How to ruin a truce with your ex-boyfriend: A lesson

Him: Happy Thanksgiving

Me: Can't be worse than last year, right?

Him: …

Honestly, I meant it to sound lighter than it probably did.

Home for the Holidays, Volume I

Saturday night, the Heathers and Marina and Kim and some friends-of-friends kicked it at the newly-reopened Delorey's. The bar looked beautiful, the band was awesome and Cousin Desiree is a great little bartender. Upon arrival, I did my rounds as several of my family members were in attendance. When I returned, something vile was hitting on one of the Heathers.

Now when I say "something vile," this is not your everyday shallow statement. When I say "vile," I mean he was short, scrawny, 40ish, slurring and wearing a beat-up leather jacket and a bandana over his long, greasy hair. He went by the name of Axl, but "not like Axl Rose" because he was Axl "way before that." Heather mouthed "help me" to me, I passed it along to Marina, and Marina asked Heather to tell us all about her new apartment. Heather turned her back on Axl and started talking to us while he continued to yell at no one in particular.

No one in particular quickly became Marina when he yelled, "Hey you with the dark hair! You're fucking hot." She ignored him as he got louder and louder until finally, I lifted up her hand with The Rock on it and said, "She's taken. Therefore, she doesn't want to talk to you." Then he tried to get another beer and was ignored by Cousin Desiree. Finally, he went off to play pool with Uncle Mark. His equally drunk friend began apologizing for Axl's bad behavior. After we assured him it was fine, he asked us all to dance. We politely declined.

Later, Cousin Desiree informed us that the friend had been kicked out, and Axl had been cut off. I might have kicked out Axl and cut the friend off, but then again, I'm not the bartender. Aside from the Axl experience, a lovely time was had by all. More tales coming soon.

Jess and Julie on Tall Guy

Julie: So did you have sex?

Me: No, Julie. It was a first date. I kissed him good night and then sent him on his way.

Julie: Wow, you must really like him.

And possibly an aged cheese. But definitely strawberry

When you first meet someone you like, it's hard to know which behaviors are appropriate.

Last night, Tall Guy and I went to see Sideways, followed by some beers at Reservoir. Azee and I met Tall Guy and company at Barcade last Thursday. We hit it off, I gave him my number and lo and behold, he actually called.

Sideways was a great little flick, by the way. I highly recommend it. There was a running Pinot Noir theme, so of course there were several Pinot Noir jokes during the course of the night. We chatted, we laughed, and despite our epic height difference, there was some smooching before I bid him adieu at the Union Square L-Train station.

Today, I walked by my new fancy schmancy neighborhood wine shop and saw that they were doing a Pinot Noir wine tasting. I thought for a moment, and then decided to send him a text message informing him of the tasting. Then I panicked, until I got one back that said, "Nice. Nutty with a hint of fig?" We spent an hour or two sending messages back and forth. His last message said, "Have fun upstate this weekend. Say 'Hi' to my future in-laws for me."

Azee has a good feeling about this one. I'm trying not to get my hopes up. Too much.

Can I please have a sandwich? What with all this killing, and hostage-taking, I've really worked up an appetite.

On Lifetime Sunday, the crew watched Stalking Laura, a movie starring Brooke Shields as Laura Black, a woman being stalked by a man at her company. (the always-creepy Richard Thomas) Ultimately, Thomas' character is fired, and after repeated failed attempts to get Laura to have dinner with him occasionally (no really, he specified "occasionally"), he shows up at the office with ammo and explosives and starts killing everyone he sees.

Now, as frequent Lifetime spectators, there was no shortage of comments from the peanut gallery of myself, The Roommate, The Boyfriend of The Roommate and L'il Suzy. When Laura would find a dead coworker and freak out, we'd yell, "It's all your fault, Laura! He just wanted to have dinner occasionally! Occasionally!" and crack ourselves -- and each other -- up.

The biggest discussion came when hostage negotiators arrived on the scene and asked for Thomas' demands. He requested a Diet Cola, but not in a can. In a glass, with ice. And a sandwich. We found this very disturbing.

"Just any kind of sandwich?" asked the roommate. "Why isn't he asking for something specific?"

"What if they show up with, like, egg salad?" I asked. "That might be the last sandwich he ever eats."

So then we started discussing what our perfect hostage sandwich would be. Some ideas were thrown out, and then I had an idea.

"A mixed Italian sub," I said. "That would be my perfect hostage sandwich."

