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Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Epic pimpage

“The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.” ~Thomas Jefferson

One of my New Year's resolutions was to stop writing just for the sake of doing so; which has manifested into epic posts that probably require chapters and sections and an intermission. For my next post I strongly suggest having a beverage and a snack nearby because hoo boy, it's poised to be a long one. In fact may I suggest a Patron Margarita, chips and guacamole? Hearty and guaranteed to fuck you up enough to ignore my 179th post about Trader Joe's. Let's just say that I don't think I could ever write a novel because it's too many words and pages and thoughts but I'm one prolific motherfucker and my fingers hurt. The end.

Other things that can easily keep me from writing in the paragraph form – though hot damn I'm doing a lot of that right now – is the constant feeling of knowing that I'm about to fail at something miserably. It's like falling and falling and falling into a deep abyss and I knew this would happen and I could have stopped it sooner, but I am brilliant and stubborn. "Keep on keeping on" is a phrase now permanently removed from my repertoire of clichés.

So two things:

1) On Friday, yours truly will be playing carnival master to the Carnival of the Mundane. Which you can read about at the previous link. I hope for more contributions between now and tomorrow and welcome anyone who can write something more mundane than my startling expose on making your own granola. Because if you can do that, my hat goes off to you. Email all contributions to:

2) IndieBloggers, Indie Bloggers, Indie Bloggers. I feel like I need to speak about the idea behind this site very, very slowly. One need not write something new to submit to IB, in fact I’ve submitted approximately one recent post to the site. And then realized that the posts I adored and wanted to share with the internetwebosphere the most were posts of yore. Like remember that time I jumped out of the window while babysitting? Or that time I suffered the ennuiparapsychosis? If you’re wondering why I’d ever think to share my absolute lameness with more people than I already do? Because I can. And you should too. It requires the simple act of signing up and then you can post to your heart’s content and everybody’s a winner.

Now go forth and write, I say! Write!

Monday, January 29, 2007

Getting real

“Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn't have in your home.” ~David Frost

The time that I got a tattoo was because I couldn’t get my tongue pierced. I wanted my tongue pierced because someone on the Real World had their tongue pierced and since the Real World was the epitome of cool, then I had to have my tongue pierced as well. It all makes perfect sense and so why I receive looks of absolute bewilderment when retelling this story is beyond me. The same goes for the looks of absurdity and questions of how hard I far I fell when I was a mere babe, when I mention that I’ve been watching the same show for 15 years. For I am 23 so I have been watching seven people get real for almost my entire life. Which is really, really sad if you think about it and no, I do not have parents, the television and my booze drinking nannies did all the hard work.

(Hi Madre! Thanks for paying for those piano lessons!)

It was more that I snuck in my Bunim-Murray fix on random afternoons while hiding in the den. I still get my Bunim-Murray fix that way because seeing two drunken girls kiss in a hot tub causes my mother to break out in nasty open sores and convulse. Sometimes I make her watch on purpose because it’s some sort of medical mystery and when the doctors ask me about the rash that developed on her arms and the current catatonic state, I can say “It’s because Brooke and Jen were nude and kissing in front of Tyrie.” Most people just embrace the trainwrecky goodness dipped in ranch dressing, but my mother goes into a coma.

She hates MTV. She hates it with the white hot fire of a thousand suns on a July afternoon in Barstow. She also has taste and intelligence. Her daughter has intelligence but also enjoys watching people behave like imbeciles in public. Because then she can relish in the fact that for once it’s not her becoming so inebriated that she falls out of a shower. It’s someone else’s child. This addiction to MTV has outlasted years and years of schooling and I’ve been known to enjoy countless hours of Laguna Beach when down the street from the Atlantic because looking away would mean missing LC’s slippery slope to missing out on Paris. There may or may not be shouts of “you stupid whore” at the television.

I received an email the other day from Isabel who knows of my well documented dependency of MTV reality television and asked my thoughts on the new show “Engaged and Underage.” Though I’d heard of it, I had no intention of watching it because for now I’m busy worrying about Marcel vs. Ilan: Battle of Foam and Flambé to think about such drivel. Though I can be judgmental if there is one thing that I can see past and defer to someone else on how they truly feel is when it comes to their relationships. The show follows around couples 21 and under as they enter into marriage. Of course it seems crazy to me and of course I am incredulous to it all because I am not in such a relationship that marriage is in the foreseeable future. Nor do I plan on entering into such a relationship anytime soon. And my maturity level is very, very low and I refuse to share my bed with anyone and I’m 23. I am a 23 year old who only says ‘Til death do us part’ to her macbook.

