Stinky subway girl

I've felt self-conscious all day. Here's why.

I got on the F train at 2nd Avenue this morning, like I always do, and headed uptown to work. Somewhere around 23rd Street, a stench filled the car. The kind of stench that would occur if, say, someone soiled wet pants that had mildewed.

I looked around the car, trying to see where the smell was emanating from. I saw no likely source. Then I noticed a sea of darting heads around me, trying to 1) find who was responsible for the odor and 2) move as far away from that person as possible. No one seemed to be solving the mystery.

Then, at 34th Street, an elderly gentlemen sat down two seats away from me, an empty seat between us. I saw him start to sniff the air, and then he looked at ME with the most disgusted look of disgust EVER, got up, and moved away from me! Me! With the still-wet hair, fresh from the shower! Me! With the Degree antiperspirant, Ralph perfume and clean underwear! Me! I wanted to beg him to come back and smell me at close range, just so he didn't spend his entire day thinking, and possibly talking, about the little stench girl on the F train this morning. Instead, I got off at Bryant Park and went about my day.

I know I was not responsible for polluting the subway car with funk this morning. I know this. That said, I can't tell you how many times I've caught a whiff of something today and hightailed it into the private bathroom to smell my entire body, and every article of clothing on it, just to make sure. I even took off my shoes to investigate, and while they do kind of smell, it's certainly not enough to fill a subway car.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XI

I still maintain that this was an interesting concept. Execution? Not so much.

Goodbye

He left her with a broken heart
He never said goodbye
And she can't face that fact because
Nobody told her why

She can't forget his final words
He told her not to cry
Then said, "I hope you never let
The love we once felt die"

And as the tears poured from her eyes
She whispered, "I love you"
She held him tight just one last time
And tried to face the truth

That night she went to bed alone
Because he wasn't there
Then cried herself to sleep and dreamed
About the love they'd shared

The next day when she said goodbye
She couldn't make a sound
Just cried as she watched the man she loved
Lowered into the ground

Here's Volume X.

Deconstructing Tom Cruise

Today, we all got the news that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are getting busy, if by getting busy you mean he closes his eyes and pretends she's Brad Pitt while he tries a sneak attack on the back door. If you're like me, you threw up a little in your mouth when you heard this news.

The World's Greatest Copyeditor and I discussed this at length over IM, and I came to a startling conclusion: I actually really kind of liked Tom Cruise for a considerable length of time. I had to figure out just how long, though, so I turned to my trusty friends at IMDB.

I first saw Tom Cruise in The Outsiders, the film that would shape my taste in boys for years to come. It was like cute guy overload, really. Then of course, there was Risky Business.

I liked him through Top Gun, The Color of Money and Cocktail. Then 1988 came, and with it came Rain Man. I started to have my doubts about Tommy Boy.

How do you bounce back from something like Rain Man? Why, you star in Born on the Fourth of July, of course! I dismissed Rain Man as a minor transgression and my doubts just melted away.

I started to grow bored with him around the Days of Thunder and A Few Good Men days, but then? 1994! Lestat! Freaking awesome! Like an unreliable but charming ex-boyfriend, my Tom Cruise was back. And the motherfucker had fangs.

1996 was a hard year for me. I really liked Jerry Maguire. Shut up, dude had me at hello. But something else happened that year: Mission Impossible. I figured they pretty much cancelled each other out. The same happened in 1999, when he gave a stellar performance in Magnolia and ruined it by also starring the craptastic Eyes Wide Shut. It was official: Tom Cruise was no longer someone I generally liked. He was now hit or miss. And this, my friends, is where the downward spiral began.

Another Mission Impossible (and a third in the works). Vanilla Sky and Minority Report, both of which I HATED. And then a whole lot of other crap I didn't even bother to pay attention to.

Tom and I, we've taken a long journey together. To recap: Loved him from '83 to '88. Liked him from '88 to '90. Was indifferent from '90 to '96. Starting to hate him from '96 to '99. Fully made the transition to loathing in '99, and have remained there ever since. Which brings us to today, where he's inducing small amounts of vomit in mouths across America. Way to go, Tom!

Q&A with the cavefish

To the person who arrived here via a Google search for "Does a blind cavefish need a lot of space?"

Yes, the blind cavefish does indeed need a lot of space. Which may or may not be why the blind cavefish is still single. I hope this answers your question.

