Celebrity Stalking

On the off-chance that you are not attuned to, well, anything, the VMAs are tonight. Miss Tanya is going, and I hate her a little bit, but the hatred is lessened by the fact that she tried really hard to get me a ticket. Also lessened by the fact that there are sure to be celeb sightings galore today. In fact, it's already started.

Anyway, you may not know that Miss Tanya and I worked together at the last place, and also work together at this one. Today, I moved into her office and we quickly resumed our daily lunch excursions. As we walked down 52nd St. on our break, we saw a ruckus on the sidewalk and got annoyed because it was hard to get by. That ruckus turned out to be Fergie of Black Eyed Peas fame. I actually met Fergie back when she was in Wild Orchid, when I worked for an evil music distributor and the band was one of the acts that entertained us on a boat trip. She was very shy. I expected her to be all busted looking today, because well, you've all seen the photos. She was surprisingly hot. And short. Maybe I shouldn't be so baffled by what Josh Duhamel sees in her after all. Oh wait, no. Homegirl wet herself on stage. I remain baffled.

Miss Tanya had been telling me that Like Dat from The Flavor of Love would be in the office today, and if you know me, you know that my love for that show veers into the land of crazy. Shortly after we returned, I received this IM:

Miss Tanya: SHE'S HERE COME OVER

So I did. And Miss Tanya and I accosted her. She was a sweetheart. She was talking about how she didn't expect people to recognize her, but she got mobbed out in front of the building. Miss Tanya also overheard her say that Toastee's porn photo had something to do with a banana. But that's not porn, though! If you don't know what I'm talking about, then you are really missing the best show ever.

Related: Like Dat's blog. Also, Miss Tanya got a picture, which I assume she'll be posting on her blog at some point.

Moving Day

For most of my professional career, I've worked for small companies. At my first dot-com, where I spent nearly four years, I was hire #15. When everyone started getting rich off of IPOs, and Mary Meeker was considered the voice of God (Who I heard made a killing investing in Pets.com, incidentally. God, that is, not Mary Meeker. The joke is way less funny when I have to explain it.), we grew to 200+, but that included all of our remote sales offices, so it was still pretty small.

My second dot-com, which is where I spent two years hating my life with the fire of a thousand suns, was also a small company. They'd bought some other companies, but we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us.

I am, at this very moment, working for my first big-ass gorilla of a company, and tomorrow I move into nicer digs in a nicer office. I never moved at my second dot-com, but I did at the first when we expanded and I got to relocate into the tiny office with all of the boys, where we had a jolly good time. Here's the difference between then and now:

Then: I piled my shit on top of my desk chair and pushed it down to the new office, losing CDs, notebooks and Post-Its along the way. It took about four trips, mostly on account of all my toys. I also carried the components of my own desktop computer down, and set it back up by myself.

Now: Printed labels with my name and new desk location, crates, a six-page PowerPoint presentation explaining all aspects of the move. All computer equipment must be labeled individually and numbered. All crates must be labeled individually and numbered. Forms must be filled out explaining where on our new desks our phone and computer is to be placed. A checkout checklist must be completed. We are to work from home for the remainder of the day while our desks are set up. Upon arrival, we are to fill out a move survey form and unpack. Should anything be missing, we are to fill out a post-move assistance form.

This whole big company thing is going to take some getting used to, I'm thinking. Still.

My Future Husband

Tonight, I went over to Azee's for dinner. Polenta with cheese, spinach and tomatoes, to be specific. Also on the menu? Back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City.

We started with the second season. When we were introduced to Miranda's cute, nice beaux who couldn't get her off, I loudly exclaimed, "Oh my God! I love that guy!" That guy, incidentally, was Mark Feuerstein. Or as I like to call him, my future husband. Azee looked at him and said, "He looks like every guy you've ever dated. Sometimes he has hair and sometimes he doesn't, but you always date that guy." I don't know about every guy, but he certainly bears more than your passing resemblance to Red Sox.