Poor choices are made everyday at every age. So yes these are 21 year olds who are getting married and yes they might be making a huge mistake and their parents find them in dire need of a lobotomy for entering into the sanctity of marriage at such a young age because they could get a divorce. But then again 30 year olds make mistakes in their choosing of a partner as well as 40, 50 and 60 year olds. No one is immune to such a thing. And people of all ages are allowed to divorce. But for some reason watching 21 year olds enter into marriage and possibly fail, makes for some excellent entertainment. Do I agree with broadcasting it on television? Not necessarily. Do I watch eagerly awaiting for the first fight over dishtowels? Hell yeah. I’m human. I also am intelligent enough and have learned enough from those Reunion specials that sometimes things are skewed during production to make a perfectly lovely woman look like a raging hormonal bitch who gets her period 365 days a year. What might be perfectly innocuous argument looks like the beginnings of World War III over the difference between 'eggshell' and 'beige' for the living room wall. And damn it’s hard to look away.

*Quick example: My parents were 28 and 38 when they were married and got divorced when they were 32 and 42. The people I babysit for got married at like 12 and 14 and are still happily married seven or eight years later. See my point?

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Shifting ways

“Probably no man ever had a friend that he did not dislike a little.” ~E.W. Howe

I used to be friends with a girl named Megan and with her and two others, we became as cliquey as possible and given that we all lived within .03 miles of each other, it was a certain that we would spend hours and hours together. We were practically inseparable and weekends involved sleepovers and Seagram’s wine coolers and my phone had to be surgically removed from my face every evening after two hours of discussing Megan’s recent sexploits with her lanky, clod of a boyfriend, Chuck. Let’s just say we had countless conversations about the art of fellatio. They were even doing it behind the bowling alley at midnight bowling, which reminds me that I should thank my mother for denying me the God given right to bowl after 12 AM.

One weekend, a few weeks before my 16th birthday, we had a falling out over something innocuous that ended up with her yelling at me outside of the Macy’s in Colonie Center. This after I spent $3.84 on a nail polish from the GAP to give to her so that she would take me back as a friend. Because to me, giving people things was the only way I knew how to make them like me. If I keep reading over that last sentence, my head aches with knowing the way I wanted, nay, needed to please people to make them want me as a friend because I had apparently fallen. Hard. And hit my head on the corner of some table and punctured my skull, and that is how I ended up brainless and an idiot.

The fight, at the time, left me bitter and resentful. Which manifested itself into a behavior, wherein I went out of my way to get Sarah and Lauren, the other two in our little gaggle, to see my ‘side’ and they did. We had established that Megan was an evil whore with 666 tattooed on her left butt cheek, which is why she was so damn difficult and prone to throwing things (in public) and punching walls.

In the next week the fellatio giving Megan, ended up with mono and was guaranteed to be out for weeks. One would think that a debilitating illness would keep that whore at bay, but alas not and in her infinite wisdom and realization that I had gotten her friends against her, she called and cursed me out and politely requested that I drop dead and get herpes. I thanked her and told her that I hoped her Chlamydia cleared up soon as well as those carpet burns on her knees from being on them so much giving head and then hung up and went to pack.

I was packing for my 16th birthday trip to Chicago. It was fate that my aunt had been trying for years to get tickets to Oprah and when she finally got through to the operators they offered her three dates, one of which was my 16th birthday, the magic age at which one is allowed to be in the studio audience. So off we were going to see Oprah and so that my already fat ass could enjoy such luxuries as Cheesecake Factory and Giordano’s deep-dish meat filled, artery-clogging pizza. I’d point out the wonder that was being at Oprah, but alas we did not get a free car and I didn’t get free hair care products or a sample from Emeril’s new cookbook or even a chance to lick her and ask what it’s really like to be a multi-millionaire, as she wasn’t yet a billionaire. Though I did get to shake her hand and I haven’t washed my right hand since October 26, 1999.