A hush fell over the room, as everyone considered the salami and the provolone cheese and the ham and the capicola and the pepperoni.

In the end, everyone agreed that, if we went in to shoot up an office building and take someone who wouldn't have dinner with us occasionally as a hostage, we wouldn't request just any old sandwich. We'd request a mixed Italian sub. We didn't discuss beverages, though.

Mortified

Saturday night a gaggle of girls celebrated Nicola's upcoming nuptials. First we had dinner at Otto. I had read that the pizzas were sub-par so I opted for the pasta, which was delicious. After dinner, we headed over to a bar I do not know the name of and cannot find on Citysearch because, as we all know, Citysearch kinda sucks when it comes to, well, searching.

A little back story is in order. At Nicola's engagement party, I had my eye on a Zach Braff look-alike who was quite funny and rather charming. I was pretty sure he was there with his girlfriend, but inquired after the party just in case. At the bar, I was sitting next to one of Nicola's friends who looks like a young Virginia Madsen and whom I had not met previously. We started talking about dating in New York, and I asked her if she had a boyfriend. She did. And then she said:

Oh wait! You're Jess! You're the one who asked about my boyfriend after Nikky's engagement party!

I. Wanted. To. Die. Later that night, we met up with said boyfriend and company, and I wanted to die just a little bit more.

I am a masochist

Me: Date with tall guy tonight!

Jake: Wear heels and bring a phone book.

Me: I have the red boots on. They have a heel.

Jake: Is he tall and skinny?

Me: Yes. 6'5". The good thing is, I'm going away Wednesday through Monday, so if I decide I don't like him it will be easy to blow him off.

Jake: Hit and run. Such a clever girl -- you'd have made a fabulous assassin.

Me: Kinsey = bad first date movie?

Jake: Oh, I think it's very tongue-in-cheek.

Jake: Or tongue-in-groove, as the case may be.

Would I like a cowboy? Sure. But I'd rather have two.

At a time when our government is trying to restrict the rights of two people who love each other to marry simply because they have similar sex organs, I'm glad that Hollywood is at least giving the public what they really want -- hot boy-on-boy action.

From what I've heard, Alexander is going to be atrocious. Do I care? Nope. Will I still see it? Yes. Why, you ask? Because Colin Farrell and Jared Leto are going to knock some boots. And I wouldn't miss that for the world.

And to tell you the truth, I have heard absolutely nothing about Brokeback Mountain. I don't even know what it's about. All I know is Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal are going to be making with the cowboy love. Yee haw, boys. Yee. Haw.

I hope this sparks a trend. I hope soon our big screens are graced with the likes of Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Jude Law and Ewan McGregor having sex with one another. Hot. I haven't been this excited since the first time I saw Anthony Kiedis and Dave Navarro make out at the end of the Warped video.

It doesn't mean I'm a dirty girl with strange fetishes

When I have dreams that baffle me, I head on over to Swoon and find out what they mean. Sometimes. Sometimes I end up more baffled that I am to begin with.

So this morning, I come in to work. In the little box next to "Last night I dreamt about…" I typed "feces." When I found out what the feces meant, I then typed in "urine." And according to Swoon, those are two very positive things to dream about. Phew.

More on Sensitive Ponytail Boy

Me: I'm still friends with some of his frat brothers. I bet I could track him down.

Jake: Oh that's right, you pulled the frat trains at Marist. Slut.

Me: I didn't pull any trains at Marist. I slept with exactly three boys during those four years. Two were boyfriends and one was The Love of My Life. Only one was a frat boy.

Jake: How was the love of your life not a boyfriend? That's poor planning.

Me: Actually, The Love of My Life is one of his frat brothers.

Jake: Three boys all through college, eh?

Me: That's it.

Jake: I've had better Tuesdays than that.

When I get that feeling…

Last night, I randomly dreamt of Sensitive Ponytail Boy.

I met SPB my freshman year in college. We lived in the same dorm. Tex and I had the party room, and we never closed our door, ever. Boys from the floors below would often wander up. One night, SPB and his minions wandered in. We drank and hung out and had a glorious time and before I knew it, I was smitten. The boys started dropping by to hang out on a fairly regular basis, and I started plotting.

