How to freak me out

Casually mention you've been checking in every couple of weeks and reading my blog. When you're, you know, my dad.

A word on oft-fugged actresses

If you're not a regular reader of Go Fug Yourself, this post will not entertain you in the least. You will not know who I'm talking about, or why. Also, if you're not a regular reader of Go Fug Yourself, you need to get your head examined, but far be it for me to judge.

Anyway, my two favorite oft-fugged "celebrities" happen to be Bai Ling and Courtney Peldon. Not only are they hideously dressed, always, but they seem to be crazy in a way you don't see very often.

When I found out that Bai Ling was going to be on a show called, "But Can They Sing?" I was beside myself with excitement. And she did not disappoint. Half-naked, taking her clothes off whenever possible, alternating between deep, guttural off-key notes and high-pitched wails, crazy wigs -- it was pretty much the best thing ever. So great, in fact, that I voted for her about 10 times after every episode. I couldn't bear te thought of another week going by without a Bai Ling performance. Sadly, she was voted off last week in favor of Morgan Fairchild who, while I like her very much (though not her singing), she doesn't entertain the way Bai does.

On to The Peldon, then. When I saw this photo, I naturally assumed they just happened to be photographed at an event together somewhere. I mean, they couldn't possibly be a couple, could they? Then yesterday, I flipped through a Star magazine at the gym and lo and behold, Courtney Peldon and Crispin Glover have just celebrated their one-year anniversary as a couple. Um, what? Bai, incidentally, is dating Nick Carter. Um, what?

It's sad that these two are never going to be super-famous. Not because they're exceptionally talented, because I can safely say I've never seen either of them in anything. But for the sheer volume of crazy they emit, I hope they stay in the spotlight. Bai? Courtney? I love you.

Destiny doesn't hate me as much as I previously thought

Ever since that $5 psychic predicted a life full of The Ex, helping people and doing it in a city other than the one I'm currently in love with, I've been a little on edge. Not because I actually believed her predictions, mind you, but still, I needed a second opinion. Enter Sylvia, the psychic my mother goes to once every couple of years or so.

Mom sprung for my rather expensive reading because well, she's good like that. Here's what Sylvia told me:

Career: I'll have a job before the end of January, and as opposed to my last job, I'll actually like it. She mentioned that '03-'05 were hard years for me, career-wise. They also happen to be the years I was employed at my last company. Coincidence? She also said she saw me writing a book, which look at that! I am. And she said she saw me either getting an agent or a publisher around September.

Love: I'll meet someone at my next job. Light hair, light eyes, glasses. He'll be older than me, probably late 30s but possibly early 40s, and we're going to be married within three years. Guess what I'll be doing my first week at the new job? If you guessed, "searching for my future husband," you'd be right. She also said that, while The Ex is still a part of my life, I've closed the door on the possibility of anything more than friendship, prompting Julie, my notetaker, to write "Yay!" in the margin.

Location: She said she didn't see me leaving New York anytime in the near future, but that she did see me buying a house in Long Island eventually. This is the only part of the reading that concerned me. No offense, Little Brother.

She also said there wasn't any point in job hunting before December 5th, but well, when I see the words "writer" and "must have knowledge of adult toys" in the same ad, which I did today, I'm pretty much all over that shit.

Adieu

Happy Thanksgiving, bitches! I'll be back next week with tales from Schenectady.

Nostalgia

In high school, Mrs. F and I had boyfriends who were best friends, Tiny Tim and First Love respectively. One day at her house, she and I threw together a mix tape for making out purposes. Being the little metalheads we all were, naturally we made a tape of power ballads. So it would be all romantic and stuff.

Last year for my birthday, Miss Amanda gave me a VH1 Classics CD, Metal Mania Stripped) of power ballads (best gift ever). I busted it out to listen to it today and got all nostalgic. These are the tracks (ones that were on our tape are in bold):

Every Rose Has Its Thorn - Poison
Sister Christian - Night Ranger
Wind of Change - Scorpion (We opted for a different Scorpions tune, Still Loving You
Don't Know What You've Got (Till Its Gone) - Cinderella
Silent Lucidity - Queensryche
More Than Words - Extreme
I Saw Red - Warrant (We went for Heaven)
The Way It Is - Tesla (Nope, Love Song)
Miles Away - Winger
Ballad of Jayne - LA Guns (This song has stood the test of time. I still fucking love it.)
When the Children Cry - White Lion
When I Look Into Your Eyes - Firehouse
Fly to the Angels - Slaughter
More Than Words Can Say - Alias (I actually don't think this one belongs on the CD. Alias were a bunch of pansies. This sounds like something Chicago would have recorded.)
Save Your Love - Great White

Our mix tape also had I Remember You by Skid Row, House of Pain by Faster Pussycat, Love Bites by Def Leppard, I Only Wanna Be With You by Pretty Boy Floyd and Angel by Aerosmith.

