Craig's List fun

As a Craig's List addict, I am frequently repulsed by what I find there. Sometimes I just love it. This is one of those times.

single women - m4w

Where can I find a single "normal" woman.....where do u hang out?
Im a nice,polite,good looking guy that you would take home to mom, but all I end up finding are dirty skanks. Dont get me wrong, I like skanks but not for more then a couple of hours....

And the response:

MC with men who refer to women as "skanks" - w4m - 27

Where are you all? Don't get me wrong, I like men who are polite, kind, and don't use puerile, trivial phrases to decribe the character of a women in terms relative to her supposed sexuality, but not for more than a few hours.

Ha ha ha.

Dave Eggers, not so much

I once tried to read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. I'm not a hipster by any stretch of the definition, but I do love my David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell and all the other stuff the kids are reading these days. February 2003, unemployed, getting ready to go to the Bahamas. A nice, long book to read while I lounge on the beach like some trust fund kid who can actually afford to be traipsing around on a tiny island with no job prospects back home.

This is the first day on the beach:

Ugh, I HATE this fucking book! And then I threw it, dangerously close to the water, laid my head back and worked on my sunburn for the remainder of the afternoon. Before returning to the house, I picked it up, shook out the sand and put it back on the coffee table.

The next day:

I don't care about your shitty life, Dave Eggers! You're a jackass! Again, the book is thrown.

And the next:

You are so full of yourself! I hate you!

And so it went, for ten days. My fellow travelers could have made some serious money had they started betting on how long it would take me to toss the book. After which I gave up, and let me tell you - three things I NEVER give up on are books, movies and boys who need to be saved. Often to my detriment. I just could not do it, though. I was not staggered by that book. It still taunts me from my bookshelf. It did so last night. It said, Out of all of these books, I'm the only one you couldn't finish. Too long for you? Too much for you? I'm hoping one of my friends will borrow it at some point. One of the friends who doesn't give borrowed things back.

Just an old fashioned love song

Ian: Did you read my journal entry all about you?

Me: Huh?

Ian: Yeah, I wrote an entry all about you.

Me: Where?

Ian: In my secret journal.

Me: Shut up.

Ian: Really. I'm not even lying.

Me: What secret journal?

Ian: I can't give you the link, because it's secret from everyone who knows me. But I wrote you a love letter. I will paste it in here, but I am a little shy about it.

Ian: "I 2TALY LOVE U SO MUCH!11! OMG OFC U R SO SEXY AND U MAEK MA HORNY AND WTF I CUD CUM FROM JUST TOKNG 2 U!!1111 WTF LOL U R A GIRL WIT NIEC BOBS!!!! I WANT 2 HUM U AND PUT CHIK3N NUGATS IN UR AS!!!! OMG CUZ U WUD LIEK TAHT11!!1!11 OMG LOL AND U HAEV NIEC AY3S BUT U WUD B UGLY IF U WORE GLASES111!! WTF LOL AND I HOPA U DONT G3T FAT!!!1!!1! WTF LOL"

Me: And they say romance is dead.

Ian: Come off it, that took me ages. Ungrateful wench.

Angsty poetry

Curly begged me to write an angsty poem, but I was cracking myself up too much thinking about wilted roses and everlasting thorns and tainted souls. So I turned to the Internet, confident I'd find something to help me. And I did! The Bad Poem Generator, where you too can write angst-filled poetry. Here's mine:

lost ocean

i feel so lost and lonely sometimes,
sometimes i want to eviscerate my soul and die,
the ocean is so bloody and sad,
the clouds sound like ghosts.

i feel so lost and lonely,
nobody understands my small, insignificant pain,
i want to wail and flee in the rain
the ocean reminds me of feeling lonely, the clouds mock my tears,

sometimes i want to eviscerate my soul and die,
underneath the bloody, masochistic sky

The bloody, masochistic sky. Ha ha. If y'all give this a try, please post your bad poems in comments. Or on Craig's List.

Is it sophomore year all over again?

I'm having one of those days where I want to put on lots of black eyeliner, get stoned and lay in bed listening to Disintegration and writing angsty, terrible poetry that I will read in 10 years, or later this afternoon, and be horribly embarassed.

One of those weird, reflective days that I wish I could just sleep through

So there was a boy. A boy who is not the ex. A boy I stopped talking to. A boy I only stopped talking to because I couldn't figure out what to say if I didn't. Not talking to him seemed an easier option. Sometimes, it's just better to walk away.

I had strong feelings for this particular boy, but we were frozen in our respective impossible circumstances. I found myself daydreaming, staying up at night thinking about him, reading the same emails over and over. I started to feel like a hamster running on a wheel. Just running, running, running and never getting anywhere.

Somewhere, I realized that I had elevated this boy in my head until he was no longer just a boy anymore. He was the answer to every question I'd ever had. The antidote to every painful heartbreak. The most wonderful boy. The most perfect boy. The boy who would make everything make sense. That this boy, really just a boy, could never do anything but disappoint me because he didn't have the script I'd written for him, hadn't practiced his lines, didn't know how this was all supposed to play out in the movie that I'd rewound and watched over and over and over when the car alarms kept me up and my brain kept me up and my body was restless and the sun was starting to come up and I still hadn't closed my eyes.

So I let him go. Or rather, pushed him away. Actually, I took a hammer and smashed anything that connected us to each other. Most of the time, I'm fine with the quiet aftermath of my destruction. Today, I kinda miss him. And that kinda sucks.

A phone call with Grandpa

Grandpa: I went on your website the other day.

[At this point, I stop breathing]

Me: Um, what?

Grandpa: Yeah, I checked out some of the stuff you have on there.

Me: Um, on MY website?

[At this point I am starting to hyperventilate]

Grandpa: Yes.

Me: Um, where did you get my website address?

[At this point, I am about to throw up]

Grandpa: You gave it to your grandmother.

Me: OH! Funky Utopia? Where I'm selling my bracelets?

Grandpa: Yes.

Me: Thank God.

Grandpa: What?

Me: Nothing.

[Normal breathing resumes]

Boys, boys, boys

It would appear that all I can talk about today is boys from my recent and distant past. This post will not be any different.

If Nicola ever sends me the pics from the Mermaid Day Parade, you might get a rare Jess-dressed-as-mermaid pic. I know, you're very excited. The parade was lovely, and I always love a Coney Island trip. I do not, however, recommend stepping foot in the water, which I did and it was truly disgusting and there's a very real chance I may currently be dying from something I picked up in there. Anyway, we're watching the parade and suddenly I see Jim, a boy I almost kissed in 8th grade and lusted after through most of high school. Oh. My. God.

Jim was in Mrs. F's church youth group, and she brought me to a Halloween party at their house in 8th grade. Jim was a few years older (like 26 - kidding!), and somehow he and I ended up going for a walk in the woods and talking. We had A MOMENT, and then someone called us into the house for something-or-other and it didn't happen.

Then, when we were in high school, Jim worked on the staff of the summer camp Mrs. F and I attended, and he was all tattoed and dreadlocked and making me giggle with his mere existence. Boys with dreadlocks make me giggle -- I don't know why. Then after summer camp, he disappeared from my life forever and rumor had it, became some Wall St. dude. And then there he was... in the Mermaid Parade -- the same tattoes, a little older. Still cute. In hindsight, I probably should have said hi.