Score! One night Tex got sick and his roommate (I can't remember which boy was his roommate) got lucky, so he invited me down to his empty room to hang out. We sprawled out on his bed. He called me "Little Miss Alternate" because of my purple pigtails and skater-girl wardrobe and tickled me. There was much giggling. We listened to No Alternative, and he kept getting up to replay the Sexual Healing remake by Soul Asylum because at that moment, it was the Best. Remake. Ever.

After about four hours of my willing him to kiss me, I realized it wasn't going to happen. I was tired and the sun was about to come up, so I crawled upstairs to my room. The next day, the girls were as disappointed as I was to learn that no moves had been made. Almost.

Fast forward to the end of senior year. It was the night of the River Awards. When the awards were over, those of us who hadn't been presented with one stayed at the bar, while those who did went home to kill themselves. I walked by SPB just as I heard him say, "I will kiss the next girl who walks by me." He turned around and said, "Sorry Jess, but I have to do this." Then he kissed me. When he was done, I said, "It's about fucking time." And he said, "I know, right? Why didn't you make a move that night freshman year?"

I heard a vicious rumor that he's living in my neighborhood now. Maybe the dream is a sign that I'm going to run into him soon. That wouldn't suck.

Always a bridesmaid

Julie catches bouquets. Professionally. I spoke to her last night, and she informed me that at a recent wedding in Miami, she caught the bouquet. This brings the grand total to 7. Apparently, a caught bouquet is really not a good indicator of upcoming nuptials for the catcher.

I was with Julie when she caught her first bouquet. It was Mrs. F's wedding. I was the maid of honor and Julie was a bridesmaid. At the reception, the throwing of the bouquet was announced. Julie immediately jumped up, while the rest of us had to be (threatened) coaxed. Finally, the rest of us grudgingly lined up.

Mrs. F threw the bouquet. I ducked. Marina stepped to the side. Dirty Holly was nowhere near it and didn't seem particularly concerned. A Heather stepped back. Julie lunged for it. And fell. In the middle of a circle that everyone around her had abandoned so as not to catch the bouquet. It was caught on video.

"So did you lunge for this one?" I asked last night.

"No, it just fell on me." Then I heard the Hot Irish Boyfriend in the background insisting otherwise.

"Uh huh," I said.

An open letter to Bijou Phillips

Dear Bijou Phillips:

Again, you grace my beloved Page Six. Again, I say, "Who is this Bijou Phillips character and why should I care?" Again, I IM around asking if anyone knows why you are famous. No one does. This keeps me up at night, Bijou Phillips. It really does.

A Google search tells me that you are listed on IMDB. This makes me assume you're some sort of actress. You are currently filming something called Backwater, evidently. You were in several movies I have not only never seen, but have never heard of; Havoc, The Door in the Floor, Octane, Bully, Fast Sofa and Sugar Town. Apparently, you played a Band-Aid in Almost Famous, but I can't seem to remember anyone beyond Kate Hudson, Fairuza Balk and Anna Paquin. Therefore, your performance was entirely forgettable. You could have not been in the film at all, and my life would not be altered in any way.

You've also been the voice of someone called Helena Wankstein on the Grand Theft Auto video games. I am not familiar with this character, but the name sounds very porny. Your father is John Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas. According to your IMDB bio, you rode some horses, partied, did some modeling, partied, sang some, partied, dated Sean Lennon, partied and hung out with the Hiltons.

I beg of you, Bijou Phillips, please stop acting up. You are not famous or accomplished enough to be wasting valuable Page Six space that could be put to better use reporting on Lindsay Lohan's crazy father, Vincent Gallo's psychotic rants and Britney's bun in the oven.

Love,
Jess

An announcement

Misshawklet.com has launched! Misshawklet, who some of you may know as Dirty Holly, is now peddling her wares online, and even though I'm biased, her stuff rocks. Go check it out. She's also got herself a blog here.

The geekiest thing I've ever said

In response to the "What did you do this weekend?" question:

Friday night I went out to dinner with my friend Curly and then we went back to her place to drink beer and look at fonts.

Some notes on life in da hood

I swear, if I hear one more person who doesn't live in my neighborhood walking around with other people who don't live in my neighborhood, pointing out examples of my neighborhood's "gritty charm," I'm going to hurt someone.

I've started taking yoga on Saturdays at the Kiwi Studio on Essex. It kicks my ass. Yesterday, about halfway through the class, the instructor announced that we were going to start working on handstands. The collective "are you fucking kidding me?" look that fell over the class was priceless. Only three people attempted the handstand. I was not one of them.