I'm totally having one of those moments where I miss Captain Jersey. He'd think it was just as funny to put it on and make out as I would.

UPDATE: I just found this picture and it cracked me up. If First Love yells at me for posting it, I'll take it down.



The blond couple in black is First Love and I, Mrs. F and Tiny Tim are wearing red and Julie and Mrs. F's brother are all decked out in denim. I swear we didn't purposely color-code ourselves by couple. That's my natural hair color, by the way. We were all about 16 at the time, playing pool in Mrs. F's basement and, if I remember correctly, listening to power ballads.

#1 Crush

Remember Cute Guy Who Lives in My Building? He of the shaggy hair and the nerd glasses and the never seeing me when I look even remotely cute? The one I've had a crush on for the better part of two years?

Well, I hadn't seen him in ages and thought he'd moved out. I also saw some chick moving into his apartment. The same apartment I saw him walk out of yesterday. Which means he lives with two chicks. Maybe one's a girlfriend? Maybe he doesn't live there at all but just comes to visit his girlfriend? Maybe it's a three-bedroom and he's a modern day Jack Tripper? Hm.

Anyway, he came out of his apartment while I was yapping on my cell phone to Azee about her running off to Spain, two bags from Key Food exploding with ingredients for tonight's Sunday Dinner: Thanksgiving Edition, and of course in sweatpants and sneakers with no makeup and my hair in a big pile on top of my head. Seriously, Universe, could you make sure Cute Guy Who May or May Not Live in My Building sees me looking hot at least once in my lifetime? And you know, like soon?

Anyway, there was a bit of a commotion with people entering and leaving the building so he was stuck next to me for a moment. I looked up at him and smiled the same big, goofy smile I always smile when I see him. He smiled back and mouthed "hi." Swoon.

It's worth mentioning that Cute Guy Who May or May Not Live in My Building and I have never spoken. Mostly because I'm on my damn cell phone whenever I see him. I swear, next time I even catch a glimpse of him, I'm hanging up on whoever I'm talking to. Apologies in advance.

I may have no interest in dating, but crushes are a whole lot of fun. After I stalk him on Monday, maybe I'll tell you about the one on the Hot Trainer at my gym, who is nicely filling the void left by Hot Bouncer, who abandoned me and the rest of RC Girls to go get himself a day job.

OK Cupid says...

Playful, kind, and well-loved, you are The Peach.

For such a warm-hearted, generous person, you're surprisingly experienced in both love and sex. We credit your spontaneous side; you tend to live in the moment, and you don't get bogged down by inhibitions like most women your age. If you see something wonderful, you confidently embrace it.

You are a fun flirt and an instant sweetheart, but our guess is you're becoming more selective about long-term love. It's getting tougher for you to become permanently attached; and a guy who's in a different place emotionally might misunderstand your early enthusiasm. You can wreck someone simply by enjoying him.

Your ideal mate is adventurous and giving, like you. But not overly intense.

Yep, that's about right. What are you?

Heredity Schmeredity

Mom doesn't answer her phone. Ever. I'm talking about the landline, the cell is always off and even if it were on, she doesn't understand how to answer it.

Mom screens every call that comes in. When she hears a familiar voice on the machine, she picks up. This is the conversation Mom and I have every single time I call her.

Me: Hi Mom, it's me. Are you there?

Mom: Yeeeeeeeesssssss.

Me: Hi.

Mom: I knew it was you.

Me: Then why didn't you answer?

Mom: I had to make sure.

Every. Single. Time. People. I've asked Mom on several occasions why she doesn't just answer the phone. Her answer? Every time? "Because every time I answer the phone it's someone who wants my money."

I am not shitting you when I say Mom has not answered her phone in at least a decade. Seriously, is there any hope of my entering old age as a sane person? I'm doubtful.

Frumptastic

I've been all sorts of frumpy lately.