Inevitable

And so it happened. Exactly seven months to the day. I ran into The Ex on my way to work this morning. Odd that it took this long, when he now lives ten blocks away and works a mere three. It was awkward. Not Earth shattering, but definitely disconcerting. At least now I won't be dreading it anymore.

I, I held her hand too tight, too hard to make it right, so I could sleep at night

If you were ever an avid watcher of My So-Called Life, you know the "Buffalo Tom episode," where one Mr. Jordan Catalano made out with Angela in the boiler room and then, at the very end, grabbed her hand and walked down the hall with her. This episode was on The N last night, and I screamed with excitement the same way I did the first time I saw it. Then I did some Very Serious Thinking about Jordan Catalano.

For all intents and purposes, Jordan Catalano was not Good Boyfriend Material. He ignored her in front of his friends, broke up with her because she wouldn't sleep with him, blew her off on several occasions and slept with her best friend. On top of that, the kid was a dim bulb and a mediocre musician. Yet, he had this amazing power over Angela, and every girl who watched this show.

When he slept with her best friend, I didn't say, "What a dick!" Instead I gave him the I'm-very-disappointed-in-you look and said, "Oh Jordan Catalano, what did you do?" I was always disappointed, not angry. I never wished she'd dump him -- I just always wished he'd rise up to her level. And I never, ever rooted for Brian Krakow. Ever.

What was wrong with us Jordan Catalano fans? Why were we so seduced by those pretty blue eyes, that soft hair, those lips, that voice that barely escaped a whisper…okay, okay. Yes, he was hot. But why was that enough? Why were we so forgiving? I'm not at all ashamed to admit I pondered this for HOURS last night, either. And then I thought about my Jordan Catalano, a fellow named Louis.

I met Louis when I worked at Arby's, in the food court of Rotterdam Square Mall. Because I was a Serious Mall Rat, I always went in about an hour before my shift, dropped off my stuff and then hung out, visiting friends that worked elsewhere in the mall, shopping, whatever. One day, I saw The Hottest Boy Ever sitting in the food court with a friend. I looked at him, he looked at me. I smiled. He smirked. He was rail thin with a black leather jacket and long brown hair. I was smitten. Unfortunately, I was also late for work and had no time to socialize.

When I got behind the counter, he was leaving for the arcade. Just then, Todd my coworker and fellow mall rat, arrived to drop off his stuff and go wander around. I had my plan of attack.

Hey Todd, wanna do me a big favor? Go to the arcade and tell the tall, skinny guy with the black leather jacket that the girl at Arby's wants to talk to him.

Todd did not want to do this, but after pleading and bribing, he finally went. Five minutes later, Hot Guy walks up just as the Longest Line Ever is forming at my register. He casually walked up, dropped off a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it, and walked away. I didn't see him again that day.

Two days later, I called him. He played guitar on the phone and sang me songs. Then I didn't hear from him for two weeks. Then he randomly called me at the mall at 9:00 and invited me over. I went, and he pretty much ignored me all night long. Then I didn't hear from him for a month. This went on for the better part of a year. Yet, whenever he called, I went. Like a zombie to an exposed brain, I went.

We weren't even sleeping together -- in fact, I think during that whole time he kissed me once, maybe twice. I don't know why I kept going back any more than I know why I never thought Jordan Catalano was a big dick. They were both really, really hot. And hopefully intriguing, meaning you always hoped there was something else going on under there, even though there was a part of you that thought maybe what you were seeing was It.

Incidentally, my Jordan Catalano and I eventually did become a sort-of couple my sophomore year in college. That ended when I found out he was cheating on me with a 16-year old girl, which, um, ew. And Julie made the unfortunate mistake of getting involved with him two years after that, which ended when she found out he was cheating on her with a different 16-year old girl. Watch out ladies -- some Jordan Catalanos are worse than others.

On camera

"I'm sure Jess will do it. Just ask her."

Once upon a time, I was a television news producer. That was only one part of my job, though. The other part of my job was being an on-air extra. I did not like being an on-air extra.

I pretended to be a teenager and modeled prom dresses in the spring. I browsed The Anarchist's Cookbook online when a young man in Vermont sent a mail bomb to someone. I sat around dinner tables while Rachel Ray cooked her 30-Minute Meals (before she landed a spot on the Food Network and posed for dirty pictures in FHM). I played sisters and daughters. I let camera people do extreme close-ups of my body piercings. I nodded at Olympic judges. I was never very comfortable in front of the camera, but knew what a pain in the ass it was to find extras so I didn't complain. Until the day we shot the promo.

We had a recurring segment called Neil and Doug's Excellent Adventures, where our weather guy (Neil) and our sports guy (Doug) tried to do athletic things. Since they were not very athletic guys, they made asses of themselves and each other. It was actually pretty funny, and certainly fun to work on.

We did a fishing episode for one, and shot a silly promo for it. The promo went like this. Doug and Neil are out on the dock, getting ready to go fishing. Silly banter. Doug leans over the dock and sticks his hand in the water to see if it's cold. Then I walk up and say to Doug, "Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?" and Doug, overcome by a hot young thang in a skirt and boots, falls in the water. While shooting, I said that line no less than 38 times. Finally, we wrapped and turned everything over to the editor.

Later that night, a hush falls over the newsroom. "Quiet! Doug and Neil promo!" The promo goes exactly as I expected, until I hear my line.

Um, is that Diane's voice? Diane being one of the reporters. Bruce, did you seriously put Diane's voice over my body? Bruce and Diane look sheepish, and then Bruce makes a startling admission.

Jess, I'm sorry, but you have an awful voice for television. You kinda sound like a stoned 12-year old boy.

There you have it folks. I can stand there and look pretty, but I'm not allowed to talk.

A tale of two Jess's

Score one for Sensible Jess.

The battle between Sensible Jess and Nympho Jess lasted days, and boy was it ugly. It all started when SJ stated that sleeping with their ex-boyfriend was no longer an option. NJ was understandably upset, and refused to back down. SJ's insistence that they were not good at casual sex, that they were more of a "relationship" girl, that they were raised Catholic for God's sake, was met with fierce resistance from NJ.

And so it went. NJ trying to make plans with their ex-boyfriend, SJ drop-kicking her. Sometimes violence, sometimes pleading (NJ, can we PLEASE for once make a healthy decision?), sometimes playing dirty. Finally, a brutally honest exchange that sealed the deal

SJ: Look, I want to meet someone and fall in love. Maybe get married. Have a puppy. Do all of that sappy, romantic shit that I roll my eyes at in movies but secretly want. It's just, I don't know, depressing to keep having casual sex. It just makes me want what I don't have that much more. Can you understand?

NJ: If we meet someone and fall in love, can we have lots of sex with that person? Can we, you know, do that thing?

SJ: Yes.

NJ: Fine, Ms. No Fun. Break the news. I want no part of it.

And so it went. Sensible Jess broke the news to Favorite Ex, and the girls are celibate until further notice. It's going to be a long, porn-and-sex-toy-filled summer.

Just your typical New York morning

There's something about summer that gets the weirdos in New York pumped. Every warm morning is a series of oddities. And I LOVE it.

