Lazy Monday

What I should be doing: If I were being high on the productivity scale, I'd go grocery shopping. Low? Going for a walk, enjoying the lovely weather and a day off.

What I'm doing instead: Sitting on my bed in my underwear, playing Oregon Trail on my laptop and nursing what may possibly be the worst hangover of my adult life.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XV

I'm don't know if you can handle my truth, y'all, but after I wrote this, I wanted to get a tattoo of a phoenix. Thank God I was not old enough. And that, my friends, is why I'm not so concerned with getting a tattoo that "means something" to me as I am with getting something that I can look at in the future and think, "Yeah, that's pretty cute. Could have been worse – like, a phoenix worse."

Now is my time
I am a mountain of ashes
Clumped with a dried ocean [Ed: Huh?]
Blinded by the light of Saturn
Now I could spread myself too thin
Sprinkle myself to the ends of the Earth
Let the wind take my soul where it wishes
And scatter my vision
Now I must truly become a phoenix
Rising and glowing with inner strength
Assimilating my ashes into a new heart
Flying free above the places that have caged me for so long

Here's Volume XIV.

The world, it is strange

Yesterday, I called my grandparents to say hello. As per usual, Grandpa cracked a couple of jokes and then handed the phone off to Grams. This is the first thing Grams said to me.

"So, Mommy told me you saw Ice-T walking down the street! How exciting!"

Spam takes a turn for the weird

Is anyone else getting spam like this? This is the 4th one I've gotten like this, and um, what? It's killing me not to copyedit it, but I need to post it as is.

Hello,
content you to kill me in some Christian fashion? Captain Bloodhis name showed that the notification had been received, and thatMy father, he explained, is in haste to reach San Domingo. Hethe ruddy tan of the sea had faded almost completely during thoseJulian forward. His lordship, after a moment's hesitation, advancedfrom the Spaniards. But the thing itself is unthinkable, my lord.taken his choice of that human merchandise. As he finished, Blood,In the last hours of fading daylight, the Spaniards did preciselygunners meanwhile to the slender batteries that of all his powerful,scoundrel, and deserved what Peter gave him.in the consideration of this bargain to heed the Governor's humour.his vengeance. And he chose a moment when there were no ships ofM. de Cussy say so. If I am wrong, let me be proven wrong, and Iphysician's eye, Peter Blood judged him a prey to the pain of thein surprise and mistrust - a mistrust shared by Miss Bishop, who,I say. We are to come on; always to come on, without opposition,

On holiday

I've always been the party planner.

On any given Wednesday in high school, I'd have this conversation with Julie and Mrs. F:

Julie: Are we going to Rollerama on Friday or Saturday?

Me: Saturday. The Matts* are going to show up around 10.**

Mrs. F: What are we doing Friday?

Me: Mall.

Julie: Rotterdam Square or Crossgates?

Me: Rotterdam Square.

On any given Friday in college, I'd have this conversation with the roommates:

Michelle: What are we doing tonight?

Me: Reservoir Square is playing at Cactus at 10. If it sucks post-show, we'll go to Rennies. If not, we'll stay and then hit Night Cap on the way home.

Robin: What are the guys doing?

Me: They don't want to go to the show. They'll be at Rennies and then probably Night Cap.

It's not that I know where all the hot spots and the cool parties are, because I don't. And it's not that I'm cool and everyone wants to hang out with me, because I'm not and they don't. It's because I am organized. I know what time the show starts. I know how long it will take us to get there. I know how many Jell-O shots we need to make if 50 people show up to our party. I know which friend's ex-boyfriend we need to avoid, and where he's likely to hang out. I take care of things. It's why, when I was unemployed and temping, I got the sweet gigs babysitting executives instead of answering phones. Coordinating? Organizing? That shit runs through my veins.

Lately? I've stopped. I don't ask anyone to hang out. I call up My Sharona on Saturday afternoons and ask her what time I need to show up, and if Jean and Summer are coming. I call people on the way and ask annoying questions like, "Where is this place?" And you know what? It's awesome. If someone invites me out, I either go or I don't. If no one does, I stay home. I've discovered a laid-back-ness about hanging out that I've never had before, and I love it.

Now, I know I'm also being incredibly lazy, and I haven't seen people that are also lazy planners in awhile. There's a middle ground, and I'll find it at some point. Until then, though? Email me which subways I need to take, because I can't be bothered with Citysearch.

* Three guys named Matt who had no business hanging out with high school girls, but hey, it was the glam metal era, and high school girls were in.

** We'd go to Rollerama around 7, skate for a few hours and then hang out in the parking lot and get drunk, courtesy of whichever too-old boys wanted to hang out with us.

Did someone say 'clown ministry?'

As a general rule, I try to force myself to do things I'm afraid of. You know, for personal growth and all that crap.

