Daddy's Other Little Girl, Part One

Curly has inspired me with her series about her first love. I don't open up much here, and when I do, I hide behind humor. I thought it might be therapeutic for me to put myself through a little exercise in honesty and work through some stuff that's been weighing pretty heavily on me lately. So here goes.

"Today we're going to make Father's Day cards."

I remember the feeling of dread that came over me when my first grade teacher said those words. I walked up to the front of the classroom with the rest of the students, where Miss Boyce had carefully laid out construction paper and markers on the table. I picked a green sheet and a black marker and went back to my seat.

I looked around, and my classmates were hard at work writing things like, "Dad, you're the greatest!" Me, I just stared at the blank green sheet in front of me. And stared. Eventually, the tears came. I stood up and walked to Miss Boyce's desk.

"Miss Boyce?" My voice cracked and she looked up from the papers she was grading.

"Jessica, what's wrong?" she asked me, knitting her eyebrows together in concern.

"I can't make a Father's Day card," I said with a sob. "I don't have a father."

The look she gave me then was so sympathetic and kind. I've never forgotten that look.

"Is there someone else you could maybe make a Father's Day card for?" she asked, giving me an encouraging smile.

I thought about it.

"I could make one for my Grandpa," I offered.

My grandfather beamed when I gave him his Father's Day card. He laughed and put it on the refrigerator. My mother smiled when she saw it. Well, her mouth did. Her eyes were sad, and they were the reason I didn't tell her what had happened. I didn't want to make her sadder.

It was the day I stopped asking questions. The day I decided that missing a father I'd never even had was something I was always going to keep to myself. Until now, I suppose.

Reenactment

So I'm hula hoping while I'm watching American Idol last night. I do that sometimes, when I really want to smoke a cigarette. I figure I'll 1) Not smoke and 2) Be working my way toward some killer abs. Anyway, they get ready to announce the bottom three. Lisa Tucker, no surprise there. Ace Young, a surprise but a pleasant one, because homeboy's a tool. Then it's down to Boyfriend Bucky (That's right, I said it.) and McPhee. I'm sad at this point, because even though I know it's inevitable, I'm not ready to say goodbye to Boyfriend Bucky. (That's right, I said it again.)

When they called McPhee's name, I gasped, dropped my hula hoop and then tripped over it. This is what American Idol does to me.

For your reading enjoyment

My Sharona, she blogs. Now we're going to have to throw down over who gets to post brunch recaps. Good think I'm the tough one.

How you know you're over it

You're walking down the sidewalk, a box containing the shirt your roommate made you buy, and you're so happy you did because you're going to wear it for your birthday party and look fabulous, especially with your freshly dyed hair, under your arm. A couple of feet to your right, you see your ex engaged in conversation with a girl. He nods. You smile and give a little wave with your free hand. You make your way down the block to Duane Reade to buy Neosporin, not knowing there are actually three tubes of it in the medicine cabinet. This, you'll find out later. As you walk down the block, you're smiling. You think to yourself, "Good for him."

I can't quit Julie

Julie, best friend extraordinaire, just got back from a week in Ireland. Last night, we had this conversation.

Julie: So we couldn't go out drinking or anything because, you know, I'm pregnant. We saw a lot of movies.

Me: What did you see?

Julie: [In a tone that suggests I won't know what she's talking about] Brokeback Mountain? Have you seen it?

Me: Yeah. Did you like it?

Julie: I did. I had never heard of, though. [Hot Irish Boyfriend] picked it out.

Me: Wait, you've never heard of Brokeback Mountain?

Julie: No. Should I have?

Me: Um, it was nominated for like every Oscar.

Julie: …

Me: Like, it didn't even ring a bell?

Julie: …

Me: Do you live in a bomb shelter?

Julie: …

Emergency brunch

Yesterday we had what's called an "emergency brunch." Emergency brunch is what happens when someone has a crisis -- usually of an emotional nature and usually about a boy -- during the week and everyone's weekend nights are full. There is food, accompanied by unlimited mimosas (for My Sharona and Summer), bellinis (me) and champagne (Jean). We provide analysis and support, and usually manage to have everyone crying with laughter by the end.

