Are you serious...still?

Checking Out...

2006-12-19T07:44:00.000-08:00

Sad to say that my company of Nazis has finally blocked all blogger activity. It has been difficult to continue reading and writing posts, my preferred activity while I attempted to look busy working. I relied on both to keep my day from slipping into hell. There was no reason to jump out the window of the midtown high-rise when I was able to read the entertaining words of Intolerant, find out what I’m missing in New Hampshire through Jenafear, keep tabs on my buddy FLC, or laugh out loud at Liz. I also thank the many others who kept me alive.

I knew this day would come it was just a matter of time. I always thought it was tres bizarre that they’d let me connect to “Gofuckyourselfyoufuckingfuck.com” when Buttersnatch was still with us but they wouldn’t let me connect to iVillage. I’m actually surprised it took them so long to catch on.

This soul-sucking, anti-blogger industry has jumpstarted my job search for anything else anywhere in the world. More specifically; business I am currently unable to access at work located in New York City.

I will be back, new and improved, hopefully soon.

"GET OUT!" Dubs response when asked if she had any finance tips.

BUSTED!

2006-12-13T11:57:00.000-08:00

There is a couple in my building I see often. We are always friendly but we’re not friends. For example, I can’t remember their names and it’s been far too long to ask now. Let’s call them Barbie and Ken because I don’t know them well enough to assign fitting nicknames.

About a month ago, Barbie switched from referencing Ken as her boyfriend to her fiancé. I congratulated her because it must have happened recently but I didn’t stick around for the when and how. That’s our relationship: passing in the hallways, behaving in a civil manner, no real interest in each other’s lives. We’ve maintained this for three years. It’s a shame because they are around my age and I’m sure they are fun, interesting, etc…but we have never taken that extra step to be better than neighboring acquaintances. No reason for tears, I have enough friends.

Recently on my walk home from work as I stood at the south-side intersection of 52nd and Park, I noticed Ken making out with someone across the street. Full on make-out. It was not Barbie. I looked away because I was embarrassed. Definitely not something I should have witnessed. As I started walking east, I also had the thought that perhaps it wasn’t Ken so no reason to think I saw something potentially scandalous. When I hit Lexington, Ken and I merged on the same block corner. Ken was the dude with his tongue down some women’s throat. He didn't know I saw him and I didn't mention it.

We chatted briefly. I congratulated him on his engagement and we discussed our holiday vacation trips. “Can’t wait until they start!” That sort of thing. (I spared him my I-hate-Christmas campaign.) I used Christmas shopping as the reason I had to end the escort and step into Nine West. It’s a long walk home and I could do without small talk.

Ken can make out with whomever he wants. It's none of my business and I don't plan on making it mine. I would never mention such sightings to Barbie. For all I know, they have an open relationship and she’s entertaining our super (which would explain why we have had the recent upgrade in our building’s exterminator visits.) If that were true, I definitely have to add them to my friend list. How does one ask that question after years commenting on the weather?

Now, because I’m sick and twisted, I feel like I have this secret that nobody should know. I’m almost excited when I see them together and can’t stop smiling. I’ve been told I have a shit eating grin with every smile, which is unfortunate, but I’m always thrilled when I have a valid reason for it's presence.

Keep in mind, I don’t feel sorry for her or think she should know (if it’s something she doesn’t already.) I’m sure they have a great relationship. The real question, if the tables were turned, would I want Barbie telling me my boyfriend or fiancé made out with someone else? I can’t decide but I think I’m leaning towards no.

Actual friends are under a different set of rules.

The Family Circus

2006-12-06T15:46:00.000-08:00

Like anyone else with a decent sense of humor, I can’t stand the comic strip The Family Circus. This also means I don’t like when people share stories about their children that are “just so funny!” Or anything that uses the phrase, “kids say or do the darndest things.” I use this clever saying when Small Fry or the Fry Guys do anything stupid, but they are legally adults so it’s funny. Not humorous when the subject is under the age of 5. I thought that until I heard this story…

Bull Durham, a director at my company who looks exactly like Tim Robbins, was chatting away at a recent network event about his weekend. Apparently the family cat, Tabby, had been missing for an entire week and his 4-year-old son Junior whined for it every day. On Saturday, Bull found a dead cat on the side of a road in their neighborhood that looked exactly like Tabby. Bull went home for a shovel and garbage bag. He returned to the murder scene, scooped up Tabby and wrapped her in the body bag. No more Fresh Step Litter or Meow Mix necessary on the weekly grocery list. Poor Tabby, may she Rest In Peace.

At home, Junior was very upset about Tabby and death in general. The family held a proper funeral burying Tabby in the backyard with a few tears. I imagine at his young age, Junior has not read or seen Pet Cemetery and is a-okay with animals buried 50 feet beyond his bedroom window. They served Hi-C and Popsicles following the service sharing wonderful kitty stores. Junior went to sleep and woke up the next day understanding that Tabby was in a “better place.” The parents were pleased their son learned about death and the proper funeral protocol.

This important life lesson became a bit confusing when Tabby arrived home late Sunday night.

Junior was thrilled that his precious cat really did have nine lives. Bull was not so thrilled that he disposed of somebody else’s road kill on his property or that his son now believes in life after death. Tough to teach the reality when the kid witnessed it first hand.

Currently, Junior spends most of his days burying trucks, stuffed animals, and household items in the backyard waiting for them to come back to life. Bull or Mrs. Durham didn’t realize until the remote control went missing.

I think it’s hilarious. Fucking kids.

Bah Humbug

2006-12-04T13:37:00.000-08:00

There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to come out with it. I fucking hate Christmas. I’m sorry, but I do. I really do. Phew…that’s a tough one to put in writing or say aloud where people can hear me. I’d like to go stand outside the Rockefeller tree and scream it but that’s a little extreme. And the consequence involves elves.

I know it’s the time of year to be a little bit nicer to everyone and more compassionate about those less fortunate. That’s fine. Do we have to do it with a Santa hat and bells?

I think I enjoyed the holiday when I was young but that was really only because of the presents. I didn’t enjoy the decorations, the carols, the shopping, the forced merry and bright crap, I just have always thought it was that…crap. Perhaps I’m still angry that I was never cast as Mary in my church’s nativity play. I was always one of the animals because I couldn’t sing. If you were cast as a donkey several years in a row, you’d hate Christmas too.

