergs floating up the Hudson and East Rivers? (http://cgvi.uscg.mil/media/main.php?g2_itemId=94312)

On the other hand, I don't doubt that the planet is warming. But unless you're trying to build a house on a glacier, climate change is just not something we can witness in our quick little lifetime (my great-great-grandkids are fucked, though).

The scale of planetary changes are so massive that it's like trying to feel the earth move through space -- we're spinning at 24,000 mph and traveling at 67,000 but does anyone feel motion sickness from it? It's happening but we can't register it (our egos like to think otherwise).

Anyway, if it's evidence of global warming, well, here's one good thing: it keeps us on our toes. I mean, did anyone expect to hear thunder last night in the middle of winter? That's kinda fun, right?

Shop 'til you drop a history lesson

2008-01-06T22:13:00.000-05:00

It was one thing to live in Orlando for a year without once visiting Disney; it's quite another to live in NYC for 7 years and not once visit a single historic site. Even more sad than that is how I came to realize my ignorance of the area's incredibly rich history: I was shopping.

On Sat., Jeremy and I did our bi-annual "yes, we really are poor" reality check: a drive out to Mendham, NJ, for pub grub and then The Mall at Short Hills for "silly bourgeois upstart, are you looking for a price tag?" Along the way, I saw many gross things (mangled deer on the side of the road, Newark, etc) but one sign in particular got me thinking: "Washington's Headquarters." That's all it said on the side of route 24 -- typically cryptic NJ signage. I guess they mean, "exit here if you'd like to see one of George Washington's many headquarters from the American Revolution."

In light of how much time I'd just spent looking for a Coldstone ice cream shop at Short Hills (they don't have one! I'm starting a petition!), I suddenly felt very stupid for not making an effort to see a single brick laid in the tri-state area during this country's founding.

The realization sank in today when I met Shay for brunch at the Cheesecake Factory out in Huntington (Long Island). In addition to the typical LI strip mall/Starbucks/strip mall/gas station scenery, I noticed signs and stores named "Whitman." A pattern started to emerge and by the time I got to brunch, I realized I was in the heart of Walt Whitman's birthplace (the sign across from the "Walt Whitman Mall" said so).

How did I not know this? I've studied "Leaves of Grass"...surely my Norton American Lit Anthology mentioned that Whitman also bought chinos at the Gap. Seriously, I didn't know Whitman was from LI (or that he lived most of his life in Brooklyn!). My ability to live -- and, of course, shop -- in such close proximity to history while being so ignorant of it is frightening.

Yes, naming a mall after one of America's most anti-commercial literary giants may be a cruel disrespect, but it's okay for 2 reasons: 1) Whitman would've LOVED Abercrombie & Fitch; and 2) it alerts ignoramuses like me to sites of historical significance.

Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. I mean, isn't history everywhere? Even when I was living in Coral Springs, FL (ew, I just threw up a little), surely there was something of historical significance nearby? Hmmm. On second thought, pro'ly not. The place was a bug/gator-infested swamp just 20 years prior to my arrival. But it's hard to forgive myself, especially when I make such an effort to seek out history when I travel, read nothing but books about history and was so moved by my visit to DC that I cried on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Actually, I was briefly inspired to check out local history in mid-'07 after reading "Founding Brothers: The Revolutionary Generation," a really great book by Joseph Ellis. One of the chapters is dedicated to the Hamilton-Burr duel that took place on the cliffs of the Hudson (about where Weehawken, NJ, is today). That got me thinking, "hmmm, maybe I should check out..." but then I got distracted by a shiny object.

So, that's a New Year's resolution for 2008: see at least 3 historic sites in NY/NJ/CT/RI/MA (any one of the states I'm in throughout the year -- shouldn't be hard to fit some field-trippy sight-seeing in, right?).

Addendum
Just remembered that Coral Springs has some historical significance beyond being partly to blame for the Everglade's destruction: woolly mammoth bones were uncovered while they were building the community I'd later live in (Parkside townhomes).
http://www.coralsprings.org/history/fullstory.cfm?articleid=10517

Lucky, cheap calendar girl

2008-01-02T19:12:00.000-05:00

Yay, I made deadline and can now fuck around online again!!! Despite having only 4 hours sleep before heading into CBS today, I was SO excited at the prospect of not having to rush home to work that I decided to fuck around in the city first.

