That's Ms. Crankypants to You

Things that have happened to me in the past week that have sucked:

• Wasted the best hair day ever on a breakup
  
• Contracted a stomach flu
  
• Pissed off a critically-acclaimed filmmaker
  
• Lost my blog
  
• Ate the last of my Vicodin (okay, it didn't suck at the time, but it does now)
  
• Pulled a muscle in my back
  
• Used up two whole hours of my life watching Marie Antoinette

Oh, what's that, Mercury? You're retrograde? Well, kiss my ass.

Celebrity Crushes

I'm pretty low on real-life crushes these days. Hot Bouncer is no longer bouncing, and we are no longer regulars at the bar anyway. I haven't seen Cute Guy Who lives in My Building in so long I'm beginning to wonder if he does, in fact, still live in my building. And there's way too much competition for Office Crush, and if I'm being honest, he wouldn't be as cute out in the world as he is in the office, and besides, he's only on my floor like, once a week.

So instead, I bring you my top 10 celebrity crushes, in no particular order:

Jess on TMZ

I didn't get a byline on the article they're linking to, but I still wrote it.

Invasion of Privacy

In addition to your run-of-the-mill men's and women's bathrooms with stalls, we have a private bathroom in the office, where employees can go to poop, cry, take drugs or call potential employers on their cell phones. Me, I always check the private bathroom first before heading into the shared one, because I like my alone time.

When I moved into the new office last month, I was excited about three things; a more balanced guy-to-girl ratio, the private bathroom, and sharing an office with Miss Tanya again. We had a private bathroom in the old office, and I sat close enough to make it my default toilet but not close enough to smell what activities my co-workers engaged in while they were in there. In theory, this should have been a good thing. In practice, being the only girl in an office full of guys, and disgusting ones at that, made for pee on the seat, a general state of mess and boys trying to bang down the door every time I was in there, putting a serious cramp in my solitude. I also never discovered the perpetrator of the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" philosophy of bathroom visitation, but I'm pretty sure I hated him, provided he was not the super cute blond with the body piercings.

Anyway, the private bathroom in the new office has a feature the private bathroom in the old office did not have: a Vacant/Occupied sign on the outside, that is triggered by the deadbolt on the inside, airport-bathroom style. Which means no people attempting to barge in on you. Except that it doesn't. And it rattles me, because no one should be trying to barge in on me. It clearly says "Occupied" while I'm in there. In red capital letters. I work for a giant media company, where everyone can presumably read. I have never attempted to barge in on anyone -- I see OCCUPIED and keep on walking, either to the shared bathroom if my bathroom business is business that I care to share, or back to my desk so I can try again later.

Also, there is at least one girl who will wait outside of the private bathroom for whoever is in there to exit. And I don't know about you, but I know what most people are doing in said bathroom, and I'd like some air-out time before entering. What is wrong with people?

Regarding Oatmeal … and Semen

Me: Someone needs to start working on making oatmeal taste like a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich.

The Roommate: Someone should work on making semen taste like magic cookie bars first.

Me: I consume more oatmeal than semen.

The Roommate: Nobody should work on oatmeal tasting more like semen.

Me: No, no they shouldn't. Then I'd really never swallow.

The Roommate: Yeah. Plus they'd have a hell of a time selling that to kids.

Me: Well, some kids.

The Roommate: I'm picturing the commercial. And going to hell.

Me: I'm picturing a kid eating oatmeal and remarking on how great it tastes. Mom and Dad are in the back. Mom gives Dad a knowing smile.

Me: Or Dad gives Mom a knowing smile and when he isn't looking, she throws up a little.

The Roommate: This is the grossest conversation we've ever had.

Me: It really is. And we've had some gross conversations.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXXV

When I was 15, First Love and I spent Christmas in Florida with his father. I'm not sure exactly how I convinced my mother that would be okay, but I did. Later, when we broke up right before my prom, and no, I still haven't forgiven him for that, especially in light of the fact that he also dumped me on a birthday once… where was I? Oh yeah. I was sad, looking through the box with all of his old love letters and all of the seashells we'd collected on the beach near his father's apartment. And I wrote this little gem. Enjoy. Especially you, Alex. It's untitled.