Here are some choice quotes from yesterday's emergency brunch:

So he said he'd come over between 6 and 8 and I was like, what are you, the cable guy?

What? I get naked with guys and don't have sex with them all the time.

Curly said she'd totally bang you if it would make you feel better.

So the next morning I was all like, do you even remember my name, and he's like of course, and then he asks if I remember his name, and I said yes even though I totally didn't.

Workplace fun

When I first looked around my new workplace, I was pretty excited. Why, you ask? Because I was the only girl as far as the eye could see and there were some cuties in the mix. Not that I'm looking for love in the workplace or anything, but hey, you never know, right? Then I realized that these guys have clearly been operating without women around for far too long. Like, in a we-never-left-the-frat-house way. On the positive side, I think they're going to be really good for blog material. Example from today:

Guy #1: [Belching, loud and long]

Guy #2: Dude, that was awesome.

Did I mention these are guys in their 30s?

Run-on sentences regarding Chris Daughtry

The past couple of weeks, I've been a little wary of Chris Daughtry, my former American Idol flame, kind of like when you have a boyfriend who you suspect is cheating on you, but you don't yet have any evidence except for that one night when he came home and immediately took a shower and he claimed he went to the gym but you don't think he actually did, you think he was probably fucking that girl he works with but you'll never say it because you'll sound paranoid and crazy. Yeah, it's like that. See, when he sang Wanted: Dead or Alive, he knocked my socks off. It was just the perfect song for him. Then he did a Fuel or Audioslave song and whatever because I so don't care about either of those bands but he, as Randy Jackson would say, "worked it out," and by "worked it out" I mean he was completely awesome, and if I were in the audience I so would have showed him my breasts. Then the week after, he did another Fuel or Audioslave song and I was kind of like, "snore" but his voice was still great and he's so ridiculously hot in a way that makes me a little uncomfortable because he looks like The Ex, but The Roommate assures me he's like 10 times hotter and really, anyone would love him so that made me feel better.

And then it was Stevie Wonder week. Stevie Wonder week was the week that made me think that, while Chris Daughtry should have been at the gym, he was fucking that girl he works with. He claimed he was really worried about having to sing a Stevie Wonder song. Why? Because he's a one-trick pony, but still a one-trick pony I would have been more than happy to uh, mount at that point. Then he realized that Higher Ground was a Stevie song, and so he decided to do an arrangement that would "blend the sounds of the Red Hot Chili Peppers with the sounds of Stevie Wonder" and really, it was RHCP karaoke night at American Idol, complete with a light show. And the judges collectively wet themselves and wept with joy while I thought one thing and one thing only: Chris Daughtry is cheating.

Which brings us to last night. Barry Manilow night. Now, I've been known to loudly sing Mandy to Mrs. F, because it's like, her name, but I'm no Barry Manilow fan by any means. That said, he was pretty likeable, but not likeable enough that I won't fast-forward him when he performs tonight. He too, was awed by Chris Daughtry's talent. I was wondering if, at that very moment, Chris Daughtry was buying his coworker, the pretty one who wears skirts that are too short, a drink before bending her over in a bathroom stall. But then I heard he'd be singing Walk the Line, and I thought maybe I was just being paranoid. He's a good old Southern boy, after all, and maybe we'd get to see a different side of him. And then he turned it into a Fuel or Audioslave song and that was it for me. It's one thing to, as Paula said over and over and over and over and over regarding Chris, "stay true to who you are" but it's another entirely to bastardize the music of one Johnny Cash and get praised for it. I am officially declaring Paula, Randy and Simon (who I'm most disappointed in) mad, and I'm also declaring Chris Daughtry someone who I no longer want to show my tits to. It was fun while it lasted, and now I'll just be content with my embarrassing crush on Bucky Covington.

