My trip upstate

My favorite part of being at my father's house in the wintertime, save for the people inside it, is looking out the dining room windows and seeing a frozen Saratoga Lake. Dad says it's currently at 16 inches, more than strong enough to hold a four-wheeler, car or truck. While you wouldn't catch me, or I'd imagine, most sane people, driving a vehicle out onto a frozen lake, it's fun to watch the people ice fishing, being pulled on skis or just taking a leisurely stroll. It relaxes me.

I spent a good portion of the weekend, most of it really, watching Baby Brother play Grand Theft Auto: San Adreas. It's a fun game to watch, but it concerns me that when something in the game doesn't go his way, he decides to kill everyone in sight. He particularly likes killing hookers after he has sex with them in the car so he can take his money back. I fear he might be a serial killer or mass murderer one day.

We ate dinner at what my mother refers to as "that Applebees." At what point in their lives do women start adding unnecessary words to sentences? She once remarked that "that Tiffani-Amber Thiessen is in a lot of the Lifetime movies." I had a burger and fries.

On Friday night, we watched The Forgotten. It was one of those movies, much like Dude, Where's My Car?, where you find out the big secret and say, "Wow, that's dumb." I didn't especially like Dude, Where's My Car?, but I like using it for comparisons.

I'm going to be an aunt again in September. All in all, a nice, chill trip upsate.

My date with Rock Star

It was a great date. I will not get into details, as we have only discussed getting together for dinner next week and have yet to make a plan. I'm supposed to call him when I'm back in the big city to make arrangements, which is a plus because I won't be sitting around agonizing over when or if he's going to call. Although he might screen me and not call back. It's dating. It happens. If a second date happens, I will write a long post about how cool he is. If a second date doesn't happen, I will write a long post about how he ain't all that and a bag of chips.

I forgot how much fun being interested in someone can be.

Most humbling moment

Getting an evite to a college friend's birthday party. Realizing you've hooked up with three of the people on the invite list.

Sheila reviews The Gates

She's brilliant. She's also hilarious. An excerpt from this purposefully pretentious review, which might be the funniest thing I've ever read:

I would equate the experience of walking through the exhibit with passing through the birth canal and suggest that those who hate The Gates do so because they despise their own existence. Christo's Gates are a physical representation of the artist's inner dialectic, juxtaposing saffron spirituality and utilitarian steel in a compromised landscape, and bring up the penultimate question: Où les neiges de temps jadis sont?

Read the rest. You won't be sorry.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume II

I'll be on a train up to Saratoga tomorrow, hopefully giddy from a spectacular date with Rock Star. That means you get your bad poetry a little early this week.

This particular work is untitled. I wrote it after my first breakup with my first long-term boyfriend, Satan.

I wrote for you a love song
But the words got lost in the wind
I built for you a castle
But you wouldn't let me in
I cried for you an ocean
But it soon dried up with the sun
I painted you a rainbow
But the colors melted into one
I tried to say I love you
But I couldn't find the words
I begged you not to leave me
But my voice was never heard

If you missed Volume I, you can read it here.

And for a sneak preview of next week's bad poetry…

Curly: It's really not that bad.

Me: Oh. It is.

Curly: Girl, I MUST dig mine out. I can out-cheese you.

Me: I have an atrocious sonnet for next week.

Curly: Atrocious sonnet = my favorite phrase of the day.

Me: I actually used the word mem'ries.

Curly: Oh no you didn't!

Me: Oh yes I did!

Dating like a Rock Star

Hot Bouncer will be simmering on the back burner for a week or two, while we focus our attention on Rock Star.

I met Rock Star online and we have our first date Thursday night. We've averaged about 5-10 email exchanges per day since last week. Last night, he called and we giggled and chatted for about an hour. There are several things that lead me to believe he has potential:

1) He's cute.
2) He's over 30.
3) He lives four blocks away.
4) He's as into food as I am.
5) He's funny.
6) He's a motherfucking Rock Star.