This morning, I walk down to the lobby of my building. There was, at one time long ago, a fireplace in the lobby. It has been painted over and now all that remains is the mantle. This morning, there were five dirty, creepy stuffed animals of various genres seated in a row with this note next to them:

-SUPER-
Please do not move. We want to beotify the enterior of the building. Thank you.

What? With creepy stuffed animals? Dirty ones?

Then I turn the corner, where the crazy man is, as always, sitting on the stoop. He says hello. I return the hello and raise him one high-five, as I do every morning. He recently told the roommate she needed to go home and baptize herself, and got mad at her sneakers. We love the crazy man.

Then I pass the overgrown, fenched-in parking lot, where one young man is earnestly pointing out dog skulls that do not exist to the other one, telling him that the homeless people that live in the lot eat dogs. I think they were on acid.

Then, my favorite part of the morning. I walk onto the F-Train platform and see a man dancing, just a little. He's wearing headphones and clearly wants to bust a move like no other. He is having a dance party in his mind. I cannot stop staring. When girls walk by, he shimmies, just a little, in their direction. He's clearly trying so hard not to let loose, like he's afraid once he starts, he will never be able to stop.

My one shining achievement for the day: This pervy American girl got an entire office of Englishmen looking at sex toys. Go me! And thank you Linus, for the link. I always like a little science with my sex.

The cavefish is cranky

I have an overwhelming fear of the dentist.

In my defense, I'm not just a big baby. I've had some bad dentists. The first was Dr. Meele, my childhood dentist. He was old and cranky and mostly blind. He would stick a finger into the corner of my mouth and pull until I thought my eyes were going to pop out. He would yell at me as the tears streamed down my little 7-year old face. When he was done performing his sadistic rituals on me, he would offer me a candy machine ring. Without the ring and the vast Dr. Suess collection in the waiting room, I would have fought harder for the opportunity to let my cavities go unfilled.

Then there was Dr. Noorani, who was actually pretty cool. Unfortunately, Dr. Noorani went on vacation sometimes, and Mistress Mastrionni took over. I shudder just thinking about it.

My first dentist in New York was Dr. Rossinski, a stern, Russian woman with very little to offer in the way of tenderness. I practically needed a blood transfusion before leaving her office. And therapy, because the entire time she was yanking and scraping and pulling hair and punching me in the face, she was also berating me for smoking and drinking coffee and not flossing enough. Needless to say, a few trips to Dr. Irina put me off the dentist for awhile. Then I got laid off and lost my insurance.

So I finally kicked myself in the ass and made an appointment. Went in today. Waited while people that came in after me went in before me. Finally asked the ridiculously hot boy sitting next to me what time it was, and then giggled at him. 50 minutes I was sitting there! So I go up to the desk and tell them I need to reschedule, because, you know, when you've been out sick for two days you can't exactly spend the whole first day back at the dentist. It just isn't done. They tell me I'll be called in momentarily, that my chart was accidentally taken out of order, so I go back to my seat.

I get called in. I meet the doctor. He seems nice enough, and is not armed with any sharp objects or a menacing glare. He tells me we have a problem. That problem being my newly diagnosed heart murmur. Seems my regular doctor forget to mention I can't get my teeth cleaned with a heart murmur without taking antibiotics first. Because my heart could like, explode or something. Apparently. The dentist wants me to go get a prescription filled and come back later that day. No can do - I tell him I'll make an appointment for next week. I agree to have my X-Rays done, since I'm already there.

X-Ray girl is very nice. We do about 5 shots before she notices the tongue stud. She's not sure if she can take X-Rays with a tongue stud -- needs to go ask someone. They don't know. She needs to find someone else. At this point, I am quite certain I am fired.

Finally, we determine that we can, in fact, leave the tongue ring in, the X-Rays are completed and I head back to work, cranky and late. Dentists and Cavefishes apparently do not mix.

Sex and the Shitty

I have been apprehensive of Sex and the City now running on a network where Samantha cannot say "fuck" and no breasts will be seen. Last night, however, after dying my hair the color of a shiny penny, I decided to give it a try. For most of the episode, the one where she first meets Big, I thought it was fine. Nice job, really. Then it got to the part where Carrie gets out of the limo and walks away, only to run back before it speeds away and ask Big if he had ever been in love. As soon as she said that, I thought oh no oh no oh no because I knew one of my favorite SATC moments was about to be ruined.

In the original, Big leans over with his sexy, slightly amused sideways smile and says, "Abso-fucking-lutely." It's a great moment. And last night, when he said, simply, absolutely, it did not deliver the same punch. It delivered, actually, no punch whatsoever. It did not make me want to jump in the back of that limo and let Chris Noth have his way with me. And that's a damn shame.

Why I love my friends

So yesterday, I get a phone call from The Nugent. She opens with...

I'm at [little] Heather's with [Mrs. F]. Sitting in the backyard, drinking some sangria. We were just talking about your deviant sexual practices and decided to give you a call.

Things I would be doing instead of laying around and watching (porn) Court TV if I wasn't sick

Showering

Working on the novel

Being crafty

Coloring my hair

Painting my toenails

Responding to emails

Calling my family

Holding down my cat to brush the knots out of his fur

Cooking

Going to the gym

Calling travel agents to find out about ticket prices for South Africa

Ogling the neighborhood hotties without day jobs

Laying on the blue blanket in the East River Park

Doing the dishes from Sunday

Taking out the trash

Begging my super to come fix the bathroom tiles

Figuring out what I want to do with the next couple of years of my life

Hula-hooping

Rollerskating up and down my hallway

Looking for summer skirts at Beacon's Closet

Eating ice cream

Eh, fuck it. I don't have the energy to do anything except watch (porn) Court TV.

If Fametracker says it, it is so

From Jason Bateman's Fame Audit on Fametracker:

Tell us again why you are not watching Arrested Development if you are not, in fact, watching Arrested Development. Because somebody's not watching it, and if we find out it's you, we're going to be very, very disappointed.

I adore Fametracker. I also would adore Arrested Development, if I ever watched it. Jason Bateman is funny. Very funny. As is the rest of the cast. And Portia De Rossi -- right up there on the list of hotties that could bring me over if she wanted to. There's no reason for me to not watch this show. I have DVR - I can tape it.

I think there's a part of me that fears this is another one of those brilliant shows that will suck me in and then get cancelled because the public at large would rather watch Fear Factor than truly brilliant shows. Freak & Geeks broke my heart. As did My So-called Life. And even though they had long runs, I'm still not over the loss of Buffy and Angel. I don't know if my poor television-addicted heart can take it.

Okay, I don't want Fametracker to be disappointed in me. I'll tape it on Sunday. If my heart gets broken, someone over there is getting a beatdown.

My new tattoo

If there isn't a boss right behind that would be troubled by the sight of a nearly naked ass, check out my new tattoo.

You too, can tattoo names on asses.

Movin' on up (or away, or over, or wherever one moves in this situation)

Yesterday, John Brown the Future Fancy Feast Cat jumped up on my lap, as he often does. I sang "Jo-ohn Bro-own" in my lounge voice, as I often do. I then remarked to the roommate that I always found it funny when the ex would sing my patented songs to the cats.

Me: I always thought it was funny when [the ex] would sing my songs to the cats.

The roommate: That's the first nice thing you've said about him since The Breakup.