Date with Pizza Guy: The Review

He's nice. He's interesting. He's disturbed by the Zach Braff phenomenon. ("He's like that guy you knew in college who was always dating girls way out of his league and it always pissed you off.") He thinks Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind made more estranged couples get back together than was necessary. His sense of humor is very, very dry. He walked me home, which I liked.

I'm not entirely sure about this one, but I'm leaning toward a second date if a second date is proposed.

Not talking shop

I've spent a lot of time talking about the Maggie Gyllenhaal debacle over the past two days, specifically how we live in a political climate where to question anything our government does is to be labeled un-American. I'm not going to get into it here, because this is not a political place. It's a shiny, happy place. And now, to commence with the shiny and the happy, the tail end of an IM with Zach:

Me: You know, we've never talked politics before.

Zach: I know. Is it good or bad?

Me: Good. But odd that we never did it when we spent 8 hours a day in a newsroom together.

Zach: I was too busy checking out your legs and thinking dirty thoughts to talk politics.

Introducing…The Pizza Guy

Tonight, I have a date with The Pizza Guy.

I dusted off the old online personal ad after the trauma of turning 30 subsided, and he was the first to write to me. Pros are as follows:

Cute
Funny
Doesn't live in my neighborhood and therefore does not belong to my gym
Employed
Digs penguins

Cons?

Slightly too tall for my taste
Spells sarcasm in a most disturbing fashion

So we'll see. We've been emailing every day for the past week and a half, and we've already got a discussion agenda loosely lined up (My trip to South Africa, his former crazy boss, his pizza commercial that got pulled because the client thought it was all sorts of gay, my Cosmo blog) We're meeting at Kabin, because I think if I bring one more first date to Barramundi, the bartender might start to think I'm an escort. Full coverage tomorrow.

Overheard on my way to work this morning

Construction worker (angrily): Man, I gotta work tonight now! I'm gonna miss American Idol!

Gone on safari

South African Tourism wants you to visit South Africa. Last night, I hitched a ride on Nicola's press pass to see Wild Safari 3D: A South African Adventure.

I haven't seen a 3D movie since Creature from the Black Lagoon, which I saw in the theater when I was about 10. 3D has come a long way. First, the little square cardboard glasses with one blue lens and one red lens are now enormous and plastic, with a clear lens. Second of all, the effects were amazing. I was surprised to learn there are only about 150 IMAX theaters worldwide.

When the film ended, I remarked to Nicola that I wish I'd gone on safari while I was in South Africa for her wedding. "You just did," she said, and well, I couldn't argue with that. It really did feel like I'd just gone on safari. Then we headed over to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel for the after party.

They went all out for the after party. A human sculpture featuring nearly naked people painted like animals? Check. South African boy band? Check. Authentic South African food and wine? Check. $2000 South Africa trip as a raffle prize? You got it. Check. So we drank and ate and marveled at how terrible the band was and nearly threw down with an annoying women who looked like the medium in Poltergeist, only taller. It was all quite grand. As was our parting gift – a bag containing a CD, a bottle of South African wine and a Carrol Boyes bottle stopper, the latter of which didn't mean much to me as a non-South-African, but Nicola assured me it was some serious bling for a press event gift bag.

I'm not generally a fancy event type of person, but last night's was a good time. As was watching Farrah Fawcett on Letterman when I got home. Anyone see that train wreck?

The Amityville Horror

Here's my review of The Amityville Horror. Ryan Reynolds has edged out LL Cool J to take the #2 spot on my "Celebrities who possess a stomach I would like to lick" list.

Also, it was really fucking scary.

Saturday: art, fried food and baby bottles

I'm on a new kick – Adventure Saturday. I could spend my Saturday mornings and afternoons running errands and cleaning and organizing my life, but really, is that any fun? That's what Mondays are for.

Yesterday the weather was not permitting much in the way of adventure, so I decided to head over to new MoMA and check it out. It's enormous, and beautiful. Highlights included the Thomas Demand photography exhibit. I spent a lot of time looking at his giant, colorful photographs of empty rooms. They were amazing. Many of them felt like they had been filled with people and laughter and movement 30 seconds before you saw it, but had somehow mysteriously disappeared when they knew someone was looking. Or something. The Architecture and design exhibit was also great – everyday objects through time with innovative design. They had everything from ball bearings to furniture to an iPod and a Vespa. Not to mention a clear thick plastic chair with plastic flowers inside of it that I so want for my apartment. Good stuff. And I also had to go back three times to look at the Jackson Pollacks. I don't claim to know much about art, but his paintings are haunting.