Like public speaking, for example. That's scary, especially for a shy, social awkward such as myself. Whenever I have to do it, I practically throw up beforehand. I always pull through, though, because I over prepare. Still, the moments leading up to taking the mic, be it for a presentation or performance, are the stuff of nightmares. My hands shake, my face turns red and I ask myself why I agreed to do this.

So, with a little (twisting my hand behind my back while holding a gun to my head) gentle prodding from one Miss Curly McDimple, I've signed on to tell summer camp stories at the The WYSIWYG Talent Show in July. And I was going to keep it to myself and not invite anybody because I thought having people I know there would make me nervous. Then I realized that the people I know either 1) really think I'm funny or 2) pretend to. Either way, they'll laugh and cheer and stuff.

Details will be posted as I get them. Be prepared for tales of bitter rivalries with the 4-H camp, bad poetry, inappropriate relationships between campers and counselors, best friends competing for the affections of a boy, and clown ministry. Yeah, clown ministry. I said it.

Dying alone? What?

Retail therapy: 1
PMS: 1



I'm pretty sure that once I find the super fantastic shoes to go with the suit, the retail therapy will be the winner.

Too serious? Blame the PMS

Each month I spend exactly two days eating every piece of chocolate I can get my hands on, and whining about how I'm going to die alone. I do this whining primarily to Jake, because he has more patience for my drama queen antics than most people.

I'm listening to sappy music right now, after a particularly long hula hooping session, and pondering Jake's eternal words of wisdom from today's freakout.

The funny thing is, I'm not terribly concerned with having someone in my life right now. In all the ways that matter, I love my life. I have a job that pays me to write. I have a sweet freelance gig. I have a cheap rent stabilized two-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side and a roommate I love. I have my health. I have the best friends a girl could hope for and two seriously awesome kittens.

Here's the thing that freaks me out, though. Not having someone when I'm 60. Being that lonely old lady with the cats who dies in her apartment and no one notices for a week. If like, God, could swing by and just say, "Jess, seriously? Pull it together. You won't die alone. There will be a dude there the first time you fall and break a hip, okay? How do I know? Hello? I'm fucking God." then I'd chill. But that's probably not going to happen.

Okay, that's the end of my drama queen rant. Well, there might be another one tomorrow. But definitely not on Thursday. Right now, there's a box of Ring Dings that needs my attention.

The magic fairy dust sprinkling that is DVR

I'm a sucker for a good sports movie. If there's a big competition at the end? And there are obstacles to overcome? And a big win? Man oh man, it doesn't get much better than that.

Last night, after drinks with Tatiana, who drove in from Connecticut to have drinks with me for an hour before driving back home to Delaware, because homegirl's nuts, I ran some errands, made some dinner, and then discovered I'd missed the first half of Blue Crush, which is a must-watch. Because of the obstacles. And the competition. And the win, which really wasn't an actual win, but was a win nonethless. Because it's not always about winning, see. Although, she hasn't competed in three years and gets accepted into the biggest surfer girl competition ever? What?

"I wonder what would happen if I recorded it with the DVR," I thought. So I pressed record. And then I went to my list of recorded shows and volia! Blue Crush was at the top of my list.

"I wonder what would happen if I pressed 'play'," I thought. So I pressed play, and lo and behold, the opening credits to Blue Crush.

The Roommate and I have spoken often of the wonder and beauty that is DVR. But going back in time? That makes me want to give Time Warner Cable a big kiss. With tongue.

The book challenge

You know how you get those emails asking you to answer a survey and send along to a certain number of people? I ignore those emails, usually, but when a friend calls me out on her blog to participate, I really have to comply. (Just kidding, Sheila.) Anyway, here goes:

1. Total Number of Books I've Owned:
Like everyone else who answers that question, I have no idea, and I question the sanity of anyone who does.

2. Last Book I Bought:
Satan's Silence: Ritual Abuse and the Making of a Modern American Witch Hunt by Debbie Nathan and Michael Snedeker

3. Last Book I Read:
The Road to Wellville by T.C. Boyle

4. Five Books That Mean A Lot To Me:
Anastasia Again, by Lois Lowry. Everyone else had Judy Blume, and yes, I too loved the Judy Blume, but there was something about the Anastasia books that just resonated with my nerdy young self. Plus, she lived in a motherfucking tower, and that was really cool.

Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. Nothing I've ever read has inspired me to write the way this book has.

Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury. My favorite book, yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Ariel, by Sylvia Plath. Beautiful, haunting, raw. I read this all the time. Still.

Diary of an Emotional Idiot, by Maggie Estep. So much I can identify with in this book. It's like a window into the darkest, ugliest parts of myself.

5. Tag five people and have them do this on their blog:
Most of y'all will probably not do this. But that's okay, because you'll look like big jerks if you don't.