We're still never going to be friends, or even casual friendly acquaintances, but it does feel good to ease up on the anger a little bit.

Work get-togethers: old vs. new

My first job in New York was for a silly little Internet company. I worked there for four years, and those four years closely resembled my college years, although I didn't have nearly as much sex in college.

My current job is for another silly little Internet company, although the drinking, sex, drama and drugs are on a much smaller scale. This was brought home to me Friday night.

I spent the earlier part of the night with the girls from my current job. We talked, laughed, had a few drinks and mostly appropriate-for-work conversation. Then, I managed to drag a couple of the crew over to hang out with the former coworkers. I then proceeded to get trashed, flirt outrageously with a boy I get one-night-only crushes on whenever karaoke is involved, sing Britney in front of a room full of people, and have several discussions revolving around sex and vibrators. All day Saturday, I was quite certain I would die at any moment.

Jake, who worked at silly Internet company #1 with me, asked which I prefer. After much thought I had to say that I prefer my current company outings on a regular basis. Former company when I really want to rage. Honestly, my little body can't take it anymore, and I don't seem to have the ability to exercise any restraint. 23-27 was obviously my party girl heyday.

This American Life

Me: Hey, in case you feel like making an honest woman out of me.

Ian: Well that works about perfect since I was going to propose anyway.

Me: Where will we live? England? The United States?

Ian: Hicksville, Alabama with our 18 kids.

Me: 18 kids will ruin my girlish figure.

Ian: You'll be too busy in the kitchen to worry about that.

Me: You'll stop having sex with me, and spend every night at the bar chatting up that drunken slut Betty Lou. And then you'll get her knocked up and we'll all go on Jerry Springer.

Ian: Sounds like bliss.

Me: And she'll call you her baby-Daddy, and I'll be humiliated.

Ian: I want this life. So bad. It hurts.

Me: Can we live in a trailer and have loud fights and throw beer bottles?

Ian: Sure, but only if we can also have rusty old cars in various states of disrepair in front of it. Can we fly the confederate flag? And our eldest son will join the Klan.

Me: We'll name him Cyrus.

Ian: And he'll marry a girl called Mary-Bob, who will have suspicious facial hair and 7 toes, due to inbreeding.

Me: We can drag the couch out in front of the trailer and sunbathe and get drunk.

Ian: Well -- I can, with my football buddies. You can bring us beer and chips and I'll feel you up in front of them. "She may look like an elephant, but she fucks like a minx on heat -- dontcha?"

Me: And we can have some repeated names for the kids, because we'll be so drunk we'll forget we already have one by that name.

Ian: I love our hillbilly dream. Do you have a sister I can sleep with? That'd be perfect.

Me: Yes! And she's really young.

Ian: I would, however, have to be quite abusive towards you -- you do understand? I expect to be waited on hand and foot. And you will never have satisfying sex the whole time we're together -- unless it's with yourself or our dog.

Me: That dirty, dirty mutt. White trash love, baby.

Ian: Who'll end up in a drunken shotgun incident?

Me: You'll shoot yourself in the foot and then be able to collect disability, which is how we will buy all the Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

Ian: Can I call people a "son of a bitch pile of monkey nuts" and get away with it?

Me. Kinda. Try "sum bitch pile o' monkey nuts."

Ian: Also, I'll be arrested most weekends and thrown in a cell for drunken brawling.

Me: Oooh, one night you'll shoot the TV because your football team loses! And we'll keep it outside with a big hole through it! And we'll never leave the trailer park.

Ian: Well sure, the truck doesn't actually work -- though I will insist that I am fixing it up. And I'll have to go over to Billy Ray's trailer to watch the game.

Me: I hate Billy Ray. He's always grabbing my ass.

Ian: Billy-Ray is a sum bitch, gonna kick his ass yessirree.

Me: Aw, baby. You really do love me, dontcha?

Group fun: Words that gross you out

A long time ago, I put up a post about words the roommate cannot deal with. I've been IMing with Curly and Sean Conrad about words we hate and these have come up:

Slacks
Sensual
Seed
Cooch
Finger (as a verb)
Milky
Adult play

So please, dear readers, weigh in. What words make you feel all icky inside? Let's all gross each other out. It'll be fun!

UPDATE: They're having the same discussion over at Sheila's. My favorite? The word "scone" makes me uncomfortable.

Jess makes a completely arbitrary, executive decision

After some drinks last night, I made a Very Important Decision. If I am still dating in my 30s, which much to my mother's chagrin ("I just don't want you to end up alone!") I most likely will be, I will only date divorced men.

I've already missed the first marriage wave. Husbands and wives my age are, right now, fighting and throwing things and getting separated and deciding who gets what. Since I made it through the first wave unscathed, now I have to sit back and wait for the divorces to be final and custody to be decided.

Why not date bachelors, you ask? Because bachelors in their 30s have been bachelors for too long. They're too used to it. They have all these "space" issues. They're very particular about their "stuff." They're afraid that getting into a relationship means that they can't watch sports anymore or hang out in their underwear. Especially if they've lived alone for years on end. Then they just get weird.

Divorced men are a much better bet, once they get all the rebounding stuff out of the way. They've learned from their mistakes. They know how to make a commitment. And if they have a child or children over 4, yee haw! Then I don't have to deal with a baby, there's a possibility he won't want any more kids, and we'll only have them on weekends. If the ex-wife is a wretched shrew who ruined his life and is hated by the kids, so I can be the Awesome Stepmom, then even better!

Yesterday, Jake and I were discussing my need for a 5-year plan. I'm so happy I finally have one.

Livin' it up, tourist style

When friends are in town, the little neighborhood bar will not do. Nor will the otherwise unremarkable restaurant with the Best. Food. Ever.

Nicole and company (company being Vicki, Rachel and Colleen) rode into town yesterday for their one-day-only yearly big apple tourist excursion. I met them at their hotel after work, and we immediately went to Jeckyll & Hyde for dinner.

I spent a fair amount of time grumbling about eating there beforehand, like I do. But it was really fun. Our "butler" was hilarious, and I was not surprised to find out he is a frequent Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater performer. He sang a song about Rachel's birthday (not believing she was 28), Vicki's denim outfit (pull a string and it comes right off) and Colleen's camisole top (Not wearing a shirt, but she still looks cute). Had I not already reached my quota in the UCB guy department, I might have hit on him.

After dinner, we went to the UCB theater, and saw a show that was mostly funny, but not the best I'd seen, despite the very cute, very young boys performing. Then we went over to The Cutting Room, because the girls are very much in love with owner Chris Noth, aka Big on Sex in the City. Alas, he was not in attendance, but the giant wall-sized I-love-myself picture is always worth a look. The $12 cocktails? Not so much.

This morning, they trudged over to The Today Show to try to sneak a peek at Vince Vaughn, and then they return upstate. While I would never do any of the things I do when people come visit of my own volition, it's fun to act like a tourist every now and then.

Pelvic Educators

One more cold shower, a taste for murder and two bloody legs later, here I am. Back to talk about Pelvic Educators.

I'm reading a fascinating nonfiction book called Stiff. Get your collective dirty minds out of the gutter, it's about dead bodies. Specifically, the history and practice of using cadavers for medical education purposes. How one can accomplish writing that is both respectful of the dead and funny is beyond me, but Mary Roach pulls it off.