The thing about Mark Feuerstein is that you probably don't know him by name. That fact earned him a spot in Fametracker's Hey, it's That Guy! series. His specialty, according to Fametracker, is "short romantics." You may know him as that cute, nice vet from Caroline in the City. Or as that cute, nice judge on Ally McBeal. Or, recently, as that cute, nice lawyer from In Her Shoes. Basically, when the part calls for a cute, nice something-or-other, Mark Feuerstein is your guy. But back off, because he's my guy.

Now, the next part is going to make you think I'm a little crazy, if you don't already. Mark Feuerstein has been a permanent fixture in my dreams. For years. And over the years, we've gotten to know each other quite a bit. Each new dream picks up where the last left off. We're currently somewhere between kissing and sleeping together. We haven't seen each other in awhile, though, so I think we might have fallen back a few steps.

So after analyzing these dreams of mine, I came to the obvious conclusion that Mark Feuerstein and I are destined to be together. I mean, duh. I think that if we were to meet in real life, he'd say, "Oh my God! You're that adorable redhead from my dreams! I didn't think you really existed!" And then the 70s porn music would start and we'd get naked, and I wouldn't have to fake it like Miranda did when he played that cute, nice ophthalmologist on Sex and the City.

When I first moved to the city, I was taking a cab home from somewhere one night, most likely some sort of open bar affair paid for by silly Internet company #1. I was stopped at a red light, and when I looked up, he was walking in front of the car. Our eyes met. I thought, "Oh my God! That's the guy from my dreams, my future husband. What the hell is his name?" I briefly considered jumping out of the cab and running after him, which surely would have resulted in either a marriage proposal or a restraining order. I was willing to risk it in that moment.

Last summer, Mark Feuerstein married some skank named Dana Klein. Kidding, I'm sure she's a very lovely girl. But if she isn't, now, thanks to the power of the Internet, I'm a mere Google away. Hey Mark! Remember me? That redhead from the dreams (I'm guessing)? Call me!

On being milked

Curly and I have agreed to be in a short film next week. We don't know much about this short film, except that we are playing the parts of Milkmaid #3 and Milkmaid #2, respectively, and being paid in pizza. Here's what we have been able to ascertain over the course of the day.

Curly: I asked Babs if I was going to have to drink the milk. If so, I'm going to have to be a diva and ask for a rewrite.

Me: What did she say?

Curly: "No. You have to ... be milked."

Me: Ha!

Curly: Sorry, Jess. I think I unknowingly got us involved in porn.

Me: I'm reading the script right now. Yeah, that being milked thing wasn't a joke.

Curly: Really?

Me: Really. I hope I can keep a straight face while saying my lines. I've never been milked on-camera before.

Curly: Have you been milked off-camera?

Me: No comment.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXXIV

I can't believe I didn't post this one before. I thought for sure I'd posted all of the poems about diamonds and roses, but a bad poetry search tells me that I missed one. It's a doozy, too. It really blows my mind how profound I thought I was in high school. The handwriting and placement in The Yellow Notebook tells me that Satan (My first boyfriend) inspired this, despite the fact that there is no J.D. (His initials. Clue!) after it. Granted, one does learn a lot more about pain when dating Satan when she does when dating your average teenaged boy, but one also doesn't need to express it in awful metaphors either. Enjoy!

There's beauty to all sadness
Tears are shining drops of pain
Falling from the windows to the soul
Like diamonds in the rain

A sigh sent forth from a broken heart
Is the sound of a summer breeze
Forgotten in the sun's bright rays
The pain that no one sees

A lost love is a wilted rose
Bled of vibrance, life and glory
Yet still possesses beauty
In the sadness of its story

Nearly bursting with desire for more bad poetry? Go back and give Volume XXXIII a dry hump.

