Christian and I trekked to the Boudoir Bar in Brooklyn for Larry Getlen’s comedy show, Brew-Ha-Ha. Christian’s set went well considering the audience was nearly comatose through the performers that preceded him, save for Joe DeVito and Ray Somethingorother who both reminded everyone it was okay to laugh.
So Christian performed some new material including a joke in which I was the source of humor. As soon as he mentioned “his girlfriend”, my breathing stopped. I was suddenly aware that too many people in the room knew that I was the girl in “his girlfriend”. I wanted to take back all the ridiculous white-man-overbite-dancing-naked-save-for-my-grass-skirt, breaking-bed-frame, taking-other-calls-during-phone-sex moments we’d ever shared. I found myself laughing more loudly than usual punctuated with nervous giggling until it was over and I was certain my reputation was intact: I like AC/DC and sex. Whew!
Me: You want some ice cream?
Security Guard: No thanks, I’m drinking scotch.
Who, wha?! Scotch. At 3:00 in the afternoon. At work. The Security Guard. Shouldn’t he be securing or guarding?
Jack: I know at least five married guys that would go out with you right now.
Me: I don’t date married men.
Lenny: That’s discriminatory!
Jack: No, that’s a shame.
Tonight I went to see American Splendor. There were some terrific performances by some fine actors, but I just don’t get how it scored a 92 on Metacritic. Harvey Pekar’s comic book is basically a blog, only illustrated and stapled in the middle.
On the way to the theater, we saw a dead homeless guy. He was flanked by his sleeping friends and seemed to have died in a state of shock — his eyes opened abnormally wide, mouth gaping, cheeks sunken in — very strange to see. His friends were in for a rude awakening.
Update: A few people have chatted with me regarding the Brick House song and have informed me that the phrase is a shortened version of the slang referring to a hot woman as being “built like a brick sh*t house”. I assumed this as I am familiar with that slang, but I don’t understand why it’s to be considered a compliment. After all, brick or not, she’s still a sh*t house.
So, I didn’t stick around for the VMAs. (I did, however, take some photos of the carousel and stuff.) After dodging and darting through an ocean of teeny bopper boys and girls all set to go to college this year on Daddy’s dime, I realized I have no clue who most of the nominees are and don’t care. Frankly, I’m a numb-skull when it comes to music. I’m the same chick whom Sheila corrected at her luau. “I’m a believer!” turned out to be the Go Go’s “Our Lips are Sealed.” SAY WHAT?!?! Sheila was surprised at me, “It’s the Go Go’s! It’s the name of the song!”
Yeah, and they’re singing “I’m a Believer!” What don’t you get?! She’s making this sh*t up!
My ex-boyfriend from four years ago, Mark, who now lives in Orange County, California as though he’s retired (playing golf, biking, hiking…where’s the work, there Mr. Mark?!) insists that I’ve ruined his favorite Who? song forever because now when he hears, “Eminence Front” all he hears is “Lemonade Strut”. As he put it, “I should have pushed you out of the car.”
Finally, my friends in Columbus were mortified when, during an Ohio State pre-football game tailgate, I declared to anyone within earshot that the live band sucked because they didn’t know the lyrics to, “She’s a Freak, OW!” The band had the audacity to sing, “She’s a Brick House.” Whatever.
I finally bought a set of dishes. That’s right, you read it here first. After six months of living with one dish that in its former life served as a candle holder, I am the proud owner of a set of simple, dark red dishes. And a shower curtain. I own a shower curtain now. Still no shower rings, but I’m working on that. Today I might get all crazy and buy some flatware and a bowl or two. It just depends on how exciting these VMAs are.
P.S. Please pardon my delayed posts. I’ve had some publishing problems.
My feet must be made of leather. So many people were kvetching about their walk home on Thursday and the sad state of their feet. I walked four miles in 1.5 hours in four inch (motherfu*king gorgeous) heels with no problems whatsoever. Bet you want to suck my toes now, don’t ya? Thought so.
I’m really, really, really proud of Ehren and Roxy for pulling together Pale Idiot, a terrific show with a great ending, for the Fringe Festival. Congratulations!
The media produces such elaborate “specials” upon the death of a Hollywood Legend, it makes me wonder if they plan these things in advance. It would be prudent; because, even in Hollywood, no one lives forever. Sadly, not even Katherine Hepburne.