At work in our last department meeting, some women who will be known as Retard suggested we draw for Secret Santas. I laughed because I thought she was joking. Our director wasn’t sure how to respond to such a ludicrous idea so I helped. “On behalf of our department that is 40% Jewish and 80% male, I vote no way in hell.” I talked to Retard afterwards and tried to control the are-you-serious tone I’m known for. She thought it was a good idea because department morale seemed low. I explained morale was low because we were just told our bonuses are going to suck and our department restructure demoted several people. A bag of red and green M&Ms from a Secret Santa that is possibly their new supervisor won’t help. (For those who care, I was not demoted.)

Just when I didn’t think this holiday could annoy me more, Blanche forwards an email with the subject “MAIL SERVICES HOLIDAY COLLECTION.” She was asking if, like her, we were required to contribute $30-$45 dollars to the mail people at our offices. What? No, I’m currently not forced to give more money than I spend on my siblings for the holiday to people who are actually employed. I would rather put $45 in the red bucket outside Macy’s. She’ll give the money because it is bonus season and the mail people are nice but it’s the obligation that’s irritating. And the person at their company who decided this was a necessary act of kindness. How about the company pays them more?

My trip home this Christmas totaled over $1000. Before I bought the ticket I called home and asked if I could visit when it didn’t cost a Mail Services paycheck. Mom didn’t like that much because Christmas is the time to be with family. News to me. My mom isn’t sentimental, she refuses to attend family reunions, she actually pays to have a Christmas tree delivered decorated because none of us can be bothered with the task of hanging ornaments ourselves, but when I say I would rather come home in January where prices are reasonable suddenly she’s Mrs. Claus. I bought the ticket because it isn’t worth the fight.

Before I actually morph into Ebenezer Scrooge I will say I do like a few things about the holidays. The endless parties, the Nutcracker, and Egg Nog (preferably spiked but I'm dangerous to be around when consumed.) Happy Holidays!

WIPEOUT!!!!

2006-11-30T10:23:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been a particular graceful woman, sober or drunk, but I have been able to avoid tripping over myself in the workplace for over 2 years. That impressive streak has now come to an end.

On the way to the bathroom, right in front of Small Fry, my heel caught in the cuff of my pant leg and I went crashing to the floor. I crashed HARD. I’m pretty sure I have a rug burn on my cheek. It was a full on face plant. I don’t embarrass easy so I laughed, stood up, and continued to the bathroom as if nothing happened.

Back at my desk, nobody mentioned it and I thought for sure Small Fry would give me shit about it. Nothing. That’s almost worse. I would rather laugh about it with the eye witness because if I were to be on the receiving end of such a viewing pleasure I wouldn’t be able to shut up about it until he either killed me or himself. Too bad. I shrugged and didn’t bring it up. It was soon forgotten. (Aside from the raw design on my right cheek.)

Later in the day Small Fry’s pal Willow started chatting about his high school days when he won State Champion for Wrestling. My response, ewwwww, men rolling around with men in leotards is icky-pooh! He threatened to kick my ass. I said cauliflower ear wouldn’t go with my outfit, maybe tomorrow. He started talking about his sweet moves which inspired Small Fry to interrupt with, “I think she’s got you beat with her diving squirrel. She has perfected that move. She didn’t even break her hip.”

I haven’t stopped laughing. He doesn’t seem all that bright and yet the dude is a witty whipper snapper. Love him. It recently dawned on me that he reminds me of my summer laughing with Little Brother. (Reminder, Puddy’s little brother not mine.) Hmmm…Little Brother. I miss him. That leads me to the question, do I swing by Eugene, Oregon in search of LB or do I seduce SF?

And if I chose the latter, which line do I use? 1. So…do you fancy squirrels? 2. Hey Small Fry, do you like ketch-up or need a little Dubs sauce? 3. And by the way, my hips never break.

Learning the hard way...

2006-11-26T14:43:00.000-08:00

Doritos recently relocated to the Los Angeles area. She has a great job, reliable car, steady school schedule, and decent boyfriend. She’s as happy as they come. A regular 30-year-old woman living the dream.

In a recent apartment search, Decent tagged along and at the end claimed, “I could never live with you.” They had never talked about it and although it crossed Doritos mind, she hadn’t mentioned it. She didn’t argue and continued to search for a small one-bedroom paradise until she found something that fit with her happy life, living alone.

Like most women, Doritos started to analyze why Decent felt it was necessary to express that he could NEVER live with her. What the hell is wrong with her? And it’s not like she asked him! Why would he say that? He has some nerve and blah, blah, blah. After a week of complaining to her girlfriends, she got over it. Their relationship was the same good time it had been before the odd statement so she let it go.

After one particular evening of having a good time and letting it go, Doritos realized she forgot her cell phone in his apartment. They agreed she would stop by after work to pick it up. He mentioned he had a friend at his place but she wouldn’t be interrupting anything.

Doritos arrived and ran into his friend, some guy Decent knew that she had met before. Friend explained that Decent was at his car if she wanted to talk to him. He seemed nervous that she wanted to go into the apartment. Since she has a key (yes, Decent who would NEVER live with her, gave her a key to his place) she explained to Friend that she just had to pick up something and moved to the apartment door to continue her business.

The apartment had some new décor since her departure that morning. Every table surface was covered with little baggies of marijuana grouped together in bunches to conduct a proper inventory. She was shocked and freaked out but needed to find her cell phone. It was located in the bathroom along with a full bathtub of Mary Jane waiting to be distributed in the baggie groups along with their friends in the living room. Doritos surveyed the scene and realized suddenly why Decent could NEVER live with her. He appaently played Weeds in his free time.

As upsetting as it was, she broke up with him. Doritos has a five-year plan that includes marriage and children, not potential jail time and drug wars. Who knew, “Are you a drug dealer?” was a necessary question to ask when you meet someone new. She had learned the hard way to ask, “Are you married?” or “Do you live with your mother?” Add the new one to the list.

Doritos was also upset that during the 6 months they dated, they split everything 50/50. If he’s wheeling and dealing dope on the side, shouldn’t he have enough money to pick up the dinner bill every now and then? The answer is yes.

Can I pass as a 22 year old?

2006-11-20T06:39:00.000-08:00

Survey says….NO.

The truth became apparent recently. To be specific…
Date: 11/16/06
Time: 6:04 pm
Place: Hawaiian Tropics in Times Square

Small Fry started working in an area near mine a few weeks ago. Since his start date we’ve become “friends” and spend most of the day joking around over IM. I would say flirting but because he’s almost 7 years younger than me it just seems wrong. He’s a good looking kid for sure. In fact if I was in my early 50s he is EXACTLY what I would be on the hunt for to satisfy my Mrs. Robinson fantasies.