So far in my reading, there's been discussion about the not-so-ethical ways doctors have gotten practice over time. Apparently, for quite a while, gynecological practice was done on unconscious women getting surgery for other ailments. You know, they'd just let a few residents come on up and poke around. Nice, right? Well, that practice was obviously stopped, but gynos still needed to practice. Here comes the shocker (well, it shocked me). There are women called "Pelvic Educators," who are basically professional vaginas. They show up, hoist their feet up in the stirrups and let would-be gynecologists go to town. Oh. My. God.

I am in awe of these Pelvic Educators. I cannot think of a more horrible profession. I start dreading a trip to the gynecologist days before it's even scheduled to happen. The indignity of the stirrups. The various implements. Too many fingers than my vagina comfortably holds. These are not things I would do were it not necessary to my reproductive health.

Who are these women? I did a quick Google search but didn't really come up with anything. They are not listed on Salary.com. I'm dying to know everything about this position. Not because I want it, mind you, but because I'm fascinated.

Something else that I never thought of before reading this book. Those of you that have signed away your organs (myself included)…have you ever thought that you might be used for nose job practice? Face lifts? Botox? Because you might be.

Day 2

Well, it's Day 2 without hot water. I've just thought about, and dismissed, calling up my neighborhood friends and begging them to let me use their showers. They're probably at work already. I've also dismissed showering at the gym. So I'm waiting. For the hot water. Impatiently.

I've already called work to let them know I'll be late. I'm counting down the minutes until 9:00, when I can call up my super and say WHAT THAT FUCK!?!? Because, you know, no one would think of posting a notice informing us of the situation and letting us know when we might expect hot water.

I can take cold showers, mind you. It's the shaving that's an issue. When it's this hot out, I want to wear as little as possible. My underarm hair is getting to be a problem. My leg hair is now visible. How am I going to wear the cute ruffly blue tank top and knee-length black skirt if I can't shave? The answer, I'm afraid, is that I cannot leave the house until there is hot water. Whether that ends up being minutes or days, there's nothing I can do about it.

Two weekends ago, someone removed the lock from the front door of my building. Like, there was just a hole left. Judging by how long it took to replace the lock, I should have hot water in 4-5 days.

Oh oh it's magic

My face is peeling. Sunburn. Good thing I have my Magic Bra on today. When I wear the Magic Bra, no one notices my face.

Mrs. F and Julie were over one weekend, and we were getting ready to go out. I was walking in around in the Magic Bra. All of a sudden, I notice the girls staring at my chest, mouths open.

Julie: What's up with your boobs?
Mrs. F: Totally, where did they come from?

I told them it was just my Magic Bra, but they seemed skeptical.

Friday night, after my beloved Yankees got bent over by the Padres, Curly and I went to Barramundi. I was getting us drinks when I noticed Curly getting huffy about the guy at the bar next to me. She mouthed that guy keeps looking down your shirt. I thought "awesome." I know, I know, objectification and all that. But this girl has never been known for her breasts. Ass, maybe, but definitely not the bosoms. Really, they're rather unremarkable. Except when they're hanging out in the Magic Bra. In the Magic Bra, they are legendary.

Why my office manager rules

Currently hanging in the kitchen...

ATTENTION

To the pathetic soul that insists on stealing other people’s food, please allow me to appeal to whatever remains of your practically non-existent conscience.

Why do you steal food? Is it a pathological obsession? A childhood thing? Or are you just so uncaring and lazy that you would rather steal food bought by other people’s hard-earned money then buy your own?

I can picture you smirking as you read this note. But I urge you to go to the bathroom and take a look in the mirror. Look at the person that has not only become the scourge of this office but a person who obviously needs help.

Please seek that help and stop causing misery and distrust amongst your co-workers.

Thank you.

What? No more girls on trampolines?

Page Six reports that The Man Show is finally being put out of its misery. This makes me happy. Not because I'm a hairy man-hating feminist (Even though I kinda am, minus the hair and the hatred), but because it just wasn't funny.

When Jimmy Kimmel and Adam Carolla were in charge, it actually was funny. It was wink-wink sexist and definitely had its moments. Of course, I always worried about the wife-beater drinking beer in his underwear and yelling "Right on!" while he watched the show, not really getting it. But whatever. Dumb people misconstrue everything.

Once the boys left to work on the painfully unfunny Jimmy Kimmel Live (Yes, it is unfunny. Don't argue with me), The Man Show became completely unwatchable and devoid of irony. Even chicks jumping on trampolines couldn't save it. Doug Stanhope and Joe Rogan, I can't say I'm sad you're facing imminent unemployment. Well, maybe a little for Joe. I always liked him in NewsRadio.

Saving it for marriage

Me: I bought a new toy at Babeland yesterday.

Jake: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah, Big Blue is just too big. So I bought a Little Blue. They had the cutest little beginner's strap-on set. I want it.

Jake: Now all you need is a willing bitch.

Me: Well, I can't just do it with anyone.

Jake: Why not?

Me: I don't know. It's something I thought I'd do with my husband someday.

Jake: You're just so...Catholic sometimes.

Me: Ha!

Jake: "I'm saving buttfucking boys for my husband." It's totally postmodern Catholicism.

Pulling an Alyssa

There's an expression in my home. "Pulling an Alyssa."

Every Sunday, Alyssa, Suzanne and the boyfriend of the roommate come over to watch HBO Sunday night. Everyone brings wine, and the roommate and I take turns cooking. After eating and drinking, Alyssa falls asleep in the chair. Or on the couch. We point and laugh.

Last night, I pulled an Alyssa. After doing the countdown to Six Feet Under and telling everyone how excited I was about the season premiere, I pulled an Alyssa 20 minutes into the show and didn't wake up until it was over and everyone was leaving. In my defense, I was really, really tired and drank entirely too much red wine. Thank God for In Demand.

A letter to the Lifetime Movie Network

Dear Lifetime Movie Network:

Less hugging, more killing. Thank you.

Love,
Jess

Brighton Beach memoirs

I spent Saturday with my people. My Russian people. I ate sausage, looked in horror as young, attractive men ran around in Speedos and turned a fetching shade of lobster after four hours in the sun.

To my knowledge, I am not Russian. I am most definitely Italian on my mother's side. My father's side is a little fuzzy. We're allegedly German, but the family name is actually English and we don't look German. I, apparently, look very Russian.

Exhibit A. My college and right-after-college boyfriend lived in the South Bronx. When I would visit, the neighborhood guys would later ask, "Hey, who's the Russian chick?"

Exhibit B. Two boys in a dance club in London asked me if I was Russian.

Exhibit C. Last summer, the ex and I went to Brighton Beach. He was ignored all day. People only spoke to me, and they only spoke Russian.

Exhibit D. Nicola and I grabbed lunch on the boardwalk Saturday. The cute old man that came over to take our order looked at her, then at me, then back at her dismissively. He then leaned over and spoke to me in Russian. I said, "I'm sorry. I don't speak Russian." This upset him. The look on his face said, "These young people don't care enough about their culture to learn the language." He was clearly very disappointed that I was not interested enough in my Russian heritage. I didn't want to tell him I wasn't Russian, because that might have upset him even more.