At Least it Wasn't Ed Asner

The thing I hate most about my celebrity sex dreams is that none of them feature Johnny Depp or Matthew McConaughey. It's always someone that I'd never even considered sleeping with. Like Eminem. Not that I don't like Eminem, because I do, and he's cute in that wounded sort of way. I just don't think he'd be a particularly good time in bed or otherwise. Eminem doesn't exactly scream fun, you know?

I've also had my share of celebrity sex dreams featuring women, but sadly, none of them were Christina Aguilera or pre-Federline Britney Spears. I'm more likely to have a sex dream about like, Melissa Joan Hart and wake up shuddering and in desperate need of a shower. I'm sorry, but that wonky eye freaks me the fuck out.

Last night, though, I had a celebrity sex dream that is likely to stay with me for quite awhile, and not in a good way. In my dream, I spent the weekend at a friend's parents' house, and at that house, proceeded to have sex with my friend's mother. If that isn't horrifying enough, that friend's mother was Mary Tyler Moore, circa 1970.

What do you think Freud would have to say about that?

The Subway Guy Takes Manhattan by Storm

Are you a Jared Fogle fan? If so, get thee to the Rockefeller Center Concourse, tout de suite, because homeboy is signing copies of his book, Jared, the Subway Guy: Winning Through Losing: 13 Lessons for Turning Your Life Around in front of Subway AS WE SPEAK.

On the one hand, I'm kind of bummed that I forgot my camera today. On the other hand, I'd feel like kind of a loser if people saw me photographing Jared, the Subway Guy.

We Didn't Even Get to the Picture...

Every once in awhile, something lands in my inbox that is so awesome, I need to share it with the world, and by "the world," I mean all five of you who read my blog. (Hi guys! *Waves*) It landed there courtesy of The Roommate, who likes to send me weird shit. This delights me to no end. Now, I implore you to read "Electrical Outages Can Be Quite Soothing" from the Buffalo News. Perhaps you'll have some of the same reactions we did.

Me: "The reading room"

The Roommate: "Electrical outages can be quite soothing"

Me: "Liberating!"

The Roommate: "Reinforcing the seams on my new work slacks would be delayed."

Me: Kitty back massage?

The Roommate: Canned carrots with ranch dressing?

The Roommate: Holy GOD the cat's name is Furchilde Fuzzybutt

Me): Their relationship transcends the typical cat/owner relationship, I'm thinking

The Roommate: It goes into maybe something illegal

Me: From Bill: That whole thing about the cat makes me want to call cat protective services.

All Flamingos, All the Time

A quick announcement. The first batch of photos have been uploaded to Flickr, with commentary. More to come. For your viewing pleasure.

My Cat is an Asshole

Me: John Brown ate my pistachio cupcake from the super shiny crackhead bakery this morning.

The Roommate: No way!

Me: I gave [The Boy] the box to take his cupcake in, and I set mine down on the counter and walked out of the room. When I came back in, he was chowing down on my fucking cupcake. What cat eats cupcakes?

The Roommate: What a dick. John Brown is really something.

Me: I wish I could say I was so grossed out that I didn't eat what was left of the cupcake, but I can't.

The Roommate: HA!

Related: My Cat is a Big Gay Asshole

The Flamingos... Now With More Nudity!

Okay, technically there wasn't any more nudity at this particular reunion than usual, but we did manage to digitally record most of it. And FYI, if you ask a friend's husband to take a picture of four sets of naked boobs because you've never been able to capture them all at the same time because someone has always had to take the picture, two things will happen: 1) He will gladly and emphatically say yes and 2) Any husbands who had the questionable fortune of spending time with us previously, and that time did not include naked boobs and a digital camera, will not be happy. Also, when four drunk girls are left to their collective devices in the middle of the woods with four digital cameras, all sorts of mayhem will ensue. You'll get to see that mayhem over the next few days over at Flickr, but in the meantime, here's my first wobbly video attempt on our hike to Fawn Lake, AKA my favorite place on Earth. Seriously, how could I not love these girls?



