Forever 80s

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays due to the costume factor. I used to play dress-up when I was younger. I think my last round of this fun game was when I was 14. Right before I started high school. Browns and I dressed up in my mother’s clothes and actually took pictures. These photos fell into the wrong hands and we never heard the end of it. I guess we were a little bit old to play dress up, but whatever, I was a kid until I wasn't. It was fine by the time we started school. Browns went off and slept with a bunch of junior/senior boys to prove her maturity and I waited until my lady parts developed so I could wear a real bra. Are you there God, it’s me Margaret was my favorite book until sophomore year.

As an adult, Halloween is a chance for women to play “dress like your favorite whore.” It’s great. Although I’ve never participated in the slutty theme, I don’t mind viewing the outfits women find completely acceptable to wear for one day of the year. There are some fantastic bodies out there. It’s a shame nurses can’t dress like that every day. As for me, I select costumes with a different ideal in mind. Humor. Usually the final product is focused on 80s fashion because I find that decade fantastically horrendous and laugh-out-loud funny.

This year, Sophia helped me out with a little number she picked up awhile ago when we talked about having an 80s themed party. It never happened because not everyone likes to dress where the goal is to look ugly. I have no problem with that. This black one piece zipped up the front fit snugly head to toe thanks to the stirrups on each pant leg. The gold coin buttons that decorated the shoulders and chest were simple flare made complete with a leather belt that had a variety of beads clanging against a huge metal buckle. My hair was big and my eyelids blue. I looked damn good if it was 1982 and I was in my late 30s. It might be my new look. It wasn’t clear WHO I was trying to be but everyone knew which era was represented. Or at least I hope they did…

I went to a great party with an Organ Grinder and his (her) Monkey. We partied with Matt Lauer, Britney, K-Fed and baby. I was feeling so good in my 80s confidence that I made the mistake of giving my number to a dude before I registered his Jersey accent. I was attracted at first because he looked like the stoner brother in Weeds but I was over it by the time we ordered drinks. Not sure if it was his accent or his costume. It was a little unclear. He just carried around a teddy bear. Was he dressed as a pedophile? I didn’t care enough to ask. It hit me later that he probably didn’t realize I was wearing a costume either. He was simply excited someone in New York City still dressed like they do in his neighborhood. The 2 messages he’s left explain, “Remember me? I was the one with the teddy bear.” Yeah, dude, I remember, and I was the one wearing your mother’s bedazzled cat suit. Let’s call it a night.

Safety First

I don’t sleep many hours a night but when I do, I sleep like the dead. People have actually checked my pulse during the night. When I was young, I used to joke that if someone poured water over my head I’d drown before I woke up. Someone laughed at this (most likely my father) so I used the line to describe my sleeping habits until I realized it wasn’t funny. Sad to say that was a recent realization.

This also meants that if there was a fire, I would most likely burn alive. I just learned that isn't possible in my apartment building because safety comes first.

Around 3:30 a.m. yesterday morning I awoke to an incessant pounding on my front door. A Staten Island accent yelled, “FIRE!” My eyes opened slowly and tried to think if I called for more booty and wanted to role play fireman and damsel in distress. No. I was suddenly freaked out, not because he yelled fire, but because a stranger was about to pound his way in. I do not open my door or answer my buzzer unless I’m expecting a visitor. Period. Although frightening and foolish in life or death situations, I’m always proud when I follow my own laws.

I calmed down and sat up in bed to assess the situation. My apartment was lit up like a pinball machine given the Fire truck lights alive outside. I couldn’t decide if I should shimmy down the fire escape or hit play on “Burn baby burn” and take advantage of the spontaneous disco scene.

There was quite the commotion outside. I expected to look out my window and witness flames licking the sides of building, people jumping from windows or running in the streets telling others to stop, drop, and roll. Nothing. There were multiple firefighters milling around talking too loud but that’s it. No fire, no smoke, no signs of any activity that required these heroes to waste time in my neighborhood. Aren't there real emergenies somewhere else?

Once I felt secure, I opened the door with the next round of pounding and FIRE screaming. In front of me stood 2 men dressed in full gear as if the building had to be quarantined because ET was sick. I listened as they explained that there was a kitchen fire in the restaurant located on the first floor of my apartment building and did I notice if any of my walls were warm? Since I can pretty much touch all four walls standing in the same place, I did that and confirmed my box wasn’t hot. (It might have been if they sent in the good looking fire force. Ohhhhh yeaaaaah!) All safe. I went back to sleep with ease.