My only question is, what age is the threshold for entering the Editorial Death Pool, and is it weighted based on drug and/or alcohol abuse?
Have you ever looked so long and deep into someone that you felt like your thoughts were in synch? That you both were feeling and thinking, “This is it. This is who you are and I am me and together this is us and this is it. This is who we are and what we’ll be together forever. This is what it’s all about. It doesn’t get better than this.” And each breath you took wasn’t deep enough — you needed more — deeper, longer, harder.
And you could see so far into them that you didn’t need test results, you just knew they were O-negative and their arteries were clogged.
And it hurt. It made your throat clench and tears well up like a slow leaky faucet when the water droplet gets so plump and weighty it bursts like a bulbous tick that ate too much for dinner.
And all the while you wanted to say something profound but nothing came out of your mouth except, “Oh, baby, yeah.”
No? You haven’t? Really?
Me either. I was just asking, you know, out of curiosity.
The writers of Sex and the City had better stop stalking me and my friends this instant! It was I that was in jury duty. It was I that had too much time to think about my relationship. Two weeks ago it was Greg who just wasn’t into Sam. It was I who declared her hatred for carnations. It was I role-playing the unsuspecting wife with rollers in her hair before getting…er, anyway, where was I?
After several days of voire dire, I wasn’t picked as a juror on what seemed to be a potentially dull criminal case. I didn’t mind the whole process of waiting, reading till my eyes bled, talking on the phone, sleeping in and getting home early enough to enjoy the afternoon sun. What is everyone else complaining about? The life of a potential juror was the most stress-free time I’ve had since my last trip to the Cuervo Nation.
When my duty came to an end, I felt bittersweet sadness. They didn’t want me. I wasn’t good enough. Which one dismissed me? The plaintiff? The defendant? All that time I faithfully devoted and for what? To be sent home with a letter?!The officer stressed the importance of making a copy of the letter for my file as proof of service to relieve me from serving again for the next four years. One quick flash of a Xerox to get me off the hook of any civic responsibility. If only life were that easy.
Guess what I saw in today’s NY Post during the many, many hours of reading many, many newspapers and books?
(Scroll down till you see a photo of the lovely former Texas Gov. Ann Richards and read the accompanying piece.)
Why, yes, that is another Tex in the City reference in Ms. Smith’s column. Thank you, Liz, and I hope to see you there on the 12th!
What a boring day. I paid off my only debt (my car), obsessively cleaned my entire apartment, painted my kitchen, installed a new kitchen floor, went to the park, got some sun and read a book. God, I’m bored.
P.S. Comments are desperately solicited on the home improvement link. (Specific questions are bold.)
Things like Hunting for Bambi, the last few pages of a magazine (hell, any magazine front to back), earning $0.75 on a man’s $1.00, it’s enough to make me just give up – throw in the towel – say, “Screw it! It’s a man’s world, and I want a penis!”
Pensively thinking of how it all sucks, I got the sense that this handsome, well-dressed, 30-something man was keeping pace with me as I walked to work. He stayed by my side from 7th to 6th Avenue. Finally, between 6th and 5th Avenue he managed to eek out, “Thank God it’s Friday, huh?” As I instinctively do when someone addresses me, I turned my head to face the speaker. I made no response but rather raised my eyebrows as if to say, “Huh? You talking to me?” He repeated, “I said, ‘Thank God it’s Friday, huh?’” “Yeah,” I smiled, turned my head face front again and kept on walking.
I wasn’t rude, but just lost in my own thought and not interested in faking a conversation with someone I won’t see again. Having failed, he crossed the street, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic just to get away from me.
Then it dawned on me: I don’t want to be a man after all. I don’t want to be so driven by one thing, to always be hunting for Bambi only to have my bullets ricochet and shoot me down over and over again. So, I guess I’ll be keeping my vagina for the time being and the only penis I’ll have won’t be my own. Anyone know of a penis I can borrow?
I have an idea for a spin-off of the book series “Encyclopedia Brown”. My first installment will be entitled Ex-cite-lopedia Brown and the Case of the Missing Phallus and the tag line will be, “He’s hot on the tail!
That’s it. That’s all I have for now other than a skeleton of the plot. Candy’s sex toy is missing and it’s up to Ex-cite-lopedia Brown to find it. The usual suspects include a gardener, swimming pool cleaner, maid, cheerleader. I won’t spoil the ending, but it seems Candy doesn’t have the money to pay the fee. Looks like she’ll have to pay Ex-cite-lopedia Brown back some other way, and he’ll find out if she’s as sweet as her name implies.