UPDATE: Pictures from Holly! There's one of me in a baseball hat, looking like a boy, and one of me in a bikini, not looking like a boy.

Because If My Sharona And I Stop Talking About Boys, The Terrorists Have Won

My Sharona: No McChip since Monday night.

Me: WTF?

My Sharona: He's kinda pulling a Captain Jersey, don't ya think?

Me: I was thinking that yesterday, actually.

My Sharona: Captain Jersey liked you. He was just that stupid.

Me: Yeah.

My Sharona: What did he say at the end that made us plot his murder?

Me: Let me see if I still have the email.

My Sharona: I remember wanting to kick his ass.

Me: "But I'm really sorry that things weren't happening fast enough for you, and that I just don't have enough time (or the personality) to become a full-time boyfriend at the drop of a hat."

My Sharona: Oh fuck.

My Sharona: I hate him all over again.

On Holiday

I'm going to be MIA for a little bit, babies. First, there's this pesky book proposal I have to get out, and by "pesky" I mean, "Oh my God I'm writing a motherfucking book proposal." More on that later, when I know whether I'll be jumping for joy or shaking my fist at the heavens. Second, the 8th Annual Flamingo Reunion kicks off with DH's arrival tomorrow evening, followed by Abs' arrival tomorrow night, followed by an early morning drive up to Mrs. F's in Scotia Friday morning, some Jumpin' Jacks if I have my way, and finally, up to Speculator, where there will be grilling and camping and hiking and swimming and naked pillow fights. (But where's Erika, you ask? Yeah, me too.) I'll be back on Monday with pictures and tales. For you newbies and long-time readers with no long-term memories, here's some madness from previous reunions so you'll know what you can expect upon my return:

The 7th Annual Flamingo Reunion

The 6th Annual Flamingo Reunion

The 5th Annual Flamingo Reunion

Down Home

So Curly and I painted Schenectady red over the weekend in celebration of Mama Cavefish's 50th birthday. We had a surprise party for her at ye olde family saloon, and she was not terribly happy at first, but she got over it. If you'd like to see the video of her walking in and nearly killing me, watch it here. Cousin Desiree was nice enough to do the filming with Curly's camera. We used the old car wouldn't start excuse to get her out there.

Some highlights:

- Since Curly loves taking pictures of ass cracks, she got this one at ye olde family tavern. Aunt Annie asked her to blow it up and crop it so they could have a "guess who this crack belongs to and win a free drink" contest. Awesome.

- While getting my hair cut by the lovely Dana, a woman who was waiting for her husband to be finished with his cut struck up a conversation with us about her new puppy. In addition to said puppy, she also has a grey husky. "One of the neighbors thought it was a wolf and tried to shoot it." That was almost as great as the time I was in Jacksonville visiting Julie and her friend told us a story about how she thought there was an intruder in her house and grabbed her gun. "You have a gun?" Julie asked. "I'm a fucking redneck, of course I have a gun." was her reply.

- Me: We'll meet you at Grandma's. We want to stop at A.J. Wright.

Mom: Why?

Me: Because it's funny.

And it is. If you have doubts, check out Curly's A.J. Wright photostream. I mean, really. Where else can you sing into a seashell on a stick?



There was also consumption of my all-time favorite pizza, Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, tales of things that go bump in the night and even some krumping. And as it turns out, Mom isn't going to kill me after all.

Note: Special thanks to Curly for pictures, videos, etc. If I ever remembered to bring a camera to anything, I'm sure The Four Horseman of the apocalypse would show up shortly after the first shutter click.

Apologies in advance to my Belgian readers

Him: Would you mind if I added a definition for "blind cavefish" to urbandictionary.com?

Me: What is the definition, exactly?

Him: I dunno yet. Some perverse sexual act that no one actually does maybe.

Me: Funny.