I returned from work that evening to a safety notice explaining that the grease fire was put out immediately, before the trucks arrived, and nothing was damaged. Quite the production for a hot plate accident. I appreciate the safety precautions but I’m a little worried about what I’d have to endure if a smoke alarm ever went off.

Goodbyes are better blacked out

Hoola Hoop has officially left the city and is on her way to live in Colorado. Although we curse Booze for taking her away it’s hard not to be excited for her new job, home, life, etc… She’s going to love it there! And she’ll be close to Rose which makes us all a little jealous.

The best part of someone’s city departure is the going away party. It’s a balls out, anything goes, forget your name celebration. A valid reason to drink heavily instead of the usual, “there’s a bar open.”

My father was in town for her scheduled party so I was unable to stay out all night like the hardcore participants. I made up for the drinking I missed on the surprise party Monday night. I blacked out shortly after dinner but from what I remember it was an absolute blast. The last time I was in such a state was Boyle’s farewell party about 6 months ago. I’m glad I’m consistent.

Booze invited a few of his friends as well. They are all cut from the same mold and for some reason I absolutely love every single one of them. I find their breed fascinating. One I should study behind glass wearing a lab coat while documenting their behavior patterns. These mountain men travel the earth without real jobs or direction and spend the majority of their time partying (unless they are canoeing). That’s their thing. When I was with Puddy I felt like part of the crew (except I have to hold down a real job which sucks.) Now I’m Puddy free but an outsider. I start to pout if I think of it like that so I try not to, especially since it’s in my own head. None of these guys care. For a proper distraction, I continued to drink heavily, toasted Hoola’s good fortune, flirted with whichever mountain man sat next to me, and joined the taxi serenade before the curtain fell on Hoola’s life in NYC. Like I said, a fantastic night.

I slept through my alarm clock the next morning and woke up next to someone else. Sadly, not a mountain man. I reviewed my phone list to see what time I called the dude lying in my bed. Since him and I do this regularly it didn’t bother me that I couldn’t recall all the details. To my horror, my phone display reported I had also called New Hampshire. Puddy? SHIT! Since I deleted all his numbers, it’s hard to say if I suddenly remembered his digits, or if I just knew the area code and thought I would take a wild guess on the others. I only tried one number and based on the seconds registered in my phone for the call, I didn’t talk to anyone or leave a message. Phew. Jenatalia – Any chance I dialed your number?

Everyone in the city will miss Hoola very much. While we are mourning her loss I need to build up my tolerance for the next farewell party. That better not be anytime soon!

Who's Your Daddy?

One of the items on my father’s NYC wish-list was to visit a comedy club. As long as he’s laughing he’s having a good time. Easy goal to achieve since he laughs at pretty much everything. (Lots of weed in his diet.) As for a laugh-out-loud stand-up club, I find the city hit or miss for good comedy. There are so many options that it’s always a gamble for an “on” night. Luck was on our side as the Comedy Village had a fantastic line-up.

Comedian number #3 was an angry man with Kramer hair who spent his turn making fun of his ex-girlfriend a.k.a. cheating slut. My father and I were in the front row and during Kramer’s soliloquy of why relationships suck he pointed to us and asked if we were a happy couple. Ummm….no. (He wanted us to say yes so he could flip us off. He accomplished this on another couple later in the show.) I have to say my father looks younger than his age because he has had a very stress free life and is extremely easy-going. (Refer to diet.) But he looks old enough to be my father!!!

When Kramer pointed at us with the question, my dad laughed. I figured he was confused so I cleared it up. “No, funny man, this is my father.” I also wanted to point out that it was pretty obvious since we look exactly alike but I figured it was hard to see with the stage lights so I let it go.

Kramer apologized, “Whoa! Who’s your daddy?”

Ha, ha, ha.

Then he asked my name. Upon hearing “Ryan” he completed a 10 minute sketch congratulating my father on finding the way to make sure a daughter is a virgin for life. He posed the question, how many men would actually want to hit it while calling out a male name? I could’ve given a number but that would’ve ruined the fun and killed my father. I laughed at two things; the comic delivery and virgins.