The show topic was about “Friendshifts”: The inevitable loss and addition of friends as we get older and come into our own. It’s just something that happens that isn’t necessarily out of malice and is due to more than a nail polish being thrown and shattered on the sidewalk. As it happens, over the years, I’ve tried my damndest to maintain most friendships. I’m still friends with my best friend from Kindergarten as well as my best friend from Girl Scout Camp. Though over the years I’ve gained and lost many friends but never because I didn’t try or so I don’t think Those fostered are important to me, though I’m nowhere near a fantastic friend and infallible. Trust me, I’m actually prone to passive aggressive behavior and I yell and sometimes I’ll eat your pizza when your back is turned. But if anything I try to be loyal. I don’t want people remembering my awful behavior seven years earlier, with hurt and disdain. I wouldn’t want people that I’m no longer friends with to thank God that I’m no longer in their lives as I do with Megan. I don’t want anyone wishing that I forget to get a tetanus shot and then drunkenly puncture my arm on a rusty nail.

In the end I haven’t a clue as to what happened to Megan, except that she returned to school and wanted to be friends again and then started taking Metabolife at the suggestion of her mother. She sent me a message via Facebook, which I promptly deleted and though I should be over her discretions, I obviously am not. And thinking of it now, that probably makes me as person, even worse. For if I can’t get over shit from seven years prior than I couldn’t possibly expect for my friends to get over my eternally pissy and bitchy ways. But thankfully, they are far better than I and considerably more forgiving. They also don’t require trinkets and gifts as a sign of my undying devotion. And as far as I know, none of them have punched a wall or thrown a glass at my head during a fight. And let’s pray that they don’t think Seagram’s winterberry wine coolers are a ‘classy’ drink.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Do not be friends with this girl

“I find that a great part of the information I have was acquired by looking up something and finding something else on the way.” ~Franklin P. Adams

Because I believe that movies should be watched and pondered alone, I don’t tend to attend movies with friends just for the hell of it. The movie has to be one that I know will captivate me or I have to be threatened by said friend and/or promised pitchers of sangria immediately after the viewing. Those stipulations are carefully articulated and highlighted in my friend contract. Right under the section that provides instruction on how to react when I’m about to flip my shit. I’m complicated.

My presence was requested at a viewing of Pan’s Labyrinth. When Kimber suggested it, I said, how about we just head straight to the drinking part of the evening and do not pass go, do not collect $200 anywhere near a movie that involves a talking tree. Though at the time, I didn’t know that there was an actual talking tree, I just guessed. In fact the only way she got me to go see the movie was by mentioning the word “Franco”. Because up there with the fervor that I exhibit when speaking of Trader Joe’s and wine, is my interest in European dictators. Which isn’t to say that I agree with totalitarian regimes or facism, or propaganda against an entire group of people based on their religion, creed, or where they purchase their shoes; but for some reason it all fascinates me.

To pinpoint the exact moment that I decided to read up on Mussolini, is something that I’m unaware of. Though I think it was about the same time that I had my mother read Poe to me before bed. I’m assuming 8 or 9 years old. Calling me an odd child, would be putting it mildly. There’s also no reason for it nor did it come from any source. Kind of like the way that I’m obsessed with Congress and can tell the difference between 250 white men over 50. Thinking about it now, it’s the entire history of Europe that I find ridiculously intriguing, especially dictatorships (how it’s possible) and...uh...the House of Bourbon.

In sum: I am weird. So very, weird. And mentioning a dictator will get me to see a movie. A movie, which was a spectacularly weird feat of vivid imagery and violence rolled up into two hours of a talking tree, a puking frog, and a girl who doesn’t know how to fucking listen. Oh and another guy who was the spitting image of Voldemort.

Next up on my tour of oddities: I woke up crying after a ‘nightmare’ that ended with the death of Hugh Laurie.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Crush, redux

"Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love." ~Albert Einstein

My love life is useless for fodder because it is seriously lacking. Something that I won’t even pretend to mind, because being free to sit in my pajamas and eat all the damn granola I please, is something that I appreciate and possibly need. Lest you want to see me involuntarily call someone a dumb fuck, solely out of annoyance. I’m so good at being single that I think I might do so permanently. She says at the tender age of 23 far away from the ticking of a biological clock.