After MoMA I did a little shopping, ate a little grilled cheese and took a nap before heading over to Jean's 24th birthday party at the Sunburnt Cow. I had the fish and chips, as did Summer. While discussing how light and delicious the batter on the fish was, Summer wondered aloud if she could have her fries (ahem, chips) sent back to be battered and deep fried. Then we talked about already awful things that are deep fried and sold, i.e. Twinkies and Snickers. Gross? Yes. Unnecessary? Absolutely. Would I probably enjoy it very much in the final minutes before my heart exploded? You bet your sweet ass I would.

There were lots of fruity, girly drinks on the menu, some served in a baby bottle. Who knew drinking out of a baby bottle could be so much fun? Not me. If the pictures are sent to me in a timely fashion, I'll post them. The two drinks I consumed were The Bundaberg Bull, made with lime, cherry, ginger, Stoli and Red Bull and The Illusion, made with mango-infused vodka, pineapple and Midori. I also had the Lamingtons for dessert, sponge cake squares dipped in chocolate and covered in coconut and served with cream. It was one of the best desserts I've ever had. Of course, being a non-dessert type, I could only eat half, but the girls were happy to finish it off for me.

Now, I must mention this. When multiple people are dining in celebration of a birthday of one of more people and the check comes, this is how you handle the bill. You count up everyone sitting at the table or tables. You subtract the birthday girl(s) or boy(s) from that number, and then you divide the total by that number and tell everyone what to pay. Never pass it around and let people decide how much they owe. It will be mayhem.

After the Cow, we headed over to 7B for some Extreme Photography. Seriously, Summer remarked that it was like we were at the paparazzi table. It was hilarious. We also got some good photo booth action going. Who knew Summer was the type to direct photo booth shoots? "Okay, make this one sexy! Now scary! Now funny!"

I must say it's quite nice when you disappear with your much younger, much taller, much thinner, drop-dead gorgeous friend and return to your table to find out that one of the boys had inquired after Jean's "two cute friends." Especially when you're all rained on and shiny and whatnot. All in all, a fabulous evening. And now I'm off to see Amityville, even though I know it will be terrible. Bad review to follow.

Drunk Dialing 101

If someone informs you that they'll be drunk dialing you later, does it technically still count as drunk dialing? My thinking is no.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume X

It's Earth Day, folks, and I tried really, really hard to post one of my Oh my God, y'all, you are like totally killing Mother Earth please stop poems, of which there are many. I can't do it just yet. I'm not ready for that level of mortification. Also not ready for anything involving Kurt Cobain or Operation Desert Storm. We'll get there someday, I promise.

This gem came after one of many breakups from my first boyfriend, Satan, at the tender age of 14. Note the sentence construction in the fourth line. It's magical. I'd do just about anything to make a good rhyme work.

I never thought that love could put a person through such pain
I dreamed a million dreams that have now all died in vain
I tried to feign false happiness, I wanted it so bad
But I couldn't fight the tears, or the pain inside I had
We spent our time pretending and we never found the truth
My love will live eternally, but my heart will be healing soon
And someday I will open the door and love will walk right in
I've shut the gate on the past and it will never open again
But when I think of you, sorrow's tears still burn my eyes
But I'll never let one fall, and to you I say goodbye

I took him back a week later. Miss Volume IX? You can read it here, if you think you can handle it.

Wow…you have a baby…in a bar

Got an invite to the Scottiana Spawn's first birthday party in Delaware. I wrote back to Tati telling her that, while I certainly wanted to come, I haven't seen her in ages, and while I certainly like all of her friends, I'd really like to have some QT with just her. She responded with, "How about Maura and I come into town tomorrow for happy hour?" Naturally, I was delighted. She told me to pick a bar, and mentioned she'd have the baby with her.

This presented a problem, as I'm unschooled in the ways of the baby, and I certainly don't know which bars, if any, are baby-friendly. I asked around, some suggestions were thrown out, and we decided on Vol de Nuit.

Catching up was fun, as was making the baby do shots. Kidding! The baby mostly slept, which I found impressive. Tati explained that they make sure it's noisy when the baby is sleeping so she won't end up being a light sleeper. Who knew? If I may also point this out, the kid had on a shirt that said, "Famous in Japan" and really, how fucking cute is that?