FIRST STOP: Sephora in Times Square.
This store is the only reason I ever step foot in that NYC version of Florida fakery (aka Times Sq). Yes, there are just as many Sephoras in NYC as there are Starbucks (okay, maybe 100 fewer) but the Times Sq Sephora has the biggest selection of makeup and it's open 'til midnight. Convinced that Macy's has it all wrong and Shiseido did NOT discontinue my S1 lipstick, I marched from CBS over to Sephora to replenish my golden lip goo.

On the way, I was amazed at how immaculate the streets were despite having hosted millions of drunk tourists just one day before (the mess Dick Clark left on his seat would've taken ME at least a week to clean); however, just before entering Sephora, a flurry of confetti drifted onto my head in the bitterly cold gust...must've been stuck behind Diddy's billboard or something. Oh, and I did see some glittery bits of New Year's evidence frozen in a dirty puddle, too. If it weren't for wind, ice and Diddy, I might never know the sight of confetti in Times Square!

NEXT STOP: Barnes and Noble in Union Square (stopping to get a hot apple cider from the farmer's market first, of course).

Here's something I've never admitted before: I'm one cheap bitch when it comes to buying calendars. Every year for the last decade or so, I've waited until AFTER Jan. 1 to get my calendar. Yes, it's inconvenient for the first few days but why should I pay $20 for a calendar that will be $10 just days later? The trick is getting to Barnes and Noble within the first week of January -- otherwise, the selection dwindles even further and you're left with "World War II" and "Literary Cats" to pick from.

Today, the selection was its usual range of bizarre and boring but still do-able. Ya know, I wouldn't even know what kinds of calendars are usually available but if the masses consume them, I probably wouldn't be interested, anyway (yeah, I'm that cool despite liking all the crap shows on MTV).

Honestly and truly: I have LOVED every calendar this freaky time of year begets me. One year was "Virgen de Guadalupe," 12 big months of various shrines to Our Lady. While this may sound like an awful calendar to look at for a year, those who know me well know that my bathroom's theme is all Guadalupe, all the time. Another year was "MikWright"...'nuf said (www.mikwright.com).

So, today's decision was tough (the "Extreme Ironing" calendar was tempting: images of extreme sports people ironing their clothes on the sides of mountains) but I finally settled on three (yes, I know this defeats the purpose of buying 50% off calendars but so what):
1) "2008 NY Yankees" (same style as my "2007 New England Patriots")
2) "Chicano Art" (in the same vein as "Virgen de Guadalupe" only not as campy)
3) and the BEST CALENDAR EVER: "Veggies Gone Wild! Produce Behaving Badly"

My initial thinking with the three was to be nice and offer my roommate a choice since we both eat and share the kitchen space but the more I laughed about the veggie calendar (and cried about my need to tone up), the more I realized: this calendar is EXACTLY what I need to look at every day in 2008. Not bad for $6.99. (For what it's worth, I ended up spending $103 in B&N today. [Schmuck.])

I'm SO looking forward to February (dates are posed like they're blind and waiting for someone--caption: "The blind dates waited for hours, not realizing the other had also turned up early"). And, June looks good, too (a shipwrecked orange eating himself--caption: "Fearing scurvy, the orange resorted to eating himself, segment by segment"). Love my lucky, cheap calendars!

p.s. you'd think I'd have nothing left in the writing tank after doing a magazine but nooooooo...

Best. Sunday. Ever.

2007-12-16T20:41:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I'm still jacked up and it's been nearly 4 hours since I got home. Maybe it's the caffeine from an intern-retrieved Dunkin Donuts coffee (more on that later) but I'm on a SICK natural high right now. The reason? I spent the entire day in the CBS Broadcast Center on the set of "The NFL Today"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yes, I got to meet James Brown, Dan Marino, Bill Cowher, Shannon Sharpe and Boomer Esiason. Yes, I got to shake their hands. Yes, I sat 15 feet away from them during the entire pre-game show. Yes, I sat next to JB in Dan Marino's chair during the entire 1st half as he did game updates. Yes, I joked with Dan as he returned to find me in his chair before the halftime report. Yes, I talked smack with Boomer (my favorite analyst and not because he guaranteed the Pats go 19-0...woot!!!). In short, it was heaven on earth for me today.

[photos with JB, Dan, "Coach," Shannon and Boomer and ME!]