Hoo doggy. Work is slow these days.
Conversation exchanged over multiple emails with Anonymous Friend (“AF”)
AF re: my June 30 entry below: Did you run over another homosexual? (Sorry, i had to ask, but it seemed a little inappropriate to post on the blog.)
Me: Another one? I MUST have told you about the time I ran over my lesbian friend while I was trying to ride a bike!!!! Did I? Or do you refer to another unlucky homosexual?
AF: No, I had no idea you once ran over a lesbian. Did you really? That was just a lucky guess. Weird. Maybe you just give off that vibe.
Me: That’s hilarious! Buy some lottery tickets, fool, because today’s your lucky day…YES, I DID run over a lesbian before.
AF: Hey, you have a lot of gay friends and you’re kind of clumsy. I’m actually a little surprised it hasn’t happened more than once.
I haven’t been on a bicycle since. If I had, you can bet I’d be running lesbians over left and right. Okay, that’s not true. I’d be running over anyone and anything…I can’t ride a bicycle to save my life. Okay, maybe to save my life, but I might get killed in the process.
Four sounds I can guarantee you do NOT want to hear when you’re en route to sell your car after having been stuck in gay pride parade traffic:
Sccrreeeeeeeeeeeach! Boom! Gasp! Crash!
I received a summons for jury duty. Oh, please God, let me get picked. I need that extra $40 per day. Please, please, please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.
What is it about hot weather that makes men so sexually agressive? They’re animals at times. Oh, I forgot to mention: it’s h-o-t hot. Not that everyone in New York hasn’t been talking about the weather. In other news, I grew a set of balls but then promptly sweat them off. A strange, wondrous gift and swift disappointment. I fear the inevitable phantom pain.
Christian and I christened my Operation game and determined that, yes, it would make a good drinking game; however, it would be much, much better in the adult version. Rather than remove the “funny bone”, “broken heart” and “adam’s apple”, players would pump the patient’s stomach to prevent a drug overdose, extricate a broken needle, and pluck a rectal foreign body of choice.
That’s it. There’s no punch line. I just wanted to use “rectal foreign body” in a sentence to increase my Google hits and express my disappointment at the lack of x-ray and surgery .jpgs on the internet. When searching for such explicit photos, just exactly what search phrase must one use to get decent, horrifyingly shocking photos of rectal mishaps? Help, please. I need a hobby.
I tried that whole May/September romance thing once. Not on purpose. It wasn’t like I set out to date a younger guy than me or that the guy had nothing to offer other than taut skin and a fake ID. He was a really smart guy attending the University of Notre Dame and I agreed to go out with him before I knew his age. The thing is, we never made it past first base. Why? One night I offered to cook dinner at my place. Of course that meant he had to drive (this was Ohio, folks, they have Amish people that still live there on purpose). So, he asked his parents if he could borrow their station wagon.
They said no.
End of story.
I left work early yesterday with a couple of co-workers and went to the NYPD’s Firing Range in the Bronx for a special presentation for Foundation benefactors. The event was complete with the Mounted and K-9 Units, bomb squad demonstrations, beer, wine, burgers, hot dogs, lobster and so much more. I met the head of Homeland Security for New York and watched my boss eat while wearing a bib. (Click on the picture for a complete photo diary.)
I was a bit turned off by the sight (and smell) of my basket of “steamers”, or steamed oysters. That’s when I was given instructions on how to shuck them, clean them, and slather them in butter. Along with these directions came this tidbit from Person Who Shall Remain Nameless: “It’s just like eating pu$$y. They may look gross and hard to figure out but they taste so good.”
He was right.
“A 30-year-old man was beaten and stabbed yesterday after he exposed himself to a one-armed hooker on a Harlem street…(He) opened up his pants. The woman screamed, prompting a group of seven people standing nearby to chase the man…The group caught up with him at a (subway) turnstile, brutally beat him and stabbed him with a hunting knife.”
How vigilant is that?! A group of witnesses coming to the aid of a one-armed hooker in Harlem because a guy showed her his penis. Just goes to show you, there’s no such thing as a free, er, ride.