We stretched out on the beach
And I looked into your eyes
The stars were shining brightly
And the world just passed us by
The time remained forever
And the place was by your side
Now I watch you walk away
There's an emptiness* inside

Very anti-climactic, eh? If a climax is what you seek, perhaps you'll find it in Volume XXXIV

* Original spelling: emptyness

It's a Free Ride When You've Already Paid

Working for big, giant Internet company, and having the Internet go down (except for personal IM and Blogger, because God loves me the best) is kind of like when I used to work at Arby's and we'd run out of roast beef.

The Real World

Last night, someone from a cable network came over to my apartment and interviewed me on camera to be the star of a reality show.

I'm not really the kind of chick who lands herself her own reality show. I like death metal and horror movies. I have body piercings and a tattoo. My room is a mess. And I suspect I may be too fat for TV. Really, it's the kind of thing you'd expect to see Stephanie Klein on -- well, pre-marriage and pre-moving to Texas and pre-knocked-up anyway. But still, I'm floored that I was even considered, and the whole interview process was fun. I also learned something important about myself -- I am really bad on camera.

I mean, really bad. I said "um" and looked at the ceiling a whole lot. I could tell I was situated in quite possibly the most awkward position on the couch. I kept getting flashbacks to that time Bruce, the sound guy at WRGB News, told me I had the voice of a stoned 12-year-old boy. Another thing I did was that nervous talking thing. I was all like "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

Only I was talking about like, dating and my friends and stuff. And I'm thinking, "Why am I telling her all of this stuff? If I don't get picked to be on the television show, are they going to use this in like the first episode? Me talking and talking and talking and being TMI girl for no reason?" So yeah, it was a little stressful.

Now that it's all over, I'm fairly certain I'm not getting my own reality show. Which is fine, because if I'm being honest, I don't want my own reality show. I prefer the blog, where I get to control the editing. Plus, I'd probably have to explain why I'm a 31-year-old woman who makes a decent living yet lives in an apartment resembling a dorm room. And I'm pretty sure Mom would never forgive me if I was on television swearing like a sailor and talking about my sex life. She's mortified enough by The Bedroom Blog.

MySpace: Not Just for Stalking Exes Anymore

Every now and then, someone comes along and makes you look at the world differently. Some people call it love at first sight. Some people call it soul mates. Well, folks, I'm pleased to announce that it happened to me today. On MySpace.

From: Cum Swallower
Subject: hi how r u today?

holla

I was already feeling tingly as I clicked over to Cum Swallower's profile. Here's what I would like you to know about her:

• She would like to meet a woman who knows how to squirt


• She would like to attend and participate in an all-girl orgy


• She has an interest in "anything freaky" and "hardcore porn"


• She's interested in meeting someone with "some fat juicy ass pussy lips"

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go look into transportation to Gwynn Oak, Maryland, where the new special lady in my life resides. Cum Swallower is an interesting name for someone who is staunchly anti-dick, as she claims to be in her profile. I can't wait to solve that mystery, and all of her mysteries, really.

Friday IM Fun

Miss Tanya and I have such a caring, supportive friendship.

Me: Do you have any labels?

Miss Tanya: Whazzat?

Me: Like, sticky blank labels

Miss Tanya: No

Miss Tanya: Especially not for you!

Me: Whore

What? Stop Looking at Me. I'm Busy.

When something brings me to teary laughter, I feel obliged to share it with y'all. If you've got a minute, please head on over to Hobocamp, where Meg is sharing the tale of how she faked being deaf in grade school so she could get sent to a special institute for the hearing impaired.

Part One

Part Two

Eating the World

Despite my love of junk food, I generally try to eat healthy. I don't want to have a heart attack, or you know, be obese. So every meal I try to maintain that delicate balance between what I want to eat and what I should eat.