Tati was waiting in line for the bathroom to "give the baby a blast of food," which presented me with a hilarious visual of Tati dressed in tights and a cape with Superbreasts, and someone asked her, "Are you allowed to bring a baby in a bar?" People are dumb. There was also a chick with dreadlocks who would not stop staring at Tati and the baby. Actually, having the baby was really helpful, because when I went up to the bar and ordered, I got to say, "We have a tab. Table with the baby."

When I got home, The Roommate had left me birthday present #2. (Birthday present #1 was a light blue T-shirt that said, "Stay Golden" with a picture of the Golden Girls. So awesome.) Birthday present #2 was a bag that was SO HOT I left her this voicemail message.

It's Jess. I just got home, and I am so in love with this bag. Thank you! If you come home and you don't see it, it's because I took it in my room to fuck it. Bye.

I'll take a pic if I remember. Adventures this weekend. Date next week. Bad poetry in a few hours.

Awkward moments

As I walked into the gym, I held the door open for the person who owned the feet I heard following me down the stairs. I turned to look. Rock Star.

"Oh, hey," he said. I mumbled something equally articulate in response and then we sort of walked to the desk together to punch our numbers in. After successfully signing in, which proved to be no small feat, I smiled brightly and said, "See ya later!" Then I worked out. I was walking around at one point, lost in Liz Phair's Extraordinary (a very good song to listen to in the presence of a boy who blew you off, FYI, and the only song off her latest album that I actually like) and didn't realize we were both about to navigate the same small space between machines. Awkward smiles and more mumbling and that was the end of it.

I relayed the story to The Roommate when I got home, and she suggested I stop dating boys that live in my neighborhood. Which isn't a bad idea, really, since every boy I meet who lives in the hood, including my ex-boyfriend, belongs to my gym. It's getting a little awkward over there. Or I could just kill them when I'm done with them. The Black Widow of the Lower East Side has a nice ring to it, yes? In any case, I'm seriously rethinking the crush on the adorable boy with the shaggy blond hair who lives in my apartment building. Oh yeah, and he goes to my ghetto gym, too.

Does Starburst count?

I'm just throwing this out there – I don't like fruit.

Not even bananas, you ask? Nope. Mangos? Not really. Strawberries? Couldn't be bothered with them. But what about grapes? I said NO. Stop asking.

Now, I've been trying to get this whole healthy living nonsense down. Quit smoking, cut the wine consumption a bit, work out regularly and eat healthy. I'm 30 now, can't fuck around anymore. Much.

Overall, I'm doing all right. I've basically become one who only smokes when I drink, which is a lot less than it was before. Gym? At least three times a week, plus some yoga and hula-hooping thrown in here and there. Whole grains? Check. Vegetables? Check. Less onion rings and French fries and mozzarella sticks and chicken wings and bacon and pizza and oh my God this is all making me very hungry? Yes. Fruit? I'm trying, really I am.

I've only met one other fruit hater before. It was at Nicola's bachelorette party. She looked like Virginia Madsen, and I had asked about her boyfriend once not knowing he was her boyfriend. While the food was getting passed around, she declined the fruit plate. I declined the fruit plate. Someone mentioned it and I said, "I don't really like fruit." She grabbed my arm.

"You don't like fruit?" she asked excitedly. "I don't like fruit! I thought I was the only one."

"Not even melon?" asked Nicola. We both made the ew face.

"Especially not melon," I spat out. I. Hate. Melon!"

The Fruit Hater and I were BFF from then on.

So, as part of my healthy 30s plan, I'm forcing myself to eat one piece of fruit every day. Seriously, it's the equivalent of someone telling me I need to eat an eyeball every day. I'm not enjoying it. At all. I'm expecting big things from all this fruit consumption, and if I don't get it, someone in charge of the food pyramid is going to get cut.

Because everyone digs nearly naked chicks



There are a lot of reasons to attend the New York Burlesque Festival this year. Me, I'm going to support The Roommate who will be performing at the Friday night event. Buy your tickets now, before the events get sold out! And if you see me at Southpaw on opening night, say hi.

My night with Dirty Holly

Dirty Holly is in town for the International Beauty Show and last night, I got to see her for the first time since last summer's Flamingo reunion.

Naturally, I was very excited about having DH to myself for a night, since this year's reunion is being turned upside down by weddings and babies and whatnot. Since we're the only two left that aren't married, and neither one of us is the marrying type or particularly interested in procreating, I think reunion planning will go off without a hitch starting next summer.