I'm thinking about paying to try out one of those ancestry sites and find out what we really are on my father's side. If we're Russian, I promise to learn how to speak the language so I'm no longer a disappointment to my people at Brighton Beach.

Conversations with Favorite Ex

COUNTOWN: TWO DAYS LEFT TO SIX FEET UNDER

Me: [scanning the bookshelf] Can I borrow a book?

Him: Sure.

Me: Any recommendations?

Him: Island of the Sequined Love Nun.

ASIDE: At this point, I assume my Snarky Face and stick my tongue out at him. The fact that Love Nun even exists makes him furious. Why he keeps the book, I do not know. I read it three years ago, just to annoy him.

Him:: Take The Stone Raft. You'll like it. It's about the Iberian Peninsula floating away.

Me: Okay.

Him: Wait, let me write my name in it.

Me: Why?

Him: Because people keep stealing my books.

Me: I'm not going to steal your book!

Him: Everyone says that.

Me: How is writing your name in the book going to keep me from stealing it?

Him: Because every time you open it, you'll see my name and feel guilty, and then you'll eventually mail it to me in Minnesota.

Me: Doubtful.

Me: Why don't you just write down who has what book so you can keep track?

Him: [motioning to the whiteboard] I do, but then everyone just erases it.

Me: Then why don't you write it down somewhere that isn't public and easily erasable?

Him: Look, I realize my logic is a little flawed.

And later…

Me: How many vegetables did you eat today?

Him: None.

Me: That's why you're always sick. You don't eat any vegetables.

Him: I have fruit. Do you want some?

Me: I don't like fruit.

In other news, I'm cured. Cavefish got her mojo back.

Pete rocks

Petey and I are having lunch in Bryant Park today. He's been kind enough to invite me to go pick him up at that little comic book company he works for, where I can ogle much-coveted-by-me cute geek boys. He has promised to then befriend any cuties I point out, with the intent of introducing me at some point. How's that for friendship?

Speaking of hairstylists…

COUNTDOWN: 4 DAYS TO SIX FEET UNDER

Vile Eric, my third and least desirable roommate in New York City, was not a hairstylist. I'll tie this together, though. I promise. Stick with me.

I met Vile Eric through Marshall, a Seth Green lookalike I had met on Nerve and hung out with a few maddening times. Vile Eric was scheduled to come by and look at the apartment at 9:00pm on September 11, 2001.

8:30pm that day, I get the call. You still want to come over? I asked, in shock. Well, I still need a place to live, and I can't figure out what else to do with myself right now. Fair enough. Vile Eric came over and looked at the place - he dug it. Then we went to the Parkside Lounge and rehashed the day over drinks. I had a new roommate.

The great thing about Vile Eric initially was that he didn't move in, but he still paid rent. For two months. Awesome. Also, he was a bartender and I'd go hang out on Sunday nights when the bar was dead and drink for free. Our amicable relationship changed considerably when he actually moved in.

First, there were the girls. Four nights out of five, Vile Eric would bring a loud, drunk girl home from the bar around five in the morning and have sex with her on my futon. I would have been more forgiving on a weekend, when I didn't have to get up at 7:30.

Second, there were the friends. They were all hairstylists who looked like rock stars. There was Matt, the Billy Idol hairdresser. There was Todd, the Jon Bon Jovi hairdresser. And finally, there was Wayne, the Tommy Lee hairdresser.

One day, I came home from a date early because I had a sudden attack of the flu, and the Rock Star Hairdressers were watching a fight on the Big Screen TV and doing lines. I asked where Eric was, and was told he was at work, but he'd told them they could hang out. I went in my room to stew, and called Little Kim to tell her all about it. When I had worked up the nerve to kick them out, they were already leaving. I went off on Vile Eric the next morning, and he promised his friends would only be there when he was present. He did not keep that promise. Vile Eric was also a slob. I will not even go into what cleaning the bathroom was like when he lived there. I was dying to kick him out, but I couldn't afford the rent by myself.

OK, back to the hairdressers, specifically, Wayne. Wayne was dirty and hot in that way that I'm horribly embarrassed to admit I find appealing. Like Tommy Lee. Or Kid Rock. And yes, I have dirty thoughts about both of them and then have to take a shower. Wayne also had a very intoxicating scent, like pheromones times 100. Whenever I'd go to the bar, I'd have to warn one of the girls to keep me away from Wayne, especially since he was always hitting on me. One night I actually decided I was taking him home, and Little Kim actually dragged me out of the bar and made me go home alone.

Wayne spent a couple of nights on our couch because his girlfriend threw him out (hard to imagine why). I came home from work one day and walked into my room. It smelled like Wayne. I asked Vile Eric if he had let Wayne sleep in my room after I left for work. He'd lied and said no. Then he gave me Percoset to try to get back into my good graces. He didn't.

Finally, one day Vile Eric left me a note saying he was moving out at the end of the month. I did the happy dance and found The Roommate of today, who has been with me ever since. Her presence has more than made up for the four months spent with Vile Eric. The moral of the story is, do not find a roommate via online personals, and do not agree to let someone move into your home on the day of a national tragedy.

Reality or something like it

I watched the premiere of Blow Out tonight, Bravo's new reality show centered around the opening of a new Beverly Hills hair salon. I watched this for a variety of reasons. First, it was sandwiched in between episodes of Queer Eye. Second, while I should have been cleaning my room, the mess was far too daunting. Lastly, I worked at a hair salon for about a year and never in my life have I seen such silly drama. And silly drama makes good TV.

Jonathan Antin, main character and celebrity hairstylist, is The World's Biggest Jackass. Seriously. I dig him, however, because he is fully aware that he's a jackass, and is very comfortable in that role.

The hair salon I worked at was so much fun. I was in college, and they just loved having a pierced little freak with bright orange hair to answer the phones and shampoo heads. The owner was George, who proudly sported a sensitive ponytail even though he was nearly bald on top. George was married to a woman, but was the third gayest man I've ever met. The first two being stylists Ken and Edgar. Edgar looked exactly like Tim Curry and was very, very loud. Ken had bleach blond hair and wire-framed glasses. He was very, very quiet, except for when we would sit outside and smoke, when he would viciously rip apart the look of every college girl that walked by. He was abundantly troubled by flannel pants as daywear.

The tone of the day would be set when Ken would walk in. We'd all wait in anticipation to find out if Ken and Edgar were on-again or off-again. Upon Ken's arrival, Edgar would loudly greet him. If Ken responded happily, it was going to be a joyous day at the salon. If Ken ignored Edgar, Edgar would drag him outside where they would yell at each other for at least 15 minutes. Edgar would spend the day flirting with college boys, and Ken would spend the day chainsmoking outside and telling me all about it. On Ken's days off, he would come in anyway to dye my hair the most obnoxious color he could find. I adored them.

Also on my list of adoration was Jen, who had a different hair color and a different boyfriend every week. And Leslie, who looked like Marilyn Monroe and hung out in biker bars. Leslie and Jen complained about George every chance they got. George had a sort of detached amusement about the stylists, their problems and more specifically, their problems with him. One big happy family.

I left the salon when I got a higher-paying job as a shot girl at the freshman bar. It wasn't nearly as much fun. Now, I will relive those happy memories every Tuesday night while watching Blow Out, my newest reality TV addiction.