The thing that gets me, though, is that the victim being a one-armed hooker has nothing to do with the story. It’s about a guy getting beaten and stabbed by a frenzied group for exposing himself to a woman. The press has an unwritten rule to protect the identity of victims of crimes of a sexual nature; but, here, they might as well have said her name. Think about it, how many one-armed hookers are there in Harlem?
I swear I was talking about wanting to look like Angie Dickinson during tomorrow’s excursion; and, lo and behold, guess whose picture was in the NY Post today? That’s right, Angie Dickinson. Doesn’t that just freak you out? Seriously, when was the last time anybody mentioned her, let alone put her picture in the paper?!
As for tomorrow: trust me, I’m going to blow Angie away!
I just walked home after the longest day with the most tense, aching muscles. My high heels clicked quickly on the hot, sticky pavement taking me further away from the neighborhood maniac yelling sexually explicit threats to my back. “Almost there; just walk faster,” I thought.
Suddenly, the sweet aroma of a big, beautiful, blossoming honeysuckle bush blanketed me. I stopped in my tracks, closed my eyes and sucked that honey deep into my lungs. One long, dizzy, intoxicating breath later I turned around and yelled back, “NO, suck my di*k, motherfu*ker!” Then, I clicked, clicked, clicked, clicked all the way home.
What an oxymoronic City full of such sane madness.
The movie, Winged Migration, tracks several flocks of birds in their journeys around the world. Some birds fly thousands of miles, reach their destination, have intercourse and immediately turn around and fly back from whence they came.
Which reminds me . . . my trip to DC was a blast, but it’s great to be back home. I’m exhausted.
As one would expect, my deaf hippie parents had an eclectic bunch of friends. One such friend was a cartoonist specializing in caricatures. One afternoon he drew Risa and her coke bottle bottom glasses. Then Butch with his oversized smile. Then my older brother with his bowl haircut. We oohhed and ahhhed as each sketch was revealed and I waited patiently on the sidelines. Finally, my much anticipated turn came and I was in the chair posing for my first portrait at the tender age of three. I kept absolutely still, nearly peeing my pants in excitement. What would he see when he saw me? My big brown eyes? My cute little nose? My mom and brother looked over his shoulder and giggled, looking at me then the pad then back to me again and then would snicker some more. Oh I couldn’t wait! What was he drawing?! What were they seeing?
Ta-Da! He was done and turned the pad around to reveal his creation. Staring back at me was not me at all, but my Snoopy sweatshirt. It wasn’t even a caricature of my Snoopy sweatshirt, but the exact same likeness of it. I was mortified and sorely disappointed. Where was the picture of me? You drew Snoopy? Motherfu*king, Red Baron-flying, Woodstock-loving SNOOPY? Where’s the creativity in that? My anger was made worse by the conspiracy that had taken place around me. They had all duped me, even my own mother. This very type of betrayal has sparked a thousand Greek tragedies and mass shootings in high schools, I’m certain of it.
Alas, had I already played the part of Helena in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I would have quoted her lines in Act III:
“Lo, she is one of this confederacy!
Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three
To fashion this false sport, in spite of me. . .
Have you conspired, have you with these contrived
To bait me with this foul derision?”
After the tears subsided, one would think he would make it up to me by then drawing what he had led me to expect. But, no, it was back to bowl smoking and beer drinking.
At three years old, I learned that my level of expectation is sometimes too high. I know people are capable of disappointing me and yet I still hope that they’ll come through. I would like to believe that some day I’ll open my mail to find a tube with a little note from him stuck to a faded caricature of three-year-old-me, but I know that will never happen. Jerk off.
That, folks, is why I hate caricatures.
Rain, Rain Go Away……never fu*king come back again! Seriously, remember the drought of 2002? Well, apparently, droughts are out of style this year here in New York. Oh, sure, leg warmers made a comeback, but nothing like rain. Rain is where it’s at. Go get you some. Don’t have any rain there in ____lands Mall? Come to the Big Apple, and I’ll sell it to you for $1.00 an ounce. It’s the best.
4: Your Consideration Art Series
You! Yes, you! Where the hell were you? You just missed out on the best social/artistic event of the season. I kid you not. We did it. We found our niche. We had a great turnout, an exceptional talkback session with the playwright and, well, you weren’t there, so I’m not going to tell you the rest. Sucka!