Except when I have PMS. For one day out of every month, I let myself eat exactly what I want to. If I want a double cheeseburger meal from McDonald's, with large fries, an apple pie and a vanilla shake, then I will. And I won't even feel guilty about it. If I want mozzarella sticks and candy bars and four-cheese anything, I go for it. I imagine that "eating for two" is pretty much the only exciting thing about pregnancy. I don't think I want kids, but sometimes I fantasize about being a surrogate, with nine blissful months of eating to my heart's content. Oh wait, no sushi though. Fuck that.

I decided to walk home from work today. I don't live close to work, but since I have PMS, I was basically a lunatic for most of the day and thought it might be a good idea to walk it off. On the way home, I pondered my dinner options. Suddenly, it hit me. Tater tots.

But what to have with my tater tots? Why, a burger, on an onion roll, with cheddar cheese and steak sauce, of course. The thought put a little spring in my step, and I speed-walked to the Key Food on Avenue A.

No. Fucking. Tater. Tots. I swear, that Key Food is the worst. It makes me angry. One Sunday, I was planning on making pork chops for the dinner crew, (And if I'm being honest, I was following a heavily-doctored Rachael Ray recipe.) and there were no pork chops. At the grocery store. It sucks so bad. Once, The Roommate went at a weird hour and she said all of the refrigerated areas had been turned off. She didn't know for how long, but just consider yourself warned if you live in the East Village.

So I got French fries, but it wasn't the same. And now I'm going to sulk until it's time to eat whatever I want next month. I'm thinking jalapeño poppers, maybe.

Simon

I had this friend. We'll call him Simon. He was a good friend, my best, really, at the time. I was the receptionist at the company where he did web development, despite the fact that he was a Philosophy major. He went out every afternoon to buy himself a big cookie, and he'd buy me one too. He agreed to teach me how to play guitar in exchange for home-cooked meals. Every weekend, I lugged my guitar from the lower east side of Manhattan to Park Slope, Brooklyn. We'd go to the store, buy food and wine, and I'd cook. We'd invariably drink too much wine with dinner and watch movies in lieu of him teaching me guitar. He'd try to bribe me to watch The Matrix. I'd try to fix him up with my friends.

Then Simon met a girl and fell in love. And despite his best efforts and my best efforts, she didn't like me. And she didn't like our close friendship. And she gave him an "it's her or me" ultimatum. And he chose her.

I remember when he told me. It was over lunch, at the no-longer-there vegan joint Herban Kitchen in Tribeca. "She doesn't think our friendship is appropriate," he said. "I love her," he said. I blinked back tears. My best friend was dumping me. I never blamed him. I could tell it was hard on him, too.

That was about four years ago. Since then, I've had random, "I wonder what Simon is up to these days" moments. So I'd google him. Nothing. Nada. Today was different. Today I found him on MySpace. And I sent him a message. Now, I wait. To tell you the truth, I'm a little nervous.

Why I Love My Job

On a conference call, discussing whether or not we could do a "Fetishes by Sign" article that wouldn't be too dirty:

Coworker: As long as we stay away from anything golden, we should be fine.

Regarding Neil LaBute's Mother

I'm a huge Neil LaBute fan. This is something that I struggle with, because he hates women a whole lot. I like to say, "Yeah, but he hates men, too. He's an equal opportunity hater," but that's pretty much bullshit.

I've been mad at Neil LaBute for the past couple of weeks, ever since I saw The Wicker Man. The film wasn't just bad, it was bad to the point where I thought he may have been joking. Now, I never saw the original, so I don't know how loosely based on it this version was, but a bunch of evil women running an island? And keeping men as pets/servants? And sacrificing men to the goddess? And Nick Cage punching a whole lot of ladies in their faces? It wasn't just misogynistic, it was hysterical and paranoid.