Favorite Ex
Jake
Miss Tanya
The Pie
Linus

One step closer to blog fame and fortune

Dear Cindy, Michelle, Peg, Robin, Tara and Sue:
I know I called you assholes, but thanks to you, I'm getting interviewed for a news story about humiliation and embarassment. But still, Trixter?
Love,
Jess

Saturdays rock

Yesterday, Azee and I headed over to the East River Ampitheater to see some music and bask in the sun. If you haven't gone out there to see a show yet, you should. And you should donate generously, because it's nice to see free music on lazy Saturday afternoons. Headlining the show was The Evens, aka Ian MacKaye from Fugazi and Amy Farina. They were fantastic, so fantastic, in fact, that I went right home and downloaded the album. Well, right home after a kickass dinner at Tenement (Lamb burger with yogurt sauce and zucchini fries, plus half a bottle of Riesling. Azee had the steak quesadillas and the rest of the wine. Good stuff.) and getting caught in a downpour on the way home in a white tank top, sans umbrella. Good thing walking in the rain is one of my favorite things.

At the show, I saw a familiar face and quickly realized it was Adamo Ruggiero from Degrassi, The Next Generation.

"See that guy over there?" I asked, pointing. "That's the cute little gay boy from the new Degrassi."

"I'm not sure who should be more embarrassed," Azee said. "Him for being on that show, or you for recognizing him."

Jury's still out on that one, but I'm leaning toward me.

Dirty Minute Meals

Brie? I think I love you.

Conversations with Jake

Just think, this foulmouthed beast is going to be someone's baby daddy soon.

One:
Jake: I got a microwave for the office
Me: Nice!
Jake: I'm pimpin'
Me: In your capricious youth, did you think a microwave in your office would be pimpin'?
Jake: No, I thought my dick in Belinda Carlisle's mouth would be pimpin'
Jake: But that ship has sailed, so I'm recalibrating my expectations of pimpitood

Two:
Me: It's been a long time since I've had a proper shagging
Jake: Life is full of inexplicable tragedy
Jake: If anyone should be buns up and kneelin', it's you
Me: Indeed
Jake: Alas, justice is fleeting

Three:
Jake: Dude, the spam names just keep getting better
Me: I know!
Jake: Veracruz H. Nonpayments
Jake: Refuting J. Mallard
Jake: Mannerism C. Mayoral
Jake: And my new fave, Yukon J. Denture
Jake: That's like an old school punk rock name
Me: Reforesting Q. Stepparents!
Me: Sortied M. Thumbnails!
Me: My fave?
Me: Wetland T. Stovepipes
Jake: Oh, that's just lovely
Me: I want to be a porn star and have that name
Jake: Step 1: Change your name
Jake: Step 2: Start having sex again
Jake: Step 3: Allow Seemore Butts to film said activity
Jake: I should be a career counselor

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XIV

Not even a pounding migraine will keep me from posting bad poetry for y'all. That's some motherfucking dedication, that.

Anyway, this is so craptastic I'm glad to be home with a pounding head, where people cannot point and laugh. It has no story behind it, save for me being a 14-year old retard with a thesaurus and too much angst. An interesting side note, though. When I went to college, I brought all the bad poetry with me so I could periodically review and, you know, hone my craft. On the back of the poem I'll be posting when this tangent is done, was a web address for a picture of a guy I'd met in a chat room and carried on an Internet flirtation with freshman year, because when the roomie and I weren't smoking pot or watching The Weather Channel, we were trolling chat rooms. This is the guy, who, if I remember correctly, was pretty cute in addition to being like, really smart and stuff.

So. The poem. Here goes.

Wound tightly in a fetal ball
Agitated metaphors dripping from my nose
My voice, a screaming sonnet
Ringing whispers through my brain
I am a poem.
My hair is crimson ink
Oozing from a quail feather's end
The similes slide off my eyelids
Like a mine of fresh black diamonds
I am a poem.
Rhyme schemes tapped with an ink-stained finger
Stanzas bruised into my legs
Iambs ripped from my throbbing head
My soul, twisted into a written symphony
And I am a poem.

Here's Volume XIII.

An open letter to the cute guy who lives in my apartment building

Dear cute guy who lives in my apartment building:

I am much cuter than you think I am. Really.

See, you only see me on the weekends, when I've just stumbled out of bed for Dunkin' Donuts. Or when I'm on the way to the gym. Or on Thursdays, and everyone knows I look bad on Thursdays, because Thursdays? Worst day of my week.

So Cute Guy, if you could make an effort to avoid me on Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays during the day and all day on Sundays, I'd really appreciate it. And if you could make more of an effort to be out and about the lobby on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Saturday nights around, oh, say between 9 and 10, that would rock.

Looking forward to you seeing me looking cute,
Jess

P.S. I've never seen you with a girl and you don't dress yourself well enough to be one of the gays. Single?