We met near my office and hopped the F train downtown. After dropping off her stuff and making ourselves pretty, we headed over to Discovery Wines, picked up a couple of bottles of red (I'm eagerly awaiting my migraine today) and then met Azee at Panna II where we stuffed ourselves and talked about boys and crafty stuff. And pumice. Lots of talk about pumice.

Turns out two bottles of wine was too much, particularly after the six bottles of wine consumed at Sunday night dinner. We left the restaurant tired, stuffed and loopy. Azee cabbed it home, and DH and I went back to the apartment to lie around and moan, and not in a sexy way, either. We decided to do the lying around on my bed, because that's where the laptop is when it's not on the floor and she wanted to check email and I wanted to show her Cindy from PA's hilarious comment on my Rachel Ray post, wherein she analyzes my Haterade consumption. After she was done, I showed her the boy who had written to me on Nerve, and we decided that yes, he's cute, and I should keep writing to him. Then she wanted to see my ad.

DH: That's a really good picture of you.

Me: Thanks.

DH: Your chin looks good.

Me: My chin?

DH: Yes. I've always admired your chin.

Me: Okay, freakshow.

DH: What? It's a nice chin.

Then we watched a little Law & Order: SVU and a little bit of Party Monster, that really terrible movie that I can't seem to not watch every time it's on. We both fell asleep. I had a weird dream about a boy I may or may not have a crush on. I haven't decided yet.

The morning after

Hot Bouncer: So, how does thirty feel?

Me: Just like 29, only with more Hot Bouncers in my bed.

Okay, that didn't actually happen. What did happen was that I spent a wonderful evening drinking with my favorite people in the world, including Jake, who drove down from Ithaca to surprise me! I got to see a lot of people I haven't seen in awhile, a lot of people I see every day, and everyone in between. All of my boys said the same exact thing to me over the course of the night.

"Jess, you have really hot friends."

I didn't get ridiculously drunk, even though the ban on shots was not enforced. I didn't get into a fight with anyone. I didn't make out with anyone. I didn't say anything inappropriate to Hot Bouncer. And last but not least, I did not receive a text message from the ex. If last night was any indication of what's to come, my 30s are going to pretty awesome.

I think it's time to go throw up again, which I'm blaming on the disco fries.

Dirty thirty marriage pact

I got a birthday email from CVS Mike today. I haven't talked to him in ages, years even. He wished me a happy day, and then reminded me of something I'd forgotten. One night, after many vodka and cranberries (me) and beers (him), we made a marriage pact. It went a little something like this.

Me: You know, if we both end up single, we should get married.

Him: We need a cut off.

Me: Thirty.

Him: Your thirty or my thirty?

Me: Mine. That will make you 33?

Him: Yes.

Me: Do we have to have kids?

Him: No.

Me: Do we have to have sex?

Him: No.

Me: Can we sleep with other people?

Him: Yes.

Me: Cool. Yeah, I'm in.

So uh, I guess I'm engaged now or something. If anyone wants to attend our Vegas wedding, let me know.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume IX

30 feels just like 29, who knew? And just like last year, y'all didn't get me anything. Ingrates. Anyway, on to the bad poetry. This is a short one, which is good because any more pain would be, well, painful.

I wear a smile like a piece of costume jewelry
Glittering, shining
But with nothing genuine beneath
A façade of happiness
Masking inner pain

It was tough being a teenage cavefish. Here's Volume VIII.

Boys: One of life's great mysteries

You know what's weird? When a boy you had one date with over a year ago IMs you out of nowhere and asks you if you want to go out sometime. Then you ponder and think, "Well, you know, he was a relationship guy, and I wasn't looking for a relationship then but I am now, I think, and he was cute and a lot of fun, so why the hell not?" So you accept his offer, and then he tells you he's leaving town for a week or two or something like that, but he'll be in touch when he returns. And like, two months later, you still haven't heard from him. WTF?

Naked sleepwalking

Last night I went to see Linus do a reading of a play called U Suck! at Rockwood Music Hall, a charming new little venue in the hood with South African wine on the list, which makes me very happy.

U Suck! is based on transcripts of inane, immature and volatile conversation that happens on a certain website some of us are addicted to that has a guy's name in the title but shall remain nameless because no one wants the director to get sued. It was hilarious. I was tempted to hang out afterward, but I had a sleepwalking incident to clean up from the night before.

