Overheard on Houston Street

Last night, I was walking down Houston and passed by the tax place. A guy in a suit, (presumably a tax preparer) was consoling a big tough guy with a shaved head, who was weeping openly in front of the establishment.

Tax Guy: Don't worry, man. It's going to be okay.

Tough Guy: I just don't know where I'm going to get the money.

Tax Guy: You'll get it. Don't worry. Hey, why don't you come inside and get a drink? (Hopefully) A drink will help, right?

Tough Guy sniffles and nods.

Tax Guy: Okay man, come on inside and we'll get you some Hennessey.

Hennessey? Is that the preferred beverage for tax emergencies?

Ireland Highlights

I got back from Ireland last night, and didn't blog because hello? The White Rapper Show was on. Are you watching? Because seriously, you should be. So anyway, here were my favorite parts of the trip, and I apologize in advance for the lack of drunken debauchery. There just wasn't any. I'm getting boring in my old age.

- Kilmainham Gaol, an old prison where the leaders of the 1916 Easter Rising were held and executed, was amazing. It was interesting from a visual perspective, and the stories were just unbelievable. As our tour guide told us, "If some of the stories you heard here were included in works of fiction, no one would believe them."

- The Guinness Factory: My, was it ever flashy! I didn't expect that. It was good fun, although I got really, really lost on the way there and it took me forever to find the actual entrance when I arrived.

- The Brazen Head Pub: Ireland's oldest pub. I had a nice plate of fish and chips there, washed down with a couple of pints. I know that, technically, I'm expected to drink half-pints because I'm a woman, but fuck that, I say.

- The library at Trinity College: I could have stayed in the Long Room all day. Absolutely gorgeous, with the high ceilings, the marble busts, and the smell of old books. It was perfect.

- Kyde's christening. Being a Godmother is cool, even if your goddaughter barfs all over you on occasion.

- Time with Julie. It's rough not seeing your best friend for seven months. We got to go out one night and leave the baby at home with her father and have some Very Serious Talks and also a lot of laughs, which was awesome.

There were many other awesome things about the trip, but those were the top level things that I had to mention. I also owe a lot of people sloppy kisses for their touristy suggestions -- I'll get to that tout de suite. And on one final note, why can I never remember that bacon in Europe is not the same as bacon here? I've had a little R&R, and will now resume blogging at my usual frenzied pace, and by frenzied I mean at least once a day unless I don't get to it.

Because You Have to Draw the Line Somewhere

Me: Would you do an Olsen twin?

The Young Man: Hmmm…

The Young Man: This seems like a trap...

The Young Man: So, NO.

Me: Is that an honest answer?

The Young Man: No.

The Young Man: But I wouldn't do them very good.

Me: Do you have a preference?

The Young Man: I really wouldn't know one from the other.

The Young Man: Probably the one who wasn't in rehab.

The Young Man: Less likely to have been molested while passed out at Andy Dick's house.

Me: Good point. By the way, I find this information much less disturbing than our conversation about Lizzie Grubman. That's pretty much my barometer for disturbing at this point.

Locked Out

Back in the day when I shared my tiny apartment with Red Sox, he managed to drop his keys down the elevator shaft in the apartment building once. Oh, how I laughed and laughed! For about a week. I believe I also referred to him as a "dumbass" several times. (Y'all should date me -- I'm a real sweetheart.)

Fast-forward to Friday night. I've got a couple of Key Food bags in one hand, a Duane Reade bag in the other and some laundry slung across my back. I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor, and as I get ready to push the door open, key in my pushing hand, it happens. They slip from my grasp. Time slows down. I watch my keys falling in slow-motion, aware that I should do something, that if I don't do something they're going to … and then they disappear. Down the elevator shaft.

I guess that's what they call "karma."

While my super is generally nice, if not a little creepy, he doesn't actually DO anything. Okay, that's not true. I see him doing things all the time -- they just never happen to be in my apartment. He also only calls me back roughly 15 percent of the time when I page him. And he doesn't live in my building, or even in my neighborhood, so I can't even knock on his door and ask him to help me.

So I stood in the lobby for a few minutes. I called The Roommate, who didn't answer. I called The Young Man, who was on his way to my apartment and offered many helpful suggestions. I called my super. My super actually called me back, which is statistically sound -- he didn't return my last batch of calls about my leaky refrigerator, prompting me to buy a new gasket and replace it myself. Which actually makes me kind of a badass, now that I think about it. He told me I was out of luck, basically. That the only way to retrieve my keys was to call the elevator company, and the elevator company won't come for a stupid girl who dropped her keys down an elevator shaft. Except that the last super retrieved the keys in the first elevator shaft incident without the aid of said elevator company, and it took him like 10 minutes. There was no point in arguing, though. Especially with the language barrier.