Apparently, he also belongs to my ghetto gym, as of two weeks ago. Last night, we got to talking about some of the "characters" at the establishment.

Me: Have you seen Paris Hilton? Trucker hat? Juicy sweatsuit? Totally emaciated?

RS: Yes! And she has the shorter blond friend with the implants?

Me: Yes! And they don't even work out. They just walk around with full faces of makeup on.

RS: Yes! Ugh, I've noticed there are a lot of emaciated girls at that gym.

That's all it takes to win my heart, really. Complain about emaciated girls at the gym. My plan for tomorrow? A couple of drinks and then usher myself home like the nice Catholic girl I was raised to be. His plan? Get me liquored up and drag me to Sing Sing, where I will begin with my tone-deaf rendition of Bette Davis Eyes and end with a bad Rock Star/Jess duet. We'll see.

The P. stands for Penguin, yo

I generally have nothing but disdain for PETA.

I feel that an organization should choose their battles in order to be effective, rather than simply making noise by fighting every battle. I also find the way they exploit women in their ad campaigns disgusting. Circuses are bad! Caged animals are bad! Let's put a naked, exotic looking African-American woman in a cage with tiger stripes on her! Yeah! That will make people really "get" it. Okay there, People for the Unethical Treatment of Women.

That said, I'm kind of on their side today. Page Six is reporting that P. Diddy had a party last Friday night. Among the props at said party were six "petrified-looking" African penguins. As a fierce penguin lover, I'm in a bit of a tizzy over this. According to Page Six:

A spokesman for the Hotel Victor claims the penguins were actually "warm-weather" specimens from South Africa, "trained specifically for entertainment, expositions and television commercials."

You may not know this about me, but I know a thing or two about the African penguin. During my trip to South Africa last month, we visited a penguin colony called Boulders Beach. I was quite enamored of the African penguins. So I bought a book about them and spent the next week rattling off facts like that annoying kid in Jerry MaGuire. While the African penguin is technically a "warm-weather" specimen, it also has the luxury of a cold sea and underground nests with which to cool off frequently. Reports from the party state that the temperature was hot and the water was warm, giving the little tuxedo birds no way to cool off. So don't even try, Hotel Victor. Those penguins were miserable and you know it.

I know you're running out of things to spend all your money on, P. Diddy, but I assure you, the "penguin as bling" phenomenon is not going to catch on any time soon.

Props are in order

See my lovely search box over there, that actually works? Courtesy of one Sean Conrad. Now you can do searches on some of the most popular topics here on bcf.com, like:

Julie

Vibrators

Britney

And ex-boyfriends, now you can see what I have to say about you without clicking around. Awesome, right? Search away! And follow the link to Sean Conrad's site to see a really dorky picture of yours truly.

Hot Bouncer report

I don't get to see my good buddy Jake very often, as he doesn't live in the big city anymore and I hate long bus rides. Naturally, I was delighted to hear he'd be making a pit stop in my neck of the woods on his way back from Northern Ireland. I figured why not kill two birds with one stone and catch up with Jake while stalking Hot Bouncer.

Jake and I had a lovely time, of course. I enjoyed his tales of Ireland and he enjoyed my tales of single girl neurosis. He bought me a copy of Belle de Jour: Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl, which has not yet been released on this side of the pond, inscribed thusly:

For Jessica, on the occasion of your newfound blogging celebrity. May it bring you twice as much joy and success as it did Belle, and at least five percent of the ass.

"Only five percent?" I asked.

"That's a lot of ass." he explained.

It turns out stalking one boy while you're with another, especially a dead sexy bitch like Jake, isn't a good tactic. Plus, I had competition – two other girls who were taking turns trying to get his attention. Luckily, they weren't terribly cute and he didn't seem terribly interested. We had a couple of interactions, and I got a big smile when I arrived, but all in all, I don't feel as though any progress was made. I hope my girls are up for many nights out at that particular establishment, because I'm on a mission.

You're checking me out? Really?