Before the start of last night’s movie, they played a commercial for Cover Girl’s Outlast All-Day Lipcolor. The ad’s storyline followed that of “Cinderella”. Dressed in pink and wearing matching Pearl Shade lipcolor, Cinderella was envied by the other ball attendees, because even after ten hours and despite having kissed the bachelor of every girl’s desire, her lips still looked fabulous and flawlessly pink.
What a genius invention, but what does one (languid) kiss prove? I say for a genuine study fit for Consumer Reports, put that lipcolor on a porn star and let her go to town. The commercial might go something like this:
Cue funky, heavy beat background music.
Wide angle shot of a woman’s head bobbing up and down over the pelvic area of an insanely tanned male, her face obscured by strands of bleached blonde hair.
Man’s moans crescendo, then cut to close up of woman’s face looking up and smiling, a schmear of lipstick runs from her lips to her chin and cheeks. Cut to close up of man’s face. His facial expression changes from that of pleasure to disgust at the sight he sees.
Cue Voice Over: “Tired of embarrassing smudges and smears? Well, look no further. With CoverGirl’s Outlast All-Day Lipcolor your lipcolor can withstand the most demanding of dates.”
Return to same wide angle shot as before with the addition of a long line of men waiting their turn. After the man’s moans crescendo, close up of same blonde woman this time facing the camera. Her smile is big, her ruby red lipstick is perfect.
Cue Voice Over: “And the only thing out of place on your face won’t be your lipcolor. Easy Breezy CoverGirl!”
When a woman gets breast implants, her tits become novelty items. She takes them to parties and whips them out like they’re the Deluxe Edition of Yahtzee. As a partygoer you want to partake in the game playing by poking them and squeezing them and thumping them like melons at a fruit stand because they’re a new, weird version of an old toy.
But are they too much like Silly Putty? Oh sure, Silly Putty is fun at first, because, what the hell IS it really and just what do you DO with it? But then once you realize it’s just synthetic rubber, it loses it’s appeal and you’re left wondering what’s so great about it? Because, when you get down to it, there isn’t anything exciting about Silly Putty. After you’ve transferred a comic book image or two, stretched it and molded it, and slammed it with a hammer to see it retain it’s shape, well, there’s just no fun left. It’s just silicone and boric acid masquerading as a real toy, except real toys don’t require an FAQ’s page or anesthesia.
And despite the semi-transparent gold glitter dice, flocked dice tray, and leatherette dice cup, original Yahtzee is played by the same rules as the Deluxe Edition. The only thing different is how much you paid for the game.
This morning I woke up because it was quiet. I’m talking the morning after the Night of the Comet quiet. No rain, no wind, no babies crying or dog barking in the distance, no cars whizzing past, no cabbies honking and no gang of teenagers speaking Spanish outside my bedroom window. Nothing. The countryside isn’t as quiet as it was this morning in Astoria. I lay in bed for about 30 minutes straining to hear something, anything. Nothing. I determined, yes, it is true, I am alone on another holiday. So, I peeled myself out of bed and turned on Game Show Network (hereinafter referred to as “GSN”).
I ate an apple danish, an entire canister of Salt & Vinegar Pringles, drank two large coffees and a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper, laughed and screamed at old episodes of Match Game and Pyramid, and got skeeved out by a smarmy Richard Dawson…all before 3:00.
When the rest of the country is spending time with family and you’re sans the necessary ingredient, there simply isn’t anything else to do.
Or, so I thought.
I have since discovered the joys of the GSN’s interactive gaming option. Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you for cable modems and Macromedia flash plug-ins. The Richard Dawson Kiss-O-Meter is just icing on the cake.
I must note, I get way too emotionally invested in the outcome of the show. I literally scream, jump up out of my seat, laugh heartily and loudly and say things like:
What an IDIOT!!!!
All for someone who is wearing plaid pants and a fat tie with diagonal stripes and giant, poofy hair because those things are in still in style; because these shows have happened well over twenty years ago, and yet I’m still thrilled when they win and oh so sorry to see them lose.
God, I can’t wait to go back to work.
P.S. My radiator is spewing heat. Yes, that’s right, HEAT on Memorial Day. Jealous much?
One lunchtime trek garnered me these little tidbits:
* I do not like carnations. At all. Au natural and especially dyed.
* I like Gerber daisies and peonies and irises and lilies and most other flowers.
* I do not like it when my change is given to me with the bills on bottom and coins on top.
* I like it when I catch people’s gazes in reflections.