On rage

COUNTDOWN: 5 DAYS TO SIX FEET UNDER

It's amazing what can set me spinning into an ex-related rage.

The roommate's shaking her burlesque ass in Coney Island Friday night. Naturally, she sent me a link to the show. Then I say hmm, wonder when the Mermaid Parade is this year. Then I remember the Mermaid Day parade last year, which culminated in screaming and objects being thrown and sleeping as far away from each other as the tiny apartment would allow. It doesn't even have to be the Mermaid Day parade. It could be me waking up suddenly at five in the morning, and remembering all the times I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep because he was prolonging coming home as long as possible and I knew it. It could be me walking by his restaurant on the way to pick up my laundry and remembering all the times he accused me of spying on him. It could be me half-asleep on the futon, remembering all the nights it was less lonely to sleep there than it was to go to bed and sleep next to him. It could be me feeling incredibly sexually frustrated and remembering what it was like to be incredibly sexually frustrated when you have a live-in boyfriend who should, theoretically, want to have sex with you. It could be a lot of things. Frankly, I'm sick of being angry. I just don't know how to turn it off.

I'm not even mad at him anymore. I mean, it's easier to be mad at him -- it's always easier when you have someone else to lay the blame on. But, of course, I'm mad at myself. For staying in the relationship long after I knew it was over. For refusing to believe that the later Him was just as much Him as the early Him. For hoping that things would get better when the situation was completely hopeless. Seriously, I should know better. I did know better -- I just forgot for a tragically long time. It doesn't matter if I ever forgive him - he's not a part of my life anymore. But I'm going to be stuck in this same bullshit place until I forgive myself, methinks.

This is why therapy will not work for me. There's no analysis to be done. I know exactly why I feel the way I do, why I do the things I do, what I need to do instead. If anyone wants to give me a kick in the ass (or 20), I'll gladly bend over.

Shameless self-promotion

I finally convinced someone to sell my crafty things so I would no longer have to showcase the ugly store that blind 12-year olds built. Check out my stuff over at Funky Utopia. NOW.

Shorty can't wear heels

I've never been a stiletto girl, but I used to be a platform girl. Heels of any kind tend to be problematic, as I have neither balance nor coordination.

Back in my platform days, people genuinely thought I was tall. Obviously, they did not investigate. Case in point. Julie and I were renting an apartment from Moms. ($200 for the entire flat of a house!) There were men working on the house, as there always are because Moms loves a good home improvement project. One day, one of the men charmingly says to her:

Hey, who's the redhead that lives downstairs?
Moms says, They're both redheads, which one?
The one that's like six feet tall.
Moms says, That's my daughter, and she's actually a midget.

Gotta love Moms. Anyway, after three sprained ankles, I decided that being tall wasn't nearly as important as walking upright, so I abandoned the heel. And let me tell you, I miss the four-inch platform sandals with the fish on them, I really do.

This morning, I thought I might give heels another try. I have a pair of skinny-heeled black strappy sandals I only bust out for special occasions that don't require me to stand or walk around. I felt like a dainty little flower as I pranced around my apartment, practicing. Feminine, even. On the way to the subway, I felt pretty.

Then the heel of one of my sandals got stuck in a sidewalk crack, causing me to stop short and yell, "Mother FUCKer!" while people around me slowly backed away. So much for being dainty. And, methinks, so much for thinking I can wear heels.

Curly's platonic girlfriend

COUNTDOWN: 6 DAYS TO SIX FEET UNDER

Being a lesbian on a hookup mission is exhausting. I know, because I was an accomplice in that mission Friday night.

Curly and I went to go see copyeditor extraordinaire's band Shark Hat at Hogs & Heifers uptown, which is NOT just like Hogs & Heifers downtown but they still rocked. Afterwards, Curly wanted to chase skirts so we headed downtown to Meow Mix, where there were exactly five people. So we took a hetero detour and checked out the new Mama's Bar on Avenue B, which is where my next date will be, assuming I will go on a date some time in the near or distant future. That may or may not be assuming a lot. Then we stopped by Starlight to see if it was a lady-friendly night, and it was not. Then we decided to cab it across town to Henrietta Hudson's. Curly ogled a little hottie in a pink tank top for a bit and then I left her at the bar while I went outside to smoke, hoping someone would chat her up (she's shy). I had this conversation with a woman outside:

Her: Have you been in there?
Me: Yup
Her: Is it happening?
Me: It's packed.
Her: But is it happening?

I was kind of at a loss at that point. It seemed happening, but I wasn't sure. I told her yes and hoped I wasn't wrong. We left Henrietta's and decided to stop by the Cubby Hole. We were drunk and could not find the Cubby Hole. Somehow we decided to call Jake in Ithaca and ask him, because he knows Things. He didn't answer. I left a drunken message. We found it. I love the Cubby Hole! It's so cute inside and the music was great. I got home at 4:40am and was positively destroyed for the entire rest of the weekend.

I was supposed to go to a gay mixer at Curly's work tonight, but she's sick. Is there a word for a straight girl who spends all of her time doing lesbian things?

There is something seriously wrong with the male gender

Okay, maybe not wrong, but certainly different. Two scenarios:

1) A female friend of mine took some video of a boy she liked with her phone. He mouthed something to her and she couldn't figure out what it was. In the presence of her girlfriends, the phone was passed around the table and we each took turns trying to figure out what he said. We also did a thorough analysis of every interaction they've had to date. Only then did we offer any theories.

2) A male friend of mine was blown off by a girl he went on one date with and he's trying to figure out why. He told me they had made out. That she eventually sent him home. That he told her he'd like to see her again. I, of course, asked what she said when he said that. HE DOESN'T REMEMBER. That was possibly the most important part of the entire evening, and he doesn't remember. How am I expected to do an analysis without that crucial piece of information?

Ladies, if a guy you know has ever said "so-and-so asked about you after you met the other night," and you wanted more information, you know what I'm talking about.

A conversation with the roommate

The roommate has been away, so there will be no "weird shit my roommate sent me this week." This week. So here's a snippet of IM conversation:

Me: She got all My Best Friend's Wedding on him when we got together and started all this drama.

The Roommate: Only you would use a movie title as an adjective.

Irrational hatred

I hate Debbie DuHaime, the NY1 morning traffic reporter.

I don't even know what she looks like. She has never wronged me personally. There is no reason whatsoever for me to have such strong feelings toward her. She's just a voice, really. But I hate that voice. With a passion.

As soon as I hear it, I groan. Audibly. When she calls the George Washington Bridge "The George," I scream at the TV. Like, actually yell.

It's The George Washington Bridge, Debbie DuHaime! What the fuck is wrong with you?

I do this every ten minutes for however long it takes me to decide on a suitable outfit and make myself pretty. Back when I was an NPR in the morning kind of girl, I yelled at them to stop asking me for money. Oddly enough, I never yelled at anyone during my Howard Stern days.

The go-arounds

When I was in rape crisis training, we had a little something called the "go-arounds."

At the beginning and end of each training session, we had to go around the room and, one by one, talk about our feelings. It could be something as simple as, "I thought the article we had to read was really informative because I didn't know that ants had abusive relationships, too" or as complex as, "The whole stalking thing really got to me because I had a dog I kicked out 10 years ago and he keeps looking in my windows." You get the point. So, every time we all hang out, we start with our own go-arounds.