All in good fun, pops played along, but it got me thinking…

What kind of man gives a rat’s ass about the name of the person he’s banging? Sounds a bit sissy to me. I guess there are a few names I wouldn’t want to call out in the heat of passion....Barney, for example. To this day, only one dude has had an issue with my name. (That I know about anyway.) I forget his so whatever but he wouldn’t say mine. Since I’m a “say my name, bitch!” type of lover, I found out pretty quickly that is was a problem for him. Too bad, he would’ve enjoyed this comic if we were still together.

Enjoy the Silence

Recently I’ve moved office locations so I no longer sit near Hobbit who chews. Lucky for me, I have a whole new cast of characters for entertainment. None of them chew tobacco during the workday but that doesn’t mean they aren't capable of annoying me.

The main problem with the area is that it is DEAD silent. It is the same open floor plan as before but the people I sit near are much too focused for their own good. They are all young and ambitious therefore dedicated to their monitors. If someone does have a conversation in a tone above a librarian, you can hear every word they say and nobody has anything exciting to talk about. Which means the entire audience probably tunes into every personal conversation I have. This is frightening in general but especially disconcerting lately because I’ve had some real doozies. For example, what was this innocent bunch thinking when I told my male neighbor, Doogie, to pick up my cell phone if it rings and pretend he was me? Hmm…is she a drag queen in her free time? Is she a crime lord? Is she a spy? She's a real mystery, that one.

Most people I know complain about their office neighbors. It’s a given. Some bitch about the people around them who don’t shut-up while others sit by those with annoying habits like slurping their coffee with each sip. The closest I’ve had to these complaints is a dude who spells words slowly and loudly associating each letter with exaggerated enunciation. T as in TOM, C as in CAT. I laughed out loud when he said P as in PAPAYA. Wasn’t so funny by the 10th call. This was my only specific irritation with the new crowd until today.

Somebody on the floor decided it would be nice to break the silence with sounds of nature. As I was browsing the internet this morning, looking for museums and restaurants to attend during my father’s NY trip, I was suddenly interrupted by a tropical rainforest. Apparently someone thought they would enjoy their day better if it was accompanied with the soothing sounds of wildlife. What? Why would you live in the city if that’s how you needed to cope with day to day functions? Doogie and I kept talking loudly about the distraction hoping that the person would take the hint and end the horror. No such luck. I tried convincing Doogie into approaching the person with our list of complaints and reasons the "music" was unacceptable in the workplace. A suitable request for this perpetrator to decrease the volume. I never like to address noise issues because it’s a little “Hi kettle you’re black” so I was trying to pass off the unfortunate but necessary task.

Six hours later, I had had ENOUGH. I roamed around the floor tracing the sound. I tracked it back to…guess…my desk. It was coming from my very own computer. One of the sites I had opened to finalize my father’s itinerary had background music. How nice. Goddamned Museum of Natural History!!

I'd say that ends the mystery of potential espionage in my free time. I don't have the correct tools. I apparently need a hearing check. Do they still conduct those tests from elementary school where they make sure you understand the location of various sounds? I remember being instructed to raise my right or left hand when the PING sounded in the corresponding ear. I must have failed that exam and nobody had the heart to tell me.

So sad…whatever…if it wasn’t an option to listen to nature for “enjoyment” this never would have happened.

The Recovery

I’ve made a full recovery over Puddy. Not sure if I did this in the healthiest way but I’ve decided whatever gets you through it is the way to go.

I started the break-up process by sitting around alone feeling sorry for myself. I’ve seen others suffer through this and based on their progress I was looking forward to the weight loss aspect of depression. I figured I’d come out of my funk Puddy free and ten pounds lighter. Not so much. Most likely due to the trough of Australian red licorice I polished off while avoiding human contact. After a pride swallowing conversation with Puddy I decided that my own pity party wasn’t working as well as I had hoped. This experience has been nothing more than a blow to my ego so the “This little piggy ate her weight in red wax” wasn’t helping. I put away the Kookaburra and did the next best thing. I opened the fun box for everyone that really shouldn’t be allowed to play.

Square Pants and I have planned to meet out on more than one occasion in the last few months but for some reason I never let it happen. I don’t call him or I don’t have the energy to head where he’s located. This time he happened to be close to my neighborhood so I had no excuse. Nobody is better than my group of friends but I had fun socializing with his. They especially enjoyed our “let’s make the office rumors true” joke. Turns out Square Pants wasn’t joking. We slept on the possibility and we’ll see how it goes.