* I like “secret”, underground passageways on rainy days.
* Very obese and, therefore, large breasted women should not rest their tits on a table. Even when that table is in a booth in McDonald’s. If having ones elbows on the table is a show of bad manners, then resting ones elephantine appendages there certainly is, too.
That is all for now, thank you for reading.
Jack to me noticing my bag o’ food from McDonald’s: “McDonald’s!?!? You’re not a McDonald’s person.”
Me: “I know, but I’m going out tonight and need something fattening.”
Jack: “I’ll give you something fattening.”
Boy, is he sharp.
Me quoting an article about him: “How is the ‘gregarious, warm-hearted, dynamic’ Jack this morning?”
Jack: “What’s up with you? Did you get laid last night?”
I guess even Jack doesn’t recognize himself in that article. So much for truth in journalism.
She Wants Me, Right Now She Wants Me
Mary Stuart Masterson was totally checking me out* from the back seat of her livery cab with the HLLYWD78 license plate. She wants me, I know it.
*Okay, maybe it was my shoes she wanted, but a girl can dream, can’t she?
After walking about three out of our ulimately 10 miles behind several thousand people yesterday, I asked Keith, “So who’s in the lead and do they know where they’re going? Seriously, what if they can’t read a map?” That would have been interesting, forty-thousand people making a wrong turn.
Is it so wrong to take another call during phone sex?
Mom to toddler walking in the rain: “When we get home I’m gonna beat your ass so you better start walking right.” Aww, so sweet, it makes my mammary glands hurt.
Look what my friend, Mr. Bob Barker, did as a favor to me so I’d have a gift for my mom on Mother’s Day. Isn’t he dreamy? Thank you, Mr. B., for making my mom tickled pink today. She’s getting you framed as we speak. Mine is worn out now, since Paquita and I kiss you boys good night faithfully every night. Can you send another?
So Bob and I covered many topics last night that will remain between us girls. However I will share with you the brilliant idea resulting from our discussion of Paquita’s exceptionally high libido and how I’m not that good at discouraging her –ahem– rubbing. (Hey, she doesn’t have much in life, let her have that.)
That’s where the idea of Puppy Love™ was born. Puppy Love™ is made of the latest state of the art latex and feels like real flesh. Puppy Love™ comes in three shapes to satisfy every breed’s most hidden desire: Forearm Fantasy*, Leggy Lust**, Crawling Carousal***. For the low, low price of $19.95 (SRP) your pet can hump to its hearts content in the:
— car; and, let’s not forget…
— the bedroom (cue Barry White “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Baby”)!
while you’re too busy:
— pooping and peeing;
— copulating; and,
— much, much more!
Simply mount Puppy Love™ using the handy adjustable straps (3 sets included****) and let your stud or bitch have his or her way. They’ll love you for it. Don’t leave your pet wanting more. Mount Puppy Love™ in every room.
*Bendable fingers for those special needs
**Specify male or female leg
***Specify infant or toddler size (recommended for dogs weighing more than 35 pounds for an additional $29.95)
****Extra straps $3.95 each.
Sorry, only available in the USA. Shipping and handling $4.95. Batteries not included.
I do not exaggerate when I say it is horrifying to learn that you have been caught dancing — and I mean freak dancing complete with the white man’s overbite and finger snapping — in your underwear singing Stevie Wonder’s I Wish at the top of your lungs. I know this because after I had made it through the first chorus, I was executing my best stocking feet double spin move only to fall short at one and a half revolutions stopping in precisely the right position to see my building Super staring right back at me. I’ve never seen him move that fast. He bolted down the stares as though HE had been caught doing something wrong when, really, who wouldn’t watch a free freak show?
This was so much worse than my chiropractor visit. I was immobile; rooted permanently in humiliation. I could only manage to scream, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
That’s the last time I open my windows . . . EVER. In fact, I’m never stepping foot outside of my apartment again. Kozmo come back.
Sing with me folks:
I wish those days could come back once more
Why did those days ev-er have to go?
Gap Jeans make my ass look “Pa-Dunk-a-Dunk” according to the two African American men trailing closely behind me for two blocks. What exactly is “Pa-Dunk-a-Dunk” and is it a good thing? Please say “yes”. For the love of God and my future well-being please say “yes”! Just don’t tell me it means in urban speak, “Damn! That girl’s gotta some jellyfish loose in her drawers,” or something horrid like that. Please. I’m going to go cry myself to sleep now.
