The cavefish is excited

Tonight, at Galapagos:

Poughkeepsie is Closed

Poughkeepsie refugees have gathered in NYC during the Christmas week since 1995. This year's reunion is designed to celebrate friendships and to share past and current music offered by members of the Hudson Valley Band Reservoir Square and associates.

Featuring: Knotworking West (Narrative Bluegrass)
SLOW LEARNER (Indie Experimental Rock)
Reservoir Square (Newcomers Mature)

7:00PM
$5

Reservoir Square on MySpace

Okay, people, now to say that I was a Reservoir Square fan when I was in college is like saying the Claymates think Clay Aikin is all right. I followed these guys from bar to bar like they were the Grateful fucking Dead. The fact that I was in love with their drummer didn't hurt, either. Somewhere out there, there's video of a very stoned cavefish at Sun Fest, an annual outdoor beer and music festival at the Rocking Horse Ranch, twirling around barefoot in a linen baby doll dress with dandelions tied in my hair. Obviously, I'll be at the show tonight. You should go, too, and see what you missed by not being part of their rabid hippie Marist College student fan base.

Family ties

Not to brag or anything, but…

We've got a cousin who lives in Ohio, I believe, and she's been working on our family tree for at least a year. Our very exhaustive family tree. I've never met her, but Grandma has, and they talk at least three times a week. When I was home for the holidays, Grandma told me about a shocking little discovery our cousin made during the course of her research.

As it turns out, we've got a Ciccone arm of the family. And one Madonna Louise happens to be my very distant cousin. I'm glad I didn't find this out back in the days when I was running around the house with a giant pink lace bow in my hair, singing Like a Virgin into my hairbrush, because my head would have totally exploded right on the spot.

Resolutions

My Sharona and I decided to start our New Year's resolutions early so we'd already have them well underway before the start of 2006. Then I forgot all about it. Until just now. So here goes:

1) Career: I've come up with a New Life Plan, which consists of going to cooking school and becoming a Food Writer. This involved finding a job, paying off my credit card debt and then enrolling in a part-time program until I can drum up enough freelance to go full-time. Then I alternate between writing weird, dark novels (also on list: finish first novel, find agent, secure book deal) and cookbooks. And sell some crafty stuff, too (also on the list).

2) Health: I've made great strides with the eating healthy and the working out. Go me! I even lost 15 pounds this year. And then gained five over the holidays. I already have five more to lose, so now I'm up to 10, which will be completed when I cut down on the booze (another resolution). The quitting smoking won't help the weight loss cause, but it needs to be done.

3) Love: I suppose I should get "back out there," and try to meet someone, because for some reason, there is no Prince Charming waiting outside of my door. That Prince Charming is one lazy bastard. I'm dreading re-entering the dating world, but not as much as I'm dreading dying alone in my house and being found weeks later because my 15 cats are howling loudly enough to annoy the neighbors.

So there you have it. Happy holidays!

Home for the holidays

Here's what passes for humor in my demented family on Christmas Day:

Conversation one:

Double A (My aunt, talking about Cousin Pinky's, her son's, recent weight loss): I saw him without his shirt on yesterday. He looks hot!

Cousin Pinky: That's disgusting, Mom. Should I call you a MILF now and then we'll be even?

Conversation two:

Mom: Your necklace is so pretty!

Double A (Taking it off): Here, have it.

Mom: I don't want to take your necklace. I was just telling you it's pretty.

Double A (Whispering): You know how I've been going to the doctor a lot lately? Well, I just found out I have six months to live. I want you to have it. You can think of me when you wear it.

Mom: …

Double A: I'm just kidding. I got it at Fashion Bug for like five bucks.

Conversation three:

Mom: I want a piece of cheesecake.

Me: So eat one.

Mom: I've already eaten too much. I'm afraid I'll throw up.

Me: Awesome. More room for cheesecake, then.

Text message fun

Text message from Petey that made me laugh out loud on St. Mark's place, after smiling at a cute boy and doing the look-back after we passed to find him looking back also, which pretty much made my day, especially since I was looking a little frumpy:

Trent Lott is on my Fucking plane.

