Weekend highlights

- Dancing to Swedish cock rock in my skull pajamas all afternoon with Cadence, the one-and-a-half-year-old Scottiana spawn, who might have made me rethink my position on babies.

- BODYWORLDS. It was so ridiculously cool. After walking through the exhibit like an angry five-year-old because I wasn't allowed to touch anything, I was finally able to hold a real-live squishy lung. It's also worth mentioning that I haven't had a cigarette since seeing the smoker's lungs, also.

- Carving pumpkins. Mine was a goofy pirate with a smile that continued to crack Scott up long after it was lit.

- The worst game of Password ever. But also the most fun.

- Having to sleep with the basement light on because Scott scared me with tales of suicide notes and creepy sex pervert drawings found when they moved into the house.

- Good food, good conversation and good friends who I don't see nearly enough of. Methinks I need to get on that.

A sure sign the cavefish is hungover

I just spent a good five minutes thinking about whether I could actually leave the house in skull pajama pants and a sweatshirt that says, "Masturbating is not a crime." My reasoning? I'm just going to McDonald's.

Today's random award goes to...

Julie, for sending me this text message:

Have you seen Breaking Bonaduce or My Fair Brady? Best shows on TV. Do you know people get their anuses bleached? What band was Yngwie Malmsteen from?

Then I called her to answer her questions. Yes, I have seen Breaking Bonaduce, and Danny boy is pretty much my high school boyfriend Satan, except, you know, Satan was 16. I have also seen My Fair Brady and it is good stuff. I did not know about the anus bleaching, and Yngwie was one of those solo guitar guys, like Steve Vai.

"Great, thanks," she said. "I gotta go, though. [Hot Irish Boyfriend] and I are on our way to a tattoo convention."

Neither Julie nor the Hot Irish Boyfriend are inked.

Hope

I've been disappointed before. Of course I'm afraid to really believe in things. To really trust them. Who wouldn't be? Sometimes, I can't even trust myself.

I do know one thing, though. Bank of America would never send an email like this:

This is a friendly note to remind you to sign and return the Master Account Agreement (MAA) that you received in the mail about a week ago. Until we've received this document, you won't be able to withdraw or transfer funds from your new account.

If you didn't receive this document, please respond to this email or give us a call right away at 800.788.7000, and we'll send another your way. If you send an email message, please make sure and include the mailing address to which you'd like us to send the document.

If you've recently returned the document to us, then we apologize for any imposition this message may have caused you.

I don't want to get ahead of myself, but that Washington Mutual is looking awfully promising.

I heart BBC America

There hasn't been much of interest to me on American television lately. I know I should be watching Lost, but I'm too far behind and catching up seems like an awful lot of work. So I'm not going to, and stop arguing with me. So You Think You Can Dance and Rock Star: INXS are all over now, so I don't have those. I have The Apprentice, (Go Josh!) but really, that’s it.

BBC America to the rescue! A few weeks back, Captain Jersey was over and fell asleep on me, and because he literally fell asleep ON ME, I couldn't really go anywhere or do anything so I started flipping through channels. I stopped on 106 and watched a little show called Bodies.

Holy shit, people. Picture ER at the Worst. Hospital. Ever. Incompetent doctors killing patients and then covering up for each other. Doctors being totally sarcastic and rude to people who are dying. Everyone fucking everyone else. Hot British guys. Full frontal nudity. Blood and guts. It's genius.

Independently of me, The Roommate discovered Footballers Wive$, which Miss Tanya sums up nicely here. I will add this, though. Body doubles! Drunken threesome propositions! A character named Chardonnay! Hermaphrodite baby! Blackmail! This is the most deliciously trashy show ever. The Roommate and I are now psychotically obsessed with both shows.

Thanks, BBC America. I haven't been this excited about television since you were airing The Office and Coupling at the same time.

Job stuff

If you're a writer or editor who has ever spent a significant amount of time looking for a job writing or editing, you are no doubt familiar with the scourge of the interview process – the edit test.

The edit test is abstract. There are "no wrong answers," except for, you know, the wrong ones. Sometimes, the amount of work that goes into an edit test is so extensive you think they might just be trying to get you to write stuff they can later use for free. (I'm talking to you, Seventeen.com) Sometimes you're asked to rewrite someone else's work. But who? Your future boss? The chick who got fired last? If you think about it too much, it can get pretty nervewracking. In the three months I've been unemployed, I've completed many edit tests. In one case, I even did two for the same company.