Watching the opening sequence to Mr. Personality makes me want to shove splinters under my nails. Quotes such as “This is a life long decision” and “I’m going to meet the love of my life” make me want to shove splinters into that chick’s urethra while I wear a creepy mask. Now that would be worth watching.
Yee haw, the bad weather spell finally broke. I watched Katie Couric play tennis this morning during breakfast then at lunch the Smithereens performed outside in what was recently the ice skating rink and is soon to be my Friday after work hangout here in the famous Rockefeller Center. I was grooving in place, letting the sun damage my skin while humming along to “A Girl Like You”. Ah me, Vitamin D and skirts without tights. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes or maybe that guy next to me just farted. I don’t care, I’m happy!
Last night I scored a ticket to an open bar fundraiser for a gay and lesbian charity. Wall-to-wall men and not a one of them looking at me twice. No lesbians to flirt with either. I threatened to wear a strap-on and start randomly poking people for attention.
At the bar, I whipped out my handy little “magic wallet” which garnered from the bartender a gleeful “Wee, you have one of those weird little things!” To which I replied, “Yes, it’s called a ‘vagina’. Very strange and unique. You won’t see anything like it here.”
Scott required nourishment in the form of fast food and convinced me and Patrick to exit the subway at Times Square for some Mickey D’s. Apparently the 24-hour McDonald’s in Time Square is not open 24-hours at all and instead closes at the precise moment our hands touch the door handle. Suck.
I’m on a junk food kick as of late since I can’t seem to stop losing weight. Yes, I realize this makes some of you hate me. No, I don’t care. So, I’m in a long line at a very busy Ranch 1 waiting patiently. Finally, I have only one customer between me and the lovely Ranch 1 employee that will serve me my deep fried goodness. Unfortunately this customer is Sally from When Harry Met Sally. Sally:
(1) orders what is normally a pre-packaged salad with certain contents “on the side” and insists that they remove the bacon because she’s a vegetarian;
(2) asks to see the ingredients listing for three different types of salad dressing;
(3) closely inspects each individual listing as set forth in item #2 above before determining she can’t have them due to allergies and needs to look at more;
(4) inquires as to what type of oil in which the fries are fried because of those darned allergies again; and
(5) after paying for her order, decides she wants a drink after all so places another order.
Hey, Sally, I’m this close to dunking your head into a vat of peanut oil. News flash, Sally: You’re in RANCH 1! Take your vegetarian-eating, on-the-side-ordering, allergic-to-everything ass over to PAX. You’re standing in the way of my deep fried chicken that I’m going to slather in that dressing you can’t have. Got it?
Alan Greenspan is having prostate surgery today. Why is this news? Why not just say a “surgical procedure”? The only prostate I find myself daydreaming about (because that’s all I think of all day—a man’s prostate), isn’t on Wall Street. Frankly, I resent the media implanting the mental image of his engorged gland into my brain. There’s not a lot of room up there and I would rather not have it cluttered with nonsense like that. I need to save room for things like the coffin birth phenomenon, if I can eat that chicken in my fridge without getting food poisoning, and most importantly, who is the next contestant booted off Survivor!
Dinner on my rooftop with the skyline of Manhattan and full moon as a backdrop really can’t be bad if it tried.
Spring time is a time for renewal. It’s a reminder that the cycle of life never stops. Fresh blossoms and green life sprout all around me. The birds and the bees comingle to spread new life. And, believe it or not, I’m buying into it. I’m smitten. And, dare I say it? I think I’m in…LOVE! All I can think of is him. I want to lick him and taste his warm, salty skin. Mmm…so hot and tasty. And, his smell? Oh, his smell drives me mad and lingers long after he’s gone reminding me of our fleeting moment together.
Some people might say he’s no good for me, but I don’t care. I love him still. I might even love him because he’s bad for me. I don’t care about that either. I just know that I enjoy him and I don’t want to share him with anyone. He’s mine, all mine, and you can’t have any of him.
Who is he? Click here for the answer. Isn’t he delicious?
I haven’t had McDonald’s in at least 8 months. Today at lunch I went on a binge and, obviously, I don’t regret a single moment of it. Outrageously satisfying. I just might do it again some day.
Assuming the IRS doesn’t reject my tax return, I owe the founder of Turbo Tax a blow job* or some other equally rare and wonderfully pleasurable treat.