A couple of years ago, I had a raging crush on a bartender at my favorite neighborhood bar.

Last night, Azee and I met up with Jean and My Sharona at one of my favorite new/old places. Azee and I arrived first and settled in at the bar. Suddenly, there was an adorable, familiar face on front of me.

"Did you used to hang out at the Parkside?" he asked.

I assured him I did. When Jean arrived, we did some table hovering until we secured a place. Then My Sharona and her friend arrived. With popcorn fetching and drink buying and smoking outside and seal breaking, there was a lot of getting up and down, and I used most of those activities as excuses to sneak a peek at Hot Bouncer, who was no longer working the door but was instead hanging out next to the jukebox, right behind us.

One time when we went outside to smoke, Hot Bouncer arrived outside moments later. When we went back inside, the same thing happened. Moments later, he was next to the jukebox again. I smiled at him. He smiled back.

My Sharona and her friend left early, because My Sharona is in love with a Secret Agent Man and it's making her too nervous to function. After she left, I decided to take a solo trip to smoke outside, hoping Hot Bouncer would come and talk to me.

I went outside. No Hot Bouncer. No Hot Bouncer. No Hot Bouncer. Oh. My. God. It's. Hot. Bouncer.

"So," he began. "Do you still hang out over there a lot?"

We chatted for a couple of minutes. I asked him his name. He asked me mine. He asked if My Sharona also used to hang out at the Parkside, because she looked familiar. I reminded him that My Sharona and I had been in to the bar he currently works at a couple of months prior, and we had helped him with a crossword puzzle. He looked embarrassed at not remembering us earlier. Hot! Bouncer! Guy! Embarrassed! Talking! To! Me!

A little while later, we decided to leave because Jean was drunk and trying to make all sorts of dangerous phone calls to foreign countries. As we walked out, I said good night to Hot Bouncer.

"Good night, Jessica." Swoon. Uh, yeah. I'm going back tonight. And possibly every night thereafter.

A walk in the park

I know going to see The Gates is, like, so last week, but I didn't make it until today.

I find the irrational anger many people feel about The Gates misplaced and bizarre. February is bleak and cold, and there's nothing wrong with a little color and a park full of people. That said, I wanted them to be bigger.

If you don't live in New York and won't make it to see The Gates, maybe this will fill the void.

Where one can have her cake and eat it, too

Last night, I got decked out like a 1920's film star for Luxury, a CAKE party at Salon -- lace dress, feather boa, big diamond earrings, black liquid eyeliner, red lipstick and a Veronica Lake 'do. I think the main reason I like CAKE parties is because I get to dress for a theme.

Julia Stiles was at the party. She was not dressed for the theme, but I forgive her because I loved Save the Last Dance and 10 Things I Hate About You. Shut up.

The Roommate and Jo Boobs both had CAKE dancer gigs at the party and were, as always, fabulous.

I was invited into the bathroom for drugs and more twice, once by a hot chick and once by a cute boy. Other than that, it was the tamest CAKE party I've been to yet. Not that they're usually orgies or anything. Well, the Catholic school girl-themed one was kind of an orgy.

The cute boy was kind of an ass, but I hung out with him because he looked like Woody Harrelson and he amused me. When I declined the drugs-and-more offer, he said, very intently, "I'm going to go to the bathroom, quickly. I want you to wait here, and when I get back, I want to dance with you." I said "All right, Chief," but he was gone too long and I got bored so I wandered off and didn't bump into him again. I don't think I gave him my phone number, at least I hope I didn't.

An exercise in humility

There's going to be a new Friday feature here at bcf.com, called "Bad Poetry I Wrote as a Teenager." For my first installment, I present to you the first poem I ever wrote, "Summer Love."

At the tender age of 13, I went on a week-long camping trip with the Lashers. Nicky Lasher was one of my best friends, and her younger brother Sean was my boyfriend. Her parents packed up the RV, and we drove out to Rondout Valley Resort. A quick tour of the camp turned up more cute boys than we could count, and a KISS pinball machine in the game room. This was going to be awesome.