Yeah. The sleepwalking. Tuesday night, I woke up to the sound of a crash. I was standing in front of my dresser, which usually has about 20 different beauty products on it, all my makeup and jewelry, and several sharp, pointy things. Everything was either on the floor or in my underwear drawer, which was inexplicably opened. I also wasn't wearing anything, and my arms and legs had sore spots. It was five in the morning, though, and I was too tired to deal with it. So I went back to sleep.

Last night, when I got home from the play, I examined all my bruises and where things had fallen and came to the conclusion that I must have pulled my underwear drawer out to stand on, so I could climb up on top of my dresser, naked, and knock everything off. What. The. Fuck?

Oh yeah. And don't forget to name the Spederfetus. Also, there's the countdown to 30. Only one day left!

Name the Spederfetus!

Presenting...the first contest ever at bcf.com! Predict what Britney and Kevin will name their spawn!

How to play:
Leave your predictions in comments. You can either try to be funny, or you can try to guess what they will in fact name the child. If you're shy, you can email me. Make sure to leave an email address if I don't already have it so I can contact you if you're the winner.

Prizes:
Grand prize: This goes to the person who predicts the actual name of the child. This lucky clairvoyant gets Crossroads on DVD.

Second prize: This goes to the person who comes up with the funniest suggestion. I will choose the finalists, and then there will be a vote. This lucky person gets the Crossroads soundtrack.

Rules: You have until Saturday, April 30th to enter. Multiple entries are accepted and encouraged. Second prize winner announced on May 15. Grand prize winner announced when we know what those crazy kids have decided on.

Documentation

Schenectady: A photo essay

Britney doesn't have TIME to deal with INCEST PUPPIES, y'all

And just like that, the fug girls have regained my loyalty and adoration. It was touch and go for awhile there, but this is genius.

UPDATE: Britney's pregnant y'all! If you can get on her official site at some point (it's getting slammed right now), you can read the announcement!

Ain't nothin' wrong if you wanna do the butt (dance) all night long

Cat uses litter box, speculation ensues

NEW YORK, NY -- In an unprecedented move, John "cat supermodel" Brown opted not to urinate on the futon this past weekend. This marks the first time in five years that all inhabitants of the apartment have gone away for three days and returned to a clean futon.

"I hung out with them a little longer than I usually do," said Cat Sitter Erin. A flip of the TV switch produced evidence that she may have hung out to watch a Yankees game on the YES network. "I'm not sure if that's why, because he didn't want to sit on my lap or anything."

Is this the dawn of a new urine-free era, or an isolated incident? Only time will tell.

Weekend highlights

Curly and I hopped in the Chevy Cobalt we'd rented and drove up I-87 on Friday afternoon to Schenectady, with a detour through Jersey. The car was P-H-A-T phat, and Curly made some seriously kickass mix CDs for the trip. I'm not going to lie – we did the bucket seat boogie. Many, many times.

We arrived at Chez Mom around 6pm, and chilled for a bit before heading down to Ferrari's for dinner. I had the veal scallopine and a glass of chianti. I'd been daydreaming about it all week, and it was every bit as good as it always is. Then we picked up some beer and went back to the house to watch Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, which was not nearly as good as the other two and much longer than it needed to be, in my opinion.

Saturday morning, I headed down to Dana's shop and got my hair chopped off. I love it. Then we headed over to grams for dinner. After establishing that we would be watching Lifetime and not golf, and that all my uncle could hope for was a little golf window picture-within-a-picture, we chilled and stuffed our faces with Doritos and watched Richard Grieco act like a big, drunk psycho rapist, which was awesome. Then later, we stuffed ourselves with eggplant parm, meatballs, sausage, stuffed shells, ziti with meat sauce, salad and bread. There was also some quality time with Dublin.

Saturday night we hoofed it over to Delorey's, where Curly got to meet Cousin Desiree and all of my high school friends, minus one Heather. We drank, we did some shots, I did the butt dance and several variations of the butt dance, and then Heather #1 drove us home in her rocket ship/car. We also watched a dude who closely resembled Sam Elliot in The Big Lebowski play air fiddle, and heard this exchange while outside smoking:

Cowboy: Hey, where's your cowboy hat?

Dude in vest: I don't have a cowboy hat.

Cowboy: You can't go in there without a cowboy hat on, you know.

Dude in vest: I have a leather vest on. Is that good enough?

Cowboy: You wear it well, but you need to unbutton it.

