An observation

I watch the Food Network, like, A LOT. I even watch shows I don't particularly like because I think there's some culinary trick I will not learn if I miss it. Right now, I'm watching the Barefoot Contessa, and I'm fairly certain that the Barefoot Contessa is perpetually stoned. As a reformed pothead, I should know. No one is that laid back. No one.

On hypochondria

Yesterday over IM:

The Roommate: Can I share some hypochondria with you?

Me: OMG, I was just going to ask you the same thing!

The Roommate: You first.

Me: I have oral cancer.

I went on to explain that Sunday night, I'd discovered a small, black raised bump on the inside of my left cheek. As some of you may know, the Internet is probably the worst thing to ever happen to hypochondriacs. I spent hours poring over health encyclopedias and dentistry sites. After I read the following passage, I nearly had a panic attack.

One of the most deadly forms of oral cancer is Malignant melanoma. Thankfully, it is very rare in the oral cavity. It begins as small black spot, generally smaller than a millimeter, and develops irregular borders as it grows larger. Melanoma can happen on any tissue in the mouth, particularly inside the lips, cheeks, undersurface of the tongue and on the hard palate. It is likely to be tan, dark brown or black, sometimes mixed with red or gray. Melanoma occurring anywhere other than the mouth is generally considered to be fairly treatable. Unfortunately, due to the anatomy of the head and neck, oral melanoma is most often fatal.

So basically, I spent most of yesterday afternoon convinced I was going to die any minute. I made a doctor's appointment for Thursday and promised God that if I didn't have cancer, I would never, ever smoke again. Today, I woke up and it was gone. I think I may have knocked it down with my PMS popcorn last night (popcorn with butter, brown sugar and sea salt – sure to satisfy every potential PMS craving). I'm still never smoking again, and really, the only thing that bothers me now is – did I swallow it? Because, um, ew.

On shopping

Me: Sorry I didn't call you back sooner. I was shopping for work clothes.

My Sharona: Where did you go?

Me: Forever 21.

My Sharona: You know you're 30, right?

Me: I hate you.

Odds and ends

Linus takes pretty pictures of me.

To recap

Mom and I were just discussing how the predictions her psychic made are shaping up. It's a bit freaky.

Mom: Sylvia said she'd get involved with a man who owns his own business. She also said, "I don't know where the hell you're going to meet him since you never leave the house." Well, the general contractor who is working on her house just asked her out. And she accepted.

Julie: Sylvia said she saw a baby in September. We've just received word that someone we know who shall remain nameless for now will be having one then.

Me: Sylvia said I'd get a job in January. Sylvia also said I'd meet a fair-haired, light-eyed boy with a Long Island association in January. Um, yeah. That would be Tango.

Not that I believe everything Sylvia said or anything. But still, quite a coincidence, yes? Here's hoping that if nothing else, she'll be right about my book getting published.

Games people play, anal or otherwise

Many months ago, Jean, My Sharona and I were doing our thing at Grassroots. That thing, incidently, was discussing My Sharona's and my long-suffering singledom and what exactly we might be doing wrong. Jean offered an explanation.

"The problem is, [My] Sharona plays too many games, and Jess doesn't play any."

These days, My Sharona and I seem to be having better luck in the dating department, but we're still holding on to our respective positions. She's a Rules girl through and through and me? Well, I guess my position is that I'm holding out for someone mature enough to appreciate the fact that I don't play games. My Sharona and I give each other frequent updates, and she usually chides me for some blunder I've made while I laugh at her complex mathematical dating equations.

If you're friends with both of us, you're going to get very different advice, should you ask. Jean usually asks us for our opinions and then opts for a path somewhere in the middle. Until last night, the only thing My Sharona and I could agree on was that it's a bad idea to drunk dial Germany while you're out on a Saturday night, and we took turns confiscating Jean's cell phone.

