Naked in Public

Hockey for a Cause

2010-09-16T11:15:00.004-04:00

New Yorkers, or those who will be in the New-York ish area on September 25th:

Some people from my league will be hosting a charity women's hockey tournament (no blades. no wheels. just on sneakers) at Tompkins Square Park.

The tournament will benefit Girls for Gender Equality, and you can sign up by following this link.

The tournament will be totally lax, so if you've never played or haven't played in a while, don't be afraid to come out.

Here's the promotional video. WORTH IT:

Here's part two if you liked part one:

Shameless, Shameless Post

2010-09-13T22:59:00.003-04:00

This is basically so my Blog Tracker starts working. I just started a new one. The old one stopped working. I had no idea that happened. Or...it just might be possible...that I have had no visitors...not a one...in 8 months.

I'll tell you some stuff, though, so this becomes quasi-worth it:

1. Iced coffee is soooo good.

2. I have never seen the movie Up, but I know the premise. I wish I had one of those dog collars that would interpret my dog's thoughts.

3. These guys are truly, truly evil.

Ok, that's enough. Hope the tracker works.

woohoo!

2010-09-10T12:02:00.003-04:00

we don't have bedbugs!

chorus of cheers!

i am a little paranoid, and the city is having a bedbug epidemic. so i scratched once, and freaked out.

the guy came today, and, for free, told me i don't have them. he did a thorough inspection, ruled out the possibilities, and declared my apartment a bedbug free zone. for free! did i mention?

so yes, i have reached new heights of my hypochondriac-ed-ness, but new yorkers, please heed: never get bedbugs or need an exterminator for any reason whatsoever. but if you have to, then make sure you call these guys. ask for tony.

i don't have bedbugs! and NEVER DID.

GoodBloodyHell

2010-09-07T16:55:00.005-04:00

I am running the real risk of turning into one of those people who can only talk about how fucking stressed she is.

I hate that shit.

I'm fucking stressed.

Wedding bullshit takes a ton out of you. Especially when you've got lots of people on your ass about it. This has its excellent points, because it means I have less to do all by my lonesome. It also means that I've got a legion of folk to answer to.

Sigh. Poor ol' me.

Yeah, I know these ain't real problems.

All that aside, I've become mildly obsessed with the "mosque" at the "WTC site" I've had a share of heated conversations on the subject, and been called a unpatriotic (meh, there are worse things), a bad catholic (um, was I one to begin with?), and an idiot (that one bothered me, but at least they didn't say "not funny").

My take, in short:

This country was built on freedom of religion. Not "freedom of the religions that we think are ok.
Weather or not you happen to agree with the Islamic Cultural Center and its message/location...weather or not you think it's tacky/rude/tasteless for the building to go up in that particular place, they're legally allowed to build where they want.
Contrary to what many may think, in NYC, you can't just haphazardly build giant buildings just anywhere, and just because you think it would piss a bunch of people off. This is an interesting NY Magazine article about the real estate side of it.
MUSLIM, ISLAM ~~equals the same thing as~~ Al Quaeda. (That should read as "does not mean the same thing as." I just wanted to play around with the strikethrough thingy.) Just like all Christians don't want to blow up abortion clinics, and all Germans are not Nazis, etc.

Here's where I have to depart from my regular cynical, snarky self, and say that I do not, for one second, have anything less than a GIANT amount of respect, sadness, and heart for every single 9/11 victim, their families, and their friends. I will NEVER understand how it must feel to be a family so directly affected by this, and the fact that the 9/11 memorial site has NOT BEEN BUILT YET 10 years later is inexcusable to me. I feel similarly to how I feel when I think about how this country let it's folks down on 8/29/05. This has nothing to do with my sympathy for any of that. If anything, I think that this is an opportunity to work on making some mutual peace.

Wow. That was sappy.

Thanks for reading.

Is Blogging Different?

2010-04-23T11:09:00.002-04:00

Sorry about the abrupt cut-off last time.
It's not the easiest thing to talk about folks who I've hurt.

Here's something interesting, that I haven't really had to deal with too much yet, but then this week it was right up in my damn face.

Someone took (severe) issue with something I once wrote on here. It was anonymous in the strictest sense of the word, but I suppose with a little guesswork (and the actual desire, which I can't see any of you actually having), a person could figure out who the main players were.

Here's today's question: though a blogger blogging about her mundaniac life is perfectly within her rights to blow everything out there on motherfucking front street, is it still shitty? I mean, personal shit goes into short stories and essays of mine all the time. Is blogging different?

Make it Work

2010-04-23T10:52:00.004-04:00

*I never posted this. I wrote it a very long time ago. I don't know why.

In all my years of watching Project Runway, I have never, ever, EVER really agreed with the winner.

Until, last night.

Seson 7 finally got it right! I've been saying all season how this time, they've been letting people stay based on merit, which actually kind of sucks because it means we've had to deal with this bitch all season long. But last night, they finally got it right.

I loved Seth Aaron's collection. I loved it's quirkiness. I loved that you couldn't wear it right off the runway into regular life, but, with a little tweaking, you kind of could. I loved, most of all, his kooky hair.

So three cheers to Kors, Heidi, and FashionDirectorOfMarieClaireMagazineNinaGarcia. Well done.

Also, a great, hilarious Project Runway blog: Eric Three Thousand.

Pending Nuptials, FormerBoys

2010-04-20T14:38:00.003-04:00

I love me some Pre-Husband. I feel a comfort with him that I haven't felt in a while...maybe ever. I know he's the right person for me. I've even naturally toned down the crazy, which, I think, is a direct result of living with him and his amazing calming presence.

Watching Treme with him on the sofa last night was one of the best times I've had all week (also: anyone who's read this freaking thing even once knows I'm obsessed with all things NOLA).

That said, our wedding and subsequent marriage (which I'm so excited for) has got me thinking about dudes from my past.

I hate that I want everything to be fine with everyone. I hate that there's motherfuckers out there who don't know how I feel, and therefore they think I am evil. I hate that I had (have?) the tendency to express myself poorly, therefore hurting other people when it's the LAST thing I want to do.

That's all for now, I'm getting all googly. Maybe more later. Yeah. More later.

I Hate Even Giving This Any Attention

2010-04-16T20:10:00.004-04:00

Oh, bloody, bloody freaking hell.

Gorilla Coffee: where I spend much of my work-from-home, writing, time-wasting days.

The coffee is like rocket fuel. Just how I motherfucking like it.

Apparently they treat their employees like dirtola. The Slope has been all abuzz with news of their re-opening, their non-reopening, etc.

I'm not going to be able to go back there, am I?

Sigh.

PS: check out my new favorite site Fucked in Park Slope for more insight into my punkass hood.

That is all.

This is Just Fantastic

2010-04-02T16:44:00.001-04:00

Hedwig comes back at the end of this year. She's Broadway bound.

God, I love her.

Swoon

2010-04-01T15:18:00.006-04:00

My obsession/dreams about Dr. Gregory House are turning into gross fan fiction. Well, actually, not really. Sometimes they're a little sweeter than that. I want to fix him. Last night I dreamed that Dr.Wilson and I were talking. In the course of the conversation, I asked him "what have you done for me lately?" And then I cut myself off saying "I know, I know, you sign my paychecks" (evidently I worked for him). Then he said (this part makes me giddy) "I'm also going to find you a husband." You see, he meant House. He is House's best friend, and wants the best for him always. Catty as ever, though, I retorted, "yeah, but I don't want him just to be forced to go out with me...I don't want this to be a Cameron thing..."(Sigh. If you don't watch the show, Cameron loves House. It's unrequited.) House and I hook up a few times...you know...brief makeouts, etc. Then I wake up, outlandishly disappointed, as per usual. (Did I mention I'm engaged? I love you honey!)

Every spring I get all giddy and happy and want to go galavanting and carousing and running around the neighborhood.

Woohoo!

Did I mention...

2010-03-30T18:31:00.005-04:00

So thanks for your help on that last post, blog-readers far and wide....

I realize that since I hadn't blogged in a long time, those who know me simply in blogland don't know that Boy and I are tying the knot on October 16th of Twenty-Ten.

He asked me while we were out to dinner for his birthday, in January. We went to James, in Prospect Heights. I remember it being a lovely place, and I remember the nice staff leaving us alone when we wanted, and giving us free champagne when we wanted.

We're finally going to make an honest girl out of Giapants.

(This is an old photo of her. She's so big now!)
Hockey season starts soon, and I'll write more later.

Thanks, again, birds!

Please Weigh In

2010-03-26T12:11:00.004-04:00

Hi Friends,

I know. I've been gone. I also know I start every post that way, lately, which sucks. Well, yesterday was my birthday, which is when I tend to make resolutions, so hopefully that will change.

Anyway, I've got a little story for ya, a bit of an ethical situation, perhaps, and as much as I hate to make y'all do work, I'm gonna need you to weigh in.

Here it goes.

Bella and Buster dated, a long time ago. They began their courtship in 2001-ish, dated for several years, lived together for some of those years, and parted as amicably as two people in such a situation can.

During their living-together stint, Buster had a job more consistently than did Bella. Buster paid a lot more than his fair share of the bills and rent until Bella got a job. Buster was great.

Bella would tell him, "Buster, when we are in the situation to do so, I will help you with your old debt to make it up to you."

Bella got a job, and everything started to equal out. Bella started to pay her share, but they didn't hack into Buster's debt yet. Over the duration of their relationship, Bella's mom, who lived in the same city, tried to do little things for them all the time. She bought Buster four new tires when he needed one. She took them on extravagant (albeit, family) trips to Spain, Italy, and Las Vegas (though that was because Bella's mom wanted to see Celine Dion, and she basically forced the fam to do the same, so we can't expect Buster to be too grateful for that. Sorry Celine). She gave Buster a surprise 30th birthday party. She paid for movers for the two lovers when they needed one.

So, unfortunately, the day came when the young couple split up. Nothing dramatic happened, no cheating, lying, or stealing. Just a realization that the two were not well suited to each other.

Years pass. The two see each other occasionally, being that they have mutual friends. While it's not the most comfortable situation on earth, it's not horrible, either.

One day, about four years post break-up (timeline is iffy, bear with me), Buster tells Bella how disappointed he is that she has never helped him with his debt. Bella retorts "why, Buster, we broke up a zillion years ago! Surely it's not still my responsibility to help you with debt accrued before we were even together!"

Buster disagrees. Buster insists. Buster wants money from Bella. Bella brings up all the ways she thinks their relationship evened out, money-wise, in the past, but Buster was not having it. Bella brings up that they both have new lives and this is not how the world works; Buster disagrees.

Bella wonders why Buster has waited so long to bring this up. Bella then finds out that Buster has proposed to his current girlfriend (rings are expensive!).

Debate ensues.

So we ask: does Bella owe Buster money after the fact? Many years after? Tell us. If she does, that's cool, too. Bella can take it.

No Real Title; Of Course There's Dogstuff At The End...

2009-12-28T15:44:00.004-05:00

I had an apartment, a long time ago. It was going to be the first time I lived without a roommate. My apartment was freaking adorable. It had two front doors, for some reason.

The first person who wanted to move in was a really good friend/boss/twice-sex-buddy, who I will call Smith. Smith and I hung out together one of the first nights I lived in the new place. We went out, I'm SURE we got drunk as skunks, and somehow got locked out of my apartment. We had to break in. There was a piece of wood sticking out of the stoop of the apartment next door, advertising that the house was protected by some sort of security system. Smith took the wood out of the ground and proceeded to jam my window open with it. We crawled in. I can't remember what happened that "we" decided he wouldn't live with me, but it never happened, so I'm sure we came to some sort of agreement. I liked sleeping with him, though. We certainly had an affinity towards each other, and while "affinity" doesn't sound superhot, it made for sex that was. Who knows why.

After Smith, my wackadoodle blond friend wanted to move in with me. Would this have been fun? Yes. Would either of us have made it out of that situation alive? No. Again, I hate when people ask, then answer, their own questions, but it works here. No blond wackadoodle. End of discussion.

So, Smith, then BW. After that, I enjoyed an extremely short stint of living alone. I got cable. I bought a green sofa. Four days later, a friend of a friend, barely known to me at the time, had to move in. I forget how this happened, but I know that one day when I came home from work, all his crap was there. We had two front doors.

Living with him was way more fun than living alone would have been. I particularly remember one night: he was sleeping in the room next to mine, a mutual friend of ours, JC, was over, sleeping in my bed with me, and JC's dog was between us. It was perfectly still, and I was the only one in the house awake. I wasn't bored, and I just remember feeling perfectly safe, happy to be breathing under the same roof as these people. I miss that feeling. It lasted only for a second.

A booty call ruined it. Dude. To this day I wish I never answered that phone, and that I could have gotten a few more minutes of the peace-feeling. The booty call guy was a really good guy (and it actually turned out that I was the only one who thought we were booty-calling; he thought it was more relationshippy), but I could have done without it that particular night.

Weird, that this stands out as a regret of mine.

PS: Gia gets fixed tomorrow!

Takin' Her Out

2009-10-06T13:30:00.002-04:00

The very day that Gia gets her rabies shot, she is going to the dog park with me, and she is going to be allowed to run herself ragged.

She is teething, and while I feel bad for her and how miserable she must be, it's not the most fun time for us. She understands "NO," and I know she doesn't mean to bite, and we correct her, and she'll grow out of it, and blah blah blah, but between nipping and her nails, I look like a cutter.

In the words of Marge Simpson, "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD."

I never really understood that expression.