He invited me out with his friends for happy hour after work last week. I don’t think he thought I would actually say yes, but I was itching for a night of drinking and my friends had to work late so I thought, “Why not?” I now have an answer to that question.

It dawned on me shortly after I consumed my first drink that I’ve never hung out with guys that have just graduated from college, those in the 22-25 age range. When I was that age I hung out with men at least 30 and older. And the fantastic male friends I have now are my age, but I didn’t start to hang out with them until we were 26. It’s hard to believe they would ever act like Small Fry and the Fry Guys.

I hung around the bar with five 22 year olds who can’t hold their liquor and can barely afford to tip the bartender. I can’t remember the last time I had 3 shots of tequila before 6:30 pm but I’ll recall this experience if it ever happens again. By 9:00 pm all of them were stumbling, drooling, and groping the cute waitresses. Small Fry was nearly passed out on my shoulder and the other 4 were telling girls about their college fraternity days. They kept slapping each other high five and doing some other hand gesture that I assume is their gang, aka brother, sign.

I needed to be seriously drunk to hang around these kids and I didn’t feel like the straight liquor was doing the trick. I ended up babysitting, literally, Small Fry who required an escort to Penn Station. As I basically carried him there, he told me about his ex-girlfriend who he recently broke up with because she was too concerned with the “shallow things in life.” I don’t even know what that means and he couldn’t explain it, really. He kept saying, “ya know?” Since we spent the evening hitting on the young flesh in hula skirts I kind of thought discussions of “shallow” were out of place. Was he trying to prove he was mature? This cougar ain’t impressed.

In the end, I confirmed I can still drink like I’m 22, have a tolerance of an old drunk, and recover like road-kill. I walked into work the next day looking like I had been dragged behind the taxi instead of riding safely inside. Meanwhile Small Fry apparently fell asleep on the train and woke up in Rockaway Beach without his wallet but still managed to arrive to work on time looking shiny and new. Little shit.

I received emails all day rehashing the high points of the night. I am now “one of the Fry Guys.” Or their mother. I guess the best part of the evening was when a kid hit on me and I said, “call me when you get some pubes, okay?”

Sucker!

2006-11-16T10:07:00.000-08:00

Exact financial status is just not something that should be discussed amongst friends. There are exceptions, but very few. I use my friends help when trying to negotiate better salaries for other jobs and vice versa. We’ll talk percentages when bonus checks are cut but savings accounts, portfolios' status, trust funds, etc are not discussed. The reason it shouldn’t be shared is everyone has a different concept of what “financially okay” means. Some more warped than others...

My group of friends (if you’d to join, please submit a resume, list of interests, and headshot) has the general understanding that dinner checks are split evenly and the “you buy then I buy” concept is applied to rounds at bars. If it’s your birthday or going away party, you usually don’t pay, and if you showed up after dinner, it’s nice to throw in a couple bucks for drinks consumed. We all understand that it evens out somewhere along the line.

There have been instances in large groups where aquaintances have complained about the bill because they only had 1 drink and the rest of us had more than 2. In those cases, we let them pay what they want, talk about them behind their backs, and never invite them out again.

When Cash came to town, I warned her about the unspoken arrangement that would apply to her if she expected to be invited back. She debated how it was generally unfair but agreed to comply for the night. Because she doesn’t have a steady job and only has to pay rent (since everything else is funded by whatever man of the moment she relies upon), I’m usually more generous with the portion I pay. Well not any more.

At some point during her visit, she asked if I was planning to buy a place in Manhattan. I was like “Oh sure, as soon as I get my next pay check.” Ha! Given that my shoebox of an apartment is at least half a million, I’m not interested in considering it an option. I’ll continue to pay rent and complain about it, thank you very much. (I’m not moving out of the city so I can own a place, so keep the suggestion to yourself.) She advised me how buying a place is such a good idea because rent is a waste of money. Really? This is BRAND new information. She then described the condo she plans to purchase a condo in South Beach by the end of the year because she will have $100K in savings and that was her financial goal.

WHAT?

The bitch has $100K in savings (yes, savings/cash account, this doesn’t count her investments because I asked) and won’t pay for movies, brunch, and drinks? I guess she thinks, why pay for those when you have sucker friend Dubs picking up the tab?

I don’t care if everyone else I know has that much or more in their accounts, that isn’t the issue. The issue is acting like you have NO money when you have six figures sitting at the bank.

What is a person like this called? Cheap? Spoiled? I can’t put my finger on it…

Picture This...

2006-11-13T14:25:00.000-08:00

I’m not sure where Rose finds them but she does. These guys always seem fine, possessing the basic qualities that make a person great before you know anything real about them; good-looking, good sense of humor, good time. Good in bed is also necessary but Rose doesn’t know that about all her boys because unlike me, she usually waits to sleep with them until she knows them well. By then, some of the initial great factors fizzle so then the sex, good or bad, never happens. I prefer to find out before I waste time actually liking a person.

Rose rid herself of MySpace dude but replaced him with PhotoFun man. She received an email from him with a series of pictures and no explanation. Just six shots of him before and after various outdoor activities; biking, hiking, snowshoeing. I can’t decide if my favorite is the muscle man shot as he’s exiting the colorful forest, the one where’s he laughing at the silliness of lying in the snow, or the full-body stance decked out in his shiny spandex. I understand that serious bikers have to wear such shorts but do they have to take pictures of the crime and send them to the girl after a few dates? The answer is no. Unless he’s trying to say “I don’t think we should see each other any more because I’m weird.”

Success PhotoFun! It worked. Instead of trying to solve the mystery of the photo gallery, Rose decided it was best if she didn’t respond or speak to him again. I concur. A few people I’ve surveyed think that’s a little harsh. These were also the people that said “what a weirdo” when I described picture sharing time. So why is it harsh? Rose has men falling at her feet regularly, no reason to hold onto the happening fellow that captures his precious moments to share.

I’d post the pics but that would be mean. And I’m a sweetheart.

HEADS UP!

2006-11-10T06:02:00.000-08:00

I’m always surprised to hear stories where women throw things when they are fighting. Typically at a man. Is this standard woman behavior? Should I be expecting this overwhelming surge of fury to happen one day? Do you just hit a point where you shrug and think, “And now it is time to pitch sharp household items at the person I married. Watch out kids.”

I had dinner with Trainwreck this week and he likes to spend a portion of the time complaining about his wife, Geisha. They fight like crazy. I know both of them but I don’t really have a side. They are both ridiculous. I can’t get past the fact that they have millions of dollars, healthy adorable children, and nothing to complain about. I guess they fight so they do. The reason for their current unhappiness always falls on deaf ears. I wonder what they would do if they had real problems.