Oh hell yeah

The cavefish. She likes the metal shows.

Not to be a nag, but...

The New York Burlesque Festival? This weekend? You going? Because you should. Tickets are on sale now. The Roommate's in the Friday night lineup. Good stuff.

Delayed reaction

I was reading Gawker earlier, and noticed the mention of a fire at Bauer mags. A good friend of mine works over there, and I found it odd that she hadn't mentioned it. I sent her this email:

You had a fire? [Plus the link]

As any concerned friend would do. Her email back, which totally did not answer my question at all, said only this:

Wow, we made Gawker!

Music to my ears

Your dELiAs order has shipped!



I couldn't decide, so I bought them all. Because sometimes, I think I'm like rich or something.

The morning after

Here's the thing. We used to go up to Julie's family's lake house and have parties. Sometimes, we brought a video camera. We'd sing really loudly for the camera. We'd dance for the camera. We'd openly talk about oral sex for the camera. If someone yelled, "Jess! Show us your tits!" I usually complied. The difference between Mrs. Federline and I? I would never allow these videos to be shows on national television.

There's a certain mortification that should, theoretically, come with seeing yourself act like an idiot on tape. On those rare occasions when Julie and I pop in one of the camp tapes and watch, we blush, even though it's just the two of us. But you know the Federlines sat in front of their TV last night and watched Britney & Kevin: Chaotic, and Britney turned to Kevin and said, "OH MAH GAWD, Y'ALL, THIS IS SO HILARIOUS!" And hilarious it was. I want all six episodes to air, like, right now.

This is what they call "ambiance:"



This is what we ate for dinner. Clockwise from the left: Pigs in a blanket, prepared by L'il Suzy, pork chops marinated in ketchup and Coke prepared by The Boyfriend of The Roommate, mac n' cheese with canned tomatoes courtesy of yours truly and Dorito salad by Friend of The Roommate, made with ground beef, Catalina dressing and, of course, Doritos. There were fish sticks, too, but they were served with second helpings.



This nefarious dessert concoction was assembled by one Curly McDimple, who polished off a couple of 40s of Coors Light during the evening. Twinkies, Yoo-Hoo chocolate sauce, chocolate chips, a Ring Ding and Sour Apple Bubble Tape… I ate two, y'all.



This guy, who wrote a review much more thorough than mine and posted a pic of the cavefish modeling the wares, came too, bearing assorted snacks (including Cheetos) and wine. We're doing it all again for the grand finale, because if we do it every week, I'll get fat, and also unlike Mrs. Federline, I am not scarfing Cheetos for two.

My entire life has been about this moment, y'all

I realize not everyone has been counting down the seconds to Britney & Kevin: Chaotic the way I have, but if you haven't, it's on TONIGHT, AT 9:00PM. In honor of the event, The Roommate and I are hosting a white trash potluck dinner, complete with a box of wine. Pictures of each completely disgusting dish will be posted tomorrow, along with a selection of choice peanut gallery quotes from the viewing.

Too much of a good thing

I've never been one for large, screaming designer logos on my clothing or accesories. Some people are, and that's okay. I do believe there's a line, though. This one guy on the subway last night? Totally crossing it.

This guy, he loves his Dolce & Gabbana, and he wants you to know. That's why he wears the sneakers with the D&GD&GD&GD&GD&GD&G print on them. And if you're not the type who looks down, he also wears the baseball cap with the D&GD&GD&GD&GD&GD&G print on it.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Shoes and a hat? Isn't that just a little too much? And to that I would say, yes, yes it is. But it's not all. He also had a messenger bag with the D&GD&GD&GD&GD&GD&G print on it.

Now, what if I told you that wasn't all? Would it blow your mind? Well, get ready to have your mind blown, because he was also wearing pants with the D&GD&GD&GD&GD&GD&G print on them. Can we visualize this for a moment? Hat, pants, bag, shoes -- all with the same exact print. All Dolce & Gabbana, all the time.

Now, when this young man was dressing himself yesterday morning, I wonder if he considered the shirt with the print on it. Thankfully, he didn't. Oh no, he went for the sweater with the one gigantic D & G in the middle. Understated, yes?

Friday night text message fun

12:59am
Petey: I'm going to your bar with a bunch of available men.

1:02am
Me: Have fun. I'm watching porn online* and getting ready for bed.

1:06am
Petey: My friends loved that response.

1:12am
Me: I aim to please. Give my love to Hot Bouncer.

1:16am
Me: Also, why is this the first I'm hearing of a herd of single friends? Dude, I pimped YOU out on MY birthday!

1:18am
Petey: Improv people.

1:36am
Me: Oh, okay. That's all right then. Those comic types are nothing but trouble.

2:48am
Petey: Ok, but you're missing me sing karaoke.