Oh, and my prediction for tonight? Lisa Tucker's going home.

A joke

Courtesy of Portland D, who obviously doesn't consider me a lady:

Q: How do you get a dog to stop humping your leg?

A: Suck its cock.

An open letter to whomever is in charge of lunch

Dear Whomever is in Charge of Lunch:

I don't mean to complain. You feed me during the day and see that I don't faint from hunger. You also give me a reason to stretch my legs halfway through the day. You're doing a bang-up job over all, and I appreciate it. I'd just like to make one small suggestion, if I may. Please work on making salads taste more like cheeseburgers. Thank you in advance.

Sincerely,
Jess

The incredible shrinking grandma

Gram: I went and got my bone density checked this week. I shrunk more.

Me: What?! How tall are you now?

Gram: 4'6"!

I burst into laughter.

Gram (also laughing, but trying not to) It's not funny!

Me: Oh yes it is.

Gram swears at me in Italian.

Me: So are you like, officially a Little Person now?

Gram: Jess!

Me: I'll look it up. I bet you are.

According to Little People of America, dwarves are 4'10" and under. While the incredible shrinking grandma hasn't always fallen within the parameters, she's got quite a few years under her belt. I'm totally buying her something from the store for her birthday this year. Cousin Desiree, you in?

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXVIII

When I first read this one, I thought, "Bleeding knees, what? Did you write a poem about blow jobs? But you didn't even do that in high school, you saved it for college. And furthermore, which one of your boyfriends flew in from anywhere? It that a metaphorical flying in or a Continental Airlines flying in? And guilded? Nice spelling, dumbass. Dig the rhyming couplet at the end, and by dig I mean what were you thinking?" So clearly, I don't have a story to go along with this one, because I don't remember writing it. I will, however, point out that there is a doodle on the page. Of a daisy. With paisley-patterned leaves. And a yin-yang in its center.

You'll fly in on Saturday
with gilded wings and frosty winds
to hover in the sunset
I'll fall down on Saturday
from my eroding balcony
on to the dirty pavement
You'll fly away on Sunday
high above the trees, as I
watch with bleeding knees.

Insatiable thirst for teen angst not quenched? Hit up Volume XXVII.

On Babies and Hot Bouncers

The cavefish is going to be a Godmother. Here's a good example of why I deserve such a huge responsibility.

Her: So what are you doing for your birthday?

Me: Going upstate. It's also Easter weekend. But the weekend before, I'm just going to go to Grassroots.

Her: Say hi to my boyfriend for me.

Me: Hot Bouncer is not your boyfriend. He's mine. Besides, you're carrying another man's baby.

Her: True. I guess you've got that one on me.

Me: You know what would be hilarious? If you came up to visit when you were really pregnant and we went there and you hit on him.

Her: Yeah, but I wouldn't be able to get as drunk as I did last time.

Me: You said "as drunk."

Her: The baby's a lightweight.

Me: Fucking baby can't hold its liquor.

Her: Fucking baby's gotta ruin everything.

Me: Am I allowed to say things like, "fucking baby can't hold its liquor?"

Her: I insist on it.

Me: Good to know. Hey, are you doing a natural childbirth?

Her: Are you out of your mind? I don't know who those demented natural childbirth people are, but I'm not one of them.

Sheila's 74 Facts and One Lie

Last night, I saw Sheila perform her piece 74 Facts and One Lie. I remember reading it a long time ago and thinking it was amazing. After watching her perform it, though, my heart felt like it had literally been broken. I felt like sobbing, but I certainly wasn't going to do that in the basement of the Two Boots on Avenue A. So read it. Because it's beautiful. And if you ever have the chance to see her perform it, I strongly suggest you do so. Bring some tissues.

The haunting

In my younger, more foolish days, I fancied myself something of a ghost hunter.

Not that I ever actually saw a ghost, mind you, but it didn't stop me from piling the girls into the car to illegally trespass on property rumored to be haunted. If I remember correctly, there was also the occasion break-and-enter.