On the way back, I stopped at Tiny's Giant Sandwich Shop for a tasty happy crackhead salad, or whatever it's called. Then I walked home, passing ABC No Rio. When I walk by ABC No Rio on Saturday afternoons in my sneakers and sweats, carrying a yoga mat, and the punk kids glance over at me, I feel like the ultimate yuppie asshole. Or somebody's really uncool mom.

Someone with this phone number called me three times at 4:00 this morning. 359888562749. Was it you?

Living the dream

I accidentally started writing a novel this weekend.

I was riding the F-train from Manhattan to Brooklyn around 2:00 Saturday morning. I was kind of drunk, but not really, and I started thinking about moss.

When I got home, I wrote a neat little paragraph about moss. And then I wrote a neat little story about two people worrying about the moss. And then I wrote scene after scene after scene of these two people, and suddenly it wasn't about moss anymore.

Then I took a shower. In the shower, I completely wrote three scenes in my head. I hurried out of the shower to write them down before I forgot.

I've never written this way before. I'm a planner. I write outlines and know every movement my characters are going to make from beginning to end. I also never finish anything. Writing like this is scary. The story is writing itself, and I don't know where it's going to end up.

The voice is strange, too. I'm writing in this kind of disjointed choppy voice. It doesn't sound like me, yet, it is me. I'm excited. The kind of excited you get after first kisses.

The Grapes of Fug

Me: Wait until you see how I dressed myself today. I so deserve a fug.

Curly: You're killing me.

Me: I'm serious. This outfit has no rhyme or reason. It doesn't even match.

Curly: What would your fugged up title be?

Me: My title...

Me: The Grapes of Fug

Curly: That's fugging fabulous.

Me: You'll understand when you see the outfit.

Curly: Bring some tumbleweeds, a big fan and a bag of dirt.

This is HUGE, people

From: Jess
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 11:49 AM
To: Sheila
Subject: I heard...

...that there is a cute, seemingly straight guy that just started working here, and that he sits on your side of the office. Do you know anything about this?



From: Sheila
Sent: Friday, November 12, 2004 11:54 AM
To: Jess
Subject: re: I heard...

Hmmm. I have seen no cuteness yet.

I wonder if it could be "George", this mysterious new-guy ... who seems to be more like Snuffleupagus though ... I have heard of him, but I have never seen him.

Morality check

When I watch the movie Unfaithful, I think that no matter how happy my future marriage may be, I would still get freaky with that french guy behind my husband's back. Does that make me a bad person?

At least I can still pull off pigtails

This is how it goes down.

I lose a butt load (literally) of weight. My face no longer looks fat. My hair gets long and scraggly. I see a picture of Claire Danes circa Brokedown Palace and marvel at her little wisp of a haircut. I remember when I had a cute little wisp of a haircut. I call Dana and make an appointment for the day after Thanksgiving.

Then something happens. My hair feels threatened, and desperate to prove itself. After the gym, I shower and go to bed without drying my hair. I wake up with giant, loose curls that put Nicole Kidman to shame, without any product. I leave the house every morning with a wet head, and people in the office compliment me on my hair and ask what I've done differently.

I decided to cut it off, that's what I've done differently, I say. The girls nod and smile ruefully, knowingly. The boys don't get it. I call Dana back and say, just a trim.

UPDATE: Those of you who think this post is dull and/or too girly, *cough* Sean Conrad *cough*, zip it. They can't all be winners.

Drinks with the ex: Two conversations

Earlier:

Him: I have your Britney CD.

Me: The one with I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman on it? I've been looking for that!

Him: Yeah.

Me: Okay, I really need to get that back.


Later:

Him: I have a confession to make. I have something else of yours.

Me: What?

Him (sheepishly): Monday.

I considered this for a moment.

Me: Monday as in my day-of-the-week underwear Monday?

Him: Yeah.

Me: Did you steal them?

Him: No, they were mixed up with my stuff.

Me: Eh, keep 'em.

He's back, the man behind the mask. And he's out of control. He's back, the man behind the mask. He crawled out of his hole

Come on, you knew he couldn't stay away forever.

From the group email debate raging amongst my high school friends about the presidential election:

Julie: What? You're allowed to state an opinion and I'm not?

Mrs. F: Go fuck yourself is an opinion?

Revisiting

Last week, I decided there wasn't nearly enough drama in my life, and I better get on that ASAP.