OMR and I met up for a drink. It was an impromptu meeting where I listened to him express how glad he was to learn I wasn’t a cold hearted bitch and had the capacity to love. How sweet. He then described everything I deserve, everything he can give, and everything he wants. Not a bad list, especially when he said, “I’m rich, let me take care of you.” Given our history, I know 90% of what he says is make-believe. Do I surrender to the fantasy? I suppose I could if he calls again. Never a certainty with him. When he asked what I wanted I pulled Puddy’s, “I don’t know.” I explained that I wasn’t emotionally prepared. OMR offered to pay for therapy if I was with him. Almost makes me wonder what he would have suggested if I said I wasn’t financially secure for a relationship. Would rent be added to the package?

Within this week of rejuvenation, I also scraped the bottom and called Blaze. He lives in California and we stopped talking all together 10 months ago upon my request because I had had enough of his bullshit. Compared to Puddy, his grief was nothing. I’ve ignored his attempts to contact me since so I was slightly worried he wouldn’t talk to me. More concerned if this possible refusal would help or hinder my fabulous recovery. Happy to report, the friendship picked up right where it left off. He asked what was wrong the second I said hello. I shared the Puddy story. He was silent for a few seconds and then started laughing, “What the fuck are you doing with a hippy living in New Hampshire?” I started laughing as well. It really is funny. Blaze is on his way to New York to help me celebrate the presence and completion of monogamy. He wanted to know what happened to the girl who only cares about which man is funding her good time. Good question…

She’s back.

Loaf: To Pinch or Eat?

There are certain words in the English language that should not be used. Yeast. Moist. Crust. Thanks to a recent Starbucks incident, add Loaf to this list.

My new usual for the morning coffee stop is a Venti no-foam latte (my daily dose of calcium) and a piece of banana bread. This regular order came to a screeching halt with my last visit. I was running late for work and my standard place was crowded. I waited patiently for my turn hopeful the banana bread was still fresh and still available. There was a scurry of activity behind the counter among 5 employees instead of the early morning 2. Boy Bucks took the orders and shouted coffee requests in one direction and pastry demands in the other. A well-oiled machine. I’m always impressed with how quickly they shuffle people in and out. One of the reasons I choose Starbucks. Other coffee shops are missing the beauty of speed and the additional 15 minutes I have to waste watching them fuck up my order is enough to acquire a taste for the bitter Bucks. Given my frou-frou drinks with an 80% milk and sugar content, the coffee could be ground from a pile of shit and I wouldn’t notice.

Speaking of shit…it was ordered in lieu of my Banana Bread. Boy Bucks directed Girl Pastry to retrieve “One Loaf!” Excuse me? What did I order? I’ve never read the little signs displayed with their treats but apparently Banana Bread is officially labeled Banana Loaf. I looked around to see if anyone noticed I planned to eat Loaf with my coffee. (This paranoia is a result of my Biggie experience and I didn’t want anyone to think it clever to update my nickname.) Lucky for me, I didn’t know the people in line too busy reading the display cards so they wouldn’t make a similar mistake.

“Thanks dude but hold the loaf, I’ll get something else.”
“Recall! No loaf!” Exactly.

I had roughly two seconds to make a decision. I did not want to be the reason Starbucks failed in efficiency for the day.

“I’ll take…” The first card I noticed read ‘Moist Apple Crumb Cake.’ Are they trying to kill me? “…nothing. Nevermind.” I didn’t scan other options for fear that the next labels would read “yeasty donuts” or “crusty scones.” My day was ruined. Until I arrived at the office and made a cinnamon pop-tart that was not moist, yeasty or crusty. Or a Loaf. Mmmmmm…

Quality of Life

I interviewed for a new job. I like to do this regularly because I feel it justifies my favorite pastime; complaining about my current job. If I’m out there searching it means I’m trying to do something about the suffering I endure daily. I think my friends would agree this would be a-okay if I didn’t jump into jobs that aren’t any better than the one I left so they only have approximately 6 months whine-free.

Lately, I’ve taken great interest in jobs that are completely out of my current scope. The section on my resume that summarizes relevant experience says N/A. Impressive. The recent interview was for a position in the same company but in an entirely different department, building, etc… I finagled the interview through some lady I met at an internal conference. The interview went well. I met several people who sent me on my way with a starry smile and grand hopes. I received an email the next day that said “we currently do not have anything that fits your level.” It takes more than that to kill my dreams. I contacted my new friend, Lady Conference, to investigate the exact definition of “your level.” I figured it was a nice way to say “not interested” since I have little to no experience in this area. I get so annoyed when people don’t just say that!!!!