Last night, though, we were in complete agreement. Jean hooked up with the Adonis of Law School, and did the slow reveal over the course of the night. By "the slow reveal," I mean getting the full story took all night because she was afraid to lay everything on us all at once. Here’s why. Imagine the following conversation taking place while we laughed so hard we nearly hyperventilated.

Me: You stuck your finger up his ass on a first date?

Jean: There wasn't penetration. There was just PRESSING. [This point would be reiterated several times over the course of the night.] He liked it!

My Sharona: Of course he did! No wonder he called you the next day.

Me: That's like a little first date freebie right there.

My Sharona: That's like, the difference between date #5 and date #9!

Jean: Is it bad that I did that?

My Sharona: It's a little porn star.

Me: Yeah, but you didn't actually sleep with him, so now he's probably wondering how much of a freak you are in bed, which isn't necessarily a bad thing.

My Sharona: You CANNOT pursue this guy in any way, shape or form now.

This is a typical My Sharona statement. As soon as she said it, Jean looked at me for my sure-to-be conflicting advice.

Me: No calling, no emailing, and no stopping by his room when you're coming home drunk. AT ALL.

Going forward, I have a feeling that any dating mistakes any of us commit will be judged on the basis of whether they are better or worse than the anal play. When Jean tells China about this, I bet the First Date Ass Presser will be either me or My Sharona.

The signs

How do I know I have PMS? I just got choked up while watching a particularly touching moment between Julia and Suzanne Sugarbaker.

Old habits die hard

Earlier:

Me: What are you thinking about?

Tango: I'll get slapped if I tell you what I'm thinking about. What are you thinking about?

Me: You don't want to know what I'm thinking about.

Tango: Tell me.

Me: I'm thinking that it seems like we're connecting really well on the physical level, but not so much on everything else.

Tango: Jess, we're fine.

Me: But, sometimes we don't have anything to say to each other.

Tango: We're getting to know each other. We're going to have the occasional awkward silence.

Me: Yeah?

Tango: Yeah.

Later:

Me: Yeah, okay. You're right. We're fine.

Tango: See?

Me: Sometimes, when I like someone, I invent reasons not to.

Tango: Do you know what that makes you?

Me: What?

Tango: Crazy.

Me: Yeah, but I'm totally upfront about my neuroses. I won't like, surprise you with anything.

Tango: Good to know.

Welcome to my nightmare

I'm no stranger to nightmares. Usually, I'm trapped in a house with a bunch of people I both like and dislike while some crazed maniac picks us off one by one. You know, classic horror film stuff. Maybe it's because I watch so many horror flicks. Maybe it's because I'm sick and depraved. Maybe it's because part of me wants to be the female Wes Craven someday. Whatever the reason, none of the demented things I've ever dreamed up before could compare to last night's trauma.

I started at the new job, and it was everything I hoped it would be and more. I was happy and fulfilled. I was valued as an employee. I was not browbeaten and told I was a horrible writer every day. I wore jeans to work every day and no one looked me up and down with disdain. You know, it was the exact opposite of that other job.

And then my boss quit. And my ex-boss from that other job was hired to be my new boss. I woke up in a state of complete and utter depair. I've never been so happy to have that it was just a dream realization.

Gee, what do you think it meant?

Hits and misses

I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day, but since it will be my first day at the new job, I'll be celebrating this year. It might just be me and the old Magic Wand with a glass of champagne and some Godiva chocolates, both purchased by me, but hell – that's still quite a celebration. Anyway, I might be adding to this over the next couple of weeks, but I present to you a list of things I will – and won't – miss once I'm gainfully employed.