That being said, the crush that I once mentioned has turned into a confusing sordid affair that I am unsure of. For it was completely unexpected but something that I knew was coming for a long time. How am I to resist the charms of a nice adorable southern boy? That is the question I’ve been asking myself for some time now and the answer is that I cannot. I’ve tried and tried again, but I am unable to.

The unfortunate part is that there have been rumors abound about him and more than enough people hate him. But I don’t know I just can’t help myself. Even when he fucks up at the most crucial moments, I still adore him.

So far, so boring and very ‘yadda, yadda, who gives a shit?’ To wit of course, the sordidness stems not only because of his lack of success (Which doesn’t mean that he didn’t want it enough, but shit happens, but still…), but because his brother has been so very successful. Though equally as disliked by many people, including my closest family and friends, he still has that same southern charm and modesty. And now I’m just so…I don’t know. I don’t know which I like better and which I want more, though for now it seems like his brother might be getting the better of me.

Here’s the kicker, the other week I mentioned my longtime love to my father. He told me that not only does he hate the object of my affection, but he also hates his considerably more successful brother. In fact, el padre, hates the entire family, including the mother.

So, what is a girl to do?

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Feeling crunchy

*This post inspired by the always effervescent and witty Alice Bradley

“The belly rules the mind” – Spanish Proverb

One Sunday morning, you will follow the usual routine of reading the New York Times and drinking café au lait with splenda. This just after a Saturday morning full of Wait, Wait...don’t tell me. You realize that you are the epitome of a pretentious North East liberal. You shrug and continue perusing until you happen upon an article about making your own granola, which you are far too lazy to do given your propensity to scour the Trader Joe’s frozen food aisle because cooking is something you do not have time for. So you go back to contemplating the meaning of life and the title of ‘President’ before the name Biden.

A few days later you will be cruising around Google Reader and notice that the lovely and talented Alice Bradley, has read the same NYT article and then decided to delve into the world of creative granola making. Much to your chagrin she details her experience and then speaks of her homemade granola with such enthusiasm that you feel as if you’ve missed something. You go back and re-read and then think back to your recent issues of Vegetarian Times and Food & Wine and briefly recall your personal resolution to cook more items that do not come straight out of a box (cough Trader Joe’s Mac & Cheese cough).

To wit you spend the remainder of the week thinking that if there were five ingredients you would put into granola, besides rolled oats, what would they be? Then your mouth begins to drool thinking of all the granola you could possibly make and all the possibilities of granola to be made. So with list in hand you march over to Trader Joe’s half drooling and admire the cashews and almonds and debate between dried cranberries or dried pineapple or perhaps some banana chips.

You go home with almond slices, dried cranberries, and soy nuts but you purchase the soy nuts with trepidation given their already roasted and salted status. The above is then mixed with some leftover dried coconut, walnuts and some delicious Lake Champlain honey. All will be cooked while you are decked out in your Christmas pajamas. While cooking, you deliberately clean up the kitchen and empty the dishwasher then load the dishwasher and organize the Tupperware in order to show your roommate how one properly cleans a kitchen after usage. There may or may not be heavy sighing and shuffling abound.

Then the lovely mixture is removed from the oven, toasted to perfection and your panna cotta and fresh pesto making roommate may or may not drool a little and say ‘yummy’. You will proceed to eat the fresh granola and char the inside of your mouth but oh my hell, you are a genius of epic proportions. Because you’re feeling good about your awesome domesticity you begin to slice avocado for lunch the next day and think good thoughts about Drew Brees and Peyton Manning.