One of the day's many highlights (or "web gems," if you will) include JB complimenting me on being "ready to call play-by-play" (and better looking than Phil Simms, too). Also, being able to watch 8 games simultaneously on monitors throughout the studio without a seeing a single commercial. Yep, all monitors were live feeds from the trucks so in addition to seeing the cameras set up for the next shot (wiping blizzard goo from the cameras in Buffalo, por ejemplo), I also got to hear actual crowd noise (sans scary football music) as well as Simms and Jim Nantz BS-ing off camera. I don't think there's a better way to watch football. Period.

Another random highlight? 3rd quarter: After going apeshit on the catered food (yum!!!), I was glazed over in the production room watching 10 different games (8 CBS plus 2 Fox) when an intern asked, "I'm doing the Dunkin Donuts run - do you want anything?" I was like, "are you serious? I get to sit here, watch every football game and have Dunkin' Donuts coffee delivered, too??" Free. Exactly as I asked (medium French Vanilla, light with skim milk, no sugar). Directly to my eager little hands. Holy shit. I could've died.

I can't die yet, though; there's still more work to be done. Oh, did I fail to mention? I'm freelancing as project manager for CBS' new sports mag...aw HELL yeah!!! (yes, I have a shrine of Jeremy Murphy in my closet.) On the horizon? A possible interface with Tom Brady. Yes, Tom Fucking Brady. During said encounter, I intend to make sure the photographer gets me on Tom's lap looking like a little girl on Santa's.

Oh yeah, and that brings me to the last highlight: my Patriots beat the Jets 20-10 and remain undefeated at 14-0. But a loss today wouldn't have bothered me at all. The only buzzkill would've been if CBS Sports staff realized what a crazy mo' fo' I am and escorted me off the set. (They may find out yet if I can score AFC Championship tix!!!!)

Best. Sunday. Ever.

Freakin' Facebook

2007-12-04T02:10:00.000-05:00

Okay, so a few weeks back, I was invited by some friends to join Facebook. In order to view their profiles, I had to join. Within seconds of clicking on their names, I was a member and sucked into the bizarre world of Facebook. And it is truly bizarre.

I've since created a more elaborate profile but thus far, it's nothing like MySpace (tricked out with cheesy graphics and music). Instead, it's a blank white slate driven by a mountain of add-on applications such as aquariums, trivia, favorite books/artists, the details of your latest bowel movement, a vibrating hamster and God knows what else:

I feel like I'm constantly being invited to "poke" somebody. I'm sure this is completely normal on Facebook but isn't it considered rude everywhere else? I dunno. Maybe it's just 'cause I'm a newbie but I feel lost. I have managed to connect with one long lost friend from high school on Facebook but other than that, not sure what else to make of it?

Canadians are scary!

2007-11-29T01:09:00.000-05:00

Just got this from my good friend Bethany in Portland, OR, and had to blog about it for future reference: Canada is one scary place. Check out this public service announcement from the CBC:

People over at Deadspin.com posted some damn funny comments about it, including an IM chat:

AJ Daulerio: Holy shiiit.
Will Leitch: I know!
Will Leitch: It's like the worst PSA of all time.
Will Leitch: I've watched it, like, six times.
AJ Daulerio: It really is. I mean, it was bad enough in the beginning and then it justakes this hard left turn.
AJ Daulerio: They should've had the oven fall on top of her too.
Will Leitch: And then a dog comes and starts gnawing on her face.
AJ Daulerio: And then the busboys start raping her.
Will Leitch: And then someone blows up the restaurant.

Other comments include:

What, not one knife or meat clever falls on her ? Lame.

Fuck. Me. That was awesome. I cannot wait to see the one about sexually-transmitted diseases.

...so that's why my order took so long.

Of course, there's the PSA I saw during the Grey Cup that featured a 6-y/o amputee who lost his leg in a chainsaw accident. And I'm sitting there thinking, "How the hell does a 6-y/o lose their leg in a chainsaw accident?"

Oh. My. God.

They used to show a similar PSA on Sesame Street about the dangers of carrying too many coconut custard pies.

With Swedish accent "Bork Bork Bork!"

wait...so does she die or does her fiance just not want to marry someone with horrible facial scars? so shallow...so shallow...

What's up with the flame up on the stove after she bashes her melon? What was in that pot? Was she simmering pure gasoline? Because that'd be irresponsible.

they shoulda had the busboys come over and start urinating on her to put the fire out, but then she gets freaked out, gets up and then falls down a flight of stairs. that would have really driven the point home. accidents...they dont just "happen."