In other news, my hockey team starts playoffs on Sunday. Our first game is at Tompkins Square Park on Sunday. Check it out if you're in the NY area, and you're so inclined.

In other other news, it turns out that I AM smarter than a fifth grader. Also, me and several friends are going to be Bea Arthur for Halloween. Not all the Golden Girls. We're all just going to be Bea.

Soulless

2009-09-29T10:04:00.004-04:00

I ripped this off from a site called Redbubble. Someone once told me that they should have known better than to date a writer, because "all writers have no souls." I've never forgotten that. This reminded me of that. I wish I could say I wrote it, but I didn't.

Never Date a Writer

Never date a writer because she’ll fictionalize everything. She’ll write about things you have done to her, or things you never did for her. She’ll write about how you never bought her flowers. Not once. She’ll say in well-constructed prose how the whole time you were together, she never came home from a long week to see a vase full of roses, or daises, or anything.

She’ll describe times you embarrassed her, like at a party. It was her party because she was leaving for three months, and all her friends were there to see her off. People bought her champagne, which was never chilled, but you drank it anyway and that was after you had had whiskey. She’ll talk about how you played strip poker with others. And she walked in to see your clothes bunched up on the floor, next to smashed cigarette butts. She’ll say how she had to cover you with a coat because all her friends laughed about it, and so did you. Then she’ll describe how later, when she didn’t want to leave you and she wanted to be held, she heard you vomit in the bathroom. She’ll say how she had to make sure you were still alive and how she saw your face pressed against the toilet and how your legs shook on the tile. And she said your name and asked if you were okay and you just stared at her through half opened eyelids and looked away. She’ll say she couldn’t make love to you and she had to stay up and make coffee, before you took her to the airport.

She’ll continue this emphasis on what you had done to her, by describing things she had found, but said nothing about. Like when she opened your wallet to slide twenty dollars inside, because you had bought her dinner. She’ll say how she sat on the hardwood floor where the heat couldn’t reach and she shivered. She’ll explain the condom she found, and how it was lubricated and had small writing on the package she couldn’t see because her eyes watered. She’ll talk about the note she found from a girl she didn’t know but you did because in the scribbled handwriting she could make out your name. You were asleep on the bed and she was on the floor. She’ll tell the reader how she held her legs and tapped her chin against her knee. And she decided that it’s not wrong for men to have friends, because all men have friends, so she closed the wallet and slept without a blanket on the floor.

She’ll later describe the moment in the bedroom when she sat at the foot of the bed and you kneeled in front of her. She’ll give you short choppy dialogue, so that you sound distant. She’ll tell the reader how you said it’s not that you didn’t love her but you couldn’t be with her and that it’s more your fault than hers, except she’ll tell it much more compellingly. She’ll describe how she choked on her tears and tried not to vomit right in front of you. And how she looked at the poster on the wall, the one she bought for you and how the different colors turned together when you spoke. She’ll say how the bed you had brought from your place felt like steel and she couldn’t move because her legs were welded there and she could only listen to you and watch the colors of the room turn gray.

And she’ll send you a manuscript and you’ll be on the couch where you both had sat and you’ll read every word. You’ll notice she didn’t tell things, like the time you had to see her because she had been sick with the flu and unable to get out of bed. And you ran from the campus to her apartment to make sure she was okay. You ran in the dark and there was so much snow that your legs began to freeze. And she won’t tell the reader how you didn’t have gloves or good shoes and you couldn’t see the patch of ice and you slipped. She won’t tell them you slipped. You twisted your ankle and your face landed in a snow bank. She won’t describe the taste in your mouth, how you pulled yourself up and limped up to her apartment. You used the key she’d just given you and she won’t say how nice it was being able to enter unannounced. And she won’t say how good it was to see her asleep and that you kissed her on the top of her head and then staggered home. She won’t move into your head and explain how much you really loved her. How you almost started to cry when you walked. You shook from the wind but felt safe because she was.

You’ll sit alone on that couch where you made love to her and you won’t move and the glass of whiskey on the table will not be touched. You won’t get up to turn up the lights and you won’t get up to use the restroom even though you have to. You’ll sit in the dim of your living room. And you will read.

Some Stuff...

2009-09-17T13:39:00.004-04:00

Due to my dog's sickness (she's fine now, and thanks for the well-wishes, everyone), we've been at the vet a lot this week.

Every time we go there, the experience is great. He loves my little potato girl, and she loves him and the vet techs there. Everyone's so sweet to her, and there's lots of puppies around.

We don't want to leave.

More accurately, every time I go there, I want to stay all day long. It's so comforting. They love us.

My friend has a great story in which she talks about this coming out in Fat & Happy (our literary journal...coming soon!). You'll have to check it out.

Her ears are a bit more "one up, one down" now. I am hoping they stay that way.

Boy and I are going on a date tonight, because, we swear, we are not slaves to the pup. We are not. Nooooo.

The job search continues. Carry on (unless you can help me with the job search. Then carry it the fuck over here).

Last Week; We're Sickly

2009-09-14T14:13:00.005-04:00

Gia and I are sick. I have some sort of cough, she has a fucked up colon. We'll both be fine. She went to the vet today, for the third time since we've had her, and while I understand she's too young now, when she gets older, she's getting a job.

FG had two great wins yesterday. I love my team.

Last Friday: Sept. 11th. I won't say too much about it. It was a dreary, sad day, made worse by the rain. The only thing I will say is that I won't get behind this "on this day, we are all New Yorkers," thing, unless on August 29th, people start saying "on this day, we are all New Orleanians."

Sitty had an engagement party this weekend. Congrats, Sitty. Her party was rockin', and we ate a roasted pig. This was made mildly disturbing by the fact that this was the cake:

After you chow on a roast pig, you don't want to have an anthropomorphized one for dessert.

Oh, and by the way, to explain the cake: he proposed to her on a paddle boat in Central Park. Neither of them, for the record, are the least bit overweight.

Introducing....

2009-09-02T17:19:00.005-04:00

Miss Gia.

Our little miss ladypants has been with us for a week, today, and I couldn't be happier.

FAQ:

What is she?

She's a mutt. We don't know. The vet doesn't know. No one knows. I have been told by guy at gym that I can pay $150 to send a cotton swab of her spit to a guy in California to analyze what she is...I'm going with no on that one. She's cute and awesome. That's what she is.

How big will she be?

According to the vet, somewhere between 25 and 40 lbs. Again, we don't know.

Does she rock?

She rocks. And she is hilarious. She takes after me.

Are you turning into one of those annoying dog people who only want to talk about funny shit their dog does?

Hmmm... Hope not. Probably, though.

Boy and I love her, and so do all her new friends. She loves her vet and her vet tech, and I'm lucky that my punkass buddy knows a ton about dogs and dog raising (because he's a great dog daddy), so he's been a great resource, too.

I promise she won't be the focus of every post from now on, but I had to gush a bit. Cheers!

Anecdotes and Non-Sequiturs

2009-08-12T12:53:00.004-04:00

The first:

I was sitting in the coffee shop, listening to two people next to me having a conversation.

Him: Have you seen Monica?
Her: Yeah, she's not doing so well. But it's hard to sympathize, 'cuz she's so annoying.

I do not know these people. They were obviously speaking of a different Monica. But I immediately felt defensive and hurt.

The second:

Boy and I went to a wedding in Madrid a few weeks ago. All was beautiful, and we had a great time. However, if Jesus went to a wedding in Madrid instead of Cana, he would have had to turn the wine into water. I have never been thirstier in my life than I was in Madrid. This seemed like a general consensus amongst the folks I was with. No one had a real reason why.

The third:

I haven't slept in three days. I'm jittery and tired. This week's been bad.

The fourth:

I haven't been even getting pleasure out of hockey these days. Though my team rocks, as usual.

The fifth:

I'm sitting in the coffee shop right now, again, and feeling sorry for myself. This was immediately alleviated, however, when I just heard the opening beats of "That's Not My Name," by the Ting Tings. I defy you to be in a bad mood when you hear this song. Also, two of my favorite people in the world love this song, and they both happen to be under the age of four.

The sixth:

I have re-found a prior love for Jonathan Ames. When me and Boy re-discover our delight in each other, we say we are having a renaissance. I'm having an Amesessance (I AM ALLOWED TO BE A DORK. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING FOR ME RIGHT NOW).

Hilarious vs. Hysterical

2009-07-13T18:36:00.003-04:00

Hello, again, friends.

Twice in one day is not normal for me, but I can't let this one go any longer.

See the title of this post? See the two words in the title of this post?

They're not interchangeable.

When something is hilarious, it is very very funny. You can say "that movie was hilarious," or, "that Monica...she's the most hilarious person I've ever come across in my life! The hilarity she causes is so great, that there is nothing else to do but for me to name her the most hilarious person on earth."

Hysterical is an adjective. You are hysterical when you are unable to control yourself. You can laugh hysterically, but you can not say a movie was hysterical.

Sorry. You just can't.

Coma Plans, WYR, Other Things

2009-07-13T10:35:00.002-04:00

it's been a while.

also, i don't feel like capitalizing today, so i'm not going to.

i guess the way i can do this best is to write down what i did this weekend, map out what i want to say based on that. sound good? good.

friday. friday was good. i went to see a friend of mine and his ridiculously adorable clown-like dog, and we played a game...an old fave of mine, "would you rather." my favorite thing about this game is picking out the raunchiest, most uncomfortable scenarios, and then forcing people to choose between them. for this reason, many people hate playing this game with me. my ex used to get angry with me, in fact, when (often drunkenly), i would give him one of these fake ultimatums.

my friend and i were really getting into it, and because he and i are very much alike (read: very self-absorbed), there were certain questions that really made us think. here is one of them: would you rather save the lives of five loved ones, or 1,000 strangers in another country (who knows why they had to be in another country). we both picked loved ones. then we changed it to this: would you rather save the lives of five people, and they'd never know it, or let 1,000 strangers die, and EVERYONE would know it. this one, for us, was more difficult. same end, but the difference was that in one, people would hate you. boy, of course, picked saving 1,000 people each time, no matter who knew it or not. he's like that. we're not.

then we met boy and two of my other, delightful, wonderful friends for a few drinks, and had a lovely time all around. i think. i may have drank a bit too much. i pet a great english bulldog mix while we were at the bar. (it was actually a really great weekend, dog-wise, for me). often it's awkward to hang out with friends that have never met, but it was far from it. good times.

saturday. bachelorette party. then we met up with the corresponding bachelor party. fun, but not a lot to say about it without putting anyone's shit on front street (i love that expression).

sunday. woke up. felt droopy. mopey. played with a dog. ate brunch way too late. watched ghostbusters. walked to a brooklyn neighborhood near ours, and saw the bastille day festivities. hit a bookstore for a while. i bought two books, one of which was jonathan ames' the alcoholic, tried to laugh a little. hung out with boy. he had a rough night at the bachelor party the night before.

we had dinner in the bastille-day neighborhood, and i started to get tired. i'd had...not a hangover, exactly, but a sense of sadness and malaise all day (does sadness mean the same thing as malaise? don't i teach english? wow). again, droopy and mopey. at dinner, a little boy sat next to us. he had two small stuffed animals named pablo and austin. he wanted to go home.

i asked boy a question. "if i were to go into a coma, would you secretly be a little bit happy that you could tell people you had a 'girlfriend in a coma?'" he said that he would not, and that even though he loves the smiths, he would be sad about my coma status. and that if he found any kernel of happiness in the whole sordid scene, it'd be that he could, in fact, tell people that he had a girlfriend in a coma.

then i asked him: if i was your wife, and i was in a coma, would you downplay our relationship so that you could say you had a girlfriend in a coma?

he said no, very quickly. i was happy.

then i reminded him of a deal that my friends have, that i've always wanted to get in on. i told him "don't forget to tell n&c to pluck my lip and chin hairs."

"your coma plans are extremely thought out," he told me.

"yes, of course they are. do you have any?"

he told me the only thing he wanted was for me to make sure that no one wrote all over him with a sharpie while he was in a coma.

"oh my god! is that a thing? do that to me, too," i said.

phew. good thing he hipped me to that.

anyway, as we were walking back home, i felt worse. sadder. mopey-er. spoke to my friend via IM, a little. he sounded sad and mopey, too.

right before bed was the worst. sad. lonely. droopy. mopey. sad sad sad. scared. alone.

boy just looked at me and said the most depressing/helpful words i'd heard in a while...
"sometimes i get that way after a rough weekend, too."

Ladies. All the Ladies. Louder Now. Help Me Out. Come On. All The Ladies.

2009-06-09T10:52:00.003-04:00

I have been avoiding this motherfucker like the plague, these days! Every time I try to sit down and blogeroo, I think of four thousand other things to be doing. Usually I don't do those things, either, but that's none of y'alls damn business.

Sunday was a great day of hockey. We played a really wonderful team, and though we won (1-0), it was a scoreless game until four minutes left. It was a matchup of two of the best goalies in our league (and before someone I know has a hissy fit, I said two of the best, not the two best...), which always brings the level of play up.

But Saturday. Saturday I play in a morning pickup game with some people, and I have a bittersweet relationship with the whole deal. For instance, this week: a decent amount of people showed up, mainly men, as always. There were five girls there in total, and four of us were on the same team. Now, usually, certain dudes that we play with would have a freaking canary at the thought of splitting up the girls unevenly. They act like having someone who posesses a vagina on their team is a giant liability, and they like to split up the hazards. These people, obviously, are douchebags. Not just because they think this (there are SO many people that think this, I'm not stupid), but because they say this out loud in mixed company. But this time, the girls happened to be on the team with the nicer dudes, so no one really complained.