Sunday we slept until about noon, caffeinated ourselves and then headed over to Target to do some shopping. While trying on clothes, I came to the quite exciting and stunning conclusion that I have finally pared myself down to a size 6. I picked up some workout clothes, a bag, a belt and what I thought was a MaryKateish multi-colored scarf. When I got home, I realized it was, in fact, a poncho, and that would simply not do. So I hacked it up like some kind of fashion MacGyver and now I have two scarves.

After Target, Curly and I drove over to Jumpin' Jacks, because one really shouldn't visit the Capital District without loading oneself up on greasy fried food while overlooking the Mohawk River. It just ain't right. Parking at JJ is always a bitch, so we drove down the street and parked at the Masonic Temple. We were suddenly struck teenager while parking in such a flagrant violation of the law, so we snuck through Collins Park, quickly, to avoid being seen. After filling up on fried fish and fried clams and fried French fries and fried onion rings and root beer and lemonade, we walked back to the parking lot and saw one of the temple dudes approaching a couple parked in the lot. We high-tailed it out of there, yo.

Got in last night around 9:30, with birthday presents from the family – a HOT power drill, lots of spangly jewelry and a slinky green top that I might need to wear out on the birthday. I returned refreshed, relaxed and renewed, and I'm thinking, 30? Big freaking deal. When Curly uploads the pics, there will be pics. Including in-progress butt dance shots, which I will post for your enjoyment.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume VIII

Chris Gallup. My 8th grade boyfriend. Oh, how I loved Chris Gallup, who I met at Rollerama. He taught me how to skate backward. Mrs. F had it bad for his best friend, and the four of us, together, were an unstoppable force on the roller rink. Three months later, I dumped him for First Love. I wrote this when I still thought he was my soul mate. Thank God I never gave it to him.

Our love is like a rainbow
You the sun and I the rain
If separated, the sun will shine
And in turn, dry everything of life
Alone, the rain will darken every day
And in turn, drown life with cold tears
If united, the sun will brighten the days
While the rain replenishes life
And this perfect union forms a rainbow
Beautiful to my eyes
And precious to my heart

You have no idea how red my face is right now. Here's Volume VII.

Triple bypass only double a, triple x, here it comes

So. Turning 30. It's been freaking me out a little.

It's not the fact that I'm turning 30. It's the fact that I'm turning 30 with a mountain of debt, no idea what I want to be when I grow up, and with no romantic prospects. Frankly folks, this ain't where I thought I'd be at this point in my life.

What do I do when I'm freaking out, you ask? I self-destruct. I eat junk food and drink wine by the bottle and watch bad TV and chain smoke and turn the ringer on my phone off. I figured I'd just let myself do it until next Friday, when I'll be celebrating near Hot Bouncer. Only it got boring.

So now I'm freaking out, and instead of getting drunk and singing sad songs alone in my apartment, Bridget Jones style, I'm going to, like, clean my room and go to the gym and drink smoothies and crap. I'm going to be one boring 30-something.

Why I worship the dark lord Satan nowadays

It was Confirmation day. I was wearing a long purple flowered dress I'd borrowed from Mrs. F because all of my clothes were too Kelly Bundy for church and I didn't want to buy something I'd never wear again. Laura didn't care that she was rocking the Bundy look – black spandex dress with jewels stuck to it and knee-high boots.

They seated us in alphabetical order, which could have sucked but didn't because my last name started with Hu and Laura's was Ia. I walked up to the alter first and met the bishop there.

"I was getting so mad at you during my sermon," he said.

"Why?"

"I couldn't concentrate on what I was doing. I was so distracted by your beautiful eyes."

I wrinkled up my face the way I do when I'm not sure how to process what I've just heard. I said nothing and when I was done being magically transformed into a good little Christian soldier, I returned to my seat and waited for Laura.

"Oh my God," she said, sliding into the pew next to me. We were shushed by Father Leo, who for some reason hated us. The feeling was mutual, ever since we'd gone outside for air during a class break and when we came back in, he'd scolded us for smoking outside. Only neither of us had ever smoked in our lives.

Laura and I attempted to share our stories a few more times during the service, but Father Leo wouldn't quit it with the shushing so we had to wait. The second they dismissed us we burst.

"What did he say to you?" I asked.

"He asked me if I'd ever considered becoming a model. He said I should, that I had a great body."

"Ew!"

"What did he say to you?" she asked. I told her my story.

"Ew!"