There's no such thing as bad publicity

I was on the phone with this little lady earlier, and at one point she said, "You know your blog is mentioned in Glamour this month, right?" I did not know my blog was mentioned in Glamour this month, since I'm not an avid Glamour reader. She hadn't mentioned it earlier because it was "kind of mean." She paraphrased while I giggled, and when we got off the phone, I set out in search of the issue.

The article is called, "Women Who Blog" with the subhead, "Are they self-absorbed exhibitionists? Groovy free spirits? Or just plain bored? Meet them and decide for yourself." My mention is as follows:

"According to the Blog Herald (yes, there's a Blog Herald), there are now more than 50 million blogs worldwide, with postings ranging from the mundane (e.g., on ModBlog: "I think I'll go to bed now. Or else see what's on TV") to, well, the even more mundane, such as, "I went to Duane Reade to pick up some toilet paper, kitty litter and paper towels" (thanks, BlindCavefish!)."

Now, I'm not upset by the mention. It's still a mention! In Glamour! I mean, if I'm going to put my life out there for the masses, some people are going to hate it. I understand that and I'm fine with that. But here's what I don't get. The original post she quotes is from September 5, 2004. I'm sure I've written equally mundane things that would actually be current right now. Couldn't she find a sentence like that in nearly every post? And why did she leave off the "Listerine and cigarettes" part at the end of the sentence? Really, I go to Duane Reade nearly every other day and write about it at least once a month. I've had less scintillating recent trips than that particular one of more than a year ago. I'm impressed that she'd risk her own life for this piece, reading through all of my archives when she could quite possibly have died of boredom.

At any rate, the mention certainly explains the spike in traffic I've gotten from people Googling the site. Thanks Julie Klam! Oh, and just so we're all clear, I blog because I'm a self-absorbed exhibitionist, and I'm okay with that.

Like sands through the hourglass…

I watched a little Days of Our Lives last week, for the first time in over a decade. I was quite shocked to discover that no one has left the show. In fact, people have even come back, like Frankie, who I loved way back in the Days of His Mullet. I shared my findings with The Roommate via IM, which sparked a good two hours of poring over timelines and pictures and reminiscing. Here's a sampling of that conversation:

Me: Carrie is on a date with Lucas right now, and Sammie is on one with Austin (Who still can't act). How did that happen?

The Roommate: OMG, Carrie? And Sammie? What is she like, 50 now?

Me: Marlena's still crying all over the place, and Hope is skeletal.

The Roommate: These people live their whole lives on TV. It's so creepy.

Me: Alice Horton is still on. She looks like the crypt keeper.

The Roommate: You are shitting me that she's still on.

The Roommate: I want Patch and Kayla pictures!

Me: I LOVED Patch.

The Roommate: I met him. Well, all of them. Shane, Kayla, Patch, the kooky blonde whose name I don't remember…

Me: Calliope!

The Roommate: Yes!

Me: Remember when she married Eugene and wore that dress that lit up?

The Roommate: Yes!

Me: I met a couple of the Another World guys. Jake and Dean. They were doing a mall tour, and the security guard let me cut everyone in line because I was on break from Arby's. It was awesome.

The Roommate: Whoa, Abe Carver. The only black dude on the entire fucking show. Oh wait, there's another black actor on now, too.

Me: Probably needed someone for Lexie to cheat on Abe with.

Me: Whoa, Hope. More cheesecake, less botox.

The Roommate: John Black looks stretched like a canvas.

Me: He looks like a creepy molester. Man, Roman was an ugly, ugly man.

The Roommate: Hope looks like she's going to unhinge her jaw and eat your life juices.

Me: Who is singing in this picture?

The Roommate: Marilyn McCoo, motherfucker!

The Roommate: OMG, Kimberly! I totally forgot about her. She always seemed like, a stewardess they just dressed up.

Me: Oooh, Marlena possessed by Satan!

The Roommate: These bridal photos have totally enslaved me.

The Roommate: Roman sure had some man tits in the 70s.

You too, can browse former and current (mostly the same) cast members here, if you have like, an entire afternoon to kill or something.

The evolution of a phrase

Anyone of the female persuasion who knows me knows I say, "lady" a lot. I often greet my girlfriends with a "Hey lady," for example. Today I received an email from Heather #1. She referred to me as a "smart lady," and I suddenly realized that she, too, has been saying "lady" for years. So I emailed to ask her where we got it from.