Inspired, I visited a scary Canadian work safety PSA site (www.prevent-it.ca). Their intro cartoon is a recent amputee whose bloody bandage oozes as a warning to other young Canadian workers:

After you enter the site, the cartoon's amputated hand falls through clouds to Prevent-itville ("Beavis and Butthead" and "Heavy Metal" meet PSA organization). In each scenario, the cartoon character (bloody bandage, pool of blood and all) is shown dealing with limbless life: i.e. he gets his ass handed to him playing video games ("dude, you suck"), etc.

Hopefully, Michael Moore's next project will compare job injury stats between Canada and the US to see if this stuff actually works. My gut says kids think these ads are cool and want to be amputees and burnt up chefs, too.

Yep, Canadians take a pretty tough stance on workplace safety...let's hope they never feel the same way about acid rain.

Will power(less)

2007-11-13T23:38:00.000-05:00

Here's the thing about freelance work: You can never leave work to go home (you're already there); work becomes a state of mind that either engulfs or eludes you completely. I'm either working nonstop or unable to start.

There's a moment before I commit to either extreme where my mind says, "okay, this is it...the choice is yours to make and the consequences are blah blah blah blah blah" but it's too late...I've been sucked into an episode of "I Love New York," followed by "The Daily Show," "The Hills," "Gossip Girl," "The Real World," "Sarah Silverman," "My Super Sweet 16," and "Best Week Ever."

When I've exhausted my DVR'd collection of brain-melting drivel, I raid my roommate's despite a growing migraine from the TV's glow and a nagging little "but you've got work to do..." I watch shows I've never cared to see before: "My Name is Earl," "Scrubs," "The Office" and "30 Rock" (I think her old TV only got NBC).

Nine hours later, I'm drowning in a puddle of drool and empty 100-calorie bags of Sun Chips (portion control is also a work-in-progress for me). Avoiding eye contact with the pile of work on my desk, I shuffle to bed determined to wake up "early" (i.e. before 2 pm) and start fresh the next day.

Until I get a job that involves leaving the house, I've got to figure out how to tap my will power and evolve into a worker bee whose hive happens to be her bedroom...

(dig the poster I made at www.despair.com in their DIY section [yes, I used a double negative on purpose -- when you know da rules, you can break 'em]...maybe it should be my Christmas card?)

I will beat a bitch's ass (just to sit on the couch!)

2007-10-24T23:33:00.000-04:00

At last, the couch! Okay, so today is the first day since being laid off that I've ignored all freelance work and sat my ass on the couch for hours of DVR'd garbage.

First up? Kimora Lee Simmons' reality show, "Life in the Fab Lane." Ever since I read a Vanity Fair interview with the wife of Def Jam founder Russell Simmons, I've been a HUGE fan of Kimora if only for the fact that she is one crazy bitch.

My favorite part of the Vanity Fair article was how the interviewer, clearly not prepared for the depths of ghetto fabulosity that she was assigned to plumb, comes to understand Kimora's frustrations -- most of which stem from her husband's infidelity.

Some of my fave excerpts from the April 2005 article (http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2005/04/kimoralee200504):
Unbearable Fabulosity
...Last fall, she could be seen on a 50-foot-tall billboard in Times Square, lying naked except for a pair of Baby Phat "diva sneakers" and a diamond belly chain. I asked her what the picture meant to her. "Fabulosity," she said. "It's a state of being."

A state which does not preclude ass-whuppings. "I will beat a bitch's ass!" Kimora says of any woman who dares flirt with her husband, the famous Russell, a hip-hop icon for 25 years. Russell and Kimora are hip-hop's Ozzie and Harriet, or perhaps Ozzy and Sharon, a pop-cultural institution. And yet that doesn't keep "the bitches," as Kimora calls them, from trying to make moves.

...

"The bitches" have been a constant theme in Russell and Kimora's 12-year relationship. They're how Russell and Kimora got engaged, which Kimora tells me about on St. Barth's, on the beach, where she's lying naked except for a pair of Armani sunglasses and a Gucci bikini bottom. "Let me take off my glasses," she says, removing her large frames. "I want you to see my eyes. I will beat a bitch's ass!"

...

"He's still a little A.D.D.," Kimora says. "He has not technically been declared it, but I know that he is, because he wakes up at the crack of dawn, he wants to go and rip and run. He's A.D.H.D. Attention-deficit … husband disorder.