In a recent argument, Geisha decided throwing silverware, including knives, would be the best way to work out her anger. Trainwreck hid in a closet like a little girl and called the cops. She was then arrested for domestic abuse. I thought this shit only happened in trailer parks. Nope. Stuffy residential areas where the best deal is a $5 million dollar spread have the same trash. I bet this impressive display gave the neighbors something to talk about. If her intention was to kill him, why didn’t she just put shredded glass in his take-out like a normal woman? Hello? Problem solved before his next digestion.

You may ask...why was she so mad? Something about the tiles selected for their new pool. Why did he call the cops? So he can have something against her if she tries to take the children away. Why doesn’t she leave him? Because she’d only have half his money and nothing to complain about. Why doesn’t he leave her? He never would. So home sweet home. At least they have enough money to pay for the therapy their children will need.

I know marriage is tough, but come on! This is just insane.

I am constantly worried about acting like a crazy woman. I’m obsessed with it actually. To the point that it probably makes me nuts. I enter most situations thinking, is this what a crazy woman would do? I assume it is because it's our nature so then I automatically do the opposite.

I think throwing knives is pretty much as sister-psycho as it gets. This means in a similar situation where I was as enraged, instead of taking out the silverware, I would stop myself, act calm, apologize for yelling, tell him I loved him and that he was perfect, set up a fund overseas to drain different accounts, find myself a good lawyer, and figure out a way to force him into an affair for blackmail. (If he was already having one, the last task would be real simple.) The kids would still need therapy but at least they wouldn’t suffer from shell shock when kitchen utensils were used.

See, I’m totally sane! Oh boy….I would never actually go to such measures, but just in case, I better stick with single life and no children.

Breaking Up

2006-11-08T12:01:00.000-08:00

Don’t worry, I’m not complaining about another break-up. Well, kind of. This is about the removal of Vince Vaughn from my Top 5 list. Christian Bale has been bumped up to the number 1 slot. Congrats Christian! I love you! This leaves an open spot after Viggo Mortenson to be filled with 1 of the following: Daniel Day-Lewis, Daniel Craig, or Jason Statham. I'll keep you posted on the results.

I watched the movie The Break-up and hated it. I was furious by the end. I’m not much of a Jennifer Aniston fan so it was a gamble but Vince is my boy. WAS my boy.

I can’t stand it when they advertise a movie as comedy that is not comical. Not even close. I actually cried. It was so sad! I’m not particularly sensitive but I can cry at fiction. Like the last season finale of Grey’s Anatomy. I required Kleenex for that one. Tragic.

Hard to say if the tears fell because of the overwhelming hatred for Vince Vaughn that resulted or the actual movie. Either way, “comedy” my ass.

Does anybody notice that Vince says the exact same lines in every movie? The following phrases were present in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Wedding Crashers, The Break-up.

“I like where your heads at.”
“Good talk.” (Said after he delivers a soliloquy to someone and they don’t have the opportunity to offer anything to the conversation.)
“…get hopped up and make some bad decisions.”

Is it supposed to be funny the third time it is delivered? Does he think people are not going to see more than one of his movies? I used to think he was hilarious but now it is just RUINED.

He often repeats phrases from Swingers but I find those acceptable since it made him. I wish he’d consult someone before manipulating a script. I think I'm the only one qualified.

Move yourself!

Wasting Time and Space

2006-11-06T07:24:00.000-08:00

My gorgeous friend Cash came to visit this weekend. I haven’t seen her in awhile and I had forgotten how much fun it is to play the role of her bodyguard. I have to admit that I’m good at it. I like when I can act like a complete bitch and it’s appreciated by someone.

In the couple days we roamed around the city shopping and drinking, Cash was stopped several times by a variety of men who would say, and I quote, “I just had to come over and say HI because you are like so beautiful.” She would chat with them for a couple seconds waiting for me to enter the scene and deflate their ego. We established the routine long ago. She gives them a minute or so of her time while I think of something that’ll put them in their place. I have a limited tolerance for unappealing men that even THINK she would be flattered by their approach. I wonder where and why they achieved this level of confidence.

I do appreciate a confident man, or one who at least knows how to hide his insecurities, but never someone who would approach a model and say “you are beautiful, what are you up to?” like the ugly man did yesterday in DSW while shopping with his friend. Cash explained what we were up to at noon on a Sunday while I asked, “What are you boys doing in DSW?” If they had said, “picking up chicks,” I may have laughed but he just said, “shopping for shoes, what else?” I don’t know…browsing for testicles?

Is it possible that at one point in their life they dated someone in Cash’s league of beauty so they assumed they were on equal playing fields? Or is it always just worth the shot?

I don’t mean to consistently harp on the ugly. If it makes anyone feel better, I’m just as annoyed with the other side of the spectrum. The beautiful people who don’t realize it. For example, out on Saturday night, there was a hot man checking out Cash but he never approached. He just stared from afar. I watched and kept Cash up to speed on when she should make eye contact. He never moved. At the end of the night while retrieving our coats, he grabbed her arm and asked her to stay through a drunken slur. He admitted to wanting to talk with her all night but didn’t have the courage. Good God. This type of line is never acceptable. Do gorgeous men thinks it makes them sound modest? Or was this guy in that small percentage of men that do not realize where they line up? If so, what a waste. Or do they not approach because they are used to women throwing pussy at them so they’re not sure how to do it? Hmmm…this issue should be included in future political party debates.

I would say I know my level of attraction but after 5+ martinis I have no problem hitting on people I think are God-like. Whether or not they actually are is a different topic, but I’ve got the balls to let them know what I'm seeing right then. Like I did for the gorgeous waiter from Friday’s dinner. I called him Adonis to get his attention and it totally would have worked if he hadn’t been busy buying Blanche’s boyfriend a cocktail. I guess I miss a few other factors with Stoli in my system. Don’t worry…I’ll get him next time.

Square Pants in a Twist

2006-11-03T13:43:00.000-08:00

I continue to spend most office days improving my relationship with Square Pants. We flirt around the possibility of relationship but we haven’t officially done anything that fits that description since the drunken affair a few weeks back. That wild hair aside, he has returned to his rigid appropriate ways. I am hopeful that his straight as an arrow approach to life is a show for professional purposes and one of these days a naughty, complicated, sexually charged man will break free for good. My dreams are fading.