What I'll miss:

• Cooking myself a huge breakfast every morning


• Going to the gym every day, where I can work out while enjoying the double eye-candy threat of Hot Trainer and this guy


• Hourly phone calls to and from My Sharona


• Afternoon snuggle time with Mulder and John Brown


• The Food Network


• No wait at the nail salon


• Wearing my skull pajama pants


• Looking like a bum for days on end


• Not doing anything at all if I don't feel like it


• Afternoon writing time at the coffee shop


• A clean apartment


• Friday afternoon horror flicks with Linus

What I won't miss:

• Wearing ill-fitting clothes because shopping is out of the question


• Not being able to go on vacations (aside from the already-paid-for-at-the-time Florida trip and the Vermont road trip which was cheap)


• Running into The Ex


• A messy bedroom


• When Paula Deen, Emeril or Rachael Ray steal valuable Food Network airtime


• Always feeling like I'm not accomplishing enough


• Talking to John Brown and Mulder to the point where I start to scare myself


• Feeling like a loser if The Roommate returns home from work to find me watching TV in my pajamas


• Edit tests and cover letters


• Freaking out because I don't know when my freelance check is coming


• Daily Road Runner outages


• Soul-crushing boredom

The fucking Colin fucking Farrell fucking sex fucking tape

I don't think anyone was terribly shocked to learn that there's a Colin Farrell sex tape floating around. Or terribly interested. I was mildly surprised that he seemed to be so upset about it being out there, because really, Colin Farrell seems like the kind of guy who would leak his own sex tape just so the world could get a good look at his allegedly huge unit. Still, the idea of watching the little rascal going at it wasn't as exciting as say, the news of a Spederline sex tape.

Shrimpjaw has the transcript posted, and now I wish I had seen it. Here are some of my favorite quotes from the man himself:

God, you're...as I said the other night, man, if a fucking camera could blush it would be fucking red because you are so fucking pretty.

I FUCKING LIVE ON PORN!

Aw, the battery's dead...so is my fucking cock.

You're just like...it's like you're going fishing for fucking pubes, man. You're just catching every fucking pube I have.

You'll want to read the whole thing. Like the part where he refers to her vagina as a "beautiful little flower." If someone ever referred to my girl parts in such a fashion, I'd punch them in the mouth, but that's just me.

My horoscope

After six long months of infrequent showering and pajama-wearing, Aries, you will get the job you want. They will offer you more money than you asked for, and for the first time ever, travel will be a part of your job description. This job will be interesting and fun, and way better than the place that fired your ass.

Isn't that weird? My horoscope is, like, right on. Do you know what this means, people? This means two things:

1) Shopping spree

2) Tattoo

You can take the boy out of the frat house...

Following a hilarious and sexy edition of Starshine Burlesque last night, Kyle and I got to talking about the good old days at Marist College, because well, that's what we do. After his telling of a completely vile hookup story, we had this conversation:

Me: I didn't have much sex in college. There was [Father Mike] and [The Photographer], but they were both boyfriends. Then there was [The Love of My Life, So Far], but that's it. Just three.

Kyle: Wow, really?

Me: I've never been much of a casual sex girl.

Kyle: Yeah, I'm not really into casual sex either.

I burst out laughing.

Me: For someone who isn't into casual sex, you certainly seem to have a lot of it.

Kyle: Not casual…

I raise my eyebrows at him.

Kyle: I mean, I always try to at least catch her name beforehand…

All signs point to… you're hired?

So one of the places where I've been interviewing, THE place, really, is a new agey company devoted to astrology, divination and the like. Things have gone smashingly well so far – I aced the phone interview, ditto on the in-person interview and there should be another phone (or video!) interview early next week, after which time a decision will be made. Today I received an email saying, "I forgot to ask you, what is your sun sign? If you know your rising sign and moon sign, please send either or both, as well."

Mon dieu! I hope that won't be a factor in the hiring process, because by most accounts, we Aries folk are giant pains in the asses.

You're going to Hollywood

I have one thing to say about the season premiere of American Idol, and one thing only:

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.

Who's your boss? Huh, baby?