Actually, I had a few beers with the ex's old friend and former roommate, and it got me thinking. About what really happens after you die, about whether or not the media was the deciding factor in the presidential election, and lastly, about whether you can be friends with someone you've felt every emotion on the love/hate spectrum for.

So it got me thinking some more. Would my life be better if I could go to the gym without worrying that the ex will be there? If I could pick up my laundry without looking forward and only forward because if I look to the side when passing his restaurant I might see him and that would be very, very bad? If I could maybe someday eat at my favorite little downtown Italian restaurant again? If our mutual friends could not be tormented by the notion of inviting both of us to a party?

So I sent him an email inviting him for coffee or a drink. He called me Saturday afternoon, and we had a conversation that didn't suck. In fact, there was even laughter, albeit nervous laughter. We're having a drink tonight. Jake does not approve.

Lunatics, all of them

Mom is smitten with Cousin Desiree's friend Tim. So much so, that she has decided either Cousin Desiree or I must date him. ASAP. After explaining to Mom that Cousin Desiree doesn't like him that way and will never like him that way, she informed me that she would be telling Cousin Desiree to invite him to the bar on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, where I will be hanging out with my high school friends and she will be working.

Mom: I think you'll really like him. He's bald. You love bald guys.

Me: One bald guy, Mom. I dated one bald guy. I'd hardly call that a trend.

Mom: I think he's a cop, or something to do with cops.

Me: I don't want to date a cop. Then I'll have to stop smoking crack and engaging in deviant sexual activity with hookers.

Mom: He's really cute.

Me: And he lives in Schenectady.

Mom: Maybe he'll move.

Cousin Desiree is also real big on hooking me up with Tim, mainly because she thinks he likes her in more than a friendly way and wants to discourage that. Meanwhile, she is dating a 33-year old divorced Dad. I liked it better when Cousin Desiree was 10 and I was 15 and we weren't swimming in the same dating pool. It was weird enough when she started sleeping with the first boy I ever French kissed -- now I'm getting fixed up with her cast-offs.

Friday fun with Zach

Zach: Want to move to Australia?

Me: Yes please.

Zach: We would have to live together. That cool?

Me: As long as you don't try anything funny.

Zach: Funny as in what? Like a sneak attack on the back door?

Me: You kill me.

Zach: I'll take that as a maybe.

The Grudge

I am a girl who organizes trips to break into houses where murder-suicides have taken place and stories of spirit unrest abound. I am a girl who digs cemeteries in a big way. I am a girl who used to play with a Ouija board alone, even though I saw Witchboard about 100 times. I am a girl who once thought it would be a blast to work in a funeral home. I am a girl who didn't speak to my mother for a week because she would not let me buy a hearse in high school. What am I getting at? I'm no pussy when it comes to the scary, the creepy and the unexplained.

Last night, my partner-in-gore Linus and I went to see The Grudge. It was utterly terrifying. It was the scariest movie I've ever seen in my life. The Roommate slept at The Boyfriend's last night, and alone, in my bed, I saw that creepy little boy. I dreamed about that creepy little boy, and the dreams were not pleasant. I was thoroughly traumatized by that movie. I can't wait until it comes out on DVD so I can watch it late at night when I'm home alone and scare myself some more.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming

I remembered this story while putting on mascara this morning. It made me giggle.

It was freshman year at Marist College. Father Mike and I decided to stay in and have ourselves a romantic Saturday night. We had a fridge full of Zima and Untamed Heart in the VCR. It was on.

Two hours later, we're drunk and naked under the covers and a key turns in the door. Father Mike whispers, "pretend you're asleep" and proceeds to do exactly that. I don't know how believable that move was, considering the Bob Marley playing on the boom box and the lit candles everywhere. I peeked at Doc, Father Mike's roommate, and he was on his bed with his head in his hands. He was crying.

"Doc, are you okay?" Father Mike pinched me under the covers and gave me a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. Doc was not okay. Doc had girl problems. Doc wanted to talk. For a really long time. He slid his desk chair next to the bed and we talked, while Father Mike stubbornly pretended to be asleep while pinching me every few minutes. After about ½ hour of listening and consoling, their third Musketeer Pat came in very, very drunk.