Last week we planned to meet for happy hour with Doll and Meatball, a couple of people from one of our projects who also happen to have a juicy rumor circulating about their relationship status. One of those boss/subordinate things that is a tad too close. I don’t believe they are getting it on outside of the office walls because she’s hot and he’s not but I don’t know for sure so I join the speculators for some decent gossip fun. Doll came to me upset about the Meatball rumors thinking I would be sympathetic given my vast experience dealing with a poor reputation. I don’t think sympathy is the right word, “If you’re sleeping with him to get ahead, that’s not going to happen. Sleep with Hannibal.” (Hannibal is the director of the department.) These kids, they have so much to learn.

When sharing the story, I didn’t expect to teach Square Pants another basic reality.

We love to laugh about Doll and Meatball. He just CAN’T believe they would get together since Meatball is her manager. OH MY GOD that’s just CRAZY! We joked in this nature for several weeks. During one hilarious IM conversation about them both being out of the office on the same day, I typed, “I wonder if his wife gets nice gifts out of the deal.”

Meatball is married and has a new baby girl. Something I figured Square Pants knew. But no, that was hot off the press. I BLEW HIS MIND. I was planning to do so in other ways, but this will have to be the peak of my blowing. Square Pants called me immediately following the announcement of Mrs. Meatball. “He has a wife!?!?!” Given his shock, I didn’t mention the baby until he had calmed down. 3 days later. Square Pants was just disgusted, “That is just sick! What a scumbag!” My only response, “Sometimes, Baby, there are things in this world that you’re not going to like...” I didn’t mention that would be about 80% of what I’ve accomplished to date.

I guess I thought Doll and Meatball were worth gossiping about because of the scandal with a married boss. Square Pants thought it was worth the gossip because it meant people had sexual tension within a 5 foot radius. We weren’t quite on the same page.

I know I’m tainted when it comes to this sort of thing, but I find it so rosy-cheek and bright-eyed when someone is surprised that a man would cheat on his wife. It’s almost cute. I wonder how Square Pants reacted when a tree in Pleasantville caught fire.

Forever 80s

2006-10-31T06:14:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-27T07:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-25T06:22:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-10-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-17T13:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-16T10:30:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-10-13T07:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-11T08:12:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-09T06:42:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-06T06:09:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-05T06:18:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-10-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-02T09:51:00.000-07:00

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.

MyTool.com

2006-09-28T05:45:00.000-07:00

It is difficult for me to complain about MySpace. I feel like a hypocrite since Blogger isn’t much better. They’re both the same…a bunch of people posting things they think are worth reading. I haven’t spent much time on MySpace but I figured it was an anonymous world with random crap. Au contraire!

My friend Rose has been dating a boy, Chip. I call him Chip because when he was first discussed, Dorothy referred to him as Chip and I thought that was his real name. So I kept emailing Rose inquiring about Chip. She had no idea who I was talking about at first. She finally caught on but didn’t take the time to correct me. Funny. Come to think of it, I do this type of thing often and nobody mentions it. Never worth the trouble since I probably won’t take the time to reverse the error.

I didn’t realize Chip’s actual name until I met him. And by meet him, I mean view his MySpace account. Yowzas! Rose asked my opinion of MySpace before she revealed his page and I didn’t have one. It’s hard to take any of this too seriously. I said that before I took a gander into the depths of Chip. He has a full description of life achievements; fights in cages, tattoos, and found roommate who may also be his soul mate since they don’t leave each other’s side. Even for dates. Attached to the page were photos of him partying with friends and “just chillin.” (The dude is HOT, I’ll give him that.)

Perhaps I only have an issue when people post pictures of themselves on websites. Somehow personal stories and random thoughts don’t bother me, since I do it, but to actually post a picture seems odd. (And not only because I don't have the patience to actually complete the task.) Apparently I’m solo in my thoughts because the posts on Chip’s account everyone posts a variety of personal photos. Some in bras with comments like “you were great last night”, etc… I don’t think Rose should worry about that because they were clearly made up and who cares. She was more concerned about dating a guy who thinks this type of thing is "cool." I agree. Puddy doesn’t have internet access or an actual computer so I don’t have to worry about these things.

Closing the browser, we launched into a debate about the cons of MySpace. What about privacy? What about crazy girlfriends (besides Rose) browsing for info on you? What if a potential employer took a look? We concluded with the thought that Chip is young and doesn’t understand which led to the horrifying truth…WE ARE OLD!

Makes me want to distribute this blog to my employer so I can feel young and stupid again.

Simple Treats for a Simple Time

2006-09-25T16:23:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting her pouting today because after last night’s debacle out on the town, Sophia in all her brilliance went and purchased spaghetti-o’s to eat before she fell asleep. I LOVE SPAGHETTI-O’S! Why the hell have I not thought of buying them since I was thirteen? And why am I depriving myself of all the other meals, well-balanced I’m sure, from my youth?

Starting today I plan to eat a kid’s meal at least once a week. I’ll start with Spaghetti-o’s then along down the line: Kraft Mac-n-cheese, Velveeta Shells-n-cheese, Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Campbell’s alphabet soup, sugar cereals (Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs), and my all time favorite snack (and meal)…Twinkies. I kept those little cream filled artificial sponges in business! Not sure how they survived past my 12th birthday (when people started to comment on my womanly figure and I had to stop eating things like Twinkies) but I’d like to thank the others who kept them in their lives for the long haul.

When I was growing up, my mother wouldn’t allow sugar cereals or candy in the house. That was much tougher for me than the lack of alcohol in the house that proves to be a problem when I visit home now. Once a month, we were allowed to have a box of Berry Berry Kix. This one precious treat split between three kids was hard to make last longer than one week. Especially because my brother, Bubba, and I would wake up in the wee hours of the morning before school and eat as many bowls as possible to make sure we ate our fair share. I could eat 6 bowls before puking. My sister, Brace Face, would wake up and shriek and cry that we ate all her cereal. I’m the oldest, if it’s anyone’s cereal, it’s mine. And I didn't require braces, so there you go... My mother would tell us to share and then give Braces her own box of Life. I hate Life (just the cereal, not my fabulous foggy existence) so she was able to eat as much as she wanted. Bubba ate anything so he cried for the sake of being deprived of something edible. This same routine happened every month but mom didn’t consider it a real issue. Same with seasonal candy. If she dared to put out a bag of holiday M&M’s to share the Christmas or Easter joy, those little colorful bastards were scooped up by the handful and shoveled in our drooling mouths before she had the chance to crumple up the empty bag. I'd then yell and scream at Bubba for being a pig and probably eating more than me so it wasn't fair.

This could explain why I need a bigger does of EVERYTHING and why I have to have everything I want RIGHT FUCKING NOW! Before I analyze that and bore myself to death, I plan to consume a pop tart or 2.