"Can I get another key for the front door?" I asked, hopefully. He dismissively told me he didn't have any, and that I'd have to pay a visit to the management company. When the office was actually opened after the long holiday weekend. Luckily I caught The Roommate who was on her way out of town for the weekend and was able to get her keys, and copy the ones that actually open locks on our apartment door. (The building front door is one of those Multi-lock deals that no one will copy, because it's illegal or some shit.) I had to wait until today to get a front door key, and yesterday, after I'd given The Roommate hers back, I went out hoping that someone would be coming in or out and would be able to let me back in upon my return. I was lucky in that respect.

The worst part? I lost the keychain Linus bought me that says, "Torn between that good girl/bad girl thing." And also, to anyone else out there who I may have at one time or another referred to as a "dumbass," I'm sorry, okay? Jesus.

Great Stomachs Think Alike

Yesterday afternoon, The Roommate and I watched Pretty Poison, a hilariously terrible Lifetime movie starring Grant Show of Melrose Place fame. He's a recent parolee named Dennis Pitt, who did time for killing his parents and fancies himself an eco-terrorist. He gets involved with Sue Ann Stepanek, a completely demented high school cheerleader (and low-rent Jennie Garth). They hatch a plan to run away to Mexico together, which is really a fake plan because her real plan is to kill her parents and have him go down for it. Also, she really likes killing people.

At one point in the story, she sends him off into the woods to hide, handing him a bag and informing him that it contained "sandwiches and chocolate."

Moments later:

The Roommate: She just handed him a bag of sandwiches and chocolate.

Me: Yeah.

Moments after that, in unison:

That's really exciting.

Bad poetry I wrote as a teenager, Volume XXXVIII

I'm not sure what personal crisis inspired this exactly. Based on the bizarre flourishes in my handwriting, I'd have to say this was some of my earlier work. Like eighth grade. You know, before I really DEVELOPED as an ARTIST. Maybe it was the result of some super serious shit that went down at a school dance. Or a bad hair day. Who knows, for sure? As an aside, I read an old "story" I'd written in The Yellow Notebook today. About a businessman? Who is also a champion rollerskater? And has a meltdown and quits his job to run a hot dog cart in a clown suit? And stabs a guy to death with a sewing needle? What? Anyway, without further ado…

As I listen to the rainfall
These tears of darkened clouds
I try to close my eyes & sleep
But these tears are really loud
So instead I stop & wonder
If that cloud was full of pain
When she stops will she be white again?
Or were her tears all cried in vain?*
If her pain is why she cries
Did it often weigh her down?
So she couldn't soar across the sky
But hover near the ground
Though** I know not of these answers
They linger in my mind
And I long to be just like the clouds
If I could leave my tears behind

* "In vain" was a very big thing with me, and would continue to be throughout my poetic career
** Original spelling "Tho"

I was 13. Don't judge me. If you missed the last juicy installment, here it is.

Deep Breath

I'm both pleased and terrified to announce that I just plopped down almost 20 thousand dollars that I don't exactly have to attend cooking school in the spring, March or May, depending on how my job situation pans out between now and then. Holy shit.

Wouldst Thou Like One? Just a Little One?

Me: This is cracking me up. From last week's Top Chef recap: Ilan points imperiously at the pan in which Marcel's eggs are sitting, and he says, "You want to take those out so I can make myself an egg?" Any time someone starts with "you wanna" instead of "would you," you know that he's trying to start a fight. It's why you don't hear people saying, "Would you like to have a piece of me?"

Jake: Lol. How true.

Me: I'm going to start using that. Oh really, bitch? Would you like to have a piece of me?

Jake: If you've got a free moment, perhaps you would like to have a piece of me.

Me: I'm free around 3:00, if you'd like to go over to the hillside behind the middle school and have a piece of me.

Jake: I've booked us a table at Morimoto so that you might have a piece of me over fresh vegetable tempura.

Me: After the young gentleman poked his knife dangerously close to my ribcage, I politely inquired as to whether or not he would like to have a piece of me.

Jake: Prithee, wouldst thou liken to have a piece of me before or anon breakfast?

Me: We kill me.