I like to think that when I actually throw on a little makeup and spend a few minutes on the hair, I look all right. I can throw together an outfit. And accessorize. I have cute shoes.

Lately, though? I have nowhere to be, ever, so unless I have a job interview or a date or otherwise exciting evening plans, well, on those days it's a challenge just to shower and change out of my pajamas. Some days I do neither.

Yesterday, I embarked on a mission to cute myself up. I dyed the hair for the first time in over two months (Clairol calls it Spiced Tea, I call it SupercalifragifuckingRED) and fashioned it into a messy updo, plucked my eyebrows, threw on a little makeup and hauled ass over to the coffee shop where I'm a permanent fixture Monday through Friday between the hours of 4:00 and 7:00. After about 20 minutes, The Ex walked by, saw me in the window and stopped in to say hello. We chatted for a few minutes and then he eyed me a little funny.

"Why are you all done up all cute just to sit in the coffee shop and write?" he asked, smirking in that way he does when he's debating whether or not to make fun of me. I tried to explain that the dumpier I look, the dumpier I feel, and since I have no reason to get all gussied up every day, simply leaving the house will have to suffice as a reason to look cute.

"Yeah right," he said. You're hoping to snag yourself some hot writer boy hanging out here."

Well, that too. You know, if I can't have the hot trainer at my gym.

Offline

So here's the deal. I've always thought of this blog as my creative outlet, my daily writing exercise. Sometimes I love it, sometimes I want to just delete everything and pretend it never happened. A few weeks back, when I broke the blog, I started writing elsewhere, and it kind of ruled. So I've been doing that. And now I'm having some kind of crisis/realization and it involves culinary school and hot farm boys and a small town somewhere in New England. What am I rambling about, you ask? The fact that my life is a whole lot of what-ifs right now, which don't make for an exciting read, and that I'm afraid if I write here every day, I'll never finish the novel, because I'm, you know, five, and can apparently only focus on one thing at a time.

So basically, what I'm saying, is that the updates aren't going to be all that frequent for the next however long.

Speaking of the World's Greatest Copyeditor

He joins the ranks of friends I've bullied into starting blogs. Read Cooking for Margy when you get a chance. It's both adorable and informative. It also makes me hungry.

Don’t worry that it’s not good enough, for anyone else to hear

I can't sing. Like, at all. For some reason, people are often surprised by this.

Curly was. She said something about how my speaking voice made it seem like I'd not only be able to carry a tune, but I'd do it in a pleasant, unique way. The World's Greatest Copyeditor asked me to come up on stage and do a ditty with his band one night. When I said, "You do know that I can't sing, yes?" he responded with, "What?! No!" Even The Roommate, who I'm quite proud of for grossing people out by drinking milk out of a turkey baster onstage last night, said I look like someone who'd be able to sing.

Thing is, I love to sing. It doesn't get much better than belting out Janis Joplin songs in the shower, or busting out some Fiona Apple while I do the dishes. I give it my heart and soul. I sing like Murphy Brown, really. Only worse.

Last night, after consuming just enough wine at dinner to want to do something reckless, Miss Amanda and I desperately needed some karaoke. We couldn't convince Curly, so we bit her adieu and headed off to that new place on 2nd Ave.

Now, when I'm getting my karaoke on, it's usually in private rooms with frienda and acquaintances. Sometimes I sit at the bar at Sing Sing and well, sing, but that's always more of a group thing than a solo thing. The thing about the bar last night was it was packed. And you couldn't just sit at the bar and belt out a song – you had to stand in front of everyone and do it. This made me a bit nervous.

Two gin and tonics later and I gasped when I saw Fiona Apple's Criminal come up on the screen. I quickly jumped up and said, "That's me!" to the boy I'd been talking to. I grabbed the mic and got to work.

Miss Amanda insists I sounded great but really, I could hear myself falling off key every 4 seconds or so. The thing I realized last night, though? When you're in a bar full of drunks, anything that starts with a throaty delivery of "I've been a bad, bad girl" is pretty much going to be a hit.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

Musician Friend, he of the Dave Navarro hatred, wants to whisk me away to Hawaii to stay at a friend's house for a week or two. He spent a good hour trying to convince me last night. Here's how it went down.

My reason:
I'm unemployed and can't afford it.

His counteroffer:
He'll give me his miles for the airfare.

My next reason:
We're going to have to eat.

His counteroffer:
He'll buy all the groceries if I do all the cooking.

My next reason:
We'll run up a hell of a bar tab (we always do).