Him: Here's a "blind carl"

Him: 1. blind carl

A blind carl is when you shit on someone's eyes and stick your dick in their mouth.

In order to survive prison, Ethan had to become quite adept at executing a "blind carl" at a moment's notice.

Me: Who does these things?

Me: I mean, I'm not a prude by any means, but seriously. WHO DOES THEM?

Him: Belgians, I suppose.

The Night L.A. Guns Drunk-Dialed Me

I was a huge L.A. Guns fans back in the day. To tell you the truth, "The Ballad of Jayne" still kicks my ass all over the place, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, I was 15, they were playing at Saratoga Winners, and my mom had some silly "school night" rule and wouldn't let me go.

You can imagine how bummed I was, and also how pissed. I mean, how dare my mother not let me go to a bar 40 minutes away when I had to show up the next morning for 10th grade? So strict and cruel, that mom.

My friend Gary went, and I was beyond jealous. He told me he'd see about getting me an autograph, but it didn't diminish my hurt and disappointment. I sat home and sulked, and played my Cocked and Loaded tape at top volume with the door open. Eventually, I got bored of being a brat and went to sleep. At around 1 in the morning, my phone rang. I pounced on it before my mother could wake up.

"Hello?" I said, still half-asleep.

"Jessica?" It was a voice I didn't recognize.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Tracii Guns."

"Very funny, Gary."

"I'm with Gary. We're at Winners. Say hi Gary!" I heard Gary's unmistakable drunk yelling in the background.

My heart stopped. I froze. My mind was blown.

"Um, wow, hi."

And Tracii and I made with the small talk. I tried to play it cool but inside I was screaming "OH MY GOD I AM TALKING TO TRACII MOTHERFUCKING GUNS ON THE PHONE RIGHT NOW!"

It didn't end here, either. I also talked to Mick Cripps and Kelly Nickles. They all sounded drunk as all hell. They were all friendly. They all tried to convince me that I should find a way to get down to Winners and hang out with them, stat. Had I had a license yet, I most definitely would have climbed out of my window, rolled my mom's car down the driveway in neutral and gone there. Alas, fate was not on my side that night, and I had to decline.

The next day in school, a very tired Gary gave me the lowdown. He'd gone to the show, met them after, started hanging out, mentioned his friend Jessica couldn't come and was bummed because she was a huge fan and one of the guys said, "Let's call her!" He also had a napkin to give me with autographs and short notes to me scrawled on it. I still have it somewhere.

I'm pretty sure that's the most exciting thing that happened to me when I was 15. Unless that was the year I met Skid Row. I can't remember if I was 14 or 15 when that happened.

An Open Letter to the Person In My Office Who Left An Entire Box Of Entenmann's Chewy Oatmeal Raisin Cookies On The Kitchen Counter

Dear Person In My Office Who Left An Entire Box Of Entenmann's Chewy Oatmeal Raisin Cookies On The Kitchen Counter:

I hate you.

Best,
Jess

A Public Service Announcement

First of all, apologies if you live outside the NYC Metro area (Actually, this post will also be helpful to those in Boston, Chicago, San Fran and DC). Furthermore, apologies if you've known about this for, like, ever. I have not. I just learned about it today, and since it's pretty much the coolest, most useful thing ever, I thought I'd share it with those of you who, like me, are way fucking behind all the cool kids.

So I was poring over maps, trying to figure out how to get from the East 30s to some location in Brooklyn that I don't know, because, Brooklyn? What? Kidding. I'm not one of those Manhattan chicks that shuns Brooklyn. Well, I do during the week, but that's because it takes too long to get home late at night. Anyway, I was trying to figure out how I could leave work at 6, go to the vet's office to pick up needles with which to shoot up the cat, jet out to Brooklyn to drop off my keys with the catsitter, and then make it home in time to do 11 laps in the pool before adult lap swim is over. I sent an IM to Curly, and she sent me back a link to HopStop. If HotStop were a guy, I'd do him.