"Oh, I like it better this way, all right," she says. "Because if he wasn't calm it would be a problem, because I'd have to beat bitches' asses! And I don't want to have to beat nobody's ass.

...

"But I'm a tough girl and could handle it most of the time, and I will beat a bitch's ass! And I think he knows that, and he really doesn't want that to happen. So that's why right now I really trust his effort to keep out of trouble."

"Like you would literally beat someone's ass?" I ask.

"Literally. Literally," says Kimora, baring her perfect teeth. "I will drag a bitch—drag her through this dirt, literally.

"I will beat a bitch's ass!" she says. "I don't play that disrespectful ho shit. I have very little respect for those kinds of women. And if I catch you with my man, disrespecting, I will beat your ass."

Damn straight, Kimora. And I will beat any bitch's ass that dares sit on my couch and keeps me from watching you do it!

The most employed unemployed person

2007-10-21T16:32:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I got laid off @ the end of Sept. and was sooooo looking forward to sitting on the couch, eating crap food and watching hours of mindless garbage on TV (i.e. soaps) but nooooooooooooo...I'm the most employed unemployed person EVER.

I've got freelance gigs lined up back-to-back-and-overlapping to the point that I almost miss going into a 9-5 (okay, in my case a 10:30-ish to 6) job!!! WTF??? My new roommie must think all I do is wear PJ's, work and bitch about it.

And the worst part? NBC cancelled my soap! "Passions" went off the air this summer and is only available on some weird ass Direct TV channel (I managed to catch an episode on a JetBlue flight back to NYC last week -- happy to see that I haven't missed much since Theresita has yet to tell Ethan about little Ethan...geez, talk about prolonging a plot).

Even if I had the time to watch daytime TV, my choices are dismal: Judge Judy (no thanks -- she and my fossil wart ex-boss are CLONES), Ellen (crying about an adopted dog?) and Martha Stewart (not unless it's outtakes of her flipping out on assistants).

Am I so abnormal that I can't even do unemployment like normal people???

(of course, the flip side is: what if I didn't have freelance gigs? Then I'd be stressed about $$ and finding a job...either way, I'm kvetching)

Dionne Warwick earworm

2007-09-07T18:31:00.000-04:00

Friday, September 07, 2007

So, today was a really hard day @ work because my boss is a human wart. Without getting into specifics, I'm sure I've never worked for someone so unpleasant and insensitive before. Thankfully, my days here are truly numbered (15 more to go!).

Anyway, to help me through the day, I'm lucky to have good co-workers whom I consider good friends, too. Just when things were looking especially bleak, one of 'em sent me a link to one crazy ass video:

(it even has a remix: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZytJhACn5z0)
Thanks, Rachel! The old chick in the tin foil to the left is my favorite. Ya gotta love public access -- the interesting part about it is that this show could've been filmed any time between today and 1970, based on how most public access shows go.

Then, when the day took an even darker turn, Nakeba sent me this link:

Between pickle licks, it occurred to me: this is what friends are for.

And then the Dionne Warwick earworm got me ("I'll be on your side for-e-ver moooo-ooore. That's what friends are foooo-ooooor!"). So to my awesome co-workers: THANKS! I needed that! What would we do without each other and freaky ass people on the Web to keep us from quitting our jobs?

BTW, this pic reminds me of the kind of stuff I used to put in the column I wrote for my college newspaper ("Preditorial"). I used to label the graphics "Figure 1.1" etc. and pretty much anything was game. I once scanned in a vibrator my friends gave me as a b-day gift and wrote a column about why I refused to use it. In retrospect, that was probably not good journalism.

Lame duck protocol

2007-08-30T19:30:00.000-04:00

So, I just got laid off yesterday from my job -- Bush cut $300 million from the AmeriCorps budget that funded the project I work on...seems he needed money to keep killing Iraqis or something.

Whatev. I hated it here with my miserable fossil of a boss so who gives a shit. I don't think finding a new job will be a problem and I've got lots of freelance work lined up to tie me over 'til then. I guess the only problem I'm facing is that my last day is Sept. 30 -- what do I do between now and then?

Is it wrong to call in sick every day? Would I be out of line to have dwarf strippers at my going-away office party? Can I sustain this thin veil of office decorum for 30 freaking days?

There's plenty of time to look at garbage online (latest favorite site is http://icanhascheezburger.com/) and apply for jobs but I can do that from home. Why the hell do I have to be here? Why not just give me Sept. salary as severance and tell me to fuck off? I mean, isn't it bad enough to get laid off? On top of that, I have to schlep to the office every day and pretend to work and care...wait, that's nothing new. I can SO do this.