There are days when I have nothing to give y'all. Like today. After having not one, but two interviews, I'm drained, yo. So from now on, when the well is running dry, I'll be posting fan fiction excerpts. Who's the Boss? fan fiction excerpts, to be exact. From not one, but two possible sites.

CUT TO SAM, CU. She smiles, got the message.

SAM
Jonathan?

CUT BACK.

JONATHAN
Yeah?

CUT TO SAM, CU.

SAM
I love you.

CUT BACK. JONATHAN smiles like a sphinx.

JONATHAN
I know. That's what made me come back in the first place.

SAM
Really?

JONATHAN
Of course. Why would I want a quest for my own self halfway around the world when all the happiness I could wish for is right in front of me?

SAM
Jonathan, you've finally grown up.

They laugh and continue dancing. We hear Al Green singing over the final moments of this episode:

Let's stay together
Loving you whether
Times are good or bad
Happy or sad...


Funny, I always figured Jonathan for one of the gays.

An open letter to the neighbor across the street with the boom box playing at top volume in the windowsill

Dear neighbor across the street with the boom box playing at top volume in the windowsill:

I admit -- I was a little annoyed when you woke me up at 9:00 this morning. I was up late, you see, and figured I'd sleep in so I could be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to do some research for my two interviews tomorrow, complete another edit test for a potential employer and work on The Bedroom Blog. It's a busy day for me, or at least, it was supposed to be.

It wasn't what you were playing that was so disturbing, but the volume. Nas? Great. NWA? Love it. I was lying in bed, simultaneously hating you and shaking my rump, torn about whether I wanted to, how do the kids say? Bust a move? Or bury my head under the pillow. I opted for the later and then gave up and put the coffee on.

Now, neighbor across the street with the boom box playing at top volume in the windowsill, it's three hours later and you're still at it. And there was a very dark period in the middle where you subjected me to both J. Lo and Usher. That is particularly unforgivable.

And now we moved onto The Fugees portion of the morning. The Fugees are fine, I like The Fugees, but neighbor across the street with the boom box playing at top volume in the windowsill? Your CD skips. Like, a lot. Maybe you can still enjoy the music with the CD skipping, but I'm afraid I cannot.

In conclusion, neighbor across the street with the boom box playing at top volume in the windowsill, turn that shit off before I unleash some top-volume death metal on your ass.

Love,
Jess

If he only knew what he agreed to

While Tango and I barely watched The Golden Globes tonight (Total snorefest, although I might have felt differently had I been watching it with Sheila), I mentioned that I'd thought about blogging a bit of his earlier email but wasn't sure how he'd feel about it. He replied with, "You can blog anything you want to." He'll regret that, I'm sure. Anyway, I missed his Sunday night call because of the cell phone fiasco, and emailed him to explain today when I finally heard the message. His response?

What is it with you and technology? Missing cell phones, broken laptops... twice does not make a pattern yet, but if your iPod breaks, I'm running for the hills.

Good thing Julie bought me an iPod case for my birthday.

An open letter to the Lifetime Movie Network

Dear Lifetime Movie Network:

Please stop trying to convince us that Judith Light is someone that men actually want to have sex with. We don't believe you.

Love,
Jess and The Roommate

Regarding MySpace

I don't get MySpace. It's this weird, creepy abyss and I don't understand what people actually do there. Anyway, I woke up this morning and got online because I left my cell phone in Hoboken Saturday night and I'm awaiting an email about when I might be able to retrieve it. I had a new message on MySpace. Here are the highlights, unedited even though it's killing me:

id love to chat with u sometime, im looking for a mature older woman,(ive been with older before, so its not like im just looking to "experiment" with an older woman, its a prefrence ;)

HE'S 25 YEARS OLD. I'm 30. Hardly enough of an age gap for some Mrs. Robinson-type role playing. I was telling The Roommate about it this morning, and then we got to talking about how bizarre MySpace is. The Roommate described it as "The Port Authority of the Internet." I will give it one thing, though. It's a much better vehicle for stalking ex-boyfriends than Friendster is. Beyond that, I've found no use for it.