Two particular destinations were visited frequently by my fellow ghost-hunters and I -- the dilapidated mansion on Schoolhouse Rd., where it was rumored a young man had killed his entire family and then himself, and Barkersville, a tiny town in Saratoga County with no shortage of strange encounters and an abandoned asylum.

They say the Saratoga Homestead Asylum is haunted. It's also close to Julie's family's house on the lake, where we spent many summer weekends. And no weekend on the lake was complete without a trip to Barkersville.

Once, as we drove away from the asylum, Heather #1 started screaming her head off, claiming she'd seen a child in an upstairs window. Once, we drove up on Halloween night, parked the car and made our way in, only to be chased away by someone in a white cloak carrying a scythe. Why would we drive up to an abandoned, haunted insane asylum on Halloween night, you ask? Oh, because someone's mother told us a bunch of teenagers had gone up there one Halloween night and disappeared back in the 70s, only to be later found murdered. Also, when I worked at Channel 6 news up there, they dug up a guy who had been missing for 25 years in Barkersville. A friend in college told me that her family lived in the town for one month before they hightailed it out of there.

I've done the occasional Google search on Barkersville and the Saratoga Homestead Asylum, and found both listed on sites devoted to haunted places. Today, Heather #1 sent me this link, which contains this passage:

New Blood Entertainment will be releasing the film "The Expedition" sometime in 2006. The film is based on the real life disappearance of a Canadian documentary filmmaker that entered the building on October 31, 2004 and was never seen again. The film itself has both actual footage and re-enactment footage sequences to explain in detail what occurred on this supernatural expedition.

No listing on IMDB, and no news story on the missing filmmaker that I've found yet. If this is true, though? Whoa.

Is it sick that I totally want to drive up there when I go home for Easter next month?

An annoyed cavefish's new rule

If you've seen me naked and I no longer speak to you because:

A) It's been determined that you are an asshole.
B) You blew me off.
C) You also dated one of my friends, and it was determined that you are an asshole by her, too.
D) We've had neither reason nor occasion to speak to one another in the past year.
E) All of the above

Then stop reading my fucking blog. Hers too.

This week in Idol

I have many, many thoughts on this week's American Idol. Like, skinny tie? Really Ryan Seacrest? And Ayla should have cried three weeks ago, because last night was the first time I really liked her. And it was totally awesome when McPhee and The Pickle both made it into the top 12 and were so happy because they're such good friends, for now anyway, and Paris, who's kind of starting to annoy me, tried to get in on their hug and they totally blew her off. Speaking of hugs, all the man love was adorable and made me hate Ace a little less, and I know I was really in love with him at first but he's doing that Justin Guarini things where he makes sweet love to the camera and it's making me mostly want to punch him in the mouth. And Chris and Mandisa are too good to be on the show. Seriously, just give them record deals and be done with it. But I'm not going to delve too deeply into all that, because there's something that trumps everything else that happened this week. (Spoiler alert)

When Ryan Seacrest asked Gedeon how he felt about getting voted off, he said BY THE BLOOD OF JESUS I AM SAVED. And that's all I got.

Good thing I had breakfast first

So this is the way it works. At work. My Other Work Half and I edit all of the stuff the astrologers write. We both take a pass at everything that comes in. Sometimes he goes first. Sometimes I go first. Usually, we end up with a fairly awesome finished product. This morning, it was a love forecast. I went first. Some IMs took place. Here's an excerpt.

Me: I took out the word "sensual" because it grosses me out. If you feel like it needs to be there, go ahead and put it back in. Just don't tell me. Also, I will almost always replace the following words and phrases: Lover, lovemaking, making love.

Other Work Half: (Who I can hear already laughing over the top of the wall that separates our cubicles) So you like it hardcore?

Me: Ha!

Me: They make me think of a 70s guy with aviator glasses and a thick mustache wearing white short-shorts and listening to soft jazz.

Me: Ew, now I've totally grossed myself out. Back to editing.