Green is the new black

2007-08-18T15:29:00.000-04:00

At the end of July, my Mom took me on a 4-day trip on a 3-masted schooner off the coast of Maine (a thoughtful b-day present). It has since been dubbed the "shush cruise" thanks to a vigilant posse of shushers who were intent on reading the latest Harry Potter in complete silence. It was the first time I've played Uno since elementary school -- it also marked the first time bowling took place on the deck of the historic Victory Chimes thanks to a game I improvised using water bottles for pins and the ball (at its height, the game involved 18 of the 30 passengers and 4 of the 8 crew...I could've been Julie on "The Love Boat!").

During the trip's last 2 days, a thick fog rolled in and obscured the horizon for good. In 5-foot swells, we labored back to Rockland through pea soup. Despite ingesting lots of Bronine and ginger snaps, I had motion sickness for over a week.

So, it was with some hesitation that I joined the rest of the CBS Watch! magazine staff yesterday for a day trip on a double-masted schooner (the Shearwater). We left North Cove in Battery Park, went around the tip of Manhattan and drifted up the East River 'til just after Roosevelt Island. Then we doubled back (at which time the drinks doubled with a game of quarters...Jeremy passed out soon thereafter). Being the only sober person aboard, I had plenty of time to search for the horizon (not easy to do in NYC). By the time we reached the Brooklyn Bridge, motion sickness was starting to set in...again.

Thankfully, we sailed out into NY Harbor where the horizon line made its debut. After meditating on the Statue of Liberty for a while, I was happy to get back to land and Gristede's for some ginger snaps. Allegedly, they have healing power beyond a Dramamine-Bronine cocktail. I inhaled an entire bag last night. Ugh, I'm so sick of being sea sick. Maybe I'll head to a Chinese market and get some ginger root to gnaw on...

Saturn breaks the hell out

2007-08-15T16:58:00.000-04:00

Okay, so let me preface this post with the fact that I'm an educated, well-read woman -- a skeptic who usually needs to be convinced by 3 different people of the most basic truths.

That said, I am also totally entertained by the most base things. "The Girls Next Door" reality show on E! about Hugh Hefner's girlfriends is one good example...astrology is another. Since I was a teenager, I've been a bit of an astrological enthusiast and at one point became pretty good at correctly guessing people's signs (ya gotta love the odds: 11 to 1). Now, I'm a closeted 'scoper and only have brief flirtations with the subject; today was one such day.

I've been draggin' ass for the last week or so, dreading each day at work before the alarm even goes off in the morning. I'm heavy with angst and the desire to finally find "the job" that makes me happy, pays well and isn't 3 hours from my apartment. The problem has been (and continues to be): what makes me happy? What am I supposed to be doing? What did I move to NYC for, anyway?

I don't know. Astrology doesn't know, either, but it at least tries to pretend like it does. So, today I went on Susan Miller's www.astrologyzone.com, the only site I've ever given a second look to ('cause it's detailed, free, thorough, free, well-written, and, um, free). Susan had some interesting points about why this August is ass draggin' time for us Leos:
"This month you come to the end of a 1,000-mile journey. Ever since Saturn entered Leo in July 2005, you have had a long and gradual process of reinventing yourself..."

That's it! Saturn, that bastard of a task-master, disciplinary and gaseous planet that comes around every 30 years or so to kick our asses if we're not doing what he gave us the gift to do (according to astrology, of course, ehem: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_return). But haven't I paid my dues? I'm 34 -- is Saturn a squatter, too?!

See, my Saturn-given task is to communicate and I started out well with that (was editor of high school & university papers, majored in English, made lots of phone calls and stuff, etc) but then got off course in my mid-late 20's. Saturn's fat ass started comin' when I was 28 and that's when I felt the burning desire to finish my thesis and get my M.A. in English already. I even dedicated my thesis "To Saturn's Return." Bastard!

Now, that sick fuck is finally leaving and I won't see him again for 28 years! Plenty of time to slack off and fail to communicate! Woo-hoo! More dead-end writing/editing jobs, please! No thanks, NY Times Best Seller list!