It’s finally time to taste your granola and it confirms your previous suspicions that you are a culinary master whose talent has been hidden for far too long. You contemplate telling your tale to the Internet, because you’re just so freaking proud of yourself that you want to shout of from the rooftops. You don’t care if people will think you a granola eating, special interest pandering, vegetarian, pinko, commie, liberal, because holy hell that granola might be the best damn thing you’ve ever tasted. You will inevitably spend the remainder of the day periodically diving into a vat of granola. You are brilliant.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

I can see clearly now

“It isn't the mountains ahead that wear you out; it's the grain of sand in your shoe” - Anonymous

To say that I’ve been in an absolutely horrible mood for the past six months would be an understatement. Something about sleeping on a mattress on my bedroom floor every night since August, probably is what put me in such a sour disposition. But over the past week the clouds have parted and I feel less inclined to be menacing and threatening. Literally almost every night for the past six months – save the moments when I’ve been away and/or sleeping at Kris’ – I’ve had to sleep on my fucking floor. There is nothing worse than going home to sleep on the fucking floor with the fucking laptop that only works when the spirit moves it to do so. A laptop that turns into a desktop attached to a 14 year old monitor that again, only works when you pray over it. Even then I’m pretty sure that the whole thing makes the baby Jesus and I cry.

And now I sleep on an actual bed with a fully functional laptop that makes me want to go home and write and be productive rather than dread writing. You might suspect hyperbole but every second that I spent in my bedroom with the shitty mattress on the floor and the computer that I needed, nay, wanted to write with, but couldn’t, made me a very unhappy person. Given my predisposition to being a bitch, try multiplying that by 114. All of this with a recently cleaned carpet – hell yeah I got that sucker cleaned – with a cute new floor lamp and wall clock and storage thingies that are useless since I just dump shit in there anyway, but at least they match my new area rug.

And I shall dwell in the house of Ikea forever and ever. Amen.

2007 is going to be a good year all because I now sleep on an actual bed like and don’t want to put my fist through the damn computer.


Tuesday, January 16, 2007

A Confession

"A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him I may think aloud. I am arrived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal, that I may drop even those undermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness with which one chemical atom meets another." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Being particular about the friendships I cultivate is a manifestation of having zero friends and/or friends that used me and generally fucked me over for a number of years. To say that the junior high years were ‘tumultuous’ would be putting things mildly. Of course there’s still a little bit of that in me when I attempt to be nice and complimentary of people who disregard me and find me a nuisance and who are frankly rude and pretentious little shits who feel that the world should cater to them, but they are not obligated to behave the same back. While it irks me entirely, I’ve learned to shrug and behave as if they do not exist and instead be terribly cautious when choosing who I want to be friends with and who I would like to punch in the nose.

I have few extremely close friends, and hordes of ‘friends’ or ‘acquaintances’ that I see for Happy Hours and parties and events. Those are the people that I can give a hug and quick side kiss to while balancing a drink in my other hand as we exchange pleasantries and a few notes of gossip. Then there are my honest to God friends who know that there are nights I’d much rather spend with a very cute blonde and catching up on Tivo than trying to figure out how many glasses of wine I can consume before puking all over U Street. These are the friends that know how much I need and value my alone time and can tell me that I’m considerably more pleasant when “getting ass” than I am 90% of the time. I can appreciate that they can appreciate my generally quirky behavior and why I do the same thing every single Saturday like a little old woman.

Over the past year, I’ve gotten better about who I let in and to what degree of trust I will afford them, which roughly correlates to the number of times that I will freely Instant Message such a person about the inane details of my life. I think I’ve gotten incredibly lucky with Kris, because with her I can do just the latter. And she knows me to a ‘T’. I say all of the above, because the truth is that while I love that woman wholeheartedly, I love it even more when she goes away because then, I get her apartment to myself for an entire weekend or on those really awesome circumstances, an entire week. And nothing says “I heart you, HB” like giving me the keys to your apartment and letting me have at it. Alone. Alllll alone. Misanthropy, my friends, is a lovely thing.

Sunday, January 14, 2007


"We can tell our values by looking at our checkbook stubs" - Gloria Steinem

Being able to turn on my computer without wanting to cry and/or toss it out of the window and/or wanting to put my fist through the monitor is really quite priceless.

Welcome, little guy.

It doesn't have a name yet so suggestions would be helpful.

(Also, that bed that it's on is brand new too. As is the mattress. Am now officially broke and donations to the 'Heather B. will need to eat at some point this week', fund are being accepted now. They're also tax detuctible.)