"There are a lot of cute guys here," Nicky said. "You should dump my brother so we can meet them." She had a point. I broke up with Sean for the 10th time, and we set out to find us some camp boyfriends.

It wasn't too long before I met an adorable thug named Carlos. He was only 12, but looked at least 14. His friend Mike liked Nicky. It was on.

Carlos and I fell madly in love. We both cried when it was time to drive back to Schenectady. He promised to write. I went home and waited.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and still no word from Carlos. One night, when I felt an aching deep inside my chest, I picked up the yellow notebook. The same yellow notebook that now sits on the desk next to me. In a heartsick frenzy, I wrote this poem.

Summer Love

Her Summer Love was her first true
She loved his smile and eyes of blue
She loved his laughter, loved his face
She can't forget his warm embrace

But both knew it would never last
The days and nights went by so fast
And then they had to say goodbye
She kissed him and tried not to cry

But in her heart she knew just then
That they would never meet again
And for him she would always long
Her Summer Love…forever gone

PMS: Nasty business

First Love came over to hang and crash on the couch last night. On the particular episode of Law & Order we were watching, a waitress was wearing a teeny-tiny shirt, prompting First Love to say, "She should NOT be wearing that."

For some reason, probably because I feel fat and bloated and depressed and I probably had a glass or two more of wine than I should have, I kinda sorta lost it in a really big, really insane way. I started going off about how he's a New Yorker now, it makes perfect sense that he should suddenly start developing unrealistic expectations of women. Then I announced I was going to bed and stormed out of the living room.

A related aside: I once had a similar PMS-induced freakout on the ex when he described Thora Birch as full-figured.

Anyway, I woke up this morning and sent a text apologizing. Then I got to work and he made fun of me over IM a bit, which I deserved. Later today, he checked in to see how I was feeling. My response?

Like I want to eat something deep fried and dipped in chocolate sauce. And maybe get in a fist fight.

Trashy = hot in the eyes of a blind cavefish

Me: I think I'd probably do Pamela Anderson.

Cousin Desiree: Why is that? You like the Hepatitis C?

Me: Well, okay, if she didn't have the Hep C.

Cousin Desiree: You would really do her?

Me: I think so, yeah. She's hot.

Cousin Desiree: What about a nice wholesome girl like Gwyneth Paltrow? Or J. Lo?

Me: No. And NO. I'd do Britney, but she'd have to take a shower and brush her teeth first.

Cousin Desiree: She's disgusting. I would not allow you to partake in such things with her.

Me: If you catch her on a clean day when she's been with her stylist, she's still pretty hot.

Cousin Desiree: I'm not into trashy broads.

Me: I am, apparently.

Clay Aiken: the man, the mystery

I've been thinking about Clay Aiken a lot lately.

It started when my gay boyfriend over at Page Six Six Six (okay, we've never actually met, but in my mind he's my gay boyfriend) broke the story that Clay has sex with male prostitutes. What surprised me about the whole thing was not that Clay is allegedly having sex with men, or even that he's paying for it. What surprised me was the hostile reaction from the very rabid, very large, pro-Clay community.

Then last night on Scrubs, my attention was momentarily taken away from my ex-boyfriend Zach Braff (dumped for Jason Bateman) by audience members shrieking in a wild frenzy of delight at Clay's guest appearance.

Then I began to wonder about these Clay Aiken fans. Who are they? I don't know any. Are they female? Pre-teen? Mid-Western retirees? I don't know why I suddenly have an overwhelming need to know who these staunch defenders of a this non-threatening, doofy crooner are, but I do.

First stop – the Official Clay Aiken website. I stopped by the message boards to see who watched Scrubs, and what they thought. Turned out everybody watched it, and they all thought Clay was amazing. I admit, I was underwhelmed. The Clay fans? Some of them cried. Some of them screamed. Some of them melted. They seem to be teen and pre-teen girls, some tuning in just to see Clay and others already Scrubs devotees who got a little something extra last night.