BTW, a really great book on this subject (especially for women in their mid-20's and mid-50's) that I thoroughly enjoyed was "Surviving Saturn's Return" ...of course, I only read the parts about Leo (duh!). http://www.amazon.com/Surviving-Saturns-Return-Overcoming-Tumultuous/dp/0071421963

Of further interest (to me only, I suspect), Susan writes:
"You may have a major career decision to make on or near August 13, due to a pairing of Venus and Saturn. This mood of seriousness will intensify further during the following week, and especially on August 21, when the Sun and Saturn will conjoin. If your birthday falls on this day, you will be doubly sensitive to the vibes operating on this day. You will be deeply meditative, maybe even somber, but also able to take on more responsibility. No doubt about it, you will have plenty on your mind. Don't let doubts or fleeting feelings of depression enter your mind - this is all very temporary! ... Remember, when Saturn leaves Leo next month, you will have officially ended a once-in-29-year tour of duty that this taskmaster planet has put you though. You are done! No matter what, life will improve from now on!"

[cue theme from "The Jeffersons"...movin' on up...]

Cringe Night

2007-08-13T13:28:00.000-04:00

So, I'm "working" from home today and came across an article on my desk that my Mom sent me a few months back: "On Cringe Night, the last laugh is on you." Seems there's a night at Freddy's Bar & Backroom in Brooklyn called "Cringe Night" where people read excerpts from their teenage diaries onstage. Why the Providence Journal is reporting on bars in Prospect Heights is beyond me but...

Oddly, this weekend had me swimming in nostalgia -- thanks to this new myspace page, I reconnected with a long lost "BFF" from high school...which of course sent me diving into the closet to retrieve old diaries from 8th grade. If I were to attend "Cringe Night," here's just one of MANY passages that had me cringing (written in painfully-executed bubble letters with circles for periods and over each "i"):

---from July 21, 1987 -- aka the year I was grounded for THE ENTIRE SUMMER---
...she thinks she's so important & good now that she's scammed with everyone - but u don't have 2 be pretty or nice 2 get scoop. just a ho - that's all u need 2 be. what a bitch! i wonder if she's ever gonna tell me? she knows i'll bitch at her about it. anyway. i babysat 2day from 6:30 2 9:30. i got $5.00. killer easy 5 bucks. the kids were good - patrick is so adorable & vanessa is sweet. Natalia wuz bein a real bitch 2 Pat & i wuz gettin pissed off. shit - did i ever bitch at her like that! smart ass runny nose bossy little bitch! get in my way - huh! fuck her! if i put my hand against my ear - i can hear the tickin of my watch. my dad wants to get me a $300 stereo system. but 4 me 2 keep the old speakers. i got mad at him and now feel real bad. i feel like i'm bitchin at him cuz he wants 2 get me somethin nice 4 my b-day. boy - am i a bitch! maybe keith wuz right. i hafta apologize 2 my dad & tell him whatever he wants 2 get me - i'll luv it.

Sooooo, I don't know what's more frightening: the fact that people let me babysit their children or that someone actually paid a person $5 to watch 3 kids for 2 hours. Happy to see ADD isn't the recent development I thought it was...

WTF?

2007-08-10T14:47:00.000-04:00

So, today is freakin' COLD in NYC...it's 62 degrees out. WTF? I nearly melted 2 days ago while waiting on a subway platform for the F train (the ONLY train running out of Bklyn thanks to a storm that dumped a whopping THREE inches of rain in NYC...note the sarcasm, please). Other than that, I slept the whole day thanks to a deal my job has with ConEd -- we have to take 3 Fridays off in Aug. to save energy...no problem. I consider sleeping all day just doing my part to conserve energy, man. Now, I'm off to the gym before the guilt starts to set in...guess I should bring a jacket. Again, WTF????

Holy shit! A second post!

2005-04-01T17:15:00.000-05:00

It's April 1 so that may help to explain why I'm following up with the "blogging" work...
...wait, I just completely lost the inspiration to write. April Fool's!

Untapped at 31

2005-03-28T16:42:00.000-05:00

...so many ideas without any effort made to capitalize on them. Maybe I'll just write in a blog instead. Can't think of any other way to spend the work day than wasting my potential here.

Today is March 28 and I have at least 2 scripts and 2 books to write -- much as I've had for the past 10 years. I still feel the need to capitalize, punctuate and spell everything correctly despite being at liberty not to online.

We'll see how long this lasts. I doubt I'll post much beyond tomorrow. I've perfected the ability to think of funny things, say "I gotta write that down" and then resume thinking "what should I have for lunch?"