"Mommy! Daddy! I'm home!" And with that, Pat jumped in bed with us. It was at this point that I realized we were both still naked. Pat wanted to get under the covers with us. Father Mike told him no. Pat wanted us to get out of bed and go play kickball in the hallway, and started trying to drag us out of bed. Father Mike punched him. At this point, it became apparent that Doc and Pat were never going to leave. Ever. Father Mike decided to do something.

"Look, can you assholes get out of here? We were trying to have sex before you came home and interrupted us. We're both naked under here and we need to put some clothes on."

Doc and Pat looked at me, then at Father Mike. Then at the bulge in the blankets where our bodies were.

"Fuck man," Pat said. "You could have said something." They left, and Father Mike and I spent the rest of the night fighting about whether or not they would have gone away if I had just pretended to be asleep.

My country 'tis of thee

Sarah Vowell had this to say about the United States:

When I think about my relationship with America, I feel like a battered wife: Yeah, he knocks me around a lot, but boy, he sure can dance.

I think there's going to be a lot more knocking around and a lot less dancing for the next four years. On the bright side, Ian still loves us.

More than words

Gina has a great post up today on "divisions, casting a vote, trusting in a system, and choosing a leader." It's a must-read, and it's better than anything I can articulate in my overanxious state.

It also made me calm down a bit about my crazy best friend voting for the other candidate, in Florida of all places.

I like this bit.

The problem with only hanging out with those who agree with you is that it becomes very easy to demonize the other side. They're not all Bible-beating, NRA card-carrying, homophobic zealots.

I like this bit, too.

In the meantime, Terra and I have decided that we'll bake cookies.

Notes taken during a company meeting, Volume II

Sometimes I sit in long meetings that don't pertain to me, like today from 2-3. And since I'm doing little else besides freaking out about the election (Vote, dammit!), I thought I'd share one hour of complete boredom with you.

Here's Volume I.

It's not even 11:00am and I already need a nap

What an exhausting weekend.

I hopped on Metro-North Friday after work and got off in Stamford, where Cindy and Zoraida were kind enough to collect me. Their hilarious friend Marie showed up and told us about two things she enjoys very much -- running, and smoking Newports. She said she ultimately wants to run a marathon with Newport as her sponsor. She'd wear the Newport colors, and her shirt would say "Alive with Pleasure." When she won, she'd be teaching inner-city girls a very important lesson -- you can smoke and run. You don't have to choose, you can do both. That girl killed me.

Then we were off to the club, which was one of the strangest places I've ever been, inhabited by the strangest people. Strangest was our bartender, who was sweating profusely, appeared to have a raging case of adult ADD and would only serve us bizarre concoctions like whisky, soda and Grenadine. It was nearly impossible to get the drink you actually ordered. I think we might have gotten him fired.

Later, two very drunk, very awful boys came up to the table and started hitting on us. Cindy decided to introduce us all with fake names. After introducing me as Natasha, I felt it was my duty to speak broken English with a Russian accent for the remainder of the evening. It was fun to look at him quizzically when he said a word I pretended not to be familiar with, and he'd become a human thesaurus. He would stop midway through a story to make sure I understood what he was talking about. When Cindy made fun of a word I said, he told her not to make fun of me, that he thought I was doing a very good job. When three of his friends showed up, I excused myself because they seemed relatively sober and I didn't want to get caught in a lie.

Saturday was kind of a bust. First, I played a size 8 bridesmaid so Zoraida could see how the potential dresses for her wedding looked on an actual person. Always a pretend bridesmaid, never a real one. Then we drove up to Holy Land USA, which we couldn't get into because the nuns live right on top of the damn place and they were all home. After considering and rejecting the idea of scaling a fence in someone's backyard, we gave up. Later, Petey and I tried to go to a haunted house in my hood, but it was all sold out.

Petey, Azee and I got all dressed up and went to the parade yesterday. I was Magenta from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. As I walked up to Union Square to meet them, my garter became a problem. Since I've had a long line of ex-boyfriends who "don't get" lingerie, I'm unfamiliar with the workings of the garter. As I walked, it started to slide down. And down. And down. Then I'd stop and adjust, and I'm pretty sure I flashed my ass to at least 15 people while attempting to do so. Finally, I reached the Barnes & Noble at Astor Place, where I ducked into the bathroom and tightened and stretched and got everything sorted. We narrowly escaped a near-riot at the parade, ducked out when the Seed of Chucky promotional float got stalled in front of us and we couldn't take the maniacal laughter anymore, and had a few drinks at 119 and Ace bar. All in all, a delightful, chill Halloween.