Today I put my beef with the edit test to rest. Why? Because I got to write this for one, and it made it all worthwhile:

Red, White & Screw
The Mainstreaming of Sex in America

Even if they don't hire me, I had a blast working on it. If I get the gig, I'll share the one I did for the hardcore Japanese porn. Another reason to want the job? It will help me keep my rep intact.

In other job-related news, I sent in a resume for my dream job last week. I didn't think I was qualified. Now, that's not me being self-deprecating – it's a pretty big deal job. I emailed the resume on a whim, thinking maybe there was a lower-level position open as well, and they'd consider me for that. Well, apparently they thought I was qualified for the dream job, because yesterday I interviewed for it. And the interview went really well. And I don't want to get my hopes up, but the words "second round of interviews" came up at the end. I called my Little Italian Grandma earlier to tell her about it.

"So is this the one you want?"

"Yes."

"Should I stop praying for the other one?"

"No."

"Okay, but I'll pray a little harder for this one."

"Thanks Grandma."

If I get the dream job, I'll have Grandma and her candle-lighting to thank. Incidentally, she loved my "Red, White & Screw" promo.

What I learned

1) There are a lot of boys out there. Some of them I will actually like and connect with and I am probably not doomed to spinsterhood.

2) The old me? The one who knew what she wanted and needed and wasn't afraid to walk away when she wasn't getting it? She's still kicking around in there, apparently.

So really, there's a bright side to the demise of Jess and Captain Jersey. Two of them, even.

Destiny hates me

Last night I had Jean, Summer and My Sharona over for dinner. I made eggplant rollatini with pasta, garlic bread and salad with my world-famous creamy garlic dressing. My Sharona made cookies. Much food and wine was consumed by all.

After some loud singing to George Michael's "Freedom" and a brief dance party to "Bizarre Love Triangle," we decided to leave the house and either 1) get our karaoke on at Sing Sing or 2) go to Scratcher. Naturally we ended up at Grassroots, because well, that's what we do. On the way, we decided to get our palms read. Here's what the psychic lady told me for five dollars:

1) "You had a relationship that ended with much pain and suffering. You've been unable to move on because this person is still very much a part of your life. There's a reason the two of you keep finding your way back to each other. I know he's not Mr. Perfect, but I do know that you're going to end up with him."

2) "You keep focusing on finding a job but you need to be focused on finding a career. And it's not what you think. You keep trying to push yourself into the creative field, but I see you doing something else. You'll be helping people."

3) "You are in the wrong place. I see you leaving the city, probably by the end of the year."

She then tried to upsell me to the $20 reading. When I told her I'd be back when I had a job, she snapped, "Stop looking for a job and start looking for a career."

Great. So if I'm to believe the psychic lady, I'm going to get back together with The Ex who broke my heart, leave the city I love and, instead of making millions writing vapid chick lit, fucking help people for a living. There's no reason to go on, really.

A sign I might be spending too much time cooped up indoors in my unemployed state

I just said the following. Out loud. To my CATS. And it seemed perfectly normal at the time.

"7:00. I know. [Dinner time] This is what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna get up. I'm gonna brush my hair. I'm gonna throw on a sweatshirt. Then, and only then, will I feed you. So shut it. Aiiight? And that's how I roll, bitches."

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXV

Y'all, I was so ready to post some Desert Storm poetry, but I can't find the yellow notebook. Next week, hopefully. I no longer have any shame when it comes to the crap I'll post for you. You might even get some Kurt Cobain in coming weeks.

Anyway, this. I don't know who I wrote it about, or why, or what it even means exactly. In fact, as I read through it today I was like, "huh?" I hope you have the same reaction. I also don't understand what I was trying to do with capitalization and punctuation. I changed it halfway through, and it can't be an accident because I was VERY particular about that stuff.

Oh, and if anyone was weirded out by the last installment, don't be. I was a morbid drama queen. You can't take me seriously, really.

Stand on top of the highest mountain and
call my name
I'll hear the echo of your voice from down below
loud at first, then
fading
I'll wonder if you said it once or
twice or
even three times.
And when I answer, the wind and
the trees will
steal my voice.
Search for me with outstretched arms and
I'll see you
Larger than life.
When you put your hand to your brow to
block the sun
I'll mingle with the scenery
Antlike, invisible
Then climb off your mountain on
the other side
No echoes in the air
Because we both know
I'll never climb that high.

Scatological discourse with Jess and Zach. "Sexy" scatological discourse

Zach: I have peed 5 times today.

Me: Why?