An Open Letter to AOL Radio

Dear AOL Radio:

Making me listen to an eHarmoney commercial before I'm allowed to listen to your "All Slayer" station isn't very metal. I'm just sayin'.

Love,
Jess

In the Meantime

I'm sick. And busy. I'll be back soon, I promise. While you wait, check out all the pics I took over the weekend. The cherry blossoms were blooming! Because cherry blossoms are dumb.

Also, we've started the countodwn to American Idol and given the Midol blog a new home. And in other reality television news, you should watch The White Rapper Show on VH1. It's pretty much the most genius thing ever.

Now if you'll excuse me, Cameron Diaz's astrology profile isn't going to edit itself.

I Was Once An Aspiring Ballerina. Really.

When you live in a Manhattan apartment no bigger than a shoebox (one for flip-flops, not winter boots), you have to get creative with your storage options.

The biggest challenge in my Lower East Side hovel has been the kitchen, specifically, the fact that I don't have one. I have a living room with a sink, stove and refrigerator, all of short-person stature, shoved against one wall. There is no counter space, save for the few inches beside the sink on which the dish-drying rack sits, and there are no drawers.

Some years back, someone (either me or one of my four roommates since moving into this apartment seven years ago) purchased a wire basket with compartments, which we use to not only dry the silverware right next to the dish-drying rack, but also to store it.

Why am I boring you with the details of my non-existent kitchen, you ask? Backstory. Now on to the real story. You may not know this about me, but I am a klutz. A big klutz. A Mandy-Moore-on-Scrubs-klutz-only-not-as-endearing-because-Mandy-Moore-is-way-cuter-than-I-am klutz. (As an aside, I only recently discovered Scrubs, and only watch it in reruns, so I can't tell you during which season Ms. Moore played Zach Braff's girlfriend, but damn, she was funny.)

So I was doing the dishes the other night, because The Roommate wasn't home yet and she was going to make us couscous with lamb and vegetables, and I thought maybe I should clean up for her so she could cook. Nice of me, right? Not really -- all of the dishes were mine.

I washed a pan, put in on the rack, pulled my arm away and something happened. I'm not sure what, exactly, but it was either a sleeve or an elbow. Whatever the case, I launched the pan back over my shoulder and it went crashing down on the ground. I bent over to pick it up, and when I stood up, knocked my other arm into the silverware holder, sending no fewer than 73 utensils onto the floor. I picked them all up, put them back into the holder and put the holder in the sink so I could rinse them all off. Somehow I managed to flood the counter, break a wine glass and hit my head on the open cabinet door above my head. This all happened within the span of, oh, about ten minutes.

Once I'd gotten myself back together, The Roommate returned home. After I recounted my tale of personal injury, she told me about how she'd just been in Key Food, where she'd managed to not only hit her own head with her shopping basket, but also to assault some unsuspecting fellow with it as well.

Hey Zach Braff, want to date us?

Happy New Year, Part Deux

So I decided to do nothing to ring in the New Year. It wasn't really all I thought it would be and more. But it was definitely better than that year I got dumped around 11:30 p.m. and was sitting on an N train coming back from Bay Ridge when the ball dropped. Next year, I'm either going to host my own soiree or take a vacation. I'll keep you posted as we get closer to the date. If it's the former, of course you're all invited. Except for you, Weird Guy.

Anyway, I'm back at work today and I'm drowning in a sea of articles that need editing and site statistics that need to be reported. I did manage to sneak downstairs to grab some chicken teriyaki at City 75 for lunch, though.

I get my lunch at City 75 most days, because it's in my building, making it convenient, and it hasn't been completely invaded by tourists over the past couple of weeks. Fucking tourists. As far as mid-town lunch destinations go, it's pretty good. Decent buffet tables, decent pizza, sushi… that's all I need, really.

One thing I never do, though, is look at my receipt for City 75. Today I did. It says this on the bottom.

City 75 restaurant is OPEN!
Lunch served 12pm-3pm
Dinner served from 5pm
Expect the Unexpected…

I have not witnessed this "Unexpected" they speak of. Maybe I'll walk in one day and there will be a unicorn drinking a smoothie and wearing short pants. I can't wait.

Happy New Year!

It's January, and you know what that means -- the return of American Idol. And you know what the return of American Idol means -- the return of the American Midol Blog. If you're into that sort of thing, feel free to check in. We'll be posting at least daily until the show starts, and then about 30 times a day on average. Kidding. 29 at the most.