Lady Conference called me this week with details. She reported, hotly, “well (snort) you are too expensive.” I almost laughed but refrained. I’d be mad and likely to snort too if I found out some chick 20 years younger than me was making more money. We chatted longer and after making her laugh about one of my silly interview answers (that I invented to lighten the air) I asked her the ranges of various positions. BIG MISTAKE. My visions of a glorious career change faded quickly. Bummer.

I’m always shocked to find out what others survive on. Mind you, I don’t make money. I get by without debt. Barely. I have zero assets, no car payment, and no basic expenses (like cable.) I don’t even turn on the heat in the winter so utilities are nearly $0. This means, my entire pay check goes to rent, drinking, and personal maintenance. (The mani/pedis save me from having the exact same quality of life as a cave person.) So how the hell are the people in this particular department living? Not in Manhattan…

After further Nancy Drew detective work I learned that Lady Conference is single, without children and lives in Hamilton New Jersey. That’s a nice 3 hour round trip commute via several trains. No thanks. In general, I don’t understand the commuter mentality. Like it or not, we’re at work most of our lives. Why add the 15 hours of commuting to the weekly schedule so you can have a bigger house that you spend 0 time in? (If you have kids, I get it.) I suppose I wouldn’t live in a trailer park if it was the option to cut down on a commute, but why is quality of life defined by a better residence? I would define it as “absolutely no time on the train.”

Defining Lipstick

I always defined the lipstick lesbian as a gay woman men want as well as women. This doesn’t make much sense because every woman I’ve ever met has at least one man attracted to her. And when a man finds out a woman is lesbian, 9 times out of 10 they want her more. My lipstick definition is obviously dated.

When I lived in Colorado I hung around a lesbian couple who made every effort to appear masculine. They had buzz cuts that didn’t require any maintenance aside from a trip to the barber shop every two weeks to sit under the razor again. Their typical outfit was a flannel over a T-shit, cargo pants/shorts, and hiking boots. Neither had ever worn a stitch of make-up and shaving anything on their bodies would have been too feminine. I was in my late teens and spent most of my time asking them all sorts of childlike questions.

“When did you know you were gay?”
“Did your parents freak out when you told them?”
“Is it required to dress like a boy?”

And my favorite…”You have gaydar, right? Am I gay? You can tell me, it doesn’t bother me, I just want to know.” They laughed at me because I guess if I was gay I would’ve known. I imagine my obsession with chest hair was one of the factors that meant I liked men. I questioned it because I didn’t understand how these 2 women who refused to be friends with straight women and only hung around men due to athletic ability would hang around me. Turns out it was my stupid questions that kept our friendship alive. They liked to teach people who were outside the “family.” I felt honored.

They called themselves “butch” like everyone else did. If the shoe fits…

In LA and New York my lesbian friends are of a different breed. They are drop dead gorgeous and have men, women (straight and gay) dying for a piece. I wouldn’t have known they were lesbian unless they told me and it was usually when some man was hitting on them and they’d tell the dude, “I’m gay.” I always thought it was a clever refusal. When I realized the line was true, I had more stupid questions. “Where is your flannel vest?”

This beautiful group became my description for the lipstick lesbian. They don’t particularly care for the term or use the label but it doesn’t offend.

On Friday night, I was in a debate about the fundamental difference between butch and lipstick. (Yes, this is how I spend my evenings, mindless discussions over vodka.) At the end of the argument, we could not decide on the proper classification for lipstick. Does it just come down to the maintained woman? In the end, it doesn’t matter and nobody should be classified but I think it’s the same as defining men as metro-sexual vs. macho-sexual. I only ask because I wonder if I would fit the lipstick or metro definition of any group. Lately, I seem to fit the obviously-doesn’t-care-and-should classification of every type, man or woman. As of today, I vow to brush my hair and wear more make-up. Watch out…there’s a new lipstick in town.

Fast Food Power

Unlike most people, I don’t have any issues with fast food. I’ve read Fast Food Nation and watched SuperSize Me but these studies don’t scare me. The standard theme “this stuff is nasty” is just plain common sense. And who cares? I always knew that the stuff in large doses would kill me. So will pretty much everything else I do, no reason to FREAK OUT when I biggie size my fries.