An About.com poll shows that the largest group of Clay fans are in the 21-30 years old demographic. Or, you know, me and my peers. I have several friends who tune in to American Idol religiously, hell, I even voted for Nikki a few times during the first season in the five minutes or so where we actually thought she was good, which was about five minutes after we stopped believing Ryan Starr was good. That said, no one has said to me, "You know who I liked? I liked that Clay Aiken fellow." I Just. Don't. Get. It. If anyone would care to enlighten me, I'd be forever in your debt.

A day in history, a day to remember

I did a last-minute coat switch this morning, not realizing that my Metrocard and building ID didn't make the switch. I got angry before I even entered my office building, seething with the knowledge that Brush Cut was going to pretend he'd never seen me before and make me sign in. Which he did.

When I went out for lunch, I again prepared for the "visitor" treatment. I reached for the pen to sign in, and he said, "It's okay. Go ahead." In case you missed that, he said "IT'S OKAY. GO AHEAD." And he didn't say, "Just kidding. Get your visiting ass back here and sign in." after. He simply waved me through.

You may not understand how monumental this is, but after working here one year, six months and eleven days, the guy downstairs finally recognizes me as an employee in the building. I'm officially burying the hatchet.

My other blog is a Porsche

If any of y'all are Cosmopolitan subscribers, or just happened to pick up the most recent issue, there's a password in the mag which allows you access to the VIP Lounge online. Part of the VIP Lounge is a little something called The Bedroom Blog, "one woman's captivating quest for love, lust and adventure" penned by yours truly. That's right folks, I'm selling out for fame and fortune and loving every minute of it. Should you have access, my other, smuttier blog will be updated every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And it's fiction, so any similarity to (my ex-boyfriends) real-life characters is purely coincidental.

Who's all talk? Oh, right. Both of us.

My friend Zach and I have been engaging in almost daily flirtatious banter that goes nowhere for about six years. I am pleased to bring you Jess and Zach: The Valentine's Day edition.

Zach: When are you coming up to visit?

Me: Happy Valentine's Day. I'm coming up in two weeks, but only for a day and only to my Dad's in Saratoga.

Zach: One day and to top it off, a day with restrictions. What the hell? Why only one day? Why not spend the night at my place?

Me: You know, one of these days I'm going to show up at your place and get naked just to freak you out.

Zach: Am I allowed an allotted freak out time, and then I make a move? For example, this actually does happen and I stand there with my mouth open for about two minutes and then I begin (Insert cheesy romance novel setting and moment for the making of love...) Any thoughts?

Me: You wouldn't make a move. You'd remember that you have a girlfriend and run away.

Zach: Bullshit. I'd make a move.

Me: Uh-huh.

Zach: Don't try and bluff your way through this.

Me: You're all talk.

Zach: Bullshit. I would so make a move. It's not all talk. The question is, would you even do that?

Me: Getting you all riled up is so much fun.

Zach: So you had no plans to ever follow through on this?

Me: I'm tempted. Just to freak you out, of course.

Zach: I invite you to try it.

Me: I wouldn't be able to handle the guilt. I was raised Catholic, for God's sake.

Zach: I knew you would puss out.

Snippets

I saw Napoleon Dynamite and Million Dollar Baby this weekend. It's amazing how caught up one can get on movies while sick. Napoleon Dynamite was awesome. It was worth it for the dancing scene alone. I went in to Million Dollar Baby knowing what the big secret was, but not knowing which character it affected. I guessed wrong, and from the moment I realized that until the end of the film, I was a blubbering mess.

Someone in Haiti loves me.

Valentine's Day. Bah humbug. Actually, I'm going to celebrate tonight. Last year, I spent the night being depressed because the ex broke my heart. This year, I think I'll celebrate the fact that I'm single, which is infinitely better than being in a toxic relationship.

