Suck it Some More

Did I mention how absolutely ecstatic I am to be moving out of the shithole I've occupied for eight years? I'm getting almost daily reminders about how drastically my life is about to change for the better.

Case in point:

No hot water this morning, which is not an unusual occurrence. I go downstairs, where this is a sign posted about 20% of the time with a completely made up time that the water will be back. No sign. I decide to wait out the showering and shaving until the afternoon, when surely the water will be back on, right?

Wrong. Not only is there no hot water now, there is no cold water, either. There is still no sign, and my super is ignoring my calls. The best part? I'm going to miss KORN playing a FREE show at the South Street Seaport because of it. I'm bordering on homicidal at the moment.

There is one bright side, though. Today I mailed a certified letter to the leasing department of my management company's office saying that I'm out of here, and listing all of the things they can't use my security deposit for, either because of my lease terms or because one of their employees or contractors broke it. That felt good.

Two more weeks ... must hold on for two more weeks ...

Regarding Jackasses

You know who I hate? Like, really, really hate? Like, even more than Rachael Ray? People who think they're superior because they don't watch television. We all consume media -- it's not like the TV haters are sitting in their rooms not listening to music or surfing the Internet. To be under the impression that not owning a TV makes you somehow smarter than the general public is ludicrous. You know what? There are smart television programs and dumb television programs. There are smart websites and dumb websites. There are smart radio stations and dumb radio stations. There are smart books and dumb books. Smart movies and dumb movies. Shall I go on?

The reason this rant comes at this particular time is because I was reading a post on one of the NY Times' blogs about Man vs. Wild, which is like the greatest show ever. (Bear, call me!) These two comments in particular raised my ire:

Honestly, if you just sell the TV and renew that old library card, you might find that you don’t miss the BoobTube at all. I sure don’t.

Not surprising.
This is what passes as entertainment for the bored and socially challenged.
TV is the opiate for the lazy who would rather watch than do. Pass the chips honey...

I mean, honestly. What kind of a douchebag do you have to be to write something like that? Naturally, I, who manages to read, lead an active life and also follow a few television programs (My God! How does she DO IT?) felt the need to respond. As did these two guys, who I love, sight unseen.

Area Man Constantly Mentioning He Doesn't Own a Television

I say we all dump our TVs in the river and simply read about television shows on the internet.

You know what I think? I think self-important jackasses who think they're smarter than everyone else should buy a TV. They might lighten up a little bit and actually become well-rounded individuals that people can actually stand to be in the same room with.

In Hindsight

Have you ever decided to look up everyone in your class at culinary school on MySpace, and then sent them all friend requests, and then thought about it, and wondered if maybe that was a little weird and stalkerish, and if they're maybe now going to think that you're the odd girl in the class who googles them incessantly and shit?

Yeah, me either. Um.

John from Cincinnati

I've never been a fan of Rebecca De Mornay. I've always found her very cold and aloof, someone I could never really connect to when I saw her on screen. There was something about her that made me vaguely uncomfortable.

I recently became hooked on John From Cincinnati. One, I love anything surfer-related. I don't surf, I never have, and waves scare me, but I do love to watch it. That may explain why I've seen Blue Crush and Point Break more times than I can count.

Two, this guy, Brian Van Holt, plays Butchie Yost, an ex-surfer heroin addict, and he is so hot it hurts to look at him. The picture doesn't actually do him justice, but here it is.



He's got a kind of Billy Crudup thing going on, back before he ruined my love for him by dumping the very awesome, very pregnant Mary Louise Parker for Claire Danes. Douche.

Now, the title character, John (from Cincinnati) is super weird, and I can't really get into him. I suspect there's going to something Jesus-y going on with him, and it will probably annoy me, and I also heard something about aliens and 9/11 figuring into the plot, and there's a very real possibility I may hate this show in the near future, but in the meantime, I'll enjoy it. Because, I mean … Al Bundy! Dylan McKay! Rebecca De Mornay!

That's right, I put an exclamation point at the end of Rebecca De Mornay. Why? She fucking rocks this show. Hard. She is 100% raw emotion. Every time she's on screen, you can feel her sadness, anger and resentment. She yells and screams. She rips her hair out and contemplates suicide in moments of desperation. She alienates everyone who cares about her. She molested her son. Yet, still, somehow, you find yourself rooting for her -- and that's not easy to pull off.

It's no Sopranos for sure, but it'll do.

What? I'm Charming!

Should I take this MySpace message personally?

Subject: Hey, do you want to be on Tyra Banks' Charm School?