This shouldn't matter, but I would like to point out that though I am sadly not one of them, many of these girls run circles around the guys who complain the most. Stellar hockey players, some of my ladies.

What was interesting about this week, however, is that it was the first time I heard someone complain about having to play against the girls. Saying they didn't get a good enough game, simply because the women were all on one side, girls suck, penises rule, blahblahblahblahblah.

Yeah, I know, ladies. All in a day, right?

Pretty much.

Back to Sunday. After the game, most of my team went out to celebrate a bit. This is because my team is made up of spectacular people that I love so much. Gush, gush, gush. Anyway, after we'd been there for about an hour or so, we noticed a group of people come in and sit at a nearby booth. The group consisted of one very extremely loud, large, fratty wanna-be-guido type. Fat dude. Then there was his so-drunk-he-can-barely-standup friend, seemingly normal dude, and three girls. Two girls looked whorish but ok, and one looked like she was going to keel over at any point. She could barely keep her eyes open. I'm saying she was scarily drunk.

So my friends and I glance over. The first thing we notice is that the three dudes are having what seems to be a group hug, though we soon realize that the drunk girl is in the center of this "hug," which now looks like much more of a gangbang than a hug. We look at it askance, but we don't do anything about it. Possibly a mistake.

Drunk girl is wearing a cotton strapless tube dress. This becomes relevent later.

Boys keep dancing with drunk girl (it's not a dancey kind of place), and spinning her around. Boys dip her. It becomes apparant that the girl is not wearing underwear. My friends and I tell girl to watch her dress because it's riding up.

Girl goes to sit in an opposite booth from her "friends," by herself. My people tell girl it is possibly time to go home. My people tell girl's female "friends" it is possibly time to take girl home. Female friends do not listen, girl attempts to leave by herself.

I go outside to watch girl, and to possibly put her in a cab if need be. Girl can not find her wallet.

One of her "friends" comes running out, saying she found Girl's wallet in the pocket of large fat fratboy. He had taken it in an attempt to stop her from leaving. Girl and Girl's friend begin hugging and crying, and I go back inside, disgusted.

Girl comes back inside a few minutes later. Sits at the booth alone again. One of the boys unsnapps her strapless bra from the back, removes it. Another unzipps his shorts, pulls out his penis, pushes it in girl's face.

This all goes down quietly, but Filthy Gorgeous (my team) sees the whole thing. We spring into action. First, girls. My tiny friend DK runs up to giant fat fratboy. He mentions the word "rape." She pushes him. He pushes her back.

It's immediately on. My team defends each other's honor, and that of drunk girl. They finally leave. Or get kicked out. The bartender intervenes, is disgusted by events and the fact that she hasn't seen any of this go down (like I said, it all happened quietly).

Afterwards, DK asks me if I think girl wound up ok. I answer her honestly.
"No."

A Big Week For Me; Puppy Porn

2009-05-21T12:58:00.005-04:00

Despite the fact that, like Ron Burgundy, I've been living in a glass cage of emotion this week, there's several things going on that I'm excited about. First and foremost being that I'm getting my pupster in a few weeks. I can't WAIT to have a dog. As I've been told before, my biological clock is certainly barking. In consideration now:

A rescue mutt of any kind, medium size (Boy's favorite idea right now. Bu this "of any kind" business freaks me out a bit...you don't ever know what you're getting. But I love mutts. And I love the idea of a rescue).
A boxer (so lovey! They are prone to fatal health problems, though, and I want my pupster to be around for a long while).
A French Bulldog (ahhh, oui. I am somewhat against trendy dogs, but that's just Martha Stewart's fault, no one else's. And I admit, I've never thought about the Frenchie thing before. But I am head over heels in love with one right now, and he's really just the best pooch ever).
A mastiff (my favorite forever, and yes, I know, not practical).
A pittbull terrier (ditto).

Help, Naked Readers. Not that I'm not doing my own reasearch. Every day I look at what my friend calls "puppy porn."

And yes, there are other things happening right now, good, bad, and confusing, but this is all I choose to get into right now.

Later.

Kid Me, Not x365, Temporary Giddiness

2009-05-15T16:52:00.006-04:00

I've got that feeling I get sometimes. The one where it's possible that I'm feeling really good and motivated and ready to write, but it's also possible that I just had too much coffee.

Have you ever had that feeling that you miss....something? But you're not sure what it is? Yeah. I miss that.

Usually, "that" = NOLA, or a former fuck (I've learned my family reads this. Heh. That'll teach ya), or getting high, or...something I can put my finger on that used to make me happy.

(heehee..."put my finger on.")

But this time, it's not that. I feel kind of like something's missing (surprise), but I also feel a little spring-timey hopeful. As if something good's about to happen. Which will ROCK, 'cause I need that.

Here's a Not x365:

#15 I drive you batty, but you do the same to me. You have the ability to produce both rage and affection in me, which, you know, is a good thing, 'cause it means you're important. Which you are, so don't forget that. I wish I had been a better friend to you when you needed me, but I'm trying my best to do that now. Just don't push it. KIDDING (had to say that I was kidding). You can push it a little bit. Next time I see your dog, we will look at each other awkwardly, mumble hello, and turn away from each other. Happy Tuesday. I love you.

Here's a kid-me thing:

Click on it and tilt your head. It's worth it.

LDTB!

Boo Effing Hoo

2009-04-20T14:41:00.004-04:00

So because today is rainy and disgusting and kind of cold, and because I have a slight hangover, and because why the fuck not, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself today.

Good lord, there's little I hate more than self-pity. But there you have it, anyway. I guess my current prevailing emotion (like you care...oooh, look! There it is...nice fresh self-pity...) is "put-upon-ness."

So I don't suppose there's any specific cause for this feeling, more like a lot of things, but the one thing I keep coming back to is this: the world would be a much better place (well, scratch that. I'm talking about MY world and I know it. So I'll rephrase. My world would be a much better place) if people thought about the things they say and do, and whether or not those things they say and do will hurt anyone else (namely, me).

I once had an ex who told me that his friend was the hottest girl he knew in person (the friend was not me). Now, granted, we weren't dating at the time, but we were certainly fooling around. And while I do strive to be the funniest person in the lives of everyone I know, I know way better than to presume I'd be the best looking person in anyone's life. I'm realistic about this. But it smarts a little harder when it comes from the mouth of someone you're currently doing it with. This dude wasn't a bad guy, so I assume he didn't think this would wound as badly as it did when he said it. If he had just thought, "hmmm, I wonder how M would receive this piece of information," I doubt I would have had to hear it.

Just think, people.

Because I don't often feel it, I forget that pain of the non-physical variety blows.

It Broke

2009-04-09T11:20:00.008-04:00

I think that I would have totally been hot for the Roman god Bacchus (or the Greek god Dionysus, whichever you prefer). He's the god of wine, was all sorts of crazily sexually adventurous, and was certifiably insane. Oh, and he was a cross-dresser. Loved a party, that guy. I'm sure I would have been all about it. I'm also sure he lived in his own head most of the time, as I have a tendency to do.

One of my favorite things in my mom's house (my house, growing up) was a ceramic mask of Bacchus (I wanted to attach a photo but I don't have one of her actual mask, and the ones online don't do it justice) that she bought in Venice when we were really little. For most of my life, it has hung on her dining room wall. My sister recently told me that she was scared of it. She told me this when she called me to tell me how my mom's (recent) move (from the house we grew up in, to an apartment) went.

Her: You remember that mask?
Me: What?
Her: You know. I was sceer [read: "scared." Long story] of it?
Me: Oh, yeah. Bacchus. I loved that thing.
Her: You did? 'Memba when [name deleted] cut himself on one of it's vines and had to get stitches?
Me: Yes.
Her: It broke.

I may be overreacting (it happens), but I could not believe the nonchalance with which she was telling me this information.

When I called my mom later, I said, kind of in a weird frenzy "Bacchus head broke!???!"

She laughed and said "yeah, he was the only casualty of the move. It's just as well, you guys [read: my sister and I] would have fought over it when I died, anyway" (This is not a weird thing to say, in my family. We're used to such comments).

"No, we wouldn't have. She wouldn't have wanted it. She didn't even like it. She was scared of it."

My mom paid this very little attention, as she probably should have. Oddly, I'm not entirely over it. I loved that fucking thing.

I'm sad I can't find a photo. You know who I mean...the dude with the grapes at the side of his head.

Anyway...I've recently been thinking that I wouldn't have been good with Bacchus anyway. He and I would have been cool to run around and get crazy and get into intense arguments and have lots of fun, but eventually, I bet I would have just wanted to sit on a bench and quietly hold Apollo's hand, or something.

UPDATE: I just found out that Bacchus was to have risen from the dead on March 25th, which is my bday. I would have taken that as a big sign.

What's "Not x365?"

2009-04-02T18:23:00.005-04:00

I've had a few people recently ask me what Not x365 is. I'm not sure why people have been asking as of late...I've been doing it for months. Maybe more people read the blog, now?

Word.

Anyway, Not x365 is my version of The x365 project. It was started in 2006 by a dude named Dan Waber, the basic premise being that he would write about one person a day for 365 days in 40 words (because he was 40 years old at the time of the project). My friend Uncouth Heathen is the first person I saw do it, and I keep trolling her list to see if she's got me in there yet (she doesn't).

I, like many, was attracted to this idea, but I didn't like that I had to use a certain amount of words or that I had to do it every day. I also didn't like to use people's names. So I do the NOT x365 project, writing about whomever I want, whenever I want, in however many words I want. I never use people's names , but sometimes it's obvious.

I'll do one now...I haven't done one in a while. Heregoes:

#14: You're a hilarious friend of my sister's; you've become one of my friends as well. For some reason, I know the most embarrassing childhood story about you (it involves potato chips and underwear), but my favorite story is when I caught you wearing my skirt (that clearly my sister had lent you) walking down the main street of the town we grew up in, and when you saw me, you tried to hide. As if. Your wedding rocked! One of the best in recent memory, hands down.

Short, Senseless Vignettes and One-Liners

2009-03-31T20:57:00.007-04:00

People in NY think they're not starfuckers. Maybe they're not. Except for when they are, and pretend they're not, which is it's very own brand of sickening.I was on line for an event the other day (a few months ago, I suppose), and Meryl Streep walked by. The guy on line behind me was practically breaking his neck not to look, and when I realized who it was, I said "wow, was that Meryl Streep?" he said "oh, I never notice that sort of thing."

The other day I was sitting on a two-sided bench at my subway stop, writing blognotes, actually. I was kind of wrapped up in it, until someone gagged into the hood of my jacket. It brought me right back down to earth, folks.

My friend told me today I could be the mother of a 20 year old girl (I love misquoting you, baby!).

I've recently heard more than once from #9. He's called twice, I've been unable to pick up, he's left messages. Once was to see if I wanted to collaborate on a project, and once, I suspect, so I had his new phone number. Though he's not answered either time I've called back (or he'd call back, and I couldn't pick up). Each time, I've loved getting his message.

My birthday was last week. More on that later.

I've been playing a lot of hockey lately, and I'm feeling mixed. But more happy than not.

No good things have ever come after the words "we're supposed to be friends, right?" Today, I learned this, and even though the person was joking, I felt bad. But because I often obsess about other people's lives to avoid worrying about parts of my own, and because I know this, I'm going to try not to get all wrapped up in his problem.

Kid-Me, Hockey, An Old Photo, a Not-So-Old Photo, and Eye Candy

2009-03-16T22:13:00.007-04:00

Here's another kid me thing, this time written out instead of scanned in. Spelling and grammar mistakes included. This story is entitled "Debby."

Debby walked into her living room and she saw bubbles. Then Debby remebered that her little brother was blowing bubbles outside. Then Debby smelled soap. She walked into the bathroom and she saw soap but it wasn't her soap. Then Debby said I give up. And To this day Debby can't find her soap. And she wonders evry time she takes a bite of chocolate.

Don't know what that chocolate thing was about.

ANYWAY. My hockey season starts soon, (two weeks), and I'm certainly ready. This is from a game my family came to, last year. They (meaning my dorkass sister and cousin) made signs. Again, spelling mistakes included.

I've been playing a lot lately, and it feels really good. I want to be better than I have been this season. I even got my first official hockey-playing related tip of the season today from my punkass friend. Rock!

Here's a photo from jazzfest a long time ago.

And last but not least, here's some eye candy. Or, at least it's eye candy for me. Though I'm not entirely clear on which part is the candy part. Hmmm.

A Break From the Kid-Me Stuff

2009-03-10T21:57:00.007-04:00

I'll do it again, just not now.

The other night, I got together with a friend, and we spoke about someone we'd met a few days before. The girl we'd met had something of a... rough...look about her. Someone recently reminded me of a word that used to be one of my favorites: "haggard." It wouldn't be so off the mark for me to call her that. Sweet girl. Very nice. Anyway.

So my friend and I start pontificating (to speak in a pompous and dogmatic manner) about why she looks that way. He comes up with the following nugget of wisdom:

"You know, I bet she has a kid. ALL WOMEN look like that after they have kids. I've seen it a million times"

My best judgement would have been to call him a giant jackass (just sort-of kidding, sweetie! Hi!) and forget it. What I did instead was wrack my brain for women we knew in common that had a kid or kids but looked, in no way, haggard. I came up with a girl that we knew, a girl that he'd even had a huge crush on. VERY cute. Not at all haggard. His retort? "Well, her kid's only three. It doesn't happen until the kid is around four or five."