I have a confession to make. I am obsessed with Since You Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson. I saw her on SNL over the weekend, and I am So. In. Love. With. That. Song. I've already listened to it three times today, and might listen to it all night long while I'm celebrating my singleness. Also regarding SNL, uh, Jason Bateman? Consider yourself my new boyfriend.

I was going to head out to see The Gates this weekend, but I'm still sick. Personally, I think it looks like shower curtains on display, but I should see what all the fuss is about. Azee and I are going on Saturday. Curly's got some good shots from her visit.

I don't know who is responsible for the official Britney Spears mailing list, but I have a complaint. Mainly, that being on the mailing list means I should be notified when a new letter is posted so I don't have to check Britney's official site every day for updates. Not that I, uh, do that or anything. Anyway, Britney wants to let us know that everything is just dandy in Federland, which you can choose to believe or not.

A very important group email conversation regarding the men of Law & Order

They are filming an episode of Law & Order at Summer's office today.

Summer: FYI. If I see Vincent D'Onofrio I'll be sure to tell him I have a friend who would like to play Bend Over Boyfriend.

Jean: Dude, that guy is weird.

My Sharona: I LOOOOOVE Vincent D'Onofrio. He's sexy...and weird.

Me: Ew, he creeps me out. Summer, I want to play Bend Over Boyfriend with Christopher Meloni, not Vincent D'Onofrio...but I'll take Jesse Martin in a pinch.

My Sharona: Chris is a pretty safe bet. I've never heard of Jesse Martin asking random strangers to use sex toys on him.

Say it ain't so-oh-oh-oh-oh

Several of the tabloids are reporting that Mr. and Mrs. Britney Spears may be headed for trouble.

I know, I know. It's hard to believe. Love like that only comes once in a lifetime. Female First had this tidbit:

Friends of the 'Toxic' singer claim that Kevin's lack of responsibility in the home and the fact that he left his previous girlfriend when she was six months pregnant, have forced Britney to reassess the relationship.

Okay, Brit? We need to talk. It's not like this news just broke. Reassess? Was there an assessment to begin with? Like, at first you thought about K-Fed leaving his preggo girlfriend and it didn't seem like a big deal, and now that he doesn't like to clean up after the dogs, it's all suddenly becoming clear? Newsflash: Your husband is a creepy, hygienically-challenged cretin. We've been telling you this all along.

Oh well, I'm sure she'll have plenty of time to think about all this during her long ride out to the Am-Jam Motorcycle Jamboree.

Slumber party massacre

While discussing Dooce being on ABC News, Curly and I also touched on slumber party torture. These days, I'm a proud insomniac, which may or may not have something to do with the torture I endured at slumber parties because I always fell asleep first, Heather and Mrs. F. I had my bra frozen on numerous occasion. I was the victim of large-scale horror productions carried out with pantyhose face masks and kitchen knives. Things were put in my mouth. And in my hair. The list goes on and on.

Living with six other girls sophomore year in college was much like those slumber parties of my preteen years, except that the offenses carried out against unsuspecting slumberers were usually carried out under the influences of drugs and/or alcohol, meaning 1) the victim would rarely wake up and 2) the instigators thought their plan was much funnier than it actually was.

Hence, one night after swallowing several shots of Goldschlager, (Seriously, why did I, or anyone else, ever drink that? Were we mad?) I found myself passed out on the couch of our suite. I woke up the next morning bleary-eyed and determined to make it to my class at noon, which was no small feat. Yawning, I got into the shower and started cleaning myself up.

A quick investigation of my body turned up something troubling. Written all over my body, in a variety of colors and handwriting styles, were the names of popular 80's glam bands. Poison, Trixter, Warrant…all over. And they weren't coming off. And it was summer.

"You guys are assholes!" I yelled from the shower. When I emerged, they were all sitting around the living room laughing at me.

I was pissed at the time, but in hindsight, that was pretty funny. But seriously, is it any wonder that I don't sleep?

Addiction

There's something I've been trying to fight for about two years now.