Grey Fantasy

2006-09-22T06:24:00.000-07:00

I must admit that like the majority of TV viewers, I’m a HUGE fan of Grey’s Anatomy. I actually planned this week around last night’s season premier. I grabbed a few drinks after work and headed home to wait for 9 pm. Even Puddy knew he shouldn’t call until after 10 pm.

The drama is a little ridiculous. They’ve got gun shots nearly killing the best surgeon in the world who may never walk again, a torrid love affair where the crazy kids can’t admit their feelings, a heart transplant patient proposing to the pretty doctor before his sudden death. I’m sure the public can relate to all the intense situations. Take my life, for example, working in a boring corporate world where I make it a habit to accomplish as little as possible and not get fired, nights out on weekdays causing dark circles under my eyes the next morning, and the frustration with Acropolis for applying too much cucumber sauce to my gyro. The blister on my heel caused by old shoes I haven’t worn in awhile reminded me of the episode where the RA made the heartbreaking decision to tell a man quarantined due to the plague that his wife just died.

I think I also enjoy watching the show because I like to invent scenarios of how they could kill Meredith. Since she’s the main character, my dream will never happen, but I can’t stand her so I think they should at least consider my ideas.

1. When she ran out of the hospital because it was too difficult to choose between McDreamy and McPlayed-Robin-in-Batman, I pictured a wrecking ball slamming into Meredith as it casually swung by the hospital doors.
2. While lying next to Izzie comforting her about her recent loss, I imagined a piano falling through the house landing directly on Meredith. Izzie would be unharmed or end up with a few splinters in her forearm and end the episode playing the piano.
3. As McDreamy and Meredith consummated their love that has to be real this time because his wife is in the next room, I pictured Addison (wife) opening up the door of the hospital room with enough force to pull Meredith from her husband’s arms and crash her through the glass window.

We know drama.

I’ll continue to watch, hoping and praying (if I prayed) that one episode will satisfy my fantasy.

And speaking of fantasy…Dr. Alex is HOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

Losing Air Candy

2006-09-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

Airplane travel is miserable; security hassles with new and improved rules where the primary goal is to annoy everyone while making them feel safe, the option and depressing fact that you have to actually purchase airline food (unless you are on JetBlue or riding first class), constant flight delays due to weather or oversensitive passengers. (delayed once because someone had a wasp on their seat and screaming “stop the plane!!!” was the best way to remove the minor inconvenience.) These things alone make me want to walk to most destinations but when that isn’t possible I fly. Does every airline have to make it more painful by employing ugly, unpleasant flight attendants? What goddamned feminist group outlawed the hiring of stewardess based on appearance?

I attended a wedding in Aspen this past weekend. On my flight from La Guardia to Denver I was selected for another round of screening before boarding the plane. Lucky me. Because I refuse to check bags, with the new Triple L rules (No Liquids or Lotions because of London) I just don’t travel with toiletries in my carry-on and purchase them at my destination and mail them home. I have it down to a science. On this particular round of screening, they decided to take my oil based eye-liner. I don’t wear it so it wasn’t the biggest loss. I tried to argue but I wasn’t eager to make it a national crisis so I let it go. While waiting my turn to enter the plane, I fumed that the girlfriend (or boyfriend) of random, momentary useless, security guard now has some very nice make-up.

Once boarded, I found my seat across the aisle next to a woman reading a how to book; Stop Worrying and Start Living. I assumed this concept applied to the whiskers decorating her chin. It put me in a foul mood. Adding to this were the three flight attendants that were somewhere between middle-age and elderly, bitter, and had the run-over-wet-hung-up-to-dry look. Is this part of some sort of Title 9 law? Is this an EOE package practiced? I suppose if I was turned down for a job based on my looks I’d be upset and cause some issues that would lead to fair-faced employment. I hope I wouldn’t. I hope it would clue me in to the public view. “Hey, not so attractive by United Airlines standards maybe I should do something about it or find a job where looks don’t matter.” (Like something that doesn’t deal with people.) The public suffers in some form when people are denied the right to discriminate based on physical attraction. This can still include diversity with race and gender, just leave out the ugly.

The flight ended well. I had 3 mini-bottles of wine (white) and ended up chatting it up with dude in suit next to me who happens to be an employer in my industry. I sent my resume to him this morning and perhaps that company will pay me more for what I do today. Worth a shot…

China Doll

2006-09-13T07:21:00.000-07:00

I have met multiple men who have an Asian fetish. At first I didn’t understand because I didn’t know many women of this race. I’m from Middle America where the only diversity is within the Caucasian crowd: white trash, poor white trash, white people who think they are another race, my crowd, and yuppy scum.

When I moved to California this attraction made sense because Asians are EVERYWHERE. I still didn’t understand why it was a fetish. I suppose it is the same as men preferring blondes to brunettes or those who require a nice ass before a fine rack. And vice versa. The man I adored at the time told me if I was Asian he would marry me right then and there. As a joke, I tried to tape my eyes back once to reinvent my look but it didn’t work. Since I wasn’t interested in the whole ‘til death routine, I didn’t care that I was only good enough for him to befriend for awhile. The sex wasn’t that great so I wasn’t losing much in the end.

My first year in New York City I would ask men who hit on me, ‘do you have an Asian fetish?’ Most of them thought I was extremely odd. Why would a chick ask that unless she was Asian? Perhaps I asked this question to avoid a future of perpetual squinting.

It has come up again…what is it that makes this race more attractive than another?

1. Are the women more obedient? From what I’ve seen, unless they are born and raised in the old county, they are far from docile.
2. Are they tighter where it counts? I assumed the men who preferred Asian were probably smaller than the average man so this quality in a woman was important.
3. Was David Bowie’s "China Girl" at the top of the charts when these men started dating? Fetish research aside this is a great song (and video). “oh baby just you shut your mous”
4. Did they just see Memoirs of a Geisha? This makes the most sense. I nearly developed a kimono fetish when I left that movie.
5. Do these men regret not serving in the military and missed their time for shore leave along the Pacific Rim? No…wait, this makes the most sense.

Freedom to Recline

2006-09-11T09:03:00.000-07:00

In public transportation, I believe the rule stands that if the seat is able to recline the option to do so is granted to the chair’s occupant, not the people sitting in the vicinity. If this isn’t an unspoken law you follow, perhaps you should make note.

This past weekend Hoola-hoop and I traveled to the woods to enjoy our boys, Booze and Puddy. The trip was perfect except for the unfortunate train ride home. I hate train day! In the middle of a heated conversation about UTIs, Hoola-hoop tried to recline her seat. One needs to be as comfortable as possible while discussing various Cranberry extracts. As she pushed back, a voice behind her perked up rudely, “Can you please not do that?” As if Hoola was blowing spit wads her way. She will next time.