Now, to say Heather #1 and I were fans of horror films back in the day is an understatement of epic proportions. We'd go to Crazy Nick's video on a Friday night and come home with 8 scary movies on VHS, then stay up all night watching them. Ah, to be 12 again.

One thing we liked to do a whole lot was quote horror films. After seeing Killer Party, for example, we walked around saying, "I myself prefer a big fat cucumber" for months. I even have video of Heather #1 acting out an entire scene from Witchboard at Julie's family's lake house in Galway.

In 1987, a little film called Creepshow 2 came out. It was broken up into three separate stories, the third of which was called The Hitchhiker, about a woman who runs over a hitchhiker who comes back from the dead for revenge. His catchphrase is, "THANKS FOR THE RIDE, LADY!" When Heather and I saw it, it became part of our arsenal of quotes. Even more so when we reached driving age, when it became our end-of-the-night goodbye. As the years progressed, we dropped the "thanks for the ride" part and kept the "lady." So there you go.

Now, I'm sure no one is surprised to hear that one of the standard Jessisms came from a horror film. Jake was surprised though, not because of the horror films part, but because I've never greeted him with a "Hey lady."

Bring out the gimp

Yesterday was a comedy of errors, with a little bit of tragedy thrown in.

I woke up around 11 and, because I wasn't ready to get out of bed yet, fired up the laptop and did a little surfing. You know, played a little Bejeweled 2, checked to see if Cute Guy Who Lives in My Building posted a Missed Connection to me yet -- the usual. Anyway, after I woke up enough to start thinking about coffee and breakfast, I shut down the computer and stood up. Only, unbeknownst to me, my foot hadn't yet awoken. There was a crack, followed by a buckling of the leg, followed by me collapsing onto my bed yelling, "Oh my God ow ow oh my God ow ow!" while clutching said foot. The foot, it is sprained.

As y'all know, every Sunday The Roommate and I host a little dinner party. That means there is shit that needs to get done on Sundays, like wine purchasing, cleaning and cooking. Luckily, L'il Suzy was playing guest chef (mounds of lasagna, YUM), so the cooking was taken care of. I still had to buy wine and wrapping paper for gifts and take out the trash, though.

A bit of information you'll need before I go on. For over a week recently, there was a big gaping hole in my hallway where the elevator used to be. Presumably, the idea was to fix the deathtrap elevator that has claimed many a Chinese delivery man over the past year. While I normally take the stairs down and the elevator up, I didn't think I could handle five flights with a sprained foot, so I hopped in and pressed "1."

The big silver door closed and then… nothing. The elevator didn't move. The "door open" button didn't do anything. Neither did the "reset" one. I frantically pushed buttons while beginning to notice just what a tiny space I was confined to. Panicked, I began to lay on the "alarm" button. A whole lot. After a few minutes, I was starting to sweat, so I took off my down coat and threw it on the ground with my purse. I then decided to just push down the alarm button and hold it until someone came to help.

After about 20 minutes, inexplicably, the door opened. I opened the door and peeked out into the hallway. No one was there. Scared that it would close and trap me in again, I did a Twister maneuver, where I held the door open with my one good foot and kind of crawled the upper half of my body in to retrieve my coat and purse. Still shaking, I made my way into my apartment where The Roommate was cleaning. She looked at me, alarmed.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I just got stuck in the elevator," I said.

"That was you? I heard the alarm and said to myself, 'poor bastard.' I figured you would have taken the stairs."

The only thing more awesome than spraining your foot and getting stuck in an elevator? Having to walk up and down five flights of stairs after that. Twice. On the bright side, my dysfunctional NYC family and I exchanged gifts last night and I got a Michael's Crafts book, an Engrish.com T-shirt, a subscription to Cook's Illustrated and yummy Cinnamon bun-flavored Philosophy stuff. So I wasn't hating life completely.

The pants of death

Someone over at Urban Outfitters needs to be shot. Seriously.

Behold, stirrup pants. Did you catch that? STIRRUP PANTS. As in, the pants I wore in 6th grade with big belted sweatshirts, scrunchy socks and LA Gear high tops. They weren't a good idea then, and they're not a good idea now. Why? Because we know better now.