His counteroffer:
He'll take care of the bar tab and I can pay him back when I get my book deal.

While it's certainly tempting, I had to decline because I feel a little bit funny about getting a free ride to Hawaii. When I mentioned that, he pointed out that he paid for his ex-wife on his last trip to Hawaii and didn't even have fun. With me, he'd have fun.

My next reason:
Dude, I'm not your wife.

His counteroffer:
If it will make me feel better about letting him pay for shit, we can stop in Vegas and get married first.

Other notable quotes, courtesy of Musician Friend:

I'd totally marry you for no good reason in Vegas.

Is it creepy that I'm asking? It is, isn't it? It's like rich-guy-booty-call creepy.

Needless to say, it was quite a hilarious conversation. We left it with him telling me to think about it and my telling him I didn't need to think about it, because I'm trying to be all responsible and shit. 10 seconds after we got off the phone, he called to ask if I'd changed my mind.

I have to say I'm flattered. I mean, it's only the second time a guy has offered to take me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii. Maybe one of these days I'll actually go.

Jess and Curly on The Apprentice

Me: "Rebecca and Brian agree on their intuition that at least two people will be returning to the suite, but she shushes him once he starts to speculate on whom he thinks this will be -- the walls have toadlike, virgin, stripper, or gay ears. Oh, man. Excel is the saddest bunch ever. Rebecca keeps giving Brian these very sexy, very hilarious super-spy looks through her bangs as she's shushing, like she's Carmen Sandiego and he's about to blab where the Seavers hid the microfilm."

Me: Dude. I know Jacob's gay, but I want to like, marry him. He can fuck all the guys he wants if he marries me.

Curly: Wait, who's Jacob? The Television Without Pity recapper for The Apprentice?

Me: Yes

Me: And as for the contestants, I'd also like to marry the wee Brian. [Ed. note: Josh was my first choice, but he was fired and well, when it comes to my imagined near-future nuptials involving people on or involved with the reality television program The Apprentice, I don't marry losers.]

Curly: I approve of the relationship as long as you put the kibosh on his rapping. We'll have no more of that. Keep him away from Wyclef.

Me: The breakdancing was kind of cute though. I can take him out of my pocket at parties and say, "Dance motherfucker! Dance!"

Curly: Okay, that visual? BEST.EVER.

Me: I don't see how Randall can not win. He'd have to do something wrong and well, I don't think he will.

Curly: His nose disturbs me, but near as I can tell, it's his only flaw. And The Donald has bad hair so who is he to criticize?

Me: Word.

A conversation with Linus

So I've decided that while I'm unemployed, I might as well try to bang out the novel. I gave myself a deadline. Working draft by the end of the year and all edits done by my 31st birthday in April. Then I guess I find an agent or something. I'm up to 65 pages, and I decided to show it to some peeps and find out if it's actually working before I go any further. Curly took a first look, and liked it. Then I sent it off to Linus for the heavy-duty critique.

On something I wrote that wasn't quite working.

Linus: Your character is a nutjob, but that's a whole different
kind of delusional crazy.

Me: Nutjob? Is she at least a likeable nutjob?

Linus: Oh, yes. But she is a nutjob. You don't think she's a nutjob?

Me: I don't think she's that much of a nutjob.

Linus: You can never, ever leave New York.

Road trip!

Photos, with commentary. I'll fix the typos later.

Speaking of road trips…

The Cavefish is off to Manchester, VT with the lovely and hilarious Team Road Trip of My Sharona, Summer and Jean. There will be apples and donuts. There will be cows and cheese. There will be wine tasting and outlet shopping and general drunken tomfoolery. Pictures and stories on Monday.

Proud to be an American

Several years ago, a guy I was dating, who I'll call The Angry Comic, and I decided to use up our vacation time by taking a road trip to Memphis. Our relationship was short-lived, but I don't recall ever having as much fun over an eight-day period as I did during that excursion. 18 hours in a car existing solely on Corn Nuts, on purpose, and we didn't even think about killing each other.

No trip to Memphis is complete without a stop by Graceland. We giggled from beginning to end. When we first saw the lighting bolt with the TCB next to it, and learned the TCB, which Elvis put on everything, stands for "Taking Care of Business," we pretty much lost it. But that wasn't the best part.

The best part was the elderly woman with the pancake makeup and the Southern drawl who began talking to a couple on our tour.