Thursday, January 11, 2007


" We should look for someone to eat and drink with before looking for something to eat and drink..." ~Epicurus

Kimber is the type of person you’d want to be friends with in the event of untimely serious issues or when you really want to drink and smoke inside of a bar (the horror! And no longer, because it's illegal!) but not alone because when you drink alone, people consider you an alcoholic. She’s been my best friend for going on four years and knows things about me that I would never readily admit to anyone, including that when I lived alone I only did dishes when I finally ran out of cups and even then, I only did the cups and we’ve had more than one serious conversation about the state of the Middle East with her on the potty and the door open.

Since graduating, the time I used to spend with any friends of mine which once thrice daily culminating with wine at a Georgetown bar, has since been reduced to the occasional get together that needs to be planned weeks in advance because suddenly we’re all very busy; very busy with my Netflix queue and blogging of course. Even when planned well in advance, someone always ends up canceling because of this whole necessity to have Dental Insurance and a 401K. Financial stability is all the rage and at times trumps friendship.

This means that I haven’t seen Kimber since my birthday, in October. And since Kimber enjoys Movado and Coach bags that could fit a small child, she’d also enjoy a meal out that isn’t quesadillas and especially at the Ritz Carlton with the bathroom attendant and heat lamps under the taxi stand and warm towels with which to dry ones French manicured hands. Now that it’s January there really is no better time to meet up with people that you haven’t seen since 1978 for it is Restaurant Week, don’t you know and nothing screams, I will shed these unwanted pounds like a Mushroom tart that involves a flaky buttery crust and melted smoked gouda courtesy of Terrence Feury at Fahrenheit.

I’ve gone on ad nauseum about how I love Jeff Tunks and Geoff Tracy, because I feel comfortable in their restaurants and of course there is trepidation with eating at the Ritz, because do they allow people with roughly $8 to their name at the Ritz? I doubt it. But I do it for Kimber and also because I saw the aforementioned Mushroom tart on the menu. I’m a sucker for flaky crust of any sort especially when it melts in your mouth and I am also obsessed with mushrooms. My hat goes off to anyone who can sear scallops – mine usually come out in the rubbery form that forces me to question any chance I have at becoming a good housewife who can make scallops. The scallops were tender and set in a bed of some sort of tomato salsa concoction which was spicy yet sweet with a hint of pepper and gave the scallops this delicious tangy flavor despite not being deep fried. There were also potato sticks involved and if I hadn’t been in the Ritz, I would have licked the plate.

Shockingly enough, I ran my fingers over my dessert plate while Kimber went to the little girl’s room and then of course snuck a bite out of her key lime pie. I contemplated the Panna Cotta but instead opted for the chocolate tart. Chocolate crust with apool of dark molten chocolate in the middle that spilled over the sides when it’s chocolate dam broke. Right into hazelnut and butterscotch gelato. It was a chocolate butterscotch river and never have I prayed so fervently for a canoe to tip over in such a mixture, because I would gladly swim around and enjoy.

My thing about eating out is not only the food, but also the service and the atmosphere, because what else are you paying for?? Upon Kimber’s arrival she found me sitting in the lobby with a glass of Spanish Tempranillo and the man who would be our server was smiling ardently and we were already the best of friends and he’s now invited to my wedding. I’m a cranky person who is also impatient and so I like to be taken care of immediately and if I have a glass of wine before my ass warms the seat, then damn, I’m happy. Given that I couldn’t even remember one of the restaurants I went to for Restaurant Week the last time, I would say that writing about the melt in your mouth crust at Fahrenheit and it’s impeccable service, makes this Restaurant Week a success.

*Don't forget, still delurking week. So delurk or risk eternal whore-dom.

*I should mention that people always ask me, because apparently I know these things, when RW is. I do not have some super insider information. I just actively stalk DC Foodies.


Wednesday, January 10, 2007

I love New York

“One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years” – Thomas Wolfe

I was once convinced that I would live in Manhattan: Another life where I was the US Ambassador to the UN and I would speak Spanish and have an apartment on the Upper East Side and visit Madrid regularly. This was probably about the time that I thought that I would be having children during my 24th year of life, which is pretty soon, remind me to add to my To Do list: get some ass. Also: Have concussion treated.

Anyway, that passed and I stopped naming my children 30 years in advance and have yet to get that concussion taken care of, but I figure that’s what gives me my cute quirky obnoxious behavior. But Manhattan is still one of my favorite places in the world. Especially in the winter, and by winter I mean a balmy day after Christmas during which I contemplate purchasing a tank top as opposed to a turtleneck and find adorable hats to be useless because IT WILL NEVER SNOW. EVER.