Still, when I heard about his new play Wrecks, I was intrigued. The Young Man, who is, in his words, "a very important person in the theater industry," was able to get us tickets for yesterday's afternoon performance. If you plan on seeing this, you might want to stop reading now, because I'm basically going to summarize the whole thing and give away the big plot twist at the end.

The entire play is a monologue by Ed Harris. He's at JoJo, his wife's, funeral. He tells us how much he loved JoJo. He tells us in squirmy detail how much he loved having sex with JoJo. He tells us what a wonderful woman JoJo was. The whole time, I'm thinking two things: 1) Ed Harris is truly amazing and 2) Where's all the woman hating?

I thought maybe Neil LaBute had turned a corner. Maybe he was going to just hate women on the inside, instead of subjecting us to it over and over. Maybe this play was really going to be about a man who loved his wife.

Or, you know, maybe not. See, JoJo had a secret. When JoJo was 15, she was raped by an uncle and became pregnant. She was sent away and forced to give her son up for adoption. That son later spent years trying to track down his mother. When he finally did, he didn't tell her he was her son. No, he married her and had kids with her instead. That son was Ed Harris. For the 30 years he was married to JoJo, he never told her she was his mother.

Seriously, people. What must Neil LaBute's mother be like? I'm thinking she's probably a cross between Joan Crawford and Susan Smith.

The Rachael Ray Conspiracy

I noticed today that my traffic has been down a lot more than usual, after hitting an all-time high last week when the good folks at Rachael Ray Sucks posted a link to my Open Letter to Rachael Ray. A little investigation revealed that the following search terms are no longer bringing people to my blog:

rachael ray naked
rachel ray nude
rachael ray tits
rachel ray
rachael ray
rachael ray bikini

Those search terms used to account for roughly half of my blog traffic, and would explain why people who arrived here were so irate. They wanted malformed boobs, they got bitchy commentary. I'm thinking either Google changed their search algorithms, or someone blew someone to have my link removed. I'm going to go with the latter, mostly because I have an inflated sense of my own self-importance.

Fucking Hoff-Style

If you know me, you know I'm a big Pantera fan. So naturally I was delighted when The Roommate sent me this video: Interpretation of "Fucking Hostile" by Pantera. I laughed out loud several times. It's not entirely work safe, but if you think you can get away with quick flashes of balls (male, not volley) on your screen, then by all means take a look.

Exposed

It was my first day as a VH1 intern.

I'd taken Metro-North down from Poughkeepsie, being sure to get on a too-early train because I was nervous about being late and wanted to make a good first impression. I'd worn my favorite skirt, a multi-colored, multi-paneled sort of Andy Warhol-take on tulips. Oh, how I loved that skirt. If I could still get my ass into it, I'd wear it every day. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's still in my closet, even though I'll never be a size 3 again. That's how much I loved that skirt.

Anyway, I got off the train, and since I had so much time to kill, decided to walk from Grand Central to Times Square. I'd only been in the city a handful of times, and this was my first solo trip, so it was kind of a big deal for me. As I walked, I noticed I was on the receiving end of a lot of catcalling. I mean, a LOT. "Oh well," I thought. "It must be a New York thing." I was used to the catcalls in Poughkeepsie, as I walked past a construction site every day on my way to campus and was often instructed to sit on someone's face or suck the occasional cock. This was a whole other level of harassment, though. Still, I was wearing a short skirt. I figure that had to be it.

As I approached Times Square, I almost ran into Gilbert Gottfried. Not the most exciting first celebrity sighting to have, but it was something. I started to fantasize about which celebrity I'd next lay my eyes on... Johnny Depp… Chris Cornell… that hot dude with the nose ring who was on The Real World…

Then I caught my reflection in a window. My favorite skirt was tucked into the back of my leather jacket. I'd walked all the way from Grand Central station to Times Square during the morning rush with my red polka-dotted underwear with the bows on them displayed for every passerby.

I wish I could say I didn't still do things like that, but I do. With alarming frequency. I just find them less embarrassing these days.

I Swear, I Didn't do it