Zach: Well I drink a liter of water a day. I used to only pee like 2 maybe 3 times a day. I think I have a UTI.

Me: Do guys get those?

Zach: I can't see why not. But I doubt I have one. It doesn't hurt to pee or anything, I just have been going a lot today.

Me: I get them sometimes, depending on who I'm sleeping with.

Zach: Really? You treat them with cranberry juice?

Me: Cranberry juice only helps the symptoms. You need antibiotics, and they turn your pee orange.

Zach: That is so awesome. Stern had someone on yesterday who is marketing some product that makes your crap not smell.

Zach: It also turns it green.

Me: Ew.

Zach: takeawhiff.com

Me: "Whiff has two side effects, one of which disappears after a couple weeks. The bacterial metabolism caused by the FOS in Whiff produces gas and bloating. During the first couple weeks of taking Whiff, you may experience significant flatulence and/or diarrhea. But as the bowel assumes its new, healthier condition, these effects taper off and eventually disappear."

Me: I wonder if it affects farting.

Zach: It might? The weird thing is, later at night I was watching infomercials, and there was an infomercial about a colon cleanser.

Me: Ew.

Me: Also from takeawhiff.com: I realized immediately that the issue was one of 100% participation. It wouldn’t be good enough just for MY poop to stop stinking – this needed to be a global movement to make EVERYONE’s poop less stinky! I flushed, and as I washed and dried my hands, it came to me: We would need a rallying cry to encourage everyone to participate. And that rallying cry would be, "Take A Whiff!"

Zach: That's awesome. Pure genius.

Zach: Back to the infomercial. It's gross because they were saying that you can have anywhere from 5 to 22 pounds of compacted crap in your colon.

Me: Ew.

Zach: I know. But I want it out of my colon.

Me: Are you regular? If so, you're probably fine.

Zach: Please post that. I would ask you to marry me for asking me that.

Three things

Courtesy of Sheila.

THREE THINGS I DON’T UNDERSTAND:
1. Why no one's hired me yet
2. The success of Rachael Ray
3. How anyone can still support George W. Bush

THREE THINGS ON MY DESK:
1. Tomato pincushion with three needles stuck in it and two pins
2. 4 bottles of vitamins (multi, zinc, fish oil, lysine)
3. "The Perfect Man," a little stuffed guy who says things like, "Here, you take the remote." Purchased by one Best Friend Extraordinaire Julie to console me after The Ex and I broke up. If he vibrated too, he really would be perfect.

THREE THINGS I’M DOING RIGHT NOW:
1. Wishing I were asleep
2. Enjoying the quiet
3. Thinking about whether I want eggs or oatmeal for breakfast

THREE THINGS I WANT TO DO BEFORE I DIE:
1. Fall in love with the right person
2. Visit Japan
3. Publish a novel or 12

THREE THINGS I CAN DO:
1. Hula-hoop
2. Cut hair
3. Always look on the bright side

THREE WAYS TO DESCRIBE MY PERSONALITY:
1. Quirky
2. Spazzy
3. Goofy

THREE THINGS I CAN’T DO:
1. Sing
2. Stop watching those annoying VH1 talking head shows
3. Lie to people I care about

THREE THINGS I THINK YOU SHOULD WATCH, READ OR LISTEN TO:
1. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Seriously, if you missed this show when it was actually on, give it a watch. It's brilliant.
2. Serenity. Saw it yesterday.
3. Reasons to Live by Amy Hempel. A tiny book that took me months to finish because it was so good I made myself stop reading in an attempt to make it last longer. When I finally finished it, I went back and read it three more times.

THREE THINGS I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD WATCH, READ OR LISTEN TO EVER:
1. The Andy Milonakis Show (Sorry CJ!)
2. Rachael Ray's new talk show
3. Anything by Dave Eggers

THREE THINGS YOU SAY:
1. Shut. Up.
2. Zip it.
3. Not so much.

THREE THINGS YOU’D LIKE TO LEARN:
1. How to speak Russian
2. How to dance like a Fly Girl
3. How to manage my time

THREE BEVERAGES YOU DRINK REGULARLY:
1. Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee
2. Water
3. Wine

THREE SHOWS YOU WATCHED WHEN YOU WERE A KID:
1. Double Trouble
2. You Can't Do That on Television
3. Degrassi

THREE THINGS YOU WISH PEOPLE WOULD LEARN TO DO:
1. Say please and thank you
2. Think about how their actions affect others
3. Try to make the world a better place

Real-life soap opera

Since I'm unemployed, I thought maybe I'd pick up a daytime soap to watch. After much deliberation, I decided on Passions, because I've heard it's weird and the kids seem to like it. As it turns out, I don't need to turn on the TV to get my drama fix. I just need to read my email.