We made our way to the post-confirmation reception, where it seemed every girl in our class had something to get off her chest. We all compared notes and said "Ew!" when it was appropriate. I don't know if everyone told their families, but I told mine. They thought I was overreacting.

Last night, Mom called to tell me that the church choir director had been arrested for child molestation. I was surprised. If she's said it was the bishop? Not so much.

A conversation with Mom

Mom: I want to dye my hair, but I can't find the right red.

Me: What are you looking for?

Mom: Something between a brown and a medium auburn.

Me: So why don't you just buy a brown and a medium auburn and mix them?

Mom: I could, I suppose. I found one I kind of liked. Spicy Cinnamon... Spiced something...or cinnamon something...hmm...

Me: Spiced Tea?

Mom: Yes! That's it!

Me: I use that.

Mom: Oh! No! I definitely don't want my hair that color.

KFC? How about I bitch-slap you instead?

Jake: Why oh why do I want junk food for lunch?

Me: Because junk food is yummy.

Jake: I don't wanna be a fatty.

Me: I feel your pain.

Jake: But a burger sounds soooooo good.

Jake: Tell me to eat a salad.

Me: Eat a salad.

Jake: Order me to eat a salad.

Me: EAT A MOTHERFUCKING SALAD, BITCH!

Jake: I love it when you're bossy.

An open letter to God

Dear God:

I never believed that the simple act of prayer could get me what I wanted. I mean, I know my grandma tells me to pray for people and stuff, but I never really thought it worked. Until now.

About a year ago, I heard a rumor this might be happening. I didn't want to believe it at first, because I knew the disappointment would be too much to bear. Still, I prayed that it would happen. Every night before bed, I prayed. As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months and I never heard another word, I thought the situation was hopeless. Until now.

You, God, have finally made it happen, using the UPN television network as a tool of your divine intervention. The Spederline reality show. It's a dream come true. Thank you, God. I will never doubt your existence again.

Your humble servant,
Jess

I'm one classy broad

Sometimes, not very often but sometimes, when I've had too much to drink and not enough to eat, I lick people's faces.



Is that weird?

Rainy Saturdays, tra la la

Every now and then, I remember a band I liked way back when and rediscover them. I spent Saturday afternoon reorganizing the music on the iPod, burning CDs and trying to figure out what needed to be downloaded.

Suddenly I found myself thinking about Material Issue. My best friend in college was a freak for Material Issue so naturally, I became one as well. We kind of shared a brain for four years. Anyway, I fired up the iTunes and saw that they had International Pop Overthrow, my favorite of the Material Issue albums. I've been listening to it pretty much nonstop ever since, and I cannot tell you how happy it's made me.

I also made an attempt to remove Rock Star's music from the iPod, but well, I actually really dig it. So I'm down one boy I like, but up one album I like. Not the worst state to be in.

Conversations about Hot Bouncer

One:
Me: God, look at him. I bet he looks great naked.

My Sharona: I bet he's huge, too.

Two:
Jean: I don't get you and Jess and the whole Hot Bouncer thing.

My Sharona: Well, it's not like we want to marry him. We just want to fuck him.

Jean: There's a difference?

Three:
Me: I've been thinking about the whole marrying Hot Bouncer vs. fucking him thing. And I think I want to marry him.

My Sharona: Really? Why?

Titles of romance novels received in the office today for promotional purposes

Alas, My Love

The Magic of You

Love Only Once

A Woman's Innocence

Lady in Red

Gentle Rogue

Tender Rebel

As An Earl Desires

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume VII

When I said I had a lot of rose poems? I wasn't kidding. This one is about my rock star boyfriend in high school, who I left behind when I went off to college my freshman year and dumped shortly thereafter. I was 18 when I wrote this one, a little older than my usual postings. I think y'all will be able to see how I really grew as a poet during the years in between. Untitled.

It was no ordinary rose
its scarlet petals more vibrant
its shape more flawless
than any rose I'd ever seen
i gave this rose no nourishment
neglected it, in fact
but still it clung to life
like no rose I'd ever seen
when this rose died, it did not wilt
no petals blackened, nor did fall
it kept its scarlet beauty
simply froze somewhere, mid-life
unlike any rose I'd seen
then I went away
and left behind my rose
for fear I'd crush its perfect form
when I returned, I saw my rose
petals scattered on my floor
blood-red tears that cleared my eyes
and what I saw, though seeming flawless
was only fragile
...just like any other rose.

Volume VI