I will not, however, visit a fast food restaurant in New York City. The places are dirty, smelly, and crawling with people of the same characteristics. The no-entry rule applies to most chain restaurants in Manhattan as well. I won’t even eat at the Olive Garden or Outback. Nor will my friends other than Rose who was set up on a blind date with a guy new to town who thought Outback was the height of sophistication. I shouldn’t make fun of that because I went on a blind date once with a dude who took me to California Pizza Kitchen. I always wondered if it was some sort of test. Like this guy was deadest on finding a girl who would call him after a night dining at CPK because it meant she wasn’t concerned about money or class.

Around the corner from my apartment building is a Popeye’s, a chicken joint that’s a step down from KFC. I noticed in the last month it has been boarded up for renovation. I just figured that meant they were taking a few days to mop the floor and hire people without brown teeth, but when it reopened, it was a whole new place. The sign is the same but the inside has a Spanish theme with colorful wall murals of couples dancing. What? I noticed through the huge picture windows they installed around the front door. I don’t understand why such an expensive decoration scheme would be wasted on a place like Popeye’s. The clientele hasn’t changed or increased even though the employees have better uniforms. What was the point?

In college my nickname was Biggie because of an unfortunate Wendy’s episode. I was on a road trip with my friend, Cash, who loves Wendy’s as much as I do. We stopped at lunchtime and this particular joint in the middle of Nevada was jam-packed. By the time it was my turn to order I was starving, tired, and fresh out of patience. The girl who took my order asked if I wanted Biggie sizes. I didn’t understand her because she mumbled. I was near tears due to my famished state. I cried angrily, “I just want my food.” She looked at me for a second with that expression, “oh yeah, watch this.” Mumbles then proceeded to call, clear as day, into the order microphone “Biggie, biggie, biggie for the biggie, biggie, biggie…” I can’t remember exactly what she said, but there were about 15 biggies peppered throughout the order. It was loud enough for everyone present to look at the counter and see the “Biggie, biggie, biggie.” My friend Cash couldn’t stop laughing and contemplated sitting elsewhere because everyone was staring. It was funny but I couldn’t eat because I was convinced my food had been spit in. Also common sense in such a scenario.

Hell is Feminine

Blanche and I were excited to attend a professional women’s conference on Wednesday night. As I stood in line for registration with thousands of women in the 20-40 age range, I wondered what drugs had seeped into my system where “excited” applied to “women only.” Even if I were lesbian, this would not have been fun. I suppose if I were gay, and the conference was for “all lesbians” or “bi-curious straight girls”…maybe then I’d have a smile on my face.

The goal of this conference was to listen to extremely successful women brag about their accomplishments while teaching the masses of basic women to overcome our weak ability to negotiate or fight for what we deserve. Good God. I must have just seen “networking reception to follow” in the invitation.

During the guest speaker’s speech she made the comment, “I think there is a special place in hell for women who don’t support other women.” Everyone cheered. I did too. Just another reason I’ll be nominated to take over the underworld. I applaud any time I’m faced with these certainties. I wonder if the punishment for this circle of hell is an all woman conference.

Each woman on the panel told a story of something they overcame in the workplace. Once each of them had a turn, the audience had the opportunity to ask questions. I thought this little exercise was bizarre. What the hell am I going to ask the founder of InStyle magazine that will improve my career? “Do you have any job openings for at least half a million?” came to mind, but the question auctioneer didn’t reach my section in the Q&A session. Bummer.

We were encouraged to ask them situational questions that may apply to our world and see how these masters of the universe handled similar like incidents so we could achieve the same success. I had several questions…

Have you ever arrived to work drunk and a manager caught you puking in ladies toilet?

Have you ever in a situation where you and your boss are unable to agree on a proper annual increase because you are sleeping with him and think you deserve more than the standard 5%?

If I tell people to “fuck off” on a regular basis and like to make inappropriate comments, preferably of a sexual nature, whenever possible, will I achieve your success?

No? You don’t think so? Hmm…interesting…

Who has two thumbs and thinks the corporate world is Satan’s way of showing us hell is real…this girl.

Never drink alone unless you're by yourself...

I don’t know if it’s because I decided to finish up the remains of the weekend beer supply by myself last night with dinner but WOW, cell phone commercials are funny!