When I was unemployed, I had a rule that I couldn't watch TV during the day. I stuck to this rule. I more than made up for it, however, at night. Since I had no reason to go to bed early and no money to go out, and because the ex sometimes decided to come home after work, I watched a lot of late night TV. In fact, I watched The Powerpuff Girls every morning at 2, religiously.

For a time, they showed old episodes of My So-Called Life on The N. Naturally, I watched them. Before and after MSCL, there was a show I'd sometimes catch a bit of. Although I never made a point to watch it, I'd find myself sucked in to five minutes here, or ten minutes there, or sometimes even a full episode of this show. A Canadian show. A childhood favorite, but with new characters and new storylines and new complicated adolescent themes.

The show? Degrassi: The Next Generation. Now that I've made a rule about not drinking on Mondays, Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, I'm often home trying to be productive on those nights. This week in particular, I've found myself drawn to the Degrassi. When Marco told Spinner he was gay, I couldn't tear myself away. When Emma (who The Roommate likens to an "emaciated grasshopper") got herself all slutted up to try to get funky with Chris, I cringed and worried about what would happen. The show is scary good. I'm going to go there and say it -- it's as good as the original. And last night, I clicked on the "Record Entire Season" option on my DVR. In fact, I'm thinking of inviting Kevin Smith over for a Degrassi marathon one of these Friday nights.

High concept, low tech: Three Mom stories

Story #1

I'm home for Thanksgiving. Mom drops me off at Rotterdam Square Mall to finish my Christmas shopping. I tell her to call my cell when she has arrived to pick me up. I *just* miss the call and run out to our designated meeting spot. She isn't there. I call her cell and it goes directly to voicemail. Finally, she pulls up.

Me: (Getting into the car) Is your cell phone off?

Mom: Yes, why?

Me: I tried to call you back. Did you call me and then immediately turn your cell off so I couldn't call you back?

Mom: I made a call. I left you a voicemail. I was done.

Me: But Mom, if you're picking me up, you should leave the phone on so I can call you if we're trying to meet up.

Mom: No. I don't do that.


Story #2

I'm home for Christmas. Mom and I are watching Law & Order: SVU. A commercial comes on.

Mom: Oooh! Check my cell phone to see if I have any messages.

Me: You don't know how to check your messages?

Mom: No.

Me: You've had this phone for like a year.

She hands me the phone. I check. She has six messages, some several months old, including the one I left her during the aforementioned mall pickup.


Story #3

This past Saturday. I am running errands. Mom calls to chat.

Me: Can you hear me better than you usually do? I got a new phone.

Mom: Yes. What kind of phone is it?

Me: It's really cute. It's a camera phone.

Mom: Does that mean you can see me?

Me:…

Me: Um, no.

Mom: Right. I'd have to have a camera phone too for you to see me.

UPDATE: More family comedy from Cousin Desiree.

These five words I swear to you

Should I ever find myself on a reality TV show, I promise you I will never be one of these assholes.

What else are you going to do on a Monday night?

If you live in the big city and don't have plans tonight, or if your plans involve watching five episodes of Law & Order back-to-back, then you should go to the Upright Citizen's Brigade theater and see Paris 1963 for two reasons -- 1) It's about a psychic detective in 1960's Paris and 2) It was written by my good friend Petey, who will also be acting in it. (Single gals - he's cute and available) It is strongly suggested that you make reservations beforehand, which you can do online! And it's only $5! So go, and if you see Azee and I, say hello.

An open letter to the TNT programming staff

Dear TNT programming staff:

I woke up early this morning, determined to be productive. I got online and caught up on work. I went to the gym. I bought cat food, Clorox cleaning wipes and paper towels. I picked up wine for tonight. I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for some coffee. It was going very well.

The plan was this; I would come home, drink my coffee and then clean. Cleaning, you see, if of the utmost importance as I have guests coming over to watch anything but the Superbowl tonight and the apartment is in a dire condition.