Even though I know he has no clue what he's talking about, I left that dinner and said "I'm never having motherfucking kids." I have nary a wrinkle on my face, and neither does any female member of my family (even my grandmother has great skin), but that night I slathered on the moisturizer two inches thick.

In his defense, the next day, via text, he admitted he had no clue what he was talking about. I should have realized this. Another direct quote from this person:

"I almost told you that you look like you've lost weight. But I decided against it."

Tip for everyone? NEVER decide against it.

LUURVE ya, babe!

Hey, Good Luck! Also...I Promise I'll Be Done With This Series At Some Point

2009-03-05T19:54:00.006-05:00

Today started out meh. I say just "meh," because I woke up with that weird feeling that I had a lot to get accomplished, and then just felt sorta blah all day and puttered around a bunch at work, running errands, and trying to write, but didn't really accomplish anything real.

Then, early this evening, I called a friend that I just recently got back in touch with. I'll be creative and call this person RA (as I think I've already done before on this blog. I'm really good with the annonyminity thing). We laughed a shit-ton while on the phone, 'cause that's just how we roll. While we were chatting and laugh-laugh-laughing, I was cleaning out a box that my mom had given me (we're packing up her house to move. I may have mentioned). Inside the box, I find an envelope simply marked "2004." I openend it, freaked out by what I might find (oddly, my brain went immediately to tax papers or some shit. I have no idea why). What was in there, though, was $300 in fucking ciz-ash! Boo-yah!

This is remarkable on its own merit, however, it was made even moreso by the fact that a few zillion years ago, I was on the phone with RA another time, and I found $100. So, see, this time was better. So RA, if you're reading, I looooooooove you, and, as Boy said "you guys need to talk on the phone more often." I missed you a wholebunch. Ask anyone.

ANYWAY, here's another in the kid-me series. I can't figure out how to put it straight, and I kind of don't care that much. Tilt your head and read it, it'll be fine. Good for your neck muscles.

This one's a two-parter. And entirely true. She still hates mice to a rediculous degree. I think it's a family trait. Also note my overuse of the word "well."

Be well, readers.

Another in the Series

2009-03-03T15:45:00.009-05:00

So since yesterday's theme proved to be a hit, I decided to post another two pieces of literature authored by kid-me.
Here's the first (and sorry, but no matter how many times I save them horizontally, they still post to this page vertically. Annoying. I don't want to re-scan them but I may have to).

So I'm pretty sure the drinks that "they" had were quite different than the variety that "we" partook in, but still I think it's interesting that I chose to take note of the drinking at all. Nowhere in this group of papers did I see anything about our actual trip to Canada.

Here's another.

Who played colorforms? Me and the baby? I had a friend that had a baby? I was taken to this person's house by someone other than my mother, who said that I had to be home for dinner? Why do the people in this illustration have creepy penciled-in eyes?

Thanks for reading, y'all.

That Was a Longer Hiatus Than I'd Hoped

2009-03-02T13:28:00.002-05:00

Hopefully I won't have such a long gap between posts anymore. I don't know what got into me. Maybe it was that I have lots of projects that I'm trying to work on, and it's been a pain in my tuchus to get them off the ground. Maybe it's that I am lazy. Maybe...who cares. I'm writing now.

This Saturday, I helped my mom pack up her garage for her upcoming move. I found lots of kid-Monica gems, and discovered I had quite the passion for creative writing. I'm careful not to imply that I had any sort of talent for creative writing, but if having passion means that I wrote like a motherfucker, then, yes. Passion I had.

Here's a sample. In honor of fashion week...
By Monica Russo, age 7.

The Weird Dream Thing

2009-02-12T19:01:00.003-05:00

So re: my last post...

It turns out that the weird feeling I was getting (not knowing if I was dreaming, etc.), was a reaction to this medication I was taking. The antibiotic SUCKED. It really fucked with me. I don't want to get into the details but suffice it to say the next night was way worse.

This week was a strange one...I was either superhigh or really bad. I had a great day on Wednesday, my friend wants to make me a rockin' logo for the new business I'm starting, and my night last night was fun (those were some of the good things), but on the other hand, I had that terrible night, a bad day today, and my friend got into an accident yesterday (he's fine).

Enough.

I'm going to watch Seinfeld. Sad days make me want to watch TV.

More Me For You

2009-02-09T12:35:00.005-05:00

Today's odd, and I'm having stream of consciousness thoughts. Sorry, fools, but that means you're going to have to deal with this in stream of consciousness form.

Last night I had a hurricane dream. I was in some city (I'm guessing NOLA), a giant hurricane was coming, and the people around me didn't want to leave the city. In the dream, I thought, "too bad this isn't just a dream. That'd be sweet." Normally when this happens, it's a sure-fire way to know that it is, in fact, just a dream. But when I woke up, I wasn't sure. And Boy was no great help at 3 in the morning, either. I woke him up to ask "is there a hurricane coming?" His sleepy response: "I don't think..." Please believe: when I fo-reals woke up this morning, the first thing I did was turn on the Weather Channel. I think NY is hurricane-free for the time being.

I'm going to write more here. Like, everyday-ish. I saw an old friend yesterday who advised me that the best way to get more traffic is to post a lot more.

I need to fix the job situation. I NEED to.

I'm getting my motherfucking permit this week. Again: NEED.

I saw another old friend yesterday, and we waxed nostalgic about (gasp!) high school. Specifically: the weird/rude nicknames everyone had for certain people behind their backs. I hate to say it, but this is a practice I've continued throughout my life (Bologna on the Floor, RoastBeef Mary, etc).

I am working on two projects right now. If I was a praying kind of gal, I'd pray that I keep the motivation for these two things going. If you're a praying kind of gal/not-gal, do it for me.

Cheers.

In the Parlance of Our Times

2009-02-03T22:03:00.003-05:00

I've been sick for three weeks...motherfucking hell. I'm miserable. But I felt like I was ditching y'all. So hey!

Several things to say, on the Lebowski front....

First off, I know this is old, but someone sent me this photo, and I couldn't stop laughing:

it's just pure genius.

Secondly, some friends of mine recently hosted a Lebowski party at my apartment. Lebowski party = eating corn nuts, drinking White Russians, and then going bowling (I skipped the bowling part, myself).

It's not exactly what I would call a feelgood movie, but I always feel good when I see it. It's extremely well written and such a great movie (fuckoff, I'm not a movie critic...), but in addition to that, it always makes me think of folks that are/were very important to me. And while I'm sad I lost touch with a lot of them, the movie always makes me feel closer to them, somehow. Makes no sense, sounds corny, so be it. It's just the case.

Also: I recently re-united with a friend of mine on bloody FaceBook...it's my favorite FB "reunited and it feels so good" story. I am so happy to have found him.

How does this relate? 'Cause he's always reminded me of..

They're Humerous Folks, They Are, They Are.

2009-01-28T16:25:00.005-05:00

I was going to do another not x365. I started it, and I realized that I can't post a not x365 about the family. It's too much.

I have an odd relationship with them, to say the least. Who doesn't, I know. So let's say this: I've got my own odd relationship with my family (namely, my mom and sister, called "Sitty" from here on out).

The three of us talk to each other approximately 7890548927054 times a day. I don't know why. I'm not sure when I signed on for this, but I know I'm guilty of it, too. Boy will come home and ask me "did you talk to Sitty today?" and I will just laugh. There's no day where the answer is no.

Does this mean we all get along happily? Are we all supertight? Puke. We get along, yes, but we're poster-people for our own brand of dysfunction just like everyone else (I won't get into specifics, because I'm not sure they'd appreciate it). Boy gets along with his brother really well, and they speak maybe once a month. I'd say they're possibly closer than me and some of my people. My friends look at me in pity and disgust as they make their once weekly phone calls. I do not know how to do this: be close, yet far. If they didn't hear from me for a month, they'd...well, I don't know what they'd do. It's never happened in the history of my life.

Meh. It's just how we are. We hate, we argue, we wrack up phone bills. It's our way.

Lowbrow Post

2009-01-25T15:39:00.002-05:00

As my sister would say, I'm "not really feeling" today. But I couldn't not share this. Do you watch? It's never Lupus.

Putting Food on Your Family Since 2001

2009-01-20T10:26:00.003-05:00

I'm a very happy girl today. I fear that for the past few months, I've been expecting too much of Barack (how sexy is that name, by the way)...like, I've been expecting him to come into office and fix not only the Afghanistan/Gaza/Iraq situations, but also calm my neuroses, find me a better job, and make me a better hockey player. I'll try to chill out about that, but it's hard when I'm just so happy about GWB getting the fuck out of here, and the near miss of Devil-lady Palin.

So to keep this light-hearted and festive, here's some of my favorite Bushisms from the past years (though this leaves out my favorite..."too many OB-GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all accross the country." Uhhhh, what?). From a humor standpoint, I'm gonna miss this asshole.

Which are your favorites? Are they on here?
Happy Obama day, all.

I Motherfucking Hate Being Sick

2009-01-13T14:34:00.002-05:00

Erm...

I'm sick. I'm a lot better than I was yesterday. I got home yesterday after a wave of nausea hit me so fast that I almost dropped. Gross.

More later. Whine, whine, whine.

Back

2009-01-09T12:20:00.005-05:00

So it was a bit longer of a hiatus then I'd planned. Oops. I don't have a ton of time right now, but I wanted to get the Naked ball rolling again (heh..."naked ball"), but just to keep you posted, since the last time we met, I:

Went to Montreal
Spoke "French" in Montreal, accomplished by putting the word "le" before every English noun and punctuating every sentence with "ahhh, oui!"
Went to Ottawa (these are not in order)
Saw 3 junior international junior hockey champion games at Scotiabank Place
Realized that I never need to see 2 ice hockey games in one day ever again, unless I'm playing in at least one of them
Saw "The Strangers"
Saw the Benjamin Button movie
Saw a real, genuine Montreal junkie
Was scared shitless by "The Strangers" and woke up freaked out about bag-headed people
Played shinny in Montreal
Have been entirely smoke-free in 2009, so far
Listened to my uncle shout the words "TRUE OR FALSE" to my grandmother
Received a "First Canadian Christmas" package from Boy's brother and sister-in-law, including a can of Molson Canadian and an actual tuque
Slept for six hours in the back of my friend's car
Had some very...ahem...satisfying experiences
Saw the rockin' view from my friend's new apartment and played with his dog
Bought a pink hockey stick from Sport Rousseau
Forgot to take my garbage out before going to Canada, and was pleasantly surprised by its non-stinkiness when we got home
Read The Heroin Diaries by Nikki Sixx. Not as good as The Dirt, but still damn entertaining
Want to write more, bitch less

It's also worth mentioning that today, when I told my friend that I had slept with our annoying male Bikhram Yoga teacher (I didn't, but I wanted to see her reaction), she thanked me for trying to spice up the friendship. I laughed for five minutes straight. Also: this guy was someone I totally would have gone for in my younger days. Le Sigh. Young me was so dumb. Ahhh, oui.

On a Short Hiatus...

2008-12-30T13:25:00.004-05:00

...so i haven't had time to write much. I'm on vacation in the great white north. I'll have lots more to say when I get back, but for now, I leave you with a photo. This sums up these two nicely. Now, if only I were in the corner, weeping, it'd be a very telling family photo.

Happy early '09, y'all.

Statuses I've Thought About Using When Updating My FaceBook Page

2008-12-15T15:41:00.009-05:00

Feel free to weigh in!

Monica...

never knows how much to tip the pedicure lady.
never knows what will make her happy.
wishes she did.
thinks The Dark Knight could have been a lot shorter.
thoroughly enjoyed Heath Ledger's performance in said movie.
is publicly sorry that she waited until the last minute to say she couldn't go to your party with you.
means that sincerely.
misses NOLA every day.
has to deal with the fact that there's someone out there that she wants to speak to that won't speak to her.
has not dealt well with that so far.
has done wrong by RA.
feels alternately wronged and loved by RG.
would much rather be a cannibal than be Amish.
is terrified by the fact that she has never experienced writers block to this degree.
would like to reiterate that: really terrified.
can feel alternately very close to or estranged from her friends, the same friends, all in one day.
hates that.
doesn't care if people say it's disappointing--she will never tire of wanting to meet Tommy Lee.
also feels that way about Nikki Sixx, but has never heard that it was disappointing.
is thrilled to pieces about the arrival of her new friend Little T, who gets more freakin' great all the time.
thinks that if she has kids, she definitely wants them to play hockey.
thinks that hockey cures (most of) what ails you.
has learned that there are other things except...ahem...substances that can make her feel alive.
would be lying if she said they didn't (used to) help.
thinks that nothing feels better than laughing until it really hurts. Pains.
has fallen a little more in love with FG this year.
wants next year to fall into place a little more.
is wondering why she needs to hide behind fake FB status postings to be "naked."
needs recommendations for the next good book to read.
really enjoyed Slow Man.
wants you to submit to Fat & Happy!
wishes she could decide.
thanks you for reading.

Open Letter

2008-12-14T15:18:00.002-05:00

Dear People That Live Upstairs,

I think you are girls, and I think there are three of you. That's my best guess. Our apartment has three chambers that can reasonably be called bedrooms, so if you have the same layout as us, and if you're as young as I think you are, you probably use them all as bedrooms and split the rent.

Here's my question: how is it that you can possibly be so loud? I mean, you're always loud, but last night you really outdid yourselves. Boy and I are used to your little "conversations" that you have on the stairwell at top volume, usually one of you screaming, most likely drunk. But those are few and far between, and as they usually go on between the hours of 5pm and 9pm, they've never really bothered us. But clomping around at FOUR AM in the hallway, shouting on the stairs, and making your yappy dog wake up every time you walk in: NOT COOL. I don't care if it WAS a Saturday...I had a house-guest, bitches! A judgey one, too. A judgey houseguest that was considering moving to the area. I don't mind telling you: you ruined the borough for him, y'all.