Body: I love john brown by the way. [Ed note: My MySpace profile tagline is "Hallelujah Hollaback," the oft-repeated phrase of John Brown, douchebag contestant on "The White Rapper Show"] Anyway...

Do you burp too much? Do you chew with your mouth open? Do you wear inappropriate clothes and need a little make-under? Do you get too drunk in social settings? Does your girlfriend/boyfriend hesitate to introduce you to their parents because of your manners?

Do you have bad table manners and need a refresher training?

We are holding a CHARM SCHOOL in New York City, and we're looking for upbeat SLOBS to take part in a FUN social experiment!

If you are interested, or you want to NOMINATE someone you know, please let me know!

Thanks!
Cam

Suck It, Management Company

If I needed a reminder on just why moving out of the shithole I've lived in for eight years is a grand idea, I got it. Oh, did I mention I got the big, fabulous apartment in Brooklyn, and will be moving in mid-August? Because I did and I am. Yee haw!

Anyway, as I've mentioned here, here and here, the management company that owns and maintains my building is evil, soulless, and will do anything in their power to fuck over their tenants so they can increase their bottom line; whether it's harassing tenants in rent-stabilized or rent-controlled apartments, holding rent checks extra days so they can charge late fees, and inventing bogus reasons to evict tenants, just to name a few.

After I signed my new lease last Thursday, I called the management company to inform them I'd be leaving. The receptionist transferred me to a woman named Jasmine, who presumably handles such things. I get Jasmine's voicemail and leave a message explaining my situation. By mid-day Friday, I still haven't heard anything, so I call and leave another message. Same goes for Monday. And Tuesday.

At this point I'm getting angry. The management company does this every time a tenant has an issue -- ignores them until they're full of rage and threatening to blow up the place, or until they can use the non-contact to their advantage, for instance, if you need to notify them 30 days prior to your move, and will lose your security deposit if you don't. Not to be a conspiracy theorist or anything. So I call this morning. The receptionist answers.

Receptionist: [Name of Management Company]

Me: Hi. I've been calling about my move-out date, and no one is getting back to me.

Receptionist: Which building are you in?

Me: [Building Number]

Receptionist: Please hold. I'll transfer you to Jasmine.

Me: Wait! I've been calling Jasmine. And yes, I'd like to leave her another voicemail, but I'd also like to get the mailing address and contact to send a letter to informing them of my move.

Receptionist: Okay. Please hold.

She transfers me to Jasmine. I get voicemail. My blood starts boiling over. I hang up and call back.

Receptionist: [Name of Management Company]

Me: Hi. I just called from [Building Number]. I wanted to get the mailing address and you transferred me to Jasmine.

Receptionist: You have to get that information from Jasmine.

Me: All I want is the mailing address for the Leasing department. You can't give me that?

Receptionist: I don't have that information.

Me: You're the receptionist, and you don't have the mailing address?

Receptionist: No.

Me: [Sighing] Fine, transfer me to Jasmine.

I leave Jasmine the bitchiest voicemail message I have ever left anyone in my entire life. Approximately 10 seconds later, she calls me back. I explain my situation.

Jasmine: Okay, leasing has to handle this. Let me transfer you.

Hold music… one ring… two rings…

Leasing: Leasing? How may I help you?

I explain my situation.

Leasing: Oh, let me transfer you to Jasmine. She's supposed to handle this.

Brooklyn, and a real, live, on-site landlord, of whom I am her only tenant, here I come. With motherfucking bells on.

I Am Where Blog Memes Go To Die

Curly tagged me on this meme, and if anyone else had tagged me, I would have kindly told them to fuck off. Actually, no. I would have either ignored it or made empty promises to do it in the future and then conveniently forgot. It's Curly, though, and she listens to me whine about bullshit, so I'll let it slide. Also, I hate the word "meme." I'm not adding the rules or tagging people or any of that other bullshit, though. Here goes:

Eight Random Facts/Habits About Me

1. I once dumped a guy for frequent use of the word "anywho."

2. I'm totally OCD with time. I can only start new projects on the quarter hour.

3. I am incapable of walking into a drugstore without buying anything.

4. I became a cat person accidentally. When I was little, we had a little, hyper, yippee dog named Lobo. Mom was a single, working parent and I wasn't pitching in with the caring-for-doggy duties, so she decided that Lobo needed to go live somewhere with people who had more time to devote to him. He went to a farm, and I cried for weeks. Later, Mom's BFF took me to the Altamont Fair, and decided to buy me a bunny. She called Mom to give her a heads up, and Mom told me she'd get me a cat instead. And now I'm a crazy cat lady.