Attempting to bring back stirrup pants is a crime that should be punishable by death. And I don't even BELIEVE in the death penalty. If not death, at least a severe beating. I'm sick of seeing these horrific fashion crimes carried out with no repercussions. Why did no one beat the shit out of Ashton Kutcher for bringing the trucker hat into vogue? Why did no one tie up Mary-Kate Olson and flog her when all the chicks in downtown Manhattan started dressing like homeless people?

There are a lot of issues facing us today, people. Bird flu. Mercury in our salmon. Gas prices. War in Iraq. And I ask you, how am I supposed to even think about any of these issues when there are people running around in STIRRUP PANTS? I'm pretty sure the Book of Revelation ranks stirrup pants right up there with the locusts.

Celebrity sightings

Jason Biggs, crossing Houston near Katz' Deli. Cute.

James Iha of Smashing Pumpkins fame, on the corner of Houston and B. Blond. And hot.

I haven't had a celeb sighting in awhile, so two in one walk? Awesome.

An open letter to guys on Nerve Personals who are well out of my age range and live in other states yet still wink at me on a regular basis

Dear guys on Nerve Personals who are well out of my age range and live in other states yet still wink at me on a regular basis:

Hi guys! You've been keeping me up at night, I'm not going to lie. I just don't get what exactly you're trying to accomplish by winking at me.

First of all, a wink is cheap. I don't even respond to guys who live in my neighborhood that wink at me. Even cute ones. I shelled out the not-at-all big bucks to meet people. If you can't even do that, than I'm to assume that, even if you lived in my state and were age-appropriate, I would be paying for drinks or dinner and quite possibly your rent.

On to the age thing, then. My desired age range is 28-38. Now, I know a 27-year old or a 39-year old may try to sneak in there, and I'm fine with that. If I make my parameters 27 to 39, however, guys n their mid-20s and early 40s will try to weasel in, and then we're getting into territory I'm not comfortable with. And 22-year old boy who lives in Orlando that winked at me? Honestly.

I think it's the state thing that baffles me most. Many of you have answered "no" to the relocate option, so what exactly is your intention? That I'll be so moved by your cheap gesture of a wink that I'll immediately pack a bag and run off to Alabama to be with you? Even though you're my dad's age? Really? You think that?

It's occurred to me that you might just want some late-night chat action. Well, guys on Nerve Personals who are well out of my age range and live in other states yet still wink at me on a regular basis, I'm not that kind of girl. Especially when you're 48 and live in Chicago.

In summary, guys on Nerve Personals who are well out of my age range and live in other states yet still wink at me on a regular basis, I don't understand what you're up to. Since it doesn't cost you anything to wink at me, you cheap bastards, and it doesn't cost me anything to ignore you, I guess I'll never know. So carry on then, and I will, too. Freaks.

Love,
Jess

An announcement

If y'all have been just dying to read Cosmo's Bedroom Blog, penned by yours truly, but haven't been able to get your hands on that pesky passoword, it's your lucky day! No more log-in required.

The elusive MetroCard



I've had my problems with the MetroCard vending machines. Specifically, when I'm forced to whip out the plastic.

Now that I don't have to get up every day and hop on the subway to earn myself a paycheck, I buy MetroCards more frequently. $10 here, $5 there, single ride when I'm really strapped for cash. Usually, I take whatever bills I have in my wallet and slap them on a MetroCard.

Cash is not always an option, though, because much like everything else the MTA is responsible for, the machines don't always work the way they should. On those not-so-rare occasions when I see the "NO BILLS" marquee, I know I'm going to miss the train I hear just pulling into the station.

Friday morning, Musician Friend and I attempted to fight the hangover we'd inflicted on ourselves just hours earlier and pull it together to hit the Seaport and see Bodies: The Exhibition. We'd both seen Bodyworlds: the Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies and wanted to compare notes. (The latter was much better, FYI) Anyway, we shuffled over to the Delancey station to hop on the JMZ line, and I realized I needed a Metrocard. I had no cash on me, so the ATM card was the only option.

Now, my ATM card is brand spanking new. I recently dumped Bank of America in favor of Washington Mutual, and my new card is shiny and pristine. Would it work in the MetroCard vending machine, however? Sure, after the fifth time I tried it. This baffles me, because if I were to crumple a $20 bill, shove it up my ass, twice, and then try to put it in the cash slot, it would be eagerly gobbled up on the first try. But a card, a perfect card? Does not compute.