Months ago, a bunch of tenants in my building decided we needed to get organized and fight The Man, and by The Man I mean the evil slumlord management company that neglects our building and its inhabitants on a daily basis. Naturally, I was delighted.

Things appeared to be going well until we had our first meeting with the building management. All was going well until one tenant loudly told another to fuck herself. This was probably not the wisest move, as it's important to be something of a united front in situations like this. Anyway, Mr. Go Fuck Yourself sent out a nasty email to the building afterward resigning from the tenant association.

Things heated up as the TA started negotiating rent abatement for tenants who were without gas for months on end. When all was said and done, the figure decided upon kind of sucked, and today everyone received a note under their door from one of the TA officers resigning because she didn't like how the negotiations played out.

This prompted another building wide email from Mr. Go Fuck Yourself. It was sarcastic. It was nasty. It was a bit surprising, actually. Then Rachel from 4 replied all and told him to keep his nasty emails to himself. And then Mrs. Go Fuck Yourself sent out an, "Oh no you din't just call out my husband!" It's awesome.

Are the building problems getting resolved? Nope. Am I thoroughly entertained? Yep. I'm also wondering if anyone who lives in this building actually has a job, because they all seem to have a lot of time on their hands. I can't wait for the next episode.

In print

Saturday I had a two-hour brunch with My Sharona, Jean and Summer at Arte Café. The best thing about the restaurant? The unlimited mimosas and prompt refills. Oh yeah, and my prosciutto frittata wasn't bad either.

Jean always casually mentions this Sex and the City-type column she writes for a magazine in China but never tells us much about it and won't let us read it. Over brunch, she told us that so many readers have been sending in letters asking her questions that they want to do a second "Dear Jean" column. The magazine is read by over two million people, and the column is the most popular thing in the magazine, which is pretty huge. She began telling us some of the questions that have come in:

How did you get into law school?

Did [My] Sharona find a "nice Jewish boy" yet?

"Wait a minute," My Sharona said. "You wrote about me?"

As it turns out, she's written about all of us. In fact, we are frequently lead-ins to the various topics. For example, I was featured in her online dating piece. Summer was featured in her expensive jeans piece. And My Sharona was featured in a piece about culture and dating.

The rape crisis girls are famous in China. Awesome.

It's all in the cards

I woke up this morning with a burning desire to give myself a tarot reading.

It's not something I've done in years. Back in college, I was into palm reading and tarot and Wicca (shut up) and all that jazz. I was the residential mystic guru, busting out the cards on Sunday morning because the girls had all had run-ins with their boys of choice the night before and needed to know what it all meant. I gave myself readings from time to time, but not too often because you can drive yourself crazy with that shit.

Anyway, here's what the cards told me that I already knew:

I am unemployed and happily dating a new boy.
I am focusing all of my energy on the new boy and relatively none on finding a new job.
The energy I am focusing on the new boy is of the worried omigod this is going to end any minute variety, which is dumb because really, things are fine.
The money is not going to last forever, and the energy needs to be refocused on finding a job.

Hocus pocus gobblety gook? Perhaps. But whatevs. It still gave me a kick in the ass.

Meeting Captain Jersey

Petey weighs in.

Petey: Are you aware that you and [The Roommate] have doppelganger boyfriends?

Me: 1) We're not using the "b" word yet and 2) We do not.

Petey: They're both tall. They both have long black hair and glasses. They both have facial hair.

Me: [The Boyfriend of the Roommate] doesn't have facial hair.

Petey: He has sideburns.

Me: That's a stretch.

Petey: Plus they both wear all black.

Me: I still don't think they look alike.

Petey: Do you two ever, like, get confused and make out with the wrong one?

Me: Shut it.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXIV

Because if I don't post bad poetry, then the terrorists have won.

This uplifting little number is about Not Trent Reznor, a guy I had a weird on-and-off again thing with in my teen years. I ultimately dumped him because 1) he was crazy like a mofo and 2) he was cheating on me with a disturbingly underage girl. And then Julie dated him for like an eternity, prompting me to beg her to choose more wisely when fishing in the Jess-Ex dating pool. They broke up, incidentally, because he was cheating on her with another disturbingly underage girl. He wrote a really, really scary song about either 1) wanting to have sex with me or 2) wanting to chop me into little pieces. I was never quite sure.