* I actually was watching porn online. An astounding number of people have been arriving here via a search for "subway girl." I was curious so I did my own search. Turns out there's a girl who did naughty things in a Subway sandwich shop. And then later on a dining room table. So I watched it all. Kind of boring, if you ask me.

Friday inappropriate IM fun with Jess and Zach

Zach: Want to sip hot chocolate by firelight with me, on a bear skin rug?

Me: I don't think so.

Zach: Really? Why not?

Me: Not really the season for it. That's more of a winter activity.

Zach: How about gin and tonics down on the dock at sunset?

Me: Now you're talking. Can we make it wine instead?

Zach: Sure. It has to be red, though.

Me: Red gives me migraines. Do you really want me to have a headache?

Zach: No. What can you drink?

Me: We'll just go with the gin and tonics.

Zach: Is that still romantic?

Me: Not really. That's more "let's get drunk and fuck" than "let's get romantic."

Zach: I can go either way, really.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XIII

Believe it or not, I've been posting the least embarrassing stuff all these weeks. I am now ready to, as Emeril says, take it up a notch. (Not a fan of the Emeril, by the way) Next to my bed, I have the most pretentious thing ever put on paper, with circles drawn above the i's. Unfortunately, I drank too much last night and forgot it. Because I had such a treat planned for you, I feel I can't post something that isn't horribly embarrassing now, so I'm busting out the hippie shit.

Yes folks, while I was walking around with an economy-sized can of Aqua Net to keep the world's largest hair intact, I was, like, so sad about the ozone layer and the rain forests and stuff.

We exist as nothing
Within infinite space
The heavens and the galaxies
Reduce us to our rightful smallness
We cannot compare
The beauty is too vast
The perfection, incomprehensible

We exist as nothing
Yet we murder our own habitat
Disrupting the order of the infinite
We bleed Mother Earth of her wonders
Destroying our greatest gift
The gift of life

Here's Volume XII

They would so put us in charge of marketing if we were on The Apprentice

Me: I just scored us some Veet from work

The Roommate: YES!

The Roommate: I heart Veet

Me: I was just over by where the beauty girls sit going on and on about how wonderful Veet is. We should be their spokespeople.

The Roommate: I LOVE removing pubic hair with Veet!

The Roommate: Veet doesn't give me pizza rashes on my vulva!

Me: We can do the commercial with me timing you and the bathroom door a little open, and we can yell back and forth about how much we love it.

The Roommate: I am laughing out loud so HARD.

Me: Me too

The Roommate: Hey Jess, this Veet doesn't stink like Nair used to!

The Roommate: Yeah, that Nair smelled like farts!

The Roommate: Veet smells like meadows of flowers where a chemical spill happened!

Me: And it doesn't bruise like the at-home wax, where it looks like I punched myself in the vagina!

The Roommate: No pizza rashes, no vagina punches, how about THAT, girls?

The Roommate: Isn't the plastic scrapey thing fun?

The Roommate: Why yes! It's like the squeegee thing you use on your windshield!

The Roommate: Only it's your cooter!

Me: You said cooter.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker: Make me a Match

My Sharona got an idea to hook me up with a graphic designer/bartender that works at her friend's restaurant. I've been kind of psyched, mostly because none of my friends ever try to set me up with anyone. (Friends, why is that? Huh? WTF?) Rather, I was psyched, until I just got this in an email from My Sharona about our upcoming Eminem concert (Aw yeah, baby):

I didn't forget about your man. He didn't call me back. And my friend thinks he stole a bottle of rum from the restaurant. Maybe we should put those plans on hold till we're sure he's not a felon.

The cavefish? She will die alone.

Blood, gore and wax: I can't think of a better way to spend a Wednesday night

Because Linus turned another year older this week, I decided to indulge his disturbing Paris Hilton fixation and go see House of Wax last night. And I say that like I wouldn't have gone to see it anyway, which makes me laugh at myself.

Anyway, here's my advice to you if you haven't yet seen House of Wax and want to. Go in with low expectations, and you'll have a great time. Is it a good movie? Nope. Is it a hell of a lot of fun? You betcha. It even made me almost like Paris Hilton for four reasons: 1) She clearly has a sense of humor about herself 2) For the first half of the film, her character is the only character with any common sense 3) She has no qualms about running around sans shoes and showing off her freakishly large feet (size 11.5!) and 4) (Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert!) Her death scene? Totally awesome.

The film was really, really gory. Eyes were covered and I yelped, "Ew! Ew! Ew!" several times while squirming in my seat. I like Elisha Cuthbert better with blond hair, but Chad Michael Murray had his shirt off a whole lot, which made up for it. The special effects were really cool, especially at the end.