I wish the MTA would stop spending money on advertising, because, you know, we have no choice and so it doesn't matter that they're a bunch of evil, greedy fucks because we are at their mercy and advertising really just rubs it in. Instead, how about machines that work? Turnstiles that work? And, I don't know, a 2nd Avenue subway line? Or, you know, pay your workers more money so the city doesn't have to deal with a transit strike.

On cuteness and nicknaming

Me: I'm trying to decide which pic to put on my Nerve profile. Wanna help?

Kyle: Sure.

Me: This one? Or this one?

Kyle: The 2nd one. Your head is in a more natural position. The other one looks like you are trying to hard to be sexy and mysterious. Although it is very cute. I'm definitely turned on.

Me: Ha! Why do i never like the same pics of me that other people do?

Kyle: Why do women hate "cute?"

Me: Because we want to be sexy.

Kyle: But there are 2 types of cute. There is puppy dog and little girl cute. And then there is, "She's so cute. I want to do something dirty to her" cute.

Me: Ha!

Kyle: I'm not kidding.

Me: Can I post this conversation?

Kyle: Sure.

Me: Do you want a blog nickname? Actually, no. You leave comments as Kyle.

Kyle: You could call me "The best hookup ever who I sometimes get into drama with."

Kyle: But that might be a little long.

Duane Reade can suck it

I am boycotting my neighborhood Duane Reade. Not all of it -- just the pharmacy part.

Service at the pharmacy has always been bad. Actually, bad is an understatement. There are at least 10 people waiting at any given time, and they are rarely happy. In fact, they usually look like they're contemplating what would happen if they were carrying automatic weapons. I know because I've been there.

A couple of weeks back, I went in to drop off a prescription for Luxiq. I have a mild case of psoriasis (p.s. psoriasis is HOT) and needed something to smear all over my scalp while I was in Schenectady for the Thanksgiving weekend.

I walked up to the counter and the bored, world-weary girl behind it instructed me to use the new machine. It's easy! She said. Only without the exclamation point. I walked over to the new machine, scanned in my little slip of paper and then swung by the counter to ask when it would be ready for pick-up. An hour, she said, because that's what they always say.

Now, I've never had a prescription at this particular Duane Reade that was actually ready in an hour. What usually happens is I go back, the bored girl behind the counter looks in the "H" bin (because that's what my last name starts with), finds it isn't there, asks the pharmacist and then I wait while it is packaged up for me. I'm not sure why it happens this way, but it appears to happen that way for everyone, hence the constant line of 10 angry people. On this particular day, though, they sent me over the edge.

I arrive an hour later, and the bored girl behind the counter cannot find my prescription. She asks the pharmacist, who has no idea what she's talking about. He comes over to the counter and I explain that I had used the new machine. He walks over to the machine, and retrieves my prescription slip from a little drawer on the side. He tells me he'll have it done right away. Twenty minutes later, I ask if I can come back. He tells me to come back in an hour.

An hour later, I come back and again, the bored girl behind the counter doesn't have my little bag in the "H" bin. My blood pressure starts to rise as I see her go over to the confused pharmacist, who walks over to the counter with a blank face that doesn't remember talking to me one hour prior. He pulls me up on the computer, and then proceeds to YELL OUT THE NAME OF EVERY MEDICATION I"VE EVER RECEIVED FROM THAT PHARMACY. There were about 15 people standing around the counter, and I'm sorry, but they don't need to know every medication I've ever been on. Then I interrupt him to tell him it's Luxiq and he yells, "What is that? The morning after pill?"

It was at this point that me, a relatively mild-mannered person, started to lose it.

"No," I said, my voice starting to rise. "It's a skin medication."

"Oh!" he says. "The foam?"

"Yes," I said through clenched teeth, hoping it was clear that I was on my last nerve.

He told me to wait a few minutes. 15 minutes later, he walks back to the counter empty-handed and tells me they're out of it, but they can order it and have it for me tomorrow, as in, when I'll be on the road back to Schenectady. It's almost closing time at that point, and there's nowhere I can get the prescription filled before I leave. I go, as the kids say, ballistic.