T-Mobile is advertising for their new 5-spot plan. I’m not sure of the exact plan name but it is something where you can talk to 5 of your favorite people for free. This is the first commercial I’ve seen for T-Mobile without Catherine Zeta-I-Married-Someone-Grandpa’s-Age. Guaranteed the company will survive without her. In this commercial, Guy A wants to know why his girlfriend is saved in Guy B’s phone in one of his 5-spot. Guy B assures Guy A not to worry because there’s nothing going on. Then the ring tone “Secret Lover” starts and Guy A is clearly upset that it is his girlfriend calling for Guy B who takes the phone from Guy A and answers. Funny.

A Cingular advertisement about dropped calls entertained me while watching How I Met Your Mother, a show that usually makes me laugh but last night wasn’t nearly as entertaining as the company that claims it is “raising the bar.” In this ad, guy calls his girlfriend and makes some crack about her calling another guy. The phone drops when the girl tries to argue his comment and guy is left to discuss her “cheating” with the dead air assuming that her silence means that she is seeing another guy, possible more than one. Again, funny.

It is possible that in a buzzed state I found these hilarious. I used to get a kick out of Little Caesars’ Pizza and Miller Lite commercials. I haven’t seen any in awhile. Is Little Caesar’s even in business any longer? That reminds me, add Crazy Bread to the list of foods I consumed when growing up and haven’t had in a long time.

Although I have issues with people who use ad slogans in every day speech, as mentioned in previous post, I have no problem with people who share a good ad sighting.

It's Not Me, It's You

Puddy and I broke up. It’s hard to say exactly who did the breaking. I actually said the words but he didn’t argue. Instead of using the standard, “it’s not you, it’s me” routine to make it less painful for the other person. I was given the opportunity to use, “it’s not me, it’s you.” And he agreed. Case closed.

The last 2 weeks, the dude has been weird. The call frequency decreased substantially along with the duration of the conversations. His general tone was detached and withdrawn. These are the basic things people in long distance relationships have to go on for assurance everything is okay. (Listen to me, I’m an expert now.) On weekend 1 of weirdness phase, he failed to come to New York like he promised. As you remember, the last time he failed to deliver, he was full of apologies and jewelry. This time he went with something a little different, he didn’t apologize and he didn’t care. A clear indication something was very wrong. I didn’t want to break it off over the phone because that seemed unreasonable. It was possible he was going through something that had nothing to do with me. (Denial) I needed to see him to decide for sure. So I waited for his next trip to New York, not actually believing he would follow through and hoping all the same that he would return to my Perfect Puddy by the time he arrived. As I waited, I experienced a new emotion daily. I went through the 12 steps of grieving in 12 days; uneasiness, confusion, denial, frustration, depression, anger, rage, stupidity, sick, sadness, indifference, acceptance. Impressive string there. Good news…I’m in touch with all my emotions.

Puddy actually did visit and we had a good weekend together. The usual whirlwind of drinking and sex but in the end he said he didn’t know what he wanted and that included me. He woke up one day and didn’t want to be with me any more. Okay. What can I do? The funny thing is that he did this with his ex-girlfriend who was a family friend of 30 years and they dated for more than 2. If he can do that to her, he can do that to anyone. I don’t feel stupid that I didn’t see it coming, I feel stupid that I told everyone I’ve ever known about him. I was so excited to be with him. Not so excited to report the opposite. (To my mother, for example.)

I wrapped up the Puddy chapter in the same manner as everyone after a break-up. (and if they don’t do this, they should.) I spent yesterday alone feeling sorry for myself, deleted his numbers (including his friends and Little Brother) from my phones, cried that I’ll never hang out with Little Brother again, took some sleeping pills for a goodnight’s rest, and then called in late to work this morning so I could apply an ice pack to my eyes for 3 hours before stepping into public. All set. Good as new.

The positives of this break. 1. Puddy turns 36 in October and I don’t have to buy him a gift. 2. I can sleep with other people. First stop, Scuba Steve. 3. I don’t have to step into New Hampshire ever again. (No offense, Jenafear) 4. It was a clean break. No mess. He won't call me and I don't have his numbers to call him. It's just a matter of moving on. Easy to do.

Also positive…I hope when I decide to date someone else, they treat me as well as Puddy did in the first months we were together. He was perfect.