People say that it’s magical and gorgeous and there’s that inexplicable feeling that I can’t very well put into words, but I’m convinced that someday I will learn how. My first visit that I can actually remember was about 12 or so years ago, with my parents and brother. We saw the Rockettes and ate hot dogs and Ray’s Pizza, discovered that it is entirely possible to consume a Ruben roughly the size of Djibouti and that cheesecake is the size of my head, that the Saks windows were magical and that I cannot play the piano with my feet like Tom Hanks, but damn I’ll try.

I’ve been asked about that visit before and about my most recent visit to the City, on how awkward it is to have both of my parents go on a trip. Really it isn’t awkward at all and I’ve never been a child that sits around hoping and praying that mommy and daddy love each other again some day. In fact I’d find it more awkward if they did. I actually find it to be a really great blessing as my parent’s divorce saved me from 18 years of standing on crowded subway platforms with one saying “Do we take the A train or the D train?” and the other responding with “OK” and then subsequent eye rolling ensues because clearly coming to a comprehensible decision together without one threatening to push the other onto the dreaded center rail, was never their forte. But they procreated quite well, so I'll give them that.

*In that last picture…yes, my parents are midgets. Midgets who gray and go bald early.

**It’s also de-lurking week. So de-lurk if you’d like. Or you can be a troll and I’ll make fun of you and possibly call you a dumb whore or something equally unintelligent. But if you say hi, I’ll share my secret of drinking a bottle of wine without puking or hangover.


Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Of Mice and Murder

“Women are afraid of mice and of murder, and of very little in between.” ~Mignon McLaughlin

Thinking the shape was chimerical, I looked back at the screen towards Zach Braff and ignored it. When I looked back down to the floor, I realized what was once my eyes playing tricks on me again, a flash of light from outside, perhaps; was certainly not. It was moving. And as it happened the first time*, I jumped on my bed, which is dangerously low to the ground and makes it easy for a little Mickey or Stuart Little to gnaw at my eye lashes, and screamed. Though it was a Friday night and surely no one could hear me and even my non-drinking, footsie playing roommate was out. I was completely alone at midnight, just me and another mammal whose mere presence had once again set me into a fit of convulsions…and screaming.

Normal procedure is to run for the nearest exit hollering about the rabid rodent that had made its way out of the cold into my closet amongst my cashmere. And while I do feel for those things that are out in the cold my thought is that if I am not bothering you and crashing into your home and leaving poop in your closet, then you should do me the same. And if you do intrude into my surroundings, I reserve the right to beat the shit out of you and/or kick you and/or pray that you fall into a glue trap and make sure that you die of asphyxiation in a plastic grocery bag.

Anyway, I stood on top of my pseudo desk chair, questioning why God made such disgusting animals who can’t understand the phrase “dude, leave me the fuck alone”. So I stood and recalled that I had Kris’ keys. Kris who was in the boonies of Shenandoah without a cell phone signal, and so I did what any normal Human being who feels like a mouse, roughly the size of a pen cap would eat her head, would do; I broke into Kris’ mouse free apartment and slept on the couch and had pleasant dreams of the mouse with a noose around it’s neck.

Two nights later, I finally had to sleep back in my own bed and stayed up long enough to see the little fucker come in underneath my door. So I did what any sensible person would do: I placed a large suitcase in front of the door. And when the little shit surreptiously managed to evade my brilliant large suitcase, I was resourceful and made good use of a hard cover copy of Little Women, thank God that Luisa May was prolific and managed to write a giant book perfect for blocking doors from mice. And the remainder of the door was blocked off with The Alchemist, some Augusten Burroughs, Salinger, and a giant copy of East of Eden, oh and The Bible: The impenetrable wall of doom.

I haven’t seen it since. I’m sure it’s still slinking around like a clandestine spy and telling its little cohorts that I have traps set up. I’ve been sleeping with the covers over my head as to prevent actually catching sight of it, but I can practically feel it taunting me. But now that I’m good and pissed and less terrified, it’s more like I could kill the fucker with one swift kick to the ass with my size 11 foot. And I’m sure that dropping said copy of Little Women on it, might very well do the trick. Either way, that little motherfucker is going down.