Hoola peered behind the seat to observe what type of person would make such a request. The bitch had 2 seats to enjoy and was still complaining about space?!?!? I can’t stereotype because there isn’t usually a certain look that goes with self-absorbed, self-important, and clueless. I could say in general they are usually attractive since there has to be a reason they can get away with such outlandish requests. Turns out, selfish people can be fat and ugly as well. This dirty-blonde heffer even pointed out that she was, “doing her homework, studying for a big exam.” So? What the hell does that have to do with anything? If she admitted to a nutrition test perhaps we could’ve been a little more lenient.

I offered nothing in this situation because I didn’t even know where to start. And I didn’t want her to tackle and eat me while I exited the train. All I could do to demonstrate my anguish was glare at her when I took a trip to the café cart and/or bathroom.

Hoola concocted revenge plans and wanted to change seats to the only one available on the train, the one next to Miss Piggy. “This seat taken? I couldn’t recline my last seat because the person behind it was a fat bitch.” I offered Hoola $20 to do it, but she, too, was afraid of Miss Piggy’s eating patterns. We weren’t aware of her feeding schedule and didn’t want to upset the natural order.

How much does Polygamy cost you?

2006-09-08T05:32:00.000-07:00

Searching for something to read with my recent travels, I grabbed the closest item which was a book titled, God’s Brothel. Great tile. An oxymoron I was eager to explore. My smile faded when I opened the pages to an introduction that made me say, “What the fuck?” out loud.

In general, I find religion fascinating. Interesting because I don’t understand how and why it is practiced. A funny comment coming from someone who used to walk in Jesus’ footsteps, which apparently meant no drinking, smoking, or having sex until college. I didn’t heal anybody or walk on water, but I was nice to everyone’s face and faked modesty when people bowed at my feet in gratitude.

Some religions make more sense to me than others because of my Christian upbringing but I keep an open mind and find the traditions and rituals of other beliefs intriguing. It scares my family as if my interest will lead me down a different path and I’ll become a Monk. Pretty sure if the basic repent-and-all-is-forgiven religion doesn’t do it for me, I doubt I’ll jump on board with a life of abstinence and meditation while kicking it in a monastery.

Truly open or not, my feeble little mind can’t quite grasp the concept of Polygamy, the focus of God’s Brothel; a non-fiction, horrifying tale published recently. I have no problem with multiple wives, I don’t really care, and it’s none of my business if the women in this religion honestly believe they are worthless and don’t deserve a seat in heaven. I just have a problem when a religion has the right to abuse a social service paid for by my tax dollars. I suppose I could be grateful they don't believe in doctors so are not milking healthcare benefits.

In a nutshell, men work and give all their money to the church so they can reserve a better seat in celestial being, heaven for these worthless, trailer living, baby breeding, sloth like creatures that live off welfare. There are only 50,000 of them in the United States, possibly the world, so I suppose they don’t cost me too much, it’s just the principle of the matter that pisses me off. How can they get away with this? Even with the sexual abuse (girls forced into sex starting at age 13) and incest (fathers marry daughters, brothers marry sisters, etc), government can’t touch them because it is part of their religion. And God beats State in Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and wherever else this species is found. Based on this book, there are people who have been trying to shut them down for decades and are unsuccessful.

No judgment for those of you who attend Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Just one question, what the fuck is wrong with you?

Let's Celebrate Crazy

2006-09-05T05:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve always classified high maintenance woman as the ones that need constant attention, are constantly hard to please, freak out on their boy about ridiculous shit. Like their boy choosing a guy’s night out over watching The Notebook and cuddling. The psychotic behavior that gives women a bad name. I was always so proud that this definition would never apply to me. Until…

Puddy was supposed to come to NYC for a visit the weekend of Aug 25th. The trip didn’t happen because he had to work. I was not happy to the say the least. In fact, I was consumed with a blood boiling fury I couldn’t rationalize so I hung up on him. Crazy bitch.

I immediately called best friend Browns to find out how to handle this unreasonable outburst with the standard questions; what the fuck is wrong with me, how do I fix it, and why is this behavior ever acceptable to anyone. She listened and diagnosed, “you just haven’t been laid in three weeks, go get yourself a better vibrator and call him to apologize. Crazy bitch.” Indeed.

Puddy beat me to it. He called back with promises to make it up to me. I didn’t even know what that meant but I agreed instead of apologizing for my anger as Browns suggested. I was still so wigged out that I was nuts. I never get mad about these things and I hate that I’ve started. I remained wrapped up in an internal debate, ‘do people realize when they are crazy?’ while he explained the factors that made it impossible for him to head south. As if legitimate reasons make sense to the insane.

My silence indicated I was still furious. And I suppose I was. Partially with myself for erratic behavior, and then just pissed I didn’t get my way. I’m one easy going girl because I have low expectations and ALWAYS get my way. I’m nasty when I don’t. I learned several things with this experience.

I arrived in New Hampshire near tears and twitching from withdrawals, anxious to have him “make it up to me.” I just assumed he meant mind blowing sex. What else could I need? Turns out it means sex and jewelry. So crazy behavior is celebrated with sparkly presents? Hmmmm…have women always known this? And here I thought I had it all figured out by fighting the emotional roller coaster.

High maintenance is just good common sense. Who knew?

The Sports Factor

2006-09-01T08:41:00.000-07:00

It is important to Puddy that his girlfriend participates in the 3 sports he is active in: Tennis, Golf, and Skiing. He is THRILLED that I’m involved in all of them in some capacity.

Tennis: Blanche scored tickets to the US Open on Wednesday night so we went and watched Sharapova play some dumpy, dude-like chick and then Roddick crush some cutie from Denmark. We struggled to figure out the scoring while drinking beer and discussing Sharapova’s “uniforms.” I concluded that Kournikova was hotter even though she couldn’t play as well. Roddick is fun to watch but Blanche and I preferred to dream about seeing a Federer match. Maybe next year.

Tennis: Check

Golf: I went golfing with my father once when I was 13. We had to leave by the 7th hole because I couldn’t grasp the concept that the green was not a road or parking spot for the golf cart. My dad doesn’t pay attention to stupid rules either so although he warned me it wasn’t enforced. Golf course security took care of that. We had to give up the cart or quit for the day. We quit, who the hell wants to walk the course? Since then I’ve accompanied several people on various golf days as the official drink bitch and do my part by asking, “What would Tiger do?”

Golf: Check.