A conversation with Mom

Background info: In high school, I had a boyfriend who we'll call The Guitarist. The Guitarist and his band had a groupie who the girlfriends used to openly fantasize about killing. I'm basing a character in Novel #2 on her, which I told my mom all about today on the phone.

Me: She was so annoying. I'd always be like, "Yes Christy, we know you don't wear underwear. You mention it daily. Now please get off my boyfriend's lap."

Mom: Do you ever hear from [The Guitarist]?

Me: Nope. He went crazy and moved to Florida.

Mom: That's some track record you've got.

Me: What do you mean?

Mom: You drove two guys crazy and turned one into a priest.

Me: I'm not sure I'm responsible for those things.

Mom: You probably even turned [Father Mike] into a pedophile.

Me: And you wonder why I'm still single.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXVI

Someone made the mistake of buying me a magnetic poetry kit when I was in high school. I think it was Mrs. F. While it was a lovely and thoughtful gift, certainly, it also lead to things like this:

Beneath a purple sky, my sordid ship departs.
Sing a symphony to the moon when I leave, and please.
Remember to water the roses.

Here's Volume XXV.

While I've been offline:

- Went on a couple of dates with a nice young man we'll call Tango, and made tentative plans for a third

- Almost got mugged by three teenaged thugs

- Decided never to go out again on a Thursday night due to the triple threat of Four Kings, My Name is Earl and The Office. I'm not sure if I actually like the former, or if I'm being guided by my unconditional love for (and further marital aspirations involving) Seth Green. And the latter still pales in comparison to the British version, but it's becoming its own show now and I dig it. As for Earl, I'm ignoring the Scientology and Pilot Inspektor naming.

- Got called "adorable" by a man with a kilt and a wee sword and no discernible accent

- Had some job interviews, and lined up some more job interviews and a freelance gig

- Read an embarrassing amount of Chick Lit (I am Jennifer Weiner's bitch)

- Started watching the first season of Firefly on DVD. Joss, I'm sorry I didn't watch it when it was on. I was still getting over Buffy, and I was afraid to love again. Forgive me. It's brilliant.

Anyway bitches, I'm back with a vengeance. I hope y'all are ready.

Has anyone seen Jess?

The laptop has a virus or 12, and the cavefish has a hickey. Hopefully, everything will be cleared up in a day or two, after which time regular blogging will resume.

Check mate

Despite being a childhood math prodigy, I just couldn't get my 8th grade head around 10th grade-level truth tables, so my teacher offered to give me some extra help after school. M&M had some stuff to take care of, which probably involved boys, so she said she'd swing by after my lesson and pick me up so we could head back to her house to eat all the junk food, giggle over her mother's vibrator, watch Bob Ross paint and prank call people. It's pretty much what we did every day. Ah, the joys of being latch-key kids.

One frustrating truth tables lesson later, some familiar faces started trickling into the room, followed by M&M.

"What's going on?" she asked, looking first at me and then at my math teacher. He explained that it was the Chess Club.

Now, M&M and I loved chess. She had taught me to play, and it was what we did if we'd managed to complete all the aforementioned activities before her mother arrived home from work. My teacher could see us pondering this.

"Do you want to stay?" he asked us.

"Okay," I said, "but just so we're clear, [M&M] and I are not joining the Chess Club."

We couldn't join the Chess Club, you see. The summer after 7th grade, we had, along with Mrs. F, realized we were on the nerd path. The braces were finally off, our mothers were no longer picking out our clothes, and more than anything, we wanted boys to like us. Extreme measures had to be taken. We fashioned a look that was one part Kelly Bundy and two parts heavy metal video groupie. Yes, there's a difference. When we came back to school in September, things were different. We landed our first boyfriends. We got invited to parties. The Chess Club would have put all that in jeopardy. It doesn't matter how big your hair is or how much black eyeliner, carefully melted with a cigarette lighter first, you apply. The Chess Club is still the Chess Club.