Anyway, a version of this note is posted downstairs on my door. I should have said something to you whilest you were stomping your asses around this morning, but I was having a tumultuous night anyway and didn't have the energy to get out of bed.

Good day.

Your downstairs neighbor.

Calling All Writers...

2008-12-10T13:55:00.002-05:00

Hey Nekkid Readers,

I am starting a new literary journal with some friends called Fat and Happy. I know there are a lot of you writers out here - please submit your stories - and pass along to writer friends!

Here's the deal:

Fat and Happy is a fresh, new literary journal launching in Spring 2009. We are seeking to publish new voices and established writers. If you wrote a story, we want to read it.

We are currently looking for submissions for the first and second issues of Fat and Happy in the categories of literary fiction (up to 7000 words), narrative non-fiction (personal essay, 1500-2000 words), short fiction (3000 words or less) and art (must be black and white). We are not accepting any other types of non-fiction at this time.

Chosen entries will be published in Fat and Happy. There is no payment for publication, but authors will receive copies of the publication with their story in it.

Deadline for submissions is January 30th.

Submissions must be original works. Please email submissions to: fatandhappysubmissions@gmail.com.

Thanks. We can't wait to start reading.

Not x365...The Love Edition

2008-12-04T19:41:00.006-05:00

#9 You are another person I almost lived with, once. I had to tell you no, and that was terrible. It was my fault. You didn't deserve it. I was a little scared of how, when I was with you, I didn't really care about things that I usually care about. The only thing I cared about was us. We could get lost in day/week-long benders together, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't boatloads of fun and drugs and sex and laughing and hiding from everyone in your room. I loved you, and what we had together, and it was exactly the life I had to separate myself from, because I could get way too caught up in it. I hope we speak again. This is the hardest one of these that I have had to do, because I have to be vague and I don't want to. I have so much to say. Gotta nickel? I need a fifth of liquor and a Snickers bar.

#10 I loved you from afar for oh so much of my teen life! You used to tease me with brief moments of friendship and flirting, and I saved these little snippets deep in my brain matter and got giddy with happiness when I'd replay them in my head. Even as youngfolk, I think we would have been hot as a couple, but probably too intense, and broken up and never spoken to each other again. So it's fun that I can still delude myself into thinking that you were besotted with me, too. Ahhhhh.

#11/#12 Did you ever have a crush on someone for so long, and could feel mutual flirtation between you that almost made you dizzy? And did you ever think how great it would be to finally have your way with that person? Did you ever actually get your way with that person? Sometimes, it's not so great.

#13 Sometimes it is.

On the Six

2008-11-30T22:06:00.003-05:00

Ok, so this story doesn't actually take place on the 6 train, but that's the title of a J-Lo album, and therefore it's funny, because everything that has to do with J-Lo is funny. Even her freak multiples. This was a different train, but that's not that important.

It was a crowded, rush-hour train. We commented on its crowded-ness when we got on.

I hate couples that stare into one another's eyes, mooning all over each other like a pair of lovesick fools (though "lovesick" is one of my favorite words). I immensely dislike these people and think them not only puke-inducing, but rude (I'm not sure why).

This day on the train, I couldn't stop looking at you, right smack in the eyes. I was so gross, but so were you. Staring at each other like a pair of idiots. But I love you and couldn't help it.

We stood with the pole between us; that fucking pole was so in the way! I felt that the skinny little pole took up so much room. We hugged, then, tightly, with that pole in the middle of our hug. I hated that pole.

I kissed you quickly, on the lips, about four hundred times.

You whispered in my ear.

It was the best train ride of my life, and the purpose of this blog is to apologize to the people who had to witness our sickfest. But once I looked up at you, I didn't notice them at all.

Not as Scary as You'd Think

2008-11-21T10:52:00.003-05:00

The other day I was walking to my subway stop in Brooklyn, on the phone with my best bud. I was having a normal conversation with that tramp, and didn't feel the need to interrupt him when something very odd happened. The second he was done yapping about some shit or another, though I had to ask him:

Me: Did you hear what just happened to me when you were talking, just then?
Him: No, what?
Me: Some dude in a hat walked up to me, pointed in my chest, and said "on this night, I will kill one lady."
Him: Are you serious? Just now? How did I miss that?
Me: I have no idea. Maybe you're just really self absorbed.
Him: "On this night, I will kill one lady?"
Me: Yep. In his defense, though, I don't think he meant that I was the one lady.
Him: Oh, that's good.

And, scene.

I'm Sorry In Advance For This (A Post Not For The Weak of Stomach).

2008-11-17T13:20:00.005-05:00

I watched the Ricky Gervais HBO special on DVR last night, with Boy. That man is just freaking delightful* (I mean Ricky, not Boy, though Boy is pretty damn delightful himself). I laughed out loud several times, even though I was in the midst of a bratty argument (I picked it myself!) and even though I was lying on the sofa thinking "I will not laugh. I just won't. That will prove a point" (that there was no point to prove bothered me none). It's that good. You should all watch this special.

Midway through his routine, Ricky told a joke that jerked a memory of mine. Well, not a memory of mine necessarily, but the memory of a story an old friend once told me. A story of something that happened to him...a story that had tortured me for many days and weeks and months and years. My brain was haunted and no amount of brain-scrubbing could remove this yarn from the depths of the cranium.

But then, one day, poof! Oh happy day! It was gone. Until Ricky.

So friends, because I am sure there are so few of you, I will risk telling the story right here. Dare I? Yes, I do dare. So read below if you wish, but you have been warned. No one has ever heard this story without responding with some version of "UGGHGHGHHGHGHGH." Here goes:

Back in NOLA, I had a friend, a friend who will heretofore be known as Red. Red had received an email about an upcoming high school reunion. Red was very anxious about attending, but since his friends were such horrible people who loved to see him uncomfortable in any situation, they (we) made their (our) case for it, and finally convinced him to go.

Right before Red was to leave for the reunion (it was in Houston), he had an apartment-related emergency. The sink exploded, or there was some sort of plague, (bugs, locusts, or frogs, I forget which one). Red was unable to live in his apartment for three weeks, so since he was already going home to Houston, he figured he'd just extend his stay. I think it was around Thanksgiving, anyway, so lots of us would be either with our families (sounds unfamiliar), working hard (closer, but not quite), or too drunk (bingo) back in NOLA anyway.

So Red goes to the reunion. He gets wasted. He sees old friends. He drinks with old friends. He drinks with old girlfriends. And finally, he does the stud-muffin reunion thing that guys everywhere want to do: he begins flirting with the girl he loved from afar, who didn't know he existed in high school (ahh, John Hughes, you would be proud). Eventually, Red asks the girl to go home with him, and she accepts. He takes her back to his parents' house, and is so drunk that they never move past the sofa. Red falls asleep, drooling on the floor, because he wanted to leave the sofa for the girl (oh, the chivalry).

The next morning, Red feels so bad. He wakes up with his head on the floor, mouth open on the carpet, and embarrassed. He's sure he wasn't at all able to satisfy this girl based on how drunk he was, so he wanted to make it up to her. He reaches up to the sofa, pats her on her hand, and says "hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you. I wanna go down on you."

Except she wasn't there. She had left in the middle of the night.

The hand he was holding (but not looking at) was his mom's.

He looked up, realized this, and ran into his room, where he stayed for the remaining 18 days (eventually one of us let him stay at our place).

That's the story of Red. Sorry if I oversold it, but to me, not many things could be worse.

*Our definitions of "delightful" may not synch up. Read the rest of the blog and judge for yourself.

I Actually Don't Mind the Term "Manic" (and Things You Can Say on The Simpsons).

2008-11-14T12:52:00.003-05:00

Well, look at you! Still reading my blog. Aww.

So I guess a person could technically call me "depressed." Am I sad? No. Have I learned how to monitor this depression so that I can live a totally normal life? Yes. Do I hate when people ask yes or no questions and answer them themselves? Yes.

Anyway, I'm pretty much fine now. I go through the occasional "bummed out, unsure about stuff" phases, but who doesn't? Because of my history, though, I forget that this shit is not exclusive to me. It's funny...being totally self-absorbed, when I used to go through these rough patches, I would forget that they would eventually pass. The scariest thing was that I always thought they'd last forever.

On the other hand, one thing I never really minded was the post-rough patch period. The high high high that follows the depressed low: the mania. That used to be fun.

What the fuck does this have to do with anything?

Well, I'm going through a small period of optimism, starting today, that came on so suddenly that I feel a little manic.

To address the second part of my posting title: apparently you can say "shite" on The Simpsons. Groundskeeper Willy said it on an episode the other night. Put an accent on it and it's cute, I suppose.

I'll Start With a Little Rambling, End With a Not x365

2008-11-11T09:36:00.009-05:00

Hi folks,

After last week's festivities, (the election, the situation with my hockey league, Boy having Irish friends in town, the election, and drinking every night in celebration of all of these things, like the election), I haven't felt much like blogging. I already fucked up on NaBloPoMo, and though I can do it again next month, I can't win the fancy prizes donated by friends of mine like Uncouth Heathen. But it was more about the discipline than the prizes. I mean Uncouth Heathen had some sort of surgery, and she was still able to do it.

BUT. Next month. I have faith.

Also: I don't know what this means in my life, but I've been having gross dreams about brain damaged test monkeys and dead pigeons.

I went to hot yoga this morning, which felt great, but after a few too many days of not doing it...that shit is hard.

Anyway, here's another one.

#8: I drove to Ozzfest with you, in a car with you and #4, and one other girl. At one point of the long long car trip, a bug fell out of your dreads. I always thought you were cute, but my friend thought you were a stupid little boy (you're only five years younger than me). You were also a little dirty, hence the bug. We drank a lot of red bulls in that car, and the concert itself was the drunkest I've ever been in my entire life. Did I want to go to Ozzfest? Probably. Tommy Lee was probably there. But I couldn't tell you one thing that happened that day, except for this: there was a guy there who would pay people to kick a soccer ball at his head really hard. You kicked that ball. You missed his head by a long shot.

Stupid Clocks

2008-11-07T01:06:00.002-05:00

So today, technically, I didn't blog (11/6). But I did. It's only late for me right now, and I didn't suppose (stupidly), this would count for Friday.

But.

I am not upset. I love this week, and don't for a second regret all the wonderful victories I've won.

XOXO

Wow.

2008-11-05T03:35:00.002-05:00

Wow.

Thanks, everyone. I have nothing to say. Will I not be able to be cynical anymore?
This is incredible.

Needing Some Distraction (Not x365)

2008-11-04T15:16:00.003-05:00

To get my mind off of the election right now, I'm going to do a little meaningless posting.

Here's a little Not x365

#7: Once we were supposed to live together, and I'm sorry we didn't. Wait. Shit. I've just come to the embarrassing realization that there are two people that I could say that to. So: I've known you since the womb. Once we were supposed to live together, and I'm sorry we didn't. That was my fault, but I was a dumbass back then. You are one of the funniest people I know, and my life is a lot better for knowing you and your family. Well, most of your family. Here's to you:

I miss us when we were younger, sometimes.

Several Posts Today

2008-11-04T09:36:00.001-05:00

I will post a real post later, but on the off chance that you need this to remind you:
GO VOTE.

Yesterday, Tomorrow, Wednesday

2008-11-03T21:14:00.002-05:00

"Take your pants off, and make it happen."*

Yesterday: ice hockey was actually really great. Yes, I sucked. Yes, I sulked. Yes, I felt like a jackass for a while. But after a while, I realized that I was using more energy pretending I was annoyed than playing hockey, and I really got into it.

I'm sore as a mofo today, though. The back of my love handles hurt.

Tomorrow: Yikes. Hope all goes well. Very nervous. Obviously, go vote. Very nervous.

Wednesday: I have a meeting regarding an unpleasant issue in my hockey league. Also yikes, and if things don't go my way on Tuesday, I'll be way more pissed if things don't go my way on Wednesday.

I'm going to try to decompress tonight.

*I once knew someone who thought this was a line in the song "Flashdance."

Why Do I Do These Things?

2008-11-02T18:33:00.004-05:00

I'm about to leave to play ice hockey in Central Park for the very first time. I've never played before, and I have to admit, I'm being a bit whiny about it. It starts late, and it's done even later. But the real reason I'm being a brat is that I'll probably suck at it. If I was about to go embark on a project that I knew I'd be at least competent at, it'd be a little less daunting.

So as of now, I'm whining to Boy. I'll post more when I get back, but it may be after 12 midnight and therefore I won't get it in by November 2nd, and I'd be disqualified from NaBloPoMo on day two.

Later, more.

Pasturized, Homoginized, Liquified, Carmelized

2008-11-01T11:14:00.011-04:00

This is my first day of National Blog Posting Month. Go me.

So last night I went out for Halloween. This used to be my favorite holiday, but for some reason I just couldn't get into it this year. It may be because my partner in Halloween was out of town...she's a big Phillies fan (Phan?) so she was back home for the festivities...I guess they won some baseball game or something. Maybe it's because I didn't get my shit together fast enough to pull together the perfect costume. It's NOT because I'm getting too old, so don't even say it.

After thinking about it, though, I decided to go to a party that was very close to my apartment. I refuse to go to a Halloween party without costume, though, so I pulled something together. (The reason I could do this is because I keep a list, all throughout the year, of things that would make good costumes. I also do this with karaoke songs.)