"Are you from France?" she drawled.

"Why yes," the woman answered in her French accent. "Do you speak French?"

The elderly Southern woman got extremely indignant and said, "No I do not speak French! I am an AMERICAN!"

When we got to Elvis' grave, also adorned with a TCB, the American started bawling. The Angry Comic and I said "No I do not speak French! I am an AMERICAN!" about six thousand times while on that trip, and it never got less funny.

I do speak French, and I'm pretty sure I am an American as well. Let's find out for sure, shall we? From Sheila, characteristics of an average American.

-- Eats peanut butter at least once a week - Yes. I eat my peanut butter in a disturbing fashion which I'll keep to myself, though. A girl's gotta have some secrets.

-- Prefers smooth peanut butter over chunky - No way. I am chunky all the way. The only time I buy smooth is when I'm making peanut butter cookies.

-- Can name all Three Stooges - Of course.

-- Lives within a 20-minute drive of a Wal-Mart - A search using Wal-Mart's store locator shows five, all in Jersey and Long Island. I have never been to any of them.

-- Eats at McDonald’s at least once a year - Dude, I eat at McDonald's once a month. I'd eat there weekly if my metabolism could handle it.

-- Takes a shower for approximately 10.4 minutes a day - My showers are a bit longer, I think. I tend to loiter.

-- Never sings in the shower - Okay, the average American is clearly no fun. I sing in the shower all the time. Apologies to The Roommate.

-- Lives in a house, not an apartment or condominium - Nope, I live in a little shoebox of a Manhattan apartment.

-- Has a home valued between $100,000 and $300,000 - I've never even lived in a house. Ever.

-- Has fired a gun - (Hick alert!) Does a BB gun count?

-- Is between 5 feet and 6 feet tall - Yep. I'm a whopping 5'4".

-- Weighs 135 to 205 pounds - Nope. Close, but nope.

-- Is between the ages of 18 and 53 - Yes.

-- Believes gambling is an acceptable entertainment option - Sure. I'm not a huge gambler, but I don't have a problem with it. I'm a pussy gambler. I go to the casino with $50 and leave with nothing. Always. I do like to buy Win For Life tickets when I travel, though.

-- Grew up within 50 miles of current home - Nope. Schenectady is about 170 miles from NYC.

The no's win by a nose! Ha, I kill me. So I'm not so average, apparently. Thank God.

Y'all ain't ready for this

Kevin Federline -- the new Eminem? Hardly, and I couldn't even type that with a straight face. Mr. Rock Out With Your Cock Out is not, in fact, rocking, he's rapping, and oh boy is it unimpressive. Take a listen to Y'all Ain't Ready, if you think you can handle it.

Brit? No one will think any less of you if you dump him. I promise. On the other hand, maybe people will actually buy the album ironically and he can stop spending all your money!

About a boy

I've been thinking about Jared Leto a lot lately.

Most women in their mid-to-late 20s or early 30s probably watched My So-Called Life. I can't speak for them, but I can speak for myself when I say that Jordan Catalano, Jared Leto's character, was painfully beautiful. That soft hair! Those long-eyelashed blue eyes! It didn't even matter that the character was basically an idiot. Angela Chase loved him and so did I.

When MYSC ended, I missed Jordan Catalano. Mistakenly believing that Jared Leto and Jordan Catalano were one in the same, I was all over How to Make an American Quilt. Except that when I watched it, I felt nothing. I was perplexed.

I didn't watch Prefontaine for one reason, and one very shallow reason only – I didn't think I could handle seeing Jared Leto with a bad 70s moustache.

I saw him in Urban Legend and again, felt nothing. It's not that he wasn't good looking, because he was, he just didn't have that "It" factor. I was baffled. Was Jared Leto just a bad actor?

When I watched him get his face beaten and demolished in Fight Club, I knew it was over. Because I, too, wanted that pretty face smashed in because Jared Leto would never be my Jordan Catalano again. And a world with a shadow of Jordan Catalano walking around in it isn't a world I want to live in, frankly.

Now that Jared Leto is spending all of his time walking around the East Village looking all weird and homeless, playing in his "band" and dating La Lohan, my disappointment has turned to repulsion. He's not even pretty anymore.

Come to think of it, I feel the same way about Claire Danes. Maybe it's just a MYSC thing. Oh wait, I actually liked her until she stole Billy Crudup away from a very pregnant Mary Louise Parker. Homewrecking skank.