In other news, I finally tackled the colossal dirty laundry blob that was overtaking my life. It was so big, Paquita climbed on top and looked me in the eye. I’m 5’10” tall. She’s a tiny dog. It cost $5.50 and 1.5 hours of my life. Was that so bad? I suddenly feel like I have a whole new wardrobe and I won’t be ashamed to have my heirs (HA!) dig through my things in the event of my sudden death. What a great feeling! I owe myself a blow job**.
I still haven’t sold my car due to my immeasurable laziness at facing a daunting task. If I sold it, I would save myself $600 a month. Don’t you think that’s reason enough to take selling it seriously? I’m a self-defeating ass.
* Mom, “blow job” is what kids these days are calling ice cream cones. No worries.
** Again, Mom, think “ice cream cones”.
The phones in our office are equipped with an interoffice buzzer system. This means one touch dialing will produce an ear piercing BEEEEEEE BOOOOOOO that demands immediate attention before it will BEEEEEEE BOOOOOOO at you again. Several of these demanding signals in a row are enough to drive a girl (me) mad. I am petitioning to have the BEEEEEEE BOOOOOOO changed with a less aggravating, more happy summons. Perhaps positive affirmations that rotate on a regular basis. For my phone, I will have:
– Have you lost weight?
– Damn you’re fine!
– You’re smart, talented, funny & sexy and dammit people like you!
and the obvious:
– You deserve a raise!
I think I’m onto something here.
My heart’s not big enough for these butterflies. They make me want to run and run till I can’t remember the reason I started running in the first place. Run so far that nobody knows who I am or from whence I came. Run so my heart bursts open and lets these butterflies free because they hurt. They hurt bad.
I was stuck underground between subway stops due to “heavy smoke” at Lexington Avenue. After an extremely long wait, I started getting nervous and wondered if I would be burned alive or die from smoke inhalation first. All I could think of was:
(1) Poor little Paquita and Larry Bird and Phish home alone for a few days before anyone noticed I was missing and broke into my apartment to save them and loot my things; and
(2) I have the most monumental pile of dirty laundry hidden in my closet that someone would find once the looting began.
I had a friend over the other night who went into my kitchen and said, “Hey, look, you’ve got a quarter on the floor,” then bent down and picked it up. My reply, “Yeah, it’s been there a coupla weeks.”
What’s wrong with me? Am I that lazy, really? Laundry sucks, but come on, I can’t pick a quarter up off the floor? Time to start training Paquita to learn a new trick called: “Take care of the lazy slob that occasionally feeds you.”
Funked up Facts
I learned a disturbing fact from the source of all great knowledge —why, the flip side of a Snapple lid, of course— and thought I’d share it with you:
Snapple’s “Real Fact” #137:
The City of Los Angeles has 3x more automobiles than people.
Get all the “Real Facts” at snapple.com
What the Hell? Those self-indulgent pricks! Something Christian might point out is that Real Fact is in quotes. Is the “Real Fact” not real at all? Perhaps the folks at Snapple are just toying with us East Coasters trying to get us to hate the West Coasters by leading us to believe that they are excessive, grandiose, spoiled snobs. I wonder what their Snapple lids say?
Snapple’s “Real Fact” #2003
New York is responsible for all earthquakes.
Get all the “Real Facts” at snapple.com
Walking home in the slushy, dirty water with wind and sleet beating against my face, I passed a shrub — it’s branches heavy with snow. From somewhere inside the bush, came the noisy chatter of some 20 birds. I pictured one certain lead ave getting a severe talking to by its flock:
“You dipsh*t! Had to big a big shot and wouldn’t stop to ask for directions. I bet we’re still in Canada! Or, worse, in Alaska! What about the weather report? I suppose you forgot to look at that before you had us fly 1,000 miles for what? For this?! THIS?? Wait till the Aviary hears about this! They’ll take your wings for sure…Idiot.”
Trenches in the Iraqi Desert. Soldiers in full fatigues with weapons drawn are crouching in an effort to avoid being detected by the enemy. Suddenly the digital sound of Hava Nagila breaks the silence and is followed by a soldier loudly whispering, “Hey, wassup? Actually, now’s a bad time. Can I call you back?” Crossfire ensues.
Lesson: Turn off your cell phone ringers, people, or you could get your head shot off. Fair warning.