*different state, different mouse. Awesome.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Date night

"Let's face it: a date is a job-interview that lasts all night. The only difference between a date and a job interview is: not many job-interviews is there a chance you'll end up naked at the end of it.” Jerry Seinfeld

My last good date was innocuous at best and hardly memorable, though a success because neither of us puked in the dorm bathroom and I didn’t have to do the walk of shame the next morning. He ended up marrying this past summer, clad in a seersucker suit, and I was appreciative knowing that I would never have to marry a guy who wore summer materials mid-January and dipped his French fries in mayonnaise while rubbing my upper torso in the middle of a crowded dining hall. In a word: relieved.

I haven’t been all that anal about getting into dating once again, because I’m in no rush and I cannot handle the presence of another person on a semi-regular basis. Especially one that insists on touching me and holding hand. Even so, a little practice could never hurt and my first victim – Rachel - fell prey to me on New Year’s Eve and evening in which I realized that as a date I am one who not only is never ready on time, but also demands that the date pay for my Coldstone addiction and then has my mother pay for our meals at the ever fancy Friday’s and afterwards I proceed to become drunk on my mother’s couch and ate an entire bowl of guacamole. Thankfully though I got my victim to sleep in my bed and at the end was told that I’m just like a real live male.

The next morning I reviewed my over full protruding stomach and realized that I had no clean socks and figured that I should make some serious strides at becoming less male and hairy and getting women into my bed, and more girl-like, I suppose. So I planned for my next victim to be this week during inauguration festivities. I was determined to show her – yes, Her. I said PRACTICE, not “Oh you there with the six pack abs, come hither and buy me some wine” - a good time. I was prepared to schmooze and to hold my alcohol and to get us into concerts that were something like $1000 per ticket, because no, I did not pay $1000 to get in, but will gladly partake in these crab cakes.

And let me tell you, after two nights of extensive open bar-ing and blowing air kisses and pretending as if I was actually cool and could totally and modestly dance to Wyclef without spilling Cab. Saugv. all over my pink sweater. She didn’t even bat an eyelash when I attempted to chase a former Law and Order star around the bar. Earlier today I received an google chat message from the person I had catered to for the past few nights, surely that is a good sign; when one stops during a day to thank the person who brought him/her out. I am apparently a great date and even better that though I did get her drunk, I hailed her a cab on more than one occasion and never, ever even tried to get her into bed.

So apparently I am a good date. And maybe in a year or ten, I’ll test out my skills with actual boys. Maybe.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Things you probably won’t hear me say after being away for 11 days

“No man needs a vacation so much as the person who has just had one.” ~Elbert Hubbard

“Working only Wednesday, Thursday and Friday isn’t going to work for me. I like to have the entire week to get back into things. The quicker, the better”

“After indulging in all of that Friday’s and macaroni and cheese, I lost a mere 7.25 lbs. Time for that marathon”

“There’s just a little too much Law and Order watching going on here. Less Vincent D’onofrio more Wolf Blitzer!”

“You there…with your expert blackberrying while driving your Maserati…kudos to you. I could learn a thing or two from you.”

“I LOVE the beltway”

“El madre really shouldn’t have brought me starbucks in bed. Just too much”

“Wow, these expertly planned out and convenient traffic circles are really great. Even better the way these streets just go along seamlessly. I appreciate Pierre L’Enfant’s ingenuity”

“No Melanie, you can have the bathroom first. I’ll gladly wait”

“I don’t appreciate G enough. Here’s to hoping we spend more quality time together this year. Possibly while knitting and sipping on some chamomile tea and discussing how inherently racist television is”

“Noah, the incessant hugging really has to stop. Here, child, go play with these marbles”

“I HATE Whole Foods”

“No, no. After you, Congressman”

“mmmm Metro”

“I really have never minded that Target is in another state. I’m all for checking out all of America

“Having a liquor store that sells wine, beer and hard liquor is terribly inconvenient. Also, what’s with grocery stores having all of this wine? Does not compute”

“No, I’ll just stick with water and diet coke. I’m not really into fermentation”

“It’s unfortunate that I made a permanent ass print on my mother’s couch”


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