Skiing: I love to ski and think I’m Olympic material. After a traumatic head injury that put me in a coma for a couple weeks when I was 14, a bruised tailbone at 20, and a broken wrist at 25…survey says, not even close. Harmonizing nicely with my expert-slash-extreme delusions is a snobbery that would never accept skiing anywhere but the best; Utah, Colorado, Montana, the Alps, etc… Skiing on the East or West Coast is not an option which means I ski about once a year. This also means that I damage something every 1 in 5 trips. I look forward to doing some destruction on my ski trip to Vail with Puddy and friends in January. I may need to swing by an arcade and play that life-like ski game, Alpine, to brush up on my parallel so he won’t abandon me on the mountain.

Skiing: Check.

Puddy also made an effort to take an interest in my college football team. ‘Tis the season and nothing better than joining the full crew on Saturdays to watch our favorite team be killed by everyone in the Big 12. Puddy made a joke about betting against my team. I set the terms, “If you win, I’ll cook you mac&cheese. If I win, I’m allowed to sleep with other people.” He retracted his suggestion. Good thing he doesn’t care if I have an interest or participate in gambling.

Good to GO

2006-08-30T06:46:00.000-07:00

Every now and then my friend, BBC, reads Are you Serious? and calls me to share his pet peeves that deserve their own entry. Some of his have no impact on my life. For example, he has complained about the high cost of glasses frames. Thanks to Lasik eye surgery, I haven’t had to wear glasses in 5 years. I could potentially be blind by the time I’m 30, but I’ve decided the contact free existence in my 20s is worth it. And when I did wear glasses, I didn’t buy Chanel frames. Possibly the reason BBC is so upset about the cost.

Recently, BBC came up with a perfect example of something that should drive the world crazy. He asked me what I think of tools that use commercial tag lines in every day conversation. He used the example “good to go” from Taco Bell’s latest slogan. At first, I was worried if I had used the phrase and how many times, concerned this was his way of telling me to stop. Like all Brits, he’s much too direct to play such games. Once I knew I was in the clear, I started paying attention to the people who are guilty of such a crime.

Thousands of people use the phrase. I would guess that 75% realize they are copying Taco Bell and think they are clever. The rest have just let it sink into their subconscious and don’t realize they are part of the problem. I’ve only run into 3 people who have actually used the hand gesture with the phrase as well. Have mercy on their souls.

Other taglines to watch:
I’m Loving It
Have it Your Way
Raising the bar (this one could be completely unintentional since it is also a horrendous corporate phrase used to inspire employees to work harder, but due to its association with Cingular, it should be avoided)

There are others. Please do your part to save the world and share those you have experienced so the public knows what to avoid in their speech patterns.

Extracting Wisdom

2006-08-28T06:26:00.000-07:00

A week prior to my vacation west, my mouth started to hurt. That indescribable, excruciating pain that means medication or surgery is necessary immediately. A condition where browsing the internet for any dentist in NYC seems like a great idea. Lucky for me, it didn’t quite reach that extreme. Friends helped out and I went to an office where someone trusted had already been through the trial and error process of searching for a suitable dentist.

Due to the emergency request, the dude recommended wasn’t available so I went to his kid assistant, Doogie Dentist. At that point I didn’t care. He took one look in my mouth and recommended the immediate extraction of all wisdom teeth. Right before my high school reunion. Perfect timing. I asked if he had had his removed. “Not yet.” I then wondered if all of his baby teeth had been replaced yet. “Almost.”

Bigger problem than his age…my gorgeous return to teenage years. I explained my reunion situation and how I would not be going with chipmunk cheeks and drool so he better prescribe some pain killers with refills until I can get to an oral surgeon. (Oral…ha, ha.) He understood completely which I expected since he looked 18. I was dealing with the correct mentality. Doogie hooked me up with a shot of something and a few bottles of codeine.

Two weeks later, I sat in the dentist chair of my mother’s dentist excited to be knocked unconscious. I spent the remaining 5 days of my vacation drugged up and in mommy’s care.

It’s been over a week since they relieved my mouth of unnecessary wisdom and I’m still in pain. One side of my face is a little swollen but not so much that anyone notices. I tell everyone I see about my surgery as if I suffer from a rare condition and am the first person in history that had to have wisdom teeth pulled. So far, nobody has been impressed that I survived.

Puddy was worried but rightfully so. Is there a man out there who isn’t concerned when his lover has issues with his/her mouth?

Double Boxes

2006-08-26T10:50:00.000-07:00

My good friend, Sophia, spends a portion of her workday reading every on-line news source available. She distributes interesting articles to the rest of the Golden Girls and friends so we pass obnoxious comments back and forth. An interesting way to keep the day moving.

Although I’m always included on these email threads, I’m often left out of the fun because I work for Hell Corp and they restrict websites that could potentially make employees smile. I would love to see the list of inappropriate hits from Dubs maintained by Human Resources. I bet it’s impressive.

For some reason Hell let Two Holes through. I think it’s the idea of a sick joke. They don’t let me take celebrity quizzes, access iVillage, or read Court TV but the chick with 2 ginas is perfectly fine. I just slipped into another circle of Hell.

Aside from the disgust of learning how some woman has to handle her monthly visit from Aunt Flow, I’m just pissed she has two g-spots and I only have one. Show-off.

In the wrong hands...

2006-08-23T07:06:00.000-07:00

I disappeared suddenly because my previous blog ended up in the wrong hands. Scared the hell out of me. I received an email from DumbAss, someone in my previous life (an old coworker, not a former life when I lived in another century as a brothel owner) and he complimented one of my entries. Fine and dandy. But he also mentioned that he sent the link to the other peeps I used to work with so they can join the fun. He added a, “hope you don’t mind.” Yes, DumbAss, I mind.

I never intend to hurt people. Well…I wouldn’t mind strangling SheTroll in front of a large, supporting audience so let me rephrase. I never intend to hurt people I care about. That is a short but distinguished list. Some of the content included in my last blog was hurtful to one particular individual. Although I use nicknames to protect the innocent, most people are aware of their alias. DumbAss is not aware of his or the ones assigned to the coworkers he included in his frightening distribution. He wasn’t included in the circle of trust.

Let’s hope he doesn’t catch on again…

Stay tuned for the following:

Reunited – Details of high school reunion
Liquid Diet – Results of recent wisdom tooth extraction
God's Brothel – Book review
Good to Go – Tools who use jingle phrases in every day conversation
Famn Damily – Meeting Puddy’s entire family
FUUUUUUCK – Perils of monogamy

It’s been awhile. I have serious issues to discuss.