So we didn't join the Chess Club every week for the entire school year. We even didn't join the Chess Club once I'd mastered truth tables and had no reason to stay after school anymore. The little nerd boys loved having us, and we loved trouncing them in the game. Then one day, a photographer showed up.

"Everyone get together so we can take the yearbook photo!" my teacher cheerfully announced. The little nerd boys got up. M&M and I didn't. He looked at us. I shrugged.

"Oh right," he said, smirking. "Jessica and [M&M] aren't in the Chess Club."

You can imagine my shock and horror, then, when my date last night, who claimed to be a terrible chess player, beat me senseless. In my defense, my queen had been lost and replaced with a rook in a scarf, so I kept forgetting she was a queen. But still. I mean, I was in the Chess Club, for fuck's sake.

My first adventure of 2006

Yesterday, Curly, Azee and I decided to postpone starting our New Year's resolutions and hit the movies in a big way. I volunteered to find a theater showing both Brokeback Mountain and Memoirs of a Geisha with showtimes suitable for paying for one and sneaking into the other. In case anyone was wondering, the Battery Park theater was the winner, and as an added bonus, the theaters were right next to one another.

Anyway, both movies were absolutely incredible, and I recommend them both, but if you only get the chance to see one, I'd say go for Brokeback. When I walked out, my chest hurt, like my heart had literally been broken. Fortunately, I walked right into the previews for Memoirs, so I was able to regain my composure.

Now, I've done a lot of things that are technically not legal or morally right in my life. The older I get though, the more paranoid I get. I was sitting there in Memoirs, completely convinced that we were going to be busted. That, like, an usher would walk down, see us in the front row and escort us out. Or, when the theater started to fill up, they'd stop the movie and a booming vice would come out of the darkness and tell everyone who hadn't bought a ticket to leave, and shamed, we'd have to get up and walk out while ticket-holders glared at us from the aisles. Luckily, we got away with our $10.75 theft.

The thing is, though, we were at the movies from 5 to 10, and the nachos we ate at the beginning of the first movie didn't really cut it. We needed food, and none of us felt like going home and cooking at such a late hour. Azee decided to fend for herself and hopped on the subway, and Curly and I set out in search of an actual restaurant where we could actually order food and actually have it brought to us. And thus began our adventure.

There was little to be found in the Battery Park area, so we decided to head into Tribeca. Tribeca turned up nothing, so we trekked through SoHo, where we decided against pizza. We'd come so far, you see, that the idea of pizza would have been a major letdown.

It was nearing 11 when Curly suggested Little Italy. I was nervous, because I'm an Italian food snob of epic proportions and the idea of just randomly going to a restaurant without knowing anything about it, and possibly ending up with sub-par Italian food makes me break out in hives. It was an adventure, though, and you can't worry about bad pasta when you're on an adventure.

We finally decided on a place I cannot remember the name of, even though Curly and I swore we wouldn't forget. We were seated, our drink orders were taken, and then… nothing. 10 minutes went by. 15 minutes went by. 20 minutes went by. Our drinks were not brought to us. No bread was brought to us. Our orders were not taken, despite the fact that the wait staff was standing around, doing nothing except for avoiding eye contact with us. We decided to leave. Did anyone stop us? Offer to take our order? Nope. They all stood there, pretending not to see us. I was livid. I hope Curly remembers the name so we can slam them on Citysearch. If they had wanted to close the kitchen, they should have told us so we could go elsewhere, because we were starving.

We ended up at Umberto's, which was pleasant despite being completely overpriced. Two baskets of bread, 2 ½ glasses of wine and two entrees later, our large check was paid and our adventure was drawing to a close.

Whoever said New York is the city that never sleeps, obviously never tried to get dinner at 11:00pm on New Year's Day.