I was this:

Can you guess who it is? It's not the greatest photo, and the costume itself was really hit or miss. People either instantly recognized it, or they stared at me, mouths slack and agape with "what the fuck is she doing"-ness. I won a prize for "most intellectual costume," though. Not really what one strives for on Halloween, but I suppose it confirmed my nerd status. NB: I don't look so great in that photo. I'm hotter than that in real life.

I saw two people dressed as the Golden Girls last night. Well, not all the Golden Girls, just Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo. I adore the Golden Girls, and have won awards for my knowledge of GG trivia (no kidding). Fake Dorothy and "Ma," were terrific and I hope that when I meet the surviving Girls, I'll have as quick kinship with them as I did with their replicas.

Oh! I just thought of something that I forgot to tell even these girls last night: a few years ago I went to go see an awful Broadway musical with my family, my ex (not Double Ex, a different one), and his family. During the intermission, I went to get a drink, and I spotted Rue McClanahan at the bar. I instantly started choking up. I adore her. I generally have a "leave them alone" policy when it comes to celebrities, but I could NOT leave Blanche Devereaux alone. I would never have forgiven myself.

Anyway, I pulled myself together as best I could, walked over to her, and said "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. McClanahan, but I need you to know that I am a giant fan of yours." (I could say "giant" because I was considerably thinner, then.) She just turned to me, grasped my shoulder (!!), and said, in an accent dripping with Southern goodness (I hope it wasn't just put on for my sake) "Oh, honey. It's never a bother."

I love her.

Halloween also makes me think of someone I miss very much. So, if you read this (sometimes you do), I miss you. And yes, I know we never spent Halloween together, but I've seen MoFoFed many times on Halloween, and they always make me think of you.

Every Day, EmEffers.

2008-10-30T20:18:00.003-04:00

So I decided to sign up for National Blog Posting Month, which starts in two days.

This means that if I do this correctly, I'm going to post every day during November.

Y'all are some lucky motherfuckers.

That's the Fucking Way!

2008-10-27T19:38:00.009-04:00

Did you ever see the movie Dodgeball?

Yesterday was the last day of the season for my hockey league. We watched the game from the "stands," though we play at a very rough-around-the-edges park, so there are not actually stands. It's basically a little railing that we stand behind, and we call it the Heckle Wall.

Anyway. Dodgeball. The team that did not win, happily, was a team that reminds me of team GloboGym from Dodgeball, except without the hilarity. They are way better than anyone else in our little league, but not because they've played together forever and persevered. They are the best because they recruit from real hockey teams and college ice teams. This is weird, as we play at a park where homeless dudes pee in the corners and there's dogshit around and we play on sneakers and we drink about 7x more than we play, anyway. This is the type of league it is. It's the sort of league that someone like me, someone who's not totally athletic, can join. This is the sort of league it is NOT: a league where captains recruit players from craigslist with ads in French and Czech to assure the best, scariest, most serious hockey players that grace this earth. They live in Crazytown.

They lost yesterday, and they lost to a team that is fantastic. When I say fantastic, however, I mean that they are good hockey players, freally great people, and personify the friendly/collaborative spirit that our league is all about. The title of this post is their cheer (my team's cheer, incidentally, is "Let's Do This Bitch").

It was such a happy moment. Good won over evil. The entire league was cheering the happy team, and booing GloboGym. It was like a cheesy sports movie, but in real life.

That's all. Congrats Kills.

Not x365, Part II

2008-10-24T12:06:00.008-04:00

#4 We had Bon Jovi concerts in the kitchen of the restaurant...the one we ran in NOLA. The concerts consisted of this: waiting until the restaurant closed, turning up the Bon Jovi casette very loudly, drinking splits of crap champagne, dancing around the kitchen, and scream-singing into plastic spatulas. We also had a version of these concerts that we would give at your house, except we usually drank wine, then, instead of champagne. When "Tiny Dancer" came on, we would cry. Your ex-husband would get annoyed when we did this. We lied to him constantly about how much we drank. You housed me when I was homeless, you employed me when I was unemployed. You lent me scratch when I had none. You let me stay in your apartment when you weren't there. I recently lost touch with you and suspect this is my fault. I miss you.

#5 YOU ARE INCREDIBLE!

#6 I recently learned of a mental condition from Law and Order, SVU. Those with this condition think that they are in a romantic relationship, while their supposed "partner" is left completely unaware. I think you have that. Remember when I was your girlfriend? I know you do, but I don't. Remember when you got really mad at that guy I fooled around with, and threw an ashtray at him in the middle of my bar shift? Remember when you told him "stay away from my girlfriend?" I honestly had no idea you were talking about me. Do you know how crazy that is? You're married now, and I must admit, this shocks me. You've proposed to a lot of people. Congrats, though, you seem to be happy.

Prison Rodeos and the Three Strikes Rule

2008-10-22T08:35:00.009-04:00

Last night I was flipping through channels with Boy, and we came across some sort of fluff news show (or maybe it was one of the seven hundred ESPN channels) about the Angola Prison Rodeo.

Angola is the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Angola is where they put you when, as Double Ex used to say, "you need to go UNDER the jail." They also call it "The Farm," though I don't know why. Maybe it used to be a farm...it's far enough in the middle of nowhere for it to have been a farm.

ANYWAY. Every year, Angola hosts this event. It's basically a mini festival within the pen walls, complete with food, fun, and rodeo, the rodeo, obviously, being the main event. The rodeo participants are the prisoners, and the whole thing gets pretty brutal. It's possible that all rodeos are this brutal, but I have not been to any other rodeo. So I can only comment on this one. It's crazy.

This is the event called "Convict Poker."

Prisoners are on a huge waiting list to participate in this yearly event (only the best-behaved prisoners can participate). I've heard it likened to a Romans/lions/coliseum sort of situation, but as the warden of Angola says (and I have to agree), these prisoners are not only willing participants, but they are basically clamoring to take part. He mentioned that 80% of these dudes don't get any visitors. Like, ever. Meaning the only people they EVER see are the people that work at the prison and their fellow inmates. If these dudes find it fun to get roughed up a little by a bull, I say, go for it. And besides, there's lots of other ways to participate: all the food stands, art stands, and bandstands are run by prisoners as well.

ANYWAY. There was a prisoner talking about how much he enjoyed the rodeo, and the media dude asked him what he was in for. He told the guy (in the SE Louisiana accent that I just lurve), that he got picked up for dealing coke. Or holding enough to deal or some shit. Why is he in Angola for life? Because Louisiana is one of the "three strikes" states. My man got picked up for something twice, and the cokie offense was his third strike.

As Boy pointed out last night, this is the dumbest law ever. Here's why: someone like this dude gets picked up once, gets a public defender who doesn't give two fucks, gets convicted as a felon, does his time, it happens again, happens one more time, then boom. He's in jail for life next to mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers! Right there on the bench! On the other hand, someone like Robert Downey Jr. (who I do adore, and don't want to see go to jail, but just let me have my point here) gets picked up for the same thing (California is also a three strikes state), gets his charge knocked down to a misdemeanor by a fancypants gazillion dollar lawyer, does some service, it happens again, he does a teeny bit of time (again, a misdemeanor), it happens again, he does time, but the difference is, he gets out and makes Iron Man.

I loved Iron Man. I'm glad it was made. I just think it's horrible that Cokie Louisianian has to go away for life for the same shit.

I promise that at some point, these posts will start being well-written again. Also, thank you to Boy for the RDJ example.

No Offense Meant if Your Name is Gioconda (aka: I Haven't Had My Coffee Yet--Don't Ask Me to Have a Cohesive Thought)

2008-10-21T08:35:00.009-04:00

The hiatus is over...I am back. I spent the last week in Florence with eight other people. Me, Boy, my family, and various others. I won't exhaust you with a comprehensive list of our day to day activities, but I will share this:

This is Alvaro. Alvaro was the chef in a cooking class that we took one day. The class was run by a really wonderful woman named Paola (these are their real names. I know I don't normally do that, but if anyone who ever knows them reads this, I'll be so happy that I've reached that far that I'll suffer any wrath they want to shoot my way). She was a hilarious woman that spoke perfect English with a beautiful accent (you can kind of see her in the back of the photo). We took the class at Paola's home--a 13th century farmhouse in Chianti, Tuscany. Freaking gorgeous in that rustic way. Check it: Welcome Tuscany

Anyway. Alvaro. This man spoke not a word of English. His way was the only way, and every other word out of his mouth was "stai calma!" This roughly translates to "chill the fuck out." He'd ask you to come help him roll out the pasta, then slap your hand away when he felt you weren't doing it correctly.

I loved this dude.

Also, Paola's daughter was an adorable six year old girl named Gioconda (like the Mona Lisa). She was funny in the way only an Italian kid can be. We all fell a little bit in love with her, especially my mom. Allow me to post a conversation that took place between my mom and Paola:

Mom: Your daughter is beautiful! What's her name?
Paola: Gioconda. We call her Gio.
Mom: I love it.
Paola: She didn't at first, but she does now.
Mom: Wow. What a name. If I had known you could name a kid Gioconda when I was pregnant, I absolutely would have named my kid Gioconda.

As her first daughter, I can earnestly say, three cheers for my mom's ignorance on this issue. Seems I dodged a bullet in utero. It's not exactly a name that would have rolled off the tongue in my town.

Now for coffee. Hope this made sense.

A Blogging Hiatus

2008-10-15T12:54:00.003-04:00

I didn't just stop blogging again out of laziness, folks. Im away. I'll be back on Saturday. Woohoo.

My, What a Meaningless Post.

2008-10-04T16:20:00.005-04:00

I'm feeling lazy today. For some reason, I woke up with the most annoying song in my head this morning. I don't think I was dreaming about it, because I know what I was dreaming about. I was dreaming about my arch nemesis and my upcoming hockey game.

Anyway. I hate this song. Here it is, in all of its suckdom.

Want to know what else? NO ONE will EVER need to call that number. Ever. What's with that crazy water dragon guy? And does anyone else find him really sexy?

Here's something worth listening to. I love this shit:

This is Not the x365 Project.

2008-10-01T13:28:00.005-04:00

I read about this thing called the x365 project. Yes, it was created in '06, but I'm sort of slow on the uptake on this kind of thing. Basically, what you're supposed to do is write fifty words or less, every day, about various people in your life.

I'm not going to do that.

It's really limiting, and I have enough trouble keeping up with this blog without having rules. Also, I'm not always comfortable putting people's names, even just their first names, on this thing. What I will do, however, is do a few of these whenever I damn feel like it, with whatever names I want.

So here's three.

#1 You were an ex of mine. You were two exes ago, so I'll call you Double Ex. This name fits for you for many reasons. You were verbally abusive. Let's not mince around on tippy-toes about that, either. You were. I'm glad I am able to let it go a little bit now, and that I no longer feel I have to hit ignore on my phone when you call. And I won't lie, I sort of relish the fact that you are so sorry you "let me go;" I'm not proud of it, but I sort of like that you feel shitty about how you treated me. I'm sorry you don't know what to do about that girl you just got pregnant. I hope you find a way to be happy, but I'm pretty sure you never will. I'm sure at some point we'll see each other again; NOLA is not that big of a city, and your armada of trucks swarms around the place like roaches.

#2 Nutty ex boss! Granted, I've had many nutty ex bosses, and you were not even the nuttiest. Your weird relationship with your dog bothered me, though. You were a crazy rich dude and you tried to make your dog into a crazy rich lady. You said she would only eat if there were no coats on the chairs, and if the dishwasher wasn't running. When she pooped blood once, you said she was developing an ulcer because I watched her when she ate. It was strange that you canceled an interview you were supposed to do because of the blood-pooping incident, by the way. You told me she did yoga. She did not do yoga. She was lanky, so I'll admit, sometimes it looked like it. But she wasn't. Want to know how I know that? Because she was a dog. Know the only thing she was passionate about? Chasing cats. You bought her perfume once. That was crazy.

#3 I will call you Lucian. You and I were on the same trip in the summer of 1993. We were fifteen. You lived across the country. I was attracted to you, despite your weirdness (not because of it. I was too young for that at that time). Once, on a bus trip in Germany, we almost held hands. We did not, because you thought I had a boyfriend back home. The reason you thought this was because I told everyone I did. Needless to say, I did not. After you and I did not hold hands, you got up and sat with another girl. By the end of that bus trip, you and she were a couple. After returning home, you wrote me a few very strange erotic letters. I never wrote back. After a few weeks, you "broke up" with me. You said it was because of religion.

And there you go.

Missing NOLA (Shocking), Missing Adolescence (Shocking in the Non-Sarcastic Way).

2008-09-29T22:11:00.004-04:00

It takes so little for me to get nostalgic, especially about New Orleans. I miss the fetid shadiness and the three dimensional heat. I miss the drinking and drugging without consequence and the myriad crushes I got while down there--on men, women, and little things about the city itself (like the Vespa club). I even miss evacuating. Mainly, I miss how young I felt (and was) when I was there. Just about the only thing I don't miss are the dive-bombing cockroaches. I adore my life now, but every once in a while this creeps up on me. This time, it was brought upon by someone I knew very briefly and not very well, asking to be my "friend" on Myface or Spacebook or whatever. I met him through this other person I used to know (let's call him Lex). Lex was one of the very few people in my life who I am quite certain I will never see again, and who I am quite certain I will miss forever, every day. Well, almost. Just the sight of Lex's old roommate in the teeny box contaning his picture and "friend request" was enough to choke me up before I even knew what was causing it. None of this is really shocking.