If you're one of those people who mistakenly believes horror movies should be good, you will not like this film. You will hate this film, in fact. If you are profoundly disturbed by horror film characters who think it's a good idea to split up and go off on their own in creepy situations, you will hate this film. If you saw the Paris Hilton sex video, and I did, on a palm pilot at a party in South Africa, this film will make you laugh, at least a little bit. Overall, I dug it. So did Linus.

Invitation to a fundraiser

Pros:
Relatively cheap
Dozens of single firemen
College friends are going
Dozens of single firemen
For a good cause
Dozens of single firemen
Open bar
Dozens of single firemen

Cons:
It's a "singles" event
Hosted by a sorority alumnae association
On the Upper West Side

Will have to think about this one.

A break from your regularly scheduled programming

There are tons of mommy blogs, good mommy blogs, and even though I have no desire to ever procreate, I enjoy a dose of Dooce or Mimi Smartypants nearly every day.

One thing I've noticed a lack of is the daddy blogs, and now we've got one to fill the void! That's right folks, now you can join Jake and Herself on their journey to parenthood. It's good stuff, I promise you.

In unrelated news, Trent quoted Empire Records today:

She looks very Sinéad O'Rebellion with her shock me, shock me, shock me deviant make-over.

I'm quite horrified that I got the reference immediately.

Insomnia

Whenever I'm restless, I sleep in the middle of the wrong side of my bed, on a diagonal. Right now, I'm curled up in position.

Today I'm restless because I ate some bad salmon for lunch and had to leave work early because everything was spinning and I was having hot flashes and other things were happening in my digestive tract that I won't get into because I'm a dainty flower who doesn't speak of such things. Longest cab ride home ever. No energy to do anything.

Managed to keep my dinner contained and I've been thinking about pie for hours, because I was writing the Cosmo blog earlier, and K ate apple pie. Too late for pie now, but I'd really like a slice of peanut butter. Or a cupcake.

I've been generally distracted lately. I don't know what's happening on what day, I keep forgetting things, emails are piled up in my inbox. I don't think it's depression. I'm not unhappy. Just scattered.

Trolled the online personals for a bit tonight. People are so funny with their requirements. One guy will only date girls 5'8" and above. One guy would date girls up to 6'2", but they couldn't weigh more than 125 pounds. I actually wrote to one guy who had every hair color listed except red, asking him if he'd been personally wronged by a redhead or if it was an aesthetic thing.

I want to write an FAQ for the site. Any questions you want answered? Ask me.

The competition

Turns out I'm not the only one who loves Hot Bouncer.

The Gloved Wonder

It's hard to listen to Nine Inch Nails without remembering The Gloved Wonder. I spent a good portion of the weekend doing both.

The Gloved Wonder was the name Mom gave him, because he always wore black leather gloves. Mom hated him. He was the sort of gorgeous, troubled boy that moms take one look at and instantly know that their daughters are about to be defiled physically as well as emotionally.

The Gloved Wonder was a musician, and the fun thing about dating musicians is that they sometimes write songs about you. The Gloved Wonder wrote a scary, pornographic little ditty about being obsessed with me. Naturally, I loved it. The Gloved Wonder sometimes forgot that he wasn't actually Trent Reznor.

The Gloved Wonder liked to have sex with underage girls, which is why I showed up at his apartment one day and dumped him in a most dramatic fashion. He did not want to be dumped, and illustrated that point by calling me. A lot. I came home one day and Mom, sighing, played me a series of messages he'd left on the answering machine.

"Is The Gloved Wonder ever going to stop leaving Nine Inch Nails songs on the machine?" she asked.

"Someday Mom," I said. "Someday."

Rock Star, Pop Star? A dick by any other name would still be a dick

My friend Katie has a blog, and before she met her Prince Charming and we became real-life friends, I enjoyed reading about all the frogs she kissed and discarded. One frog was particularly heinous,and he was a critically-acclaimed musician she called Pop Star.

Today he got a mention, and a couple of things occurred to me: 1) Katie and I live in the same neighborhood and 2) How many critically-acclaimed musicians could live in our neighborhood, really?

I fired off an email to Katie and she called me about 15 minutes later. It is confirmed -- her Pop Star and my Rock Star are one and the same. The funny thing is, I sat in a bar with her and discussed Rock Star at great length, and we never put two and two together. We deduced many things during that phone call (and subsequent emails) -- he recycles the same material over and over, and he's a matchmaking service sportfucker.

I'm kind of floored, kind of giggling and kind of relieved that he didn't stick around long enough to get an invite to my 30th birthday party. Turns out he did nothing but sexually harass girls and generally piss everyone off at hers. Do they teach classes on how to become a better judge of character? Because I think I need one.

Unsolicited advice

To the guy who got here by searching for "Why do girls have sex on the second date?"