I started to drink my coffee and started flipping through channels while doing so. TNT programming staff, don't you understand that if you're going to show The Craft on a Sunday afternoon, I am not going to get anything done? Kindly refrain from showing the following movies on Sunday afternoons, in addition to The Craft, if you please:

Bring it On
Some Kind of Wonderful
Pretty in Pink
Can't Hardly Wait
Sixteen Candles
She's All That
10 Things I Hate about You
Save the Last Dance
Clueless
Say Anything
Weird Science
Fast Times at Ridgemont High

This is not a comprehensive list, but I think you can see where I'm going with it. If you could, please pass this along to your good friends at TBS, too. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

Love,
Jess

What a cavefish will do for love

The Boyfriend of the Roommate sent me an instant message yesterday, informing me that he had sent me an email for something he thinks I'd be PERFECT for. I checked out the email, and it had been sent by a friend of his on behalf of someone else, and it was looking for people to appear on a reality show about dating in New York. Specifically, people who really should have no trouble finding someone, because they're fabulous, but for whatever reason, don't. I laughed and told him I was too shy to be on TV.

Then I told a few friends and they were all like "OH MY GOD! DO IT! DO IT!" Despite my objections that I might be struck retarded when a camera hits me, and that I'm not "TV pretty," and what if they make us hang out in bikinis, like they tend to do on the reality television, they remained steadfast in their assertions that I should go for it.

Then I thought about it. Do I really think I'd be selected? No. Is there a chance I could maybe score an interview? Possibly. And interview = material for the blog. So I emailed the girl. And now I wait. Just know people, I did it for you. I do it all for you.

I be illin'

The Cavefish is in rough shape today.

I had dinner with Little Brother last night. Even though he lives on Long Island, I haven't seen him in ages. His excuse? Twin babies. Mine? Self-absorption.

We had a fatty dinner at Chat n' Chew and caught up. While I gobbled my grilled cheese, I realized that every person LB and I went to college with that I still like is either married or engaged. This is a very bad realization when one doesn't even have a proper crush and is at the height of her PMS for the month.

I had a lovely time, but truthfully, I went home feeling sorry for myself. I imagined myself with a terminal illness, dying alone save for a cat at the foot of my bed. I imagined myself in my 40's, attending second and third marriages sans date. Luckily, I IM'd Curly and she made me feel better, partly by telling me she nominated me for Best Canadian Blog but mostly for listening to me whine.

To add insult to injury, I woke up feeling positively wretched this morning. Either A) I have a low-grade flu or a high-grade cold or B) This is what nicotine withdrawal combined with severe PMS feels like. And yes, I'm pissed that there is not a cute boy on his way over here to feed me chicken soup and fetch me things.

On the upside, quitting smoking seems to be easier this time than it has the other 6271 times I've tried. And last night, when I was just depressed and not yet illin', I signed up for Match.com.

The first baby Flamingo

Abs called me last night to tell me that she's expecting, which will officially make her the first Flamingo with child. The reason Abs and I get along so well, and the reason I love her most, is that she's sick and twisted and thankfully, pregnancy hasn't changed that one bit. Here's some choice Abs quotes on pregnancy:

So the doctor gives us like 12 ultrasound pics. It doesn't even look like anything! It looks like a bean! What are we supposed to do -- scan them in and email jpegs to everyone saying 'Look at my bean! Isn't it cute?' Who cares? Who are the freaks who do that? So when we left the hospital, we're like 'What the hell are we going to do with these?' We gave one set to his parents, one to mine, and threw the rest away.

The thing that's killing me more than anything is that I can't drink Guinness.

My friend made me a baby mix CD. It has 'My Baby Got Sauce' on it. How awesome is that?

I haven't really read any books or anything, and when I go to the doctor they seem kind of horrified. I'm like 'Well, aren't you supposed to know this stuff?'

Names? No, we haven't really thought about it. We came up with some joke names, but that's about it.

Well, I'm due the weekend of our reunion, but it shouldn't be a problem.

I didn't want to tell you, because I know you hate babies.