Last night, we had a volunteer meeting where we went around the room and discussed cases. I found out that my domestic violence case went nowhere because the girl blew off the woman from the hospital's social work program. I wonder when that's not going to be so completely heartbreaking. Anyway, it's a strange environment because we're talking about rape and DV and we're cracking jokes and laughing. Alissa had a great story about a DV case where she felt like she really bonded with the girl and said, "I was all ready to say 'I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to have any contact with you after tonight' but no one asked." Ha ha. It's kinda like when I worked in news and we all got really excited when a tornado hit and everyone who wasn't working came in and we had a pizza party and got really rowdy in the newsroom.

After the meeting, most of us went to "our place," Shades of Green. We sat down and started our go-arounds, which consist of very little aside from excruciating detail about our love lives. The very best go-around was Michelle's, even though she was not present. She had dinner with Sharona the night before and prepped her. Anytime you hear the phrase, "And oh my God, I was a porn star that night," you know it's going to be a good story. So Michelle's a porn star, Sharona's in love, Britt had a bad hookup, Alissa met a new boy after ditching the old one, Summer got a kitten, Julia's moving to London and I, well, y'all know how I'm doing, minus the stuff that I don't tell you.

What does it say about us that, aside from the long-term-relationshipper and the married gal, news about our lives consists only of boytalk?

Celebrity stalking and campaign finance make addictive bedfellows for the voyeurs among us

Jake and I have spent nearly an entire afternoon on Fund Race, which I found via Favorite Ex. Basically, you put in a zipcode and you can find everyone who donated money to a candidate within that zip, their address, how much they gave and to whom. So there I was, looking to see if I had any Bush supporters in the 'hood (not many) and stumbled across Chris Parnell ($250 to Dean and then later, $250 to Kerry). I also discovered that hottie Rufus, CEO of Nerve lives right near me. Yum.

Further perusal turned up Joan Jett, Gwyneth Paltrow and a host of others. Jake took LA, I took NYC, and here are the results. A few I've turned up since...

Ralph Lauren, $2,000 Kerry
Sean Combs, $2,000 Al Sharpton
Meg Ryan (hate her hate her hate her, by the way), $2,000 Clark
Harvey Weinstein, $2,000 Dean
Ellen Barkin, $2,000 Kerry
Robert DeNiro, $2,000 Kerry
Al Franken, $2,000 Kerry
Dweezil Zappa, $1,000 Gephardt
John McEnroe, $2,000 Kerry
Julianne Moore, $2,000 Kerry
Marlo Thomas, $2,000 Kerry
Uma Thurman, $2,000 Kerry
Donald Trump, $2,000 Kerry (Trump's a Democrat???)
Rupert Murdoch, $2,000 Bush

Now, this list may not seem "fair & balanced," but seriously, all the Bush supporters are investment bankers and shit. Not household names. Jake found a few on that other coast, though. Go check 'em out.

How could I forget the disco tunnel?

This should really be called Adventures in Alabama, Volume IV: Detroit Layover, but out of sequence it loses a little something, methinks.

Anyway, I was completely blown away by the McNamara Terminal/Northwest WorldGateway, in the bowels of Detroit's Metro Airport. There was a 9,000 ft. tunnel, with a synchronized light and sound show. Lots of colors, lots of bizarre. You can see it here, and find out about the Illumination Design Award it won. Don't let the description fool you, it is an airport tunnel on acid, and that's all you need to know. The experience was made even more unsettling by a young man just standing there, directly in the middle of the passageway, staring straight ahead. For a really long time.

The best part was listening to the guy on the escalator behind me try to describe it to someone on his cell phone.

It's like, a long hallway. With, like, seascapes or some shit. And they change colors. And then the music gets really loud, and then really soft. And you're on those flat escalator things the whole time. No, you don't understand. It was really weird.

Who will save your soul when I give up trying?

Jake: You haven't tried to save a boy in awhile, you're due.
Me: Nah. I don't have the energy for it anymore.
Me: Cute gym guy doesn't seem like he needs much saving.
Jake: You're talking like a sober, rational person lately. Should I stage an intervention?
Me: I'm sure I'll get over it. Lots of drama potential this week. I'll be a raving lunatic by Monday.
Jake: Well, thank God for that. Too much change is scary.

Perspective

Let's just say, hypothetically speaking, that a boy you went on a handful of dates with four months ago and haven't talked to since sends you an email telling you about a (female) friend that just moved to town that you'd really hit it off with and wants to know if you'd like to get coffee with them sometime. Is he:

A) trying to fix you up

B) all about the threesome

C) genuinely trying to introduce his newcomer to new friends

or D) Saying "Let's hang out. But platonically. In a group."

Hypothetically speaking, of course. Now that I have comments enabled, I fully intend to be lazy about setting up actual polls.

Adventures in Alabama Volume III: Cindy gets bored

Imagine my surprise when I discover that one of the groomsmen co-founded BuffyGuide.com, a very comprehensive Buffy site that I've been to, oh, about 10 million times. It was like being in the presence of a celebrity. Much talk of the Buffyverse ensued at the wedding, and in the car ride back to the hotel. The next day, Cindy said…

You and Jeremy were boring the fuck out of me in the car last night. I was ready to go find the KKK and turn myself in just so I wouldn't have to listen to you two talk Buffy anymore.

Adventures in Alabama, Volume II: Bedtime fun

There was lots of bedtime hilarity over the weekend.

First, Cindy and I requested a room with two beds. We received a room with one king-sized bed. I informed her that, should I decide to hook up, she better be ready for a threesome. We figured we'd be okay sleeping together with so much room. Turns out I'm a bed hog and I like to sprawl in the middle. So not so much.

Back at Peggy's, Jeff was drunk and pillowless. After being without pillow the night before, he had done a check of the various bedrooms and knew that the room Kim was sleeping in had two pillows. Determined to get one, he knocked on Kim's door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A voice calls out, "Hello?" and then "Come in." Jeff walks in and sees Kim and Monica sleeping together, each with one of the coveted two pillows. He stands there. Monica is confused. She doesn't know what his intentions are. She is further confused when he says, "Oh, there are two of you." Was he trying to hook up with Kim? With her? She didn't know. He mumbled something about extra pillows and left. I can tell this story because I heard it no less than 10 times. It got better every time, and was best when Monica and Jeff did the tag-team storytelling. We got a lot of material out of it this weekend.

In other sleeping news, I got drunk and slept through the tornado.

Adventures in Alabama, Volume I

There are many more coming, as I have many stories to tell. First, I'm going to get really sappy and shit.

I met Peggy freshman year in college. I met the boy Peggy fell in love with freshman year in college, too. I loved them both dearly. They were together a long, long time. As much as they loved each other, they never wanted the same things. When it didn't work out, those of us who loved them both were devastated, as were they. When Peggy met Chris, it seemed foreign to me. Strange. But when I saw her on her wedding day, she glowed. She beamed. There was no trace of fear or doubt. She was the happiest I've ever seen her. She was beautiful. I knew then that this time, she had found true love. Congratulations, Peggy and Chris. Now start going to church and make some friends down there in the Bible Belt, already. And to the rest of y'all, wish them the best.