What was shocking, however, was the nostalgia I felt this weekend while cleaning out my old room in my mom's house. I only actually lived in that house for five years, from age 13 until I left for college. Sure, there were several-week intervals here and there, times of trouble and financial strife and whatnot, but mostly, I was out of the nest at 18. For this reason, I was not really that upset when my mom told me she was going to sell her house. I had the best time cleaning out my old desk, though! It was also really great to show Boy the photos and letters I had saved from high school. I incorrectly remember high school a lot of the time...I remember having a lot less friends than was really the case. Some of the best things I found were letters and mix tapes from one person in particular. We had a bizzare relationship then, and that lasted a long time. But I want to thank this person now. Thanks. I think it was because of you that I learned exactly what I want in any friend or more-than-friend I have had or will ever have in my entire life. "On your chest there are flowers, you possess unearthly powers." Boo-yah.

Stuff in the Head...

2008-09-24T13:32:00.005-04:00

I feel a mess. I need an everything-makeover. You know what I would love? To go on What Not To Wear, but to have it not be televised. I had a boyfriend once that I tried to get on Queer Eye just so we could have the apartment makeover.

It's all a part of this taking control thing.

I told you I'd have a story today...I lied. More to come.

Thera-post. I'm back.

2008-09-23T21:05:00.004-04:00

So there's no real reason that I stopped blogging over a year ago, other than that I lost momentum, and no real reason that I haven't started up again when I wanted to. Well, I suppose that I figured the first post "back" should be at least a little meaningful...but...meh. None of the rest of these ever were, so here we are.

I have a few projects that I'd like to be working on right now. The idea is to clear away the rest of the crap, both mental crap and actual clutter, and hopefully this is the time I'll really start. I made a crazy little list, the subject of which was that I need to be the person in charge of my own life. This seems simple enough, and like my therapist said, it's kind of like a trite life-coaching mantra, but whatever works, right? The list just had on it a few things I want to change. Nothing giant...nothing that's a huge process. Just little things, the biggest one being that I am going to start the process of re-getting my drivers license on Friday. Boy is going to do it with me, too, being that his foreign-ass has never had a US drivers license. I have to take the permit test on Friday, and then I have to take a five-hour driving test. The lesson: don't let your license expire for more than two years.

I'll be back. I'll have a story or something. Thanks for indulging.

2007-08-17T14:43:00.001-04:00

What an abysmal blogger am I!
I've been trying to write "for real," as of late, leaving not much time for this blogshit. Today, however, I feel like being naked in public, I suppose.

Lately I've been questioning the wisdom of living in NYC. I have had frequent jaunts to New Orleans this past year, and with every trip back, I miss it more. I know something has to push into gear this year. I don't know what, but I am taking next weekend to re-asses my life. Or maybe I'll just drink alone. This remains to be seen.

Just a minor crisis, nothing to be alarmed at.

I may be doing a reading next Saturday...y'know, if you're in the NYC area...

I'll come back later.

Waning...

2007-05-16T16:13:00.000-04:00

I don't want to lose momentum on this...so I'm just going to spit out some written nonsense.

My body's been a bit of a wreck lately. What with hockey and "quitting" smoking, I've felt a bit haggard. But haggard in a good way, I suppose. Sort of a low-level form of masochism. I'd never have the guts to do the real thing, so I'm content, seemingly, to remain mildly sore at all times.

Since February 28th, the last blog day for me, I've turned 30 years old. This milestone hit with something closer to a whimper than a bang, and I wonder if it's because I've maturely and at the envy of everyone I know, been able to transcend worry about my age; that I've learned to properly prioritize. Or...(and let's be honest, this is more likely it), I'm resigned to the fact that one crap year is the same as the next. GOOD TIMES, yo.

In all honesty, however, I've had rare bouts of uncharacteristic optimism as of late, and I'm hoping to turn into one of those people for which their "elder" years turn out better then their younger...30 is the new 20, blah blah blah.

Anyway, this was just to get back into the habit. More to come.

I'd also like to give a special hello to the very very special folks at the Black Sheep Pub, helping to make 30 (and 29, at that), a happyhappy funtimes kind of year.

Word.

The Sun Never Shines on Orange Street (Yet Another in a Series of Plotless Anecdotes)

2007-02-28T16:44:00.001-05:00

Again, many years ago, again, NOLA. I had just moved out of my apartment, and hadn't yet given much thought to what I'd do next, habitation-wise. I was squatting at N&C's apartment about twelve hours after they had moved out (of town). They still had a few days left on their lease and a mattress, so we all figured, no big deal, I'd stay until I couldn't. This rapidly changed when that very afternoon, a note had been left on the door while I was in the shower saying something to the effect of "please get your ass the fuck on out," to which I gladly complied.

My things were in storage, and as expensive as the storage place was getting, I figured I'd better find somewhere to live (other then friends' sofa's) or else I'd have to actually move into my storage locker. There was a place I'd heard about through work at the bar, but I'd never really taken it seriously. It was offered, and I think I pleasantly smiled or something.

The place was the former apartment of a woman that worked at the restaurant. At least I think she did. I knew she was a friend of Steve's, who definitely worked there, and I know sometimes she was in the kitchen, cooking things. Her name was Karen, but spelled really strangely. I think it had a "b" in it. She was vaguely spooky....long witchy hair, tall and lanky, she wore black jeans. I think Steve had to translate for her a lot, or translate her, actually, which was (again), strange, because she was born and raised in the USofA. She spoke in what sounded, to my admittedly-untrained ear, like tongues. This is what I knew of Karen with a B, except for the fact that she had an apartment that she had to evacuate by a certain day, at which time I was more than welcome to take it over.

I'd been hemming and hawing at first, due not only to Karen's weirdness, but also to the fact that she lived on Orange St. I didn't know precisely where her apartment was, but I'd driven through the area lots of times, and knew the street was reputedly sketchy. I was in beggy, not choosy mode at that point, however, so the next time I saw Karen I told her I'd be happy to move into her place.

Because most of my friends suck, no one wanted to help me move. As had happened more than once during this period of my life, my (silent) cry for help was answered by J.BoD, known as he was for grand (read: pointless) gestures (and horrible drug contacts). He came to pick me up from work one day, the cab of his truck full of ferns (I'd said I'd liked them once, but that's another story entirely), and drove me to my storage place. In front of my storage locker, a man I'd met once only as Nick the Stick waited with a paddy wagon already (somehow) filled with my stuff. Off we went.

I had the address in my pocket, but as we got closer to Orange Street, I started praying to anything holy that my key wouldn't work in the lock. Please believe: I have lived in shady areas of New Orleans before with no problem. I'd lived next to a crackhouse, and our neighbors were actually really sweet. I lived in an apartment on a street with truly nothing else on it, save for our little house; our landlord had seven fingers (total) and a dozen-plus cats. No shit. I was ok with shady. My friends and I were no strangers to unlit, crime-ridden streets. Orange Street was something else entirely, though. The street itself is surrounded on its four sides by projects, highway service road, nothing, and weeds. Anyone who's ever walked to the Quarter from "Corduroy Alley" (no, I'd never heard it called that, either--look it up), knows that there's a little area in between that you'd really rather not call home.

Once we let ourselves into the apartment, I realized that as bad as it seemed from outside, I would rather spend every single night on the front stoop than stay in there for another minute. Only the first front room could be used. There was a giant blue tarp covering the ceiling in the back room and the kitchen, I'm guessing to stop a leak (?). It was filthy, but filthy with dust that had clearly set up shop decades before. Under a tarped ceiling was a dead something being eaten by another now-dead something, which seemed to have died mid-mastication. Mmmm. I was scared to be alone for even a second, not because of what was outside, but what was inside.

I didn't lift a finger for the rest of the day, except to blow my nose mid-sobs. After I saw my things piled up ceiling-high in the front room, I made a soap-opera-like vow that I would never, ever, spend a single night there. Never, ever, in fact, set foot in there again. I may have said it out loud. I was dramatic like that at the time.

My things, however, were not as lucky as I was. While I spent the rest of the summer "housesitting" (couch surfing, again, but my friends were nice enough to pretend that I was providing this service as a favor while they were out of town...I rewarded each one with a fern), my belongings stewed away in the Orange Street apartment.

Eventually I moved into the paradise (comparatively), that was Constance Street. Still my favorite apartment, ever. MBG and I each had our own front door. We window decorated. Life was good for a very short period of time, until I ruined it by fraternizing with Satan's ice delivery guy. A story for another day.

A Mess. It's Been a While.

2007-02-07T18:30:00.001-05:00

The molecules of the room are frantic and you're buzzing around. You're one of only two people in the room, anyway. Oh, no. Wait. There's three. There's definitely a tweaky energy in there and you're drinking after a night of drinking at five, four, sometime in the morning. You don't have that pit feeling yet, though, because the sun hasn't started peeking out yet. Still dark. You're ok.

You wait to talk...wait until the conversation or bits of loud non sequitur spin your way, feeling a good-natured, affectionate hatred towards those whose turn it is to talk. Coke's the storyteller's best friend. While it's not your turn, your head preoccupies itself with blahblahblah: men you've known, men you've more than known, men you've slept with... You then start taking a businesslike, systematic look at your dirty attitude towards men. Really dirty? Or are you just being extra judgemental of yourself due to the powder. Not dirty, you decide. Just plentiful. You think about it as if you are putting together a Rolodex. For research. Yeah, research. Except you're not researching anything.

To many of them, these men, you're not at all emotionally attached. In your mind, your fucking them isn't even a blip on their radar because it's not a blip on yours. It doesn't reach them and it doesn't reach you.

Then. Then there are the ones you never fucked, but felt more strongly towards, anyway.

The one, skinny as a rail now, who used to be fat as a child.

The one who taught you to play pool.

The one who has a class picture of himself in a pale-pink knit tie and black button-down shirt.

The one you loved, who insisted on talking about the ex. Or the exes.

Why do you have such a morbid fascination for hearing about the ex? About all of their exes? Why do you love hearing it so much when every single solitary motherfucking time you get jealous of a life that happened before you whywhywhy?

You start to feel like you maybe should think about this sometime, when you're sober. Try to remember to do so.

Buckup and pay attention, now, because it's your turn to talk.

Bodega Guys and Hook Hands

2006-12-06T12:42:00.001-05:00

I've not been able to go into my bodega since last Monday. At the very least, the night shift (of the 24 hour place) is off-limits for me. My bodega guy asked me out. My bodega guy. Asked me out.

Now I understand those of you not familiar with bodega culture may not fully grasp how terribly horrible it is for your bodega to be off limits. This one is the shit, too. More like a gourmet mini grocery-convenience store. And it's a good idea to make friends with your bodega people, as I did, as well. You can have packages left off there, if your building doesn't have a lobby and you don't want your packages left outside. If they're close enough to your apartment, they'll help you carry heavy stuff home. And sometimes, if they know you real well, and if you lost your bank card and it's too late to go to the bank, and all you have is a check and you really, really, need a pack of cigarettes because you just got back from a trip to New Orleans and you can't help but wondering really, REALLY, why you live in the most expensive city in the world, well, then, sometimes, they'll let you write them a check. They're not stupid, though. You have to put your phone number on the top of the check.

See where this is going?

So anyway, last Monday, I had a drink with a friend that I haven't seen in a long while. I got home fairly early, got off the subway, and went into the bodega, as I often do, to purchase a snack. Well, flirty bodega man was in there, and asked me what I was up to for the evening. Flirty is younger than most of the other bodega dudes, and chattier, too. I just smiled at him, and told him I was on my way home. He then said, "Maybe we could hang out sometime before the holidays." Since I have never ever learned how to decline gracefully (WHYWHYWHY did I never learn that??), I just made some sound like "kayhrmsph," let it trail off, and walked out.

Well, I get home, and not but two seconds later, my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I don't answer the unfamiliars. Ever. But I did listen to the message. It was Flirty. He had gotten my number from the check I had written, and wanted to see what I was doing because he was on a "quick break." Actually, let's be honest. I didn't even get asked out by bodega dude, I think I got booty-called by him. Claaaaaaaasy.

Reminds me of something else (a little bit):
My mom still lives (for now) in the town in which my sister and I grew up. The town definitely has elements of small-town livin', even though it is a fairly upscale Long Island town. Everyone sort of knows everyone, which is (I suppose) nice, but also, everyone knows everyone's business. That has nothing to do, per se, with my story, but I'm painting a picture here, folks.

Anyway, there used to be (or maybe there still is) a cab driver in this town who had a hook hand. A pretty high-tech hook hand, too. It was all metal, none of that fake skin plastic bullshit. He wasn't joking around with that hook, yo. We'll call him Vinny the Hook. So V the H wound up with my mom in his cab at one point. Suffice it to say, he became smitten. Whenever a call would come in from my mom, V the H would be the first one to pick up the dispatch, and be there to pick her right on up. I'm pretty sure he asked her out once or twice. My mom, unlike me, surely did learn how to decline gracefully, I imagine, because she never did wind up going out with the Hook, nor did she have to avoid the cab company altogether.

Until.

One day he was driving her home from somewhere (I'm sure she didn't even have to tell him where she lived anymore...which now that I think about it is REALLY creepy), and pulled in front of the house. She paid him, and was about to get out. But Hooky turned around with a bunch of CDs in his hand, and said "here. Take these. They make me think of you."

I'm sure that at this point, my mom made a noise akin to the "kayhrmsph" noise I made in the bodega last Monday, but she took the CDs. My favorite part of the whole thing is that apparently, the music that made V the H think of my mom consisted of the scores of several movies that she described as "satanic." Literally so. Not a judgement call, but literally movies condoning satanic worship.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

A Zillion Years Ago...Tenneessee in NOLA.