The thing about losing it in Duane Reade? The other customers look at you sympathetically. They've all been there at one time or another. The staff? They've witnessed this same scene so many times that it doesn't phase them at all. They don't even apologize. They just stare while you go crazy all over them.

So that's it. The Duane Reade on Avenue B can suck it. We'll see what the Rite Aid on 1st has got.

Math for beginners

When x = 1 bout of PMS, y = 4 glasses of red wine and z = 1 viewing of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants On Demand:

x + y + z = 2 hours of sobbing uncontrollably, but in a good way

Signed,
Your favorite closet sap

Underneath it all

Man, I wish it would snow already. I'm dying to bundle myself up and go for a walk in it.

Anyway, I had a lovely weekend in Ithaca with my man Jake and Herself. There was, thankfully, snow, as well as good food, great conversation, a co-ed baby shower and an Irish Wake for the man himself. It was lovely, but I felt like I was there for all of five minutes. (You'll want to check out the pictures, if for no other reason than my new cut and color and apparently, very shiny face.) I'd get so much ass if I lived in Ithaca, yo.

So I'm not sure if y'all are aware of this, but I'm a bit shy. Not across the board, mind you, I can chat up a stranger like nobody's business. I'm timid when in the presence of a boy I like, for one, and I'm meek when in large groups where I only know one person or two.

I wasn't always shy around the boys. In high school, I'd see a bunch of long-haired boys who looked like trouble, grab Mrs. F's arm and drag her over to the mall food court to meet them. In college, I'd spy a frat pledge across the room, turn to Bad Roommate and say, "I'm in love," before making a beeline across the room to introduce myself. I blame New York for this relatively new affliction. See, no matter how old, bald, fat, boring or broke guys are around these parts, they truly believe they're entitled to date supermodels. And they have no reason to stop chasing the dream, because they know that when they do someday decide to settle down, there will be more than enough women that are actually in their leagues to choose from. It's daunting.

As for the other thing, that's always been an issue. It's actually a combination of shyness and anxiety. For example, The Irish Wake for Hurricane Jake. I knew Jake, Herself and sidekick JD Money. Money was "otherwise engaged" for the majority of the evening (wink wink nudge nudge) and Herself was too pregnant to stay very long. Everyone else knew each other and had already broken into their respective groups.

I guess that's what it comes down to. Infiltrating a group. I'm no good at it, and I didn't want to be a parasite on Jake, so I knew I had to get it done. In the end, I did, and I had tons o' fun, but the anxiety? Not so fun.

On the bus ride from Ithaca to Binghamton, I thought about how much time and energy I've put into trying to change things about myself. All through my 20s, I tried to stop procrastinating. I tried to be less impulsive. I tried to be a morning person. A disciplined person. A person who wasn't shy about infiltrating a group. I spent a lot of energy on it, and a lot of money on it in therapy and you know what? I'm still the same person. I'm still going to pull all-nighters when I have a freelance deadline. I'm still going to go gaga when I meet a seemingly great guy and want to run off to Vegas with him to be married by an Elvis impersonator. I'm still going to sleep until noon on the weekends, eat too much junk food and have a motherfucking anxiety attack whenever I have to go to a friend's party. And I'm okay with that.

Right after I decided I was okay with that, we reached Binghamton, where an aging Scottish hippie boarded the bus. He cracked open a can of Genesee as soon as he sat down next to me, and we talked for three hours straight.

You're so vain…You probably think this blog is about you

Title courtesy of The Roommate

An open letter to every guy I've ever dated, slept with or crushed on that happens to read this blog:

Hi guys! Boy, there sure are an alarming number of you out there, huh? Anyway, we have to talk. About The Bedroom Blog. I'd advise you not to read it, but for some of you (you know who you are), that would just make you want to read it more.

Sometimes I get inspiration from actual events and that influences the storylines I write. Once it hits the paper (or the monitor, rather), however, it bares little resemblance to my life. So guys, what I'm trying to tell you is, my blog characters are not you. Just because they might have one small detail in common with you, doesn't mean they are you. I'm trying to write about themes that all women can relate to, and I'm sorry, but y'all aren't terribly unique with the bullshit you dish out.

In summary, get over yourselves.

Love,
Jess

P.S. Except Suburbs Guy. He's totally Captain Jersey.