Provisions

You know how different friends serve different purposes in your life?

You have the friend you watch chick flicks with. The friend who gives you all the right book recommendations. The friend you forward emails to from the guy you like for analysis. The friend who tries to fix you up with people. The friend who will say, "He's just not that into you" and the friend who will say, "He's probably just busy with work." (Every girl needs both)

Not to mention the friend who will eat mozzarella sticks and Belgian fries with you at four in the morning. (And while we're on that topic, why is that particular friend always way thinner than you?) And the friend who drags you out to see live music because you'd never remember to go otherwise. And the friend you call when you are crying hysterically because you know that no matter what she's doing, she'll stop to find out what's wrong and try to make you feel better. And the friend who will always hate your ex-boyfriend more than you do.

Me? I'm the friend who takes you to buy your first vibrator. And apparently, your first strap-on, too. Which is odd, because I don't even have my first strap-on yet. But that's exactly what I'll be doing next week with a certain lesbian friend with curly hair and dimples who, you know, hangs out with me all the time both online and off but shall remain nameless and thank goodness no one has any idea who I'm talking about because how embarrassing would that be for her? We'll be hitting Babeland in a big way, and after that, at some point, we'll probably be hitting other things.

Not that I have a willing participant for strap-on activity, mind you, but I find it's best to always be prepared.

Excuses, excuses

I've given myself a lot of excuses for not going to the gym. Tired. Crampy. Don't want to run into the ex. Just ate. Too late. Just went two weeks ago.

Today, though, I really wanted to go. I swear. I woke up at six for no apparent reason, and the first thing I thought was, "Score! I can totally go to the gym and I won't have to go tonight!" But I didn't go. And the reason I didn't go is because I smelled, nay, reeked of lard. And I wasn't going to shower before and after the gym.

I can safely say I've never used that excuse before.

I'm nothing if not helpful

If you were in any way involved in the great Metrocard-buying clusterfuck at the 2nd Avenue F-train station, you might want to check your credit card balance. See, when anyone attempted to purchase a Metrocard with either a credit or ATM card at any of the four machines, the system timed out and an error message claimed that the card was unable to be read. Lucky for me, once my credit card timed out, I realized I had exactly $24 in my wallet, allowing me to purchase the weekly unlimited card that I needed. But guess what? My credit card was charged. Fucking MTA.

This has been a public service announcement from the cavefish.

I've been a bad, bad IMer

What I meant to IM Curly was the link to MC Hammer's blog.

What I accidentally sent her instead was the following phrase:

My Big Fat Greek Asspile.

Anyone know where it came from? You won't like, win a prize or anything, but I'll be impressed. And as far as my IM shenanigans go, I've done worse.

Regarding Bucky Covington

The Roommate and I watching Bucky perform on American Idol:

The Roommate: You'd totally get drunk at a party and go home with him, wouldn't you?

A moment of silence.

Me: Yup.

I was wrong about Lindsay Lohan's boobs. Sue me.

As I've mentioned previously, I have a love/hate (but mostly hate) relationship with Jane Magazine. Yes, I have a subscription, and yes, I will renew it when the time comes, but it's still love/hate (but mostly hate). It's just that, it was supposed to be a smart, hip magazine for women like me and all the women I know, and well, it's not. But that's neither here nor there, because thanks to one sentence in one article, I have a little crush on Jane Magazine right now.

In the latest issue, they have an article on feeding yourself on $12.99 a day. Shopping lists and recipes here. Now, as someone who's been unemployed and broke a whole lot, I'm not all that impressed. However, check this out:

With the help of coupon database thegrocerygame.com, I pony up $40 for a week's worth of food (you'll find all my delicious recipes at janemag.com), which is what Rachael Ray spends in a day. In your face, Giggles!

So Jane gets a free pass from me this month, because we all know how I feel about Rachael Ray. (New nasty comments!) Plus, there are some really fucking adorable shoes on page 53. So cute, in fact, that I'm almost inspired to learn to walk in heels. Almost.