2006-11-27T14:44:00.001-05:00

It was mother’s day. I remember, because it was the first (and only) day that the restaurant at which I worked was open for brunch. It had been set up far in advance, lots of food was ordered, we made drunken plans for everything to run smoothly. Skip, bon vivant, boss extroirdinnaire, sat me down along with RA (my best friend, surrogate mom, and co manager. She's only one year older than me, but at the time she was the most "together" person I knew) and Stevie Z. For some reason, he loved to blow smoke up our collective asses. I remember thinking that I knew and loved him so well. We watched him get drunk. We watched him snort smoke eat pills and every other damn thing. He watched us do much of the same, but did that mean he really knew us? I adored the man, but I was too stupid to realize that I didn’t know Skip, I knew the show that he put on; the act that he wanted us to see.

And I liked him the way I knew him: flawed, a fuck-up, but a self-aware fuck-up that I oddly looked up to. I couldn’t strive to be someone that made a lot of money, woke up in the morning, kissed their kids and went to work. That wasn’t going to happen for me. But I could aim as high as Skip: a fuck-up that somehow made it work. A happy go lucky jovial fuckup, who paid his bills and whose parents loved him. Now I know there ain’t no such thing, really.

The three of us were regularly smart people, I swear. But when it came to Skip, we became bobble headed idiots, “sure Skip, right Skip, totally Skip, we’re in this with you.” He’d tell us it was because we were the only three people he could trust--business wise, and with everything else. I still want to think, even now, that that wasn’t all it, though. That a teensy bit of him didn’t just pick out the three of us because we were suckers, but because he really did want to give back to us if he ever could. That he would have made us four equal partners in something he really thought would be great. That he didn’t just need someone to pick up his ever-increasing slack.

Of course, on that early early Mother's Day morning, what wound up happening was that Steve, RA and I were the only ones that showed up. I’m not even sure we had any customers…maybe it was packed. Maybe it was a giant disappointment of an afternoon, money-wise. I do remember that it was a no-nonsense time for RA, though. That it was one of those days she was genuinely pissed to be there, she did her work, and she left. I bitched, but I secretly loved every minute of it.

We banged out brunch; we cleaned up. RA left. Steve and I hung around afterwards and probably had a drink or two to celebrate finishing up. I sort of loved Steve at the time, so I’m sure I was in no rush to get out. He probably had no where else to be, anyway.

Before we opened, and all through brunch, we tried calling and calling Skip. He didn't show up, and we had no money in the register. Steve actually sent me to the nearby casino with 20 bucks to make a little cash to put in the register before opening. I'd be lying if I said that was the only time this happened. Skip never picked up his phone.

When he finally did call back, I'm sure he knew we were done for the day. It was no coincidence. His back had been bugging him for weeks and weeks. The man needed surgery. I know he couldn’t afford it; probably had no medical plan, and his parents, though dripping with money, had no interest in helping him out, (if they even knew at all).

But right in the middle of our drinking, the phone rang. It was Skip. He did, in his defense, sound miserable.

“I’m sorry, hook," he said to me when I answered. "Can’t even get out of bed today, my back’s terrible. Lemme get Steve-o real quick.” I was so mad at him, but it still hurt a little that he wanted to talk to Steve, not me.

Steve rolled his eyes and took the phone. Unlike me, his annoyance was genuine.

As I smoked my cigarette, I half paid attention to Steve, scrambling for paper and a pen, exasperatedly sighing, jotting down some information and slamming down the phone.

“He needs Vicoden. Tennessee’s got some.”

“So what does that have to do with you?” I wanted to know.

“Apparently, I have to go to Tennessee’s hotel room, the one he lives out of, in god knows where, get them, and bring them to Skip.”

“For what?” I meant reciprocation.

“For nothing. Out of the goodness of my goddamn heart. For the 25% of this shithole that he’s always promising us. For a part of this business that he’s driving into the ground, anyway.”

He was so annoyed, but all I wanted was to be asked to go, too. An adventure. He wouldn’t ask, though, I knew.

“Want me to go with you?” I caved.

“Well I was going to just ask to borrow your car. But yeah. Come take a ride.”

So without questioning why he was going to ask to borrow my car for this excursion (he had his own vehicle which was, if not "perfectly good," then at least sufficient), I happily trailed behind him, practically skipping out of the building.

Tennessee was a recent hire at the restaurant. I was never sure exactly what his deal was. I think he was brought on as a dishwasher, but he wound up being a general maintenance dude, possibly due to his drug connections. No one was ever given any other way to address him except for “Tennessee,” and no one really questioned it. At this time, it was news to me that Skip even knew where Tennessee lived, nevermind talked to him outside of the restaurant. Like I mentioned, I was a little slow on the uptake back then.

Tennessee lived in a run-down, scary motel in a part of the city I had never been to. Actually, it was outside of the city, in Chalmette, and why or how Skippy even found him is beyond me. We were really in the middle of nowhere.

Steve, long haired, dirty Steve, liked to sit in my car and smoke with the windows rolled up. I never asked him not to, though in a show of great passive aggression, I always made sure to roll down the windows whenever I had one. Not just my window, but all of them. We barely spoke on the ride out to the motel. I knew he was aggravated, so I didn't push it.

There was a pair of blue jeans hanging from the balcony outside Tenneessee's room, like a flag directing us where to go. It was a good thing, too, as this was not the type of establishment with a uniformed front desk attendant, and even if it was, what was I going to do? Ask if he knew where Tennessee was?

His room smelled musty, but I have to say that I was expecting to be hit with a stench much worse upon walking in. He was just lying there like he expected to see us. Of course he expected to see us.

“Y’alll ready?”

I was confused, but I figured I just wasn’t down with the lingo. I was beginning to realize that this shit probably went down all the time. Without me. “Yeah, we’re ready, man, we’re ready,” Steve told him.

Tennessee nodded. “Well, y’all sit here for a minute, let me go take care of this.”

So he left. He left Steve and me in this room in the middle of Chalmette. Steve didn’t seem to think it was strange, though, so I’ll be damned if I was going to act like I did. He picked up the remote control to the tv, and started flipping channels. I think we settled on a nature program with wildebeasts or some such nonsense. I watched for a while, but I’d been up since seven in the morning, and probably had been out until four the night before. I dozed off pretty quickly.

Steve, apparently dozed off himself. I know this because we were both simultaneously woken by someone bursting into the room. Had we locked the door? Had Tennessee?

We woke up slow, but there was suddenly a ball of energy in the room. A scraggly white chick, probably coming in at 90 something pounds, had flew in, notably un-shocked to see us. She was talking so fast. Was she talking fast, or had I just not fully woken up yet? Did Steve know her? She was telling a story. Did I miss the beginning, or did this chick just not know/care that she started in the middle?

“And I was banging on the door all last night. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me or what, do you know where he was? I think he was here, and just didn’t answer the door. Did y’all hang out with him? I bet y’all hung out with him. I’m not blaming you, I’m sure he didn’t tell you he was supposed to be with me. Were you here then? Oh, shit, y’all heard me banging on the door, didn’t you? I feel like an ass. See? He makes me always feel like an ass.” She spat questions and statements at us through the gaps in the front of her mouth; she was missing a considerable amout of teeth. Steve looked at me and smiled a little, raising his eyebrows, and I felt comforted. At least he didn't think this shit was normal.

“Well I’m gonna go after I fix myself for a sec, just hold on,” she went on. I’d never seen anyone shoot up in front of me before. I swore I wouldn’t make a sound. I was wide-awake now. She looked like a crack whore, but she shot up like a pro. I guess one wasn’t exclusive to the other. Or maybe I was too young and knew nothing, which was becoming abundantly clear as the day went on.

She did nod out for a second. I didn’t think it was weird at the time, because I was so tired myself. But just for a second. In another minute, she was up and zipped out of the room as fast as she came in.

Steve looked at me, with that clowny smile that he had, and his laugh, his perfect ‘ha’s that he made when he laughed. Genuine, though..

“What the fuck are we doin’, baby.” Not a question. Just a statement. This is why I loved him. For moments like this. He didn’t find this shit any more normal than I did, and I loved him for it. I looked at him and smiled.

At the time, I never thought "wow. How did this happen with my life, that I'm sitting in a motel waiting for a dude with no name, to give my boss Vicoden. " I didn't question working at a job that required me to go to the casino just to be able to open up. Steve was older, though, and I'm sure that shit ran through his head like a motherfucker. Maybe.

More later.

The sad thing is, I sorta miss that time in my life. Even though I was a moron.

One More

2006-11-21T17:58:00.001-05:00

Sigh. Now I'm in a bad mood. This helps.

UGH to the UES; Miscellany...

2006-11-21T17:22:00.001-05:00

For some reason, I've found myself having to go to the Upper East Side with increasing frequency over the last week or so. It's made me realize something I truly don't like about myself: I sort of despise people that obviously have more money than me. (I'm talking about folks that drip money, here, not your average joe schmoe who happens to make more of a salary than I do. It's not hard to accomplish.) I don't mean to...but up there people sort of exude money. You can tell, especially, by the haircuts. Not the shoes or the bags or the teeny weeny dressed up dogs (I know, I'm making myself ill with this cliched bitterness), but the chicks in their mid 40's...you can see it in the layers and the highlights. I'm sure none of this would bother me (or, let's be honest, it would bother me less), if I wasn't currently residing in a state of broke-as-a-joke-edness. Generally (here comes another less than mind-blowing revelation), I avoid the area like the plague. Though it is fair to mention that we found a really good park for street hockey, of which I am so fond, up there last Sunday.

Otherstuff: I was in Ozzie's today, trying to get some writing done. I've been sort of blocked, these days, so I started writing about the first thing that popped into my head, just to get the pen moving. What happened to pop into my head was a Morphine song, particularly, the disgust I feel every time I hear it. (The song is "All Wrong.") I have nothing against Morphine...I actually quite like the song, more than quite like it, in fact, as I do the entire Cure For Pain album. It's just that I associate the song with a specific person and a specific thing that bothers me--really, really fucking bothers me--about this person (a person who otherwise ... well I'm just delighted by this person). Since, for me, the whole thing is a particularly charged topic, I was writing like gangbusters. The song, and thinking about it, jerked something loose, and it was on.

Anyway. I sort of lost track of time. When I finally looked at my cell, it had been an hour or so after I started, and please believe it felt like, at the most, fifteen minutes. Not but two seconds after I got up to leave, I shit you not, folks, the motherfucking song came on in the coffee shop.

When I figure out what this is an omen for, I'll let you know. Something, though. Something.

We Swear, We Had No Idea...

2006-11-19T22:53:00.002-05:00

I had no idea that there is a Chuck Klosterman "book" subtitled "85% of a true story." Or maybe I knew it in the back of my head, but I promise that's not where my blog title came from.

Reminds me of this:

New Yorkers (or maybe it was national, I don't know): do you remember, sometime in the early 80s, there was this Public Service Announcement about keeping prescription meds away from kids? Well, the pill puppets that starred in this PSA, in all their creepy, pastel-blue, falsettoed glory, had a little song. It went like this (at least, part of it did):

This is serious (serious)
We could make you delirious (delirious)
You should have a healthy fear of us
'Cause too much of us is dangerous.

Sound familiar? It's Dangerous by Busta Rhymes. I saw an interview with Busta (I call him Busta) a bunch of years back, when he was called out on it. And totally jovially and unapolagetically, my man just laughs and said that he must have heard it, but forgot, and then a zillion years later was writing Dangerous, and thought he came up with it himself. I don't totally buy it, but part of me sort of does, you know?

Kind of like the Klosterman thing.

I really, really enjoy italics, colons and semicolons.
Enjoy

A JHS Flashback; Ronnie James Dio

2006-11-16T15:12:00.001-05:00

In an effort, I suppose, to photographically capture the full embarrassment that (was) is (my) adolescence, my junior HS had a practice of taking class pictures on the first day of school. In 1990, this was also my first day in the school altogether, having just moved from gum-snappin' Queens to a fancypants preppy area of Long Island.

Apparently, I wasn't one to play it safe with a white shirt (or, as was the style at the time, a teal, oversized Champion sweatshirt with white turtleneck underneath, folded over). I was going to win friends and influence people with my mustard-colored blazer. What 13 year old wears mustard? Me, yo. And it was extra-hot, because when you cuffed up the sleeves of this gem (of course I cuffed the sleeves!), it revealed a satin, hunter-green paisley lining. God, I was sexy.

Combined with my sky-high half ponytail and the truly inexplicable one-piece-of-hair-in-the-center-of-my-forehead (trying to emulate bangs, I suppose?), I was going to make lifelong pals.

Sigh. It took a minute to recover from that one. The funny thing is, I did make a lifelong pal or two, and right now, I'd like to say hi and thanks.

Hi and thanks, dudes.

I'm still figuring this thing out. More later.

Oh. And Ronnie James Dio invented the ceiling fan. Not enough people know that.

Too Lazy for the Stamps.

2006-11-15T23:40:00.002-05:00

Yo.

I'm the last on this bandwagon, eh?

Maybe that's why it took me 7483295078490 tries to come up with an untaken url name.

So I'll do away with the "welcome me to blogland" post, and just dive in with a teeny weeny anecdote.

While back in New Orleans last week (there will be a lot on here about New Orleans), I met a dude
who, though he was eligible for food stamps for a while (he found a spot of hard luck, as one does), he didn't get them because he went to the office and "they had those hard chairs, and there was no music playing..."

So he left.

I love NOLA.

Naked in Public, baby.