I'm not real to you
I'm an object of pain
Your inspiration
I feed your twisted mind
in a role you've cast for me
You beg me to use you
Beg me to hurt you
I'm happy to oblige
I've grown so numb
so dead inside
like a parasite
has sucked my soul completely dry
and the parasite is you.

Here's Volume XXIII.

The difference a decade makes

Okay, more than a decade. Anyway, this dude was in my graduating class:



He was a nice enough fella. We ran in different circles. He in the smarter circle of the popular kids, myself in the burnout misfit circle. Based on this Albany Times Union article sent by Heather #2, he might not have chosen his high school clique wisely. Behold Paul Sacchetti now:



Dude, it's like Scott Baio got a Heavy Metal Makeover and became Scott Ian. And then uh, took up golfing. Bad ass golfing.

Is it weird that I'm finding him kinda hot?

The blog, it has been discovered

Which means I'll be refraining from posting about my dating life unless 1) something funny happens and 2) I get permission. Which is probably better anyway, because 1) I was getting a little out of hand with the posting and 2) This shit will get boring if all I talk about is the boy. Especially when we have things to discuss like Paris stealing Mary-Kate's boyfriend. That dirty whore.

What the world needs now, is less Adam Carolla

I'm getting a little worried about Adam Carolla.

The first time I encountered Adam Carolla was when I was but a wee lass in college. He was the somewhat-annoying-but-mostly-take-him-or-leave-him sidekick on a truly fabulous little show called Loveline. Sidekick to one Dr. Drew Pinsky, who I just so happened to love. Laura Kightlinger's presence didn't hurt, either – homegirl's a riot. Mostly, I barely tolerated Adam Carolla but overall, wished him no ill will.

Then Comedy Central unleashed a little thing called The Man Show, where Adam Carolla was the somewhat-annoying-but-mostly-take-him-or-leave-him co-host. The show had its moments. I always thought Jimmy Kimmel was funny in a my-best-friend's-annoying-older-brother kind of way. I always liked him on Win Ben Stein's Money. Still, barely tolerating the Carolla but not wanting anything bad to happen to him.

Then Adam Carolla became a total media whore. He did the talk show circuit about 6,000 times, guest-starred on sitcoms and even appeared on Inside Dish with Rachael Ray. Suddenly, Adam Carolla was starting to become someone, not that I could tolerate, but that I wished would go away.

Now, Adam Carolla has not one but TWO shows on television. And he's no longer a sidekick or a co-host. He's running the show. And this disturbs me, as he is neither funny nor clever, and his voice makes the hair on my arms stand up when I have to hear him for longer than ten minutes.

TV network executives, especially those at Comedy Central and TLC but really, all of you, I think I speak for viewers everywhere when I say that the world does NOT need more Adam Carolla.

Breaking up is hard to do

I've given it a lot of thought, and I've decided it's time to break up with Bank of America.

I remember the day Fleet and I first met, all those years ago. It was new. It was pretty. It was blue. And it had just opened up in the Hannaford Plaza in Rotterdam, New York, a mere 4-minute drive from my house. Fleet was nice. Fleet didn't want to charge me any fees.

I felt a twinge of anxiety when I first moved to Manhattan. Would there be a Fleet? Would we have to break up? A long-distance relationship with a bank is not really practical, you see. Luckily, I quickly found two. One on Delancey, and one on 2nd Avenue. I think of them as my daytime and nighttime banks, respectively.

Things were going gangbusters until Fleet made a new friend. Bank of America. And little things started to change. Fleet changed. Promises were made. Promises were broken.

Gone were the days when I could access my account quickly and easily over the phone without suffering through ten minutes of recorded nonsense and having to press *33 to deactivate voice recognition. Gone were the days when I would know both my available balance and my actual balance at any given time. Suddenly, there were fees. Suddenly, I began getting bitchy letters saying I'm making too many transactions. Fleet never cared how many transactions I made. Not to mention the fact that Bank of America still hasn't taken care of the nasty business of the fraudulent loan taken out in my name.

It's hard to say goodbye to a bank I've loved for so many years. But I have to accept the fact that that bank no longer exists. It's been swallowed up by the big, red, heartless monster that is Bank of America. Washington Mutual, which is opening on the corner of Avenue A and 2nd St. is making a lot of promises. I'm not sure I'm ready to trust a bank again, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Plus, it's always easier to get over a breakup when you have a rebound ready to go.