Maybe she likes you. Relax. Enjoy it. It doesn't mean she's a slut. I promise. That whole third date rule? So 2001.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XII

The Juggler. What can I say about The Juggler? I met him at summer camp when I was 16. He had hair that was shaved underneath. Sometimes in a ponytail. Sometimes in pigtails. Sometimes in a weird knot on top of his head. He painted his toenails many colors, but mostly green and blue. I was smitten with The Juggler, but overcome with shyness whenever I was near him. This is his story, bizarre line breaks and questionable capitalization choices intact.

Stranger

You make me feel like a high
school girl in an '80s movie
I sit by the beach and
watch you play volleyball
And the background song
will probably be on my mind's
soundtrack
Whenever I hear it, I'll think of your
blue-green hair
And the great save you made
And oddly enough, I'll miss you
A wonderful stranger I never
really got to know.

He became less of a stranger later, and more of a boy who I would have a torrid love affair with. Highlights included hand-picked flowers, watching falling stars, making out in a tent, many attempts to dye his hair the right shade of blue and a Deep Blue Something/Jill Sobule concert. He eventually dumped me because I was "too wild."

Here's Volume XI.

I've never even heard of the ice cream brand

I stayed home from work yesterday to nurse my migraine, and like every other time I stay home from work to nurse something or other, I started to go stir crazy after a couple of hours.

I thought I'd hit the gym once the pounding head stopped pounding, but that didn't work out so well, as I was fairly wiped out by a trip to the corner for cat food. I did manage an 8-minute Pilates workout, but I also didn't push myself all that hard, and I didn't roll all the way up even once. I finally settled down and kept myself busy doing things that could be accomplished while lying down, i.e. watching Napoleon Dynamite and cleaning out my wallet.

There are things that make it back into my wallet after every cleanout, because I think I'll use them someday. Stamps, the Win for Life I never cashed in, some dude from high school's phone number, a bus ticket to Foxwoods from points north that may or may not still be valid. And the ice cream coupon, which I've never been able to bring myself to use or throw away. And that is where our story begins.

About a month before The Breakup of 2003, I decided I needed to get away. I was miserable, and the novelty of sitting home alone with a slowly emptying bottle of wine and crying was wearing off. So, I packed a bag and jetted off to Montauk in the middle of October to spend some quality time with myself and figure my life out. It was all very Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. In hindsight, what I should have figured out was that my boyfriend was a jerk and I was on a birth control pill that was making me crazy, but instead I came back relaxed, renewed and more in denial than ever. For a brief period of time, I was actually quite happy.

A few nights after I got home, I basked in that newfound happiness all the way to Astor Wines, to pick up a bottle or two for dinner with the boyfriend. As I walked down Lafayette, I noticed a cute boy walk up next to me, talking on a cell phone. He looked over at me, smiled, said, "I'll call you back" into the receiver and started walking with me.

We chatted. He invited me for a drink. I declined. He asked me for my phone number. I told him I had a boyfriend. I think the fact that I was giggling like a maniac encouraged him, because he pointed out that it's always good to have a plan B, and that perhaps I should give him my number just in case my relationship didn't work out. I told him that even if my relationship didn't work out, plan B guy would just be a rebound guy, so we were ultimately doomed anyway. He offered to give me his number. I said no thanks. He then produced a coupon for free ice cream, and told me to pick some up, and also to go to the company website and click on the link to email the webmaster if I changed my mind. It was the first time anyone's ever come up to me on the streets of New York like that during sober hours. The only time, actually.

That night, dinner was a disaster and resulted in fighting and crying and me sleeping on the couch. Again. The next day at work, I stared at that ice cream coupon for a long time. Several times. I even started an email. Twice. Then I had one of those, "What the hell am I doing?" moments. Because I'm not that kind of girl. I'll never be that kind of girl. I'm so damn faithful it's practically a disease.

Last night, I noticed the coupon had expired on December 31st, 2004. I folded it in half and put it back in my wallet, right next to the 34 cent stamps.

Straight outta the trailer park behind that Wall-Mart, y'all

Stories like this make me proud to be from upstate New York. I can only hope that, should I ever get my skull cracked by a 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve, I'll have a friend there to administer first aid. On the bright side, I am not related to anyone in that story, which is more surprising than one would think.

Thanks for the link, Zach!

Four years later and he's still nagging at me

Favorite Ex: How's the novel coming?

Me: Umm…

Favorite Ex: Jess!

Favorite Ex: I started eating vegetables. You write that novel.

Me: I took a break to turn 30.

Favorite Ex: I was planning on getting famous by telling everyone I knew you. So hurry up!

Me: Okay, okay.

Favorite Ex: No more slacking!

Me: Aye aye chief.

Denver… San Antonio… Denver… San Antonio… Denver… San Antonio

A few years ago, I decided I hadn't traveled enough. And I still haven't, but I'm working on it by making damn sure I see at least one new state and one new country per year.

