A watery grave decision

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

* 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)

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?

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)

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

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"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(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

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)

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

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

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

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

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!