September was supposed to be Paris, but vacation time, finances and new jobs got in the way. Now I have a big hole at the beginning of September where a vacation should be.

I was looking forward to Paris, but I really can't afford it, especially after dropping all that dough on South Africa early this year. So it's either Denver, where I'll be visiting K and Erika, or San Antonio to visit Fix and Mr. Fix.

There are pros and cons to each. Here they are:

Denver:

Pros:
Get to spend half my time with K and half my time with Erika, the former being a nonstop party the latter being chill
K wants to move back east and his lease is up at the end of September, making this my last chance to visit

Cons:
K and I have a history, which sometimes results in drunken drama
Next summer's Flamingo reunion may be in Denver
Erika is working on her PhD, and might be really freaking busy

San Antonio:

Pros:
Cowboys
Shopping with Fix
Cowboys
Mr. Fix's cooking
Cowboys
Chill

Cons:
Lots of fatties in Texas*
Might be too chill
Already spent eight days with them this year, 24/7, feel like I should spread myself around a little more
Would like to go when the mutual friends go, date TBD

So, if any of y'all could tell me anything spectacular or interesting to help me make up my mind, I'd be much obliged. Now, I'm going to go curl up with the cats and whine until my migraine, now entering it's fifth hour, goes away.

*Totally kidding.

Some things I learned about myself via the comments on my Rachel Ray post

1. I am the best sister ever.
2. I'm a jealous bitch.
3. I sucked the wrong dick.
4. I'm just stating facts.
5. I'm gay.
6. I am neither as good-looking nor as natural as Rachel Ray.
7. I'm a hater.
8. I do not have it going on.
9. If I were nicer, Rachel Ray would have given me a job.
10. I drink Haterade and make pointless web pages.
11. My mother never taught me that jealousy will get me nowhere fast.
12. I have a lame blog.
13. I look like Rachel Ray.
14. I now have a repulsive sex act named after me.
15. I am a jealous bitch who hasn't sucked the right dick yet (Hm, this one sounds familiar)
16. I need to put the bible down and pick up an issue of Cosmo
17. I'm not very Christian.

I love it.

Saturday night

Curly's and my D.C. boyfriend, Chris was in town this weekend, and like the good boyfriend that he is, he brought us flowers. A spectacular time was had by all.

I watched Hot Bouncer walking around, as I tend to do, and found myself increasingly disturbed by the rather large collection of tags sticking out of the back of his layer of shirts. Finally, I walked up to him and reached my arm around his neck. He looked panic-stricken, probably thinking I was going to plant one on him. So panic-stricken, in fact, that I decided freaking him out is much more fun that trying to make awkward conversation with him. I now have a new hobby, and the new hobby is Scare Hot Bouncer.

So awesome

You know what's really awesome? Getting your period during a meeting at work! And not just any meeting, one where you're expected to speak to a group of people! That's super awesome. And then? When you like, totally choke like Angie on The Apprentice the week she got fired for blowing her presentation at American Eagle Outfitters because you're having hot flashes and you're dizzy and you feel like you're going to pass out? Well, it doesn't really get any more awesome than that. That's pretty much the epitome of super fantastic awesomness squared and then added to, like, infinity.

A conversation with my super's sister

The Roommate was in Cleveland this past weekend, so I was on cleaning and cooking duty for the Sunday night dinner party.

I have a push cart that I could theoretically take with me when I leave the house to run errands. I just never do. As a result, I often return to my apartment weighed down with multiple bags. The ingredients for Sunday dinner – baked ziti with spicy sausage, salad and toasted French bread with white bean pate – were especially heavy, what will all the cans and jars and whatnot. I also had kitty litter and a bottle of wine.

I entered my apartment building, and was about to walk into the elevator when I was accosted by my super's sister.

"I have clothes for sale. Very nice. Good condition. You come look?"

I'm going to be honest. The last thing I wanted to do was go look at my super's sister's clothing for sale. But she's a lovely woman and I have a hard time saying no, so I went.

I didn't want to put my bags down on her white carpet, and she didn't make any suggestions about where to put them. So I held them. All four of them, pulling me groundward a little more every second. She had a raincoat I didn't particularly care for, a suit jacket, a pair of boots and some pants. I actually liked the boots, but they were size nine and a half and I'm a seven and a half. Then she held up the pants, which looked too big for me as well.

"You and me. We same size?" She motioned back and forth between the two of us.

"What size are they?" They were a ten.

"No, they're not my size." She looked at me suspiciously.

"What size?" She pointed at me.

"A six or an eight."

"No, no, no. These fit you. You want to take upstairs and try on?"

"Oh, no. No. Thank you."

I told her she should put a sign up in the lobby, and she said that was a good idea. She told me to come back if I changed my mind. I left the apartment, arms aching, and wondering if I really do look significantly larger than I am, even when I'm wearing a tight t-shirt and ass pants.