5. I was a member of both color guard and the chess club during my school career.

6. I was a college DJ for three years. My three shows were "Glow in the Dark Radio," an 80s-themed show, "Dazed and Confused Radio" for the stoner set, and "Grrrl Rock," which featured a male slave.

7. I once shoplifted a scrunchie and got caught.

8. When I was in college, I was madly in love with Dr. Drew Pinsky.

Bad Poetry I Wrote as a Teenager, Volume XL

I dedicate this poem to Sheila.

If you've ever taken a creative writing class, you probably had to do that assignment where you take a line from a famous poem and build your own poem out of it. We had that assignment in high school, and it should come as no surprise to any of you that have been reading my blog for longer than five minutes that I chose a Sylvia Plath poem. I mean, of course I did. And not just any Sylvia Plath poem. No, I had to pick the last one she wrote before she stuck her head in the oven, because I was a morbid teenager. A morbid teenager who also fancied herself a SUPER HARDCORE FEMINIST. Note the sentence structure. What the fuck? Seriously. And don't even get me started on my tense problems.

The woman is perfected
Her dead
Body is that of a saint
Wan smile, stigmata through her heart

The woman was instructed
Her whole
Life to give and love and
Never scream out loud enough to hear

The woman was constructed
Her paper
Dolls were cut and shaped and
Molded to the perfect size

The woman is never resurrected
She dies
Again and again, sacrificing
Herself for the art of martyrdom

Suck on Volume XXXIX, if you missed it the first time around.

Adventures in Jury Duty

I'm scheduled for jury duty on July 30th, despite the fact that I neglected to send in my Potential Juror Questionnaire. Twice. I was hoping I could move before I was called, and that it would take them a little while to find me. Plus, the idea of being a Jury Duty Fugitive made me feel like a bad ass.

Anyway, July 30th is not a very good date for jury duty, as I have a new apartment to move into, I just started my job, and The Young Man and I have a trip to Schenectady planned. I knew that you were allowed one postponement, so I figured I'd use it now and serve in like November or something. I started working on getting this done at 9:00 this morning. I ran into a snag early on -- I've lost my actual summons.

I went to the New York State juror site and looked up the appropriate phone number. I am asked by a pleasant recording whether I would like to continue in English or Spanish. I say "English," and she immediately switches over to Spanish, which is not a language I understand. I call back, and choose "1" for English, rather than risk another voice recognition mishap. I am given several options that do not have numbers associated with them. I say "petit jury." No recognition. I am prompted four more times and say "petit jury" four more times. Nothing. I go back to the main menu, where I am given an option to say "operator," or press "0." Without thinking, I say "operator." No recognition. I press "0." I am connected to a surly women who transfers me. No one picks up -- it rings and rings and rings.

I call back. A pleasant woman is able to ascertain that I do, in fact, qualify for a postponement. She then gives me the number I need to call to do so. It's a recording, which asks for the index number printed on my jury summons. I wait, thinking I will be given an option for those who do not have their jury summons, or an option to speak to an operator. None. Nada. Zilch. I curse the New York State jury system.

I call back the first number, selecting "1" for English and "0" for operator. The system hangs up on me. Five times. I call a sixth time, and it rings! I think this must be it, someone will finally answer, and I get a recording telling me that all operators are busy, there is no holding or leaving messages, and to call back during regular business hours. I call again. Hung up on. Three more times.

Here's my question. Are they making the postponement process this difficult on purpose, or is the juror system THAT broken?

By the way, I just got hung up on again while writing this. Kill me now.

Social Butterfly

Ever since starting culinary school, my schedule has consisted of three things:

Work
School
Hanging out with The Young Man

It's not like I'm one of those girls who gets a boyfriend and blows my friends off. It's just that I've kind of been running out of days lately. Also, my time management skills blow.

So, I was positively tickled to get some good quality friend time this weekend. On Friday, The Roommate did the "Burlesque at the Beach" show at Coney Island. I couldn't stay for the whole thing, because it ran long and I have class on Saturday mornings and the F-train is neither the fastest nor the most efficiently running train in the subway system. I did get to see Little Brooklyn and the World Famous BOB perform, but I missed Tigger in all his full frontal glory, and that makes me sad.

Saturday I braved a long line at the Astoria Bohemian Hall and Beer Garden. Meg managed to score us a table, because all she has to do is bat her eyelashes and look cute and strangers just get up and give her things. Seriously. One time we were out and middle-aged guys just started emptying out their pockets and handing her stuff. The usual suspects were all in attendance, much beer was drank, and a coffee pot ended up having the time of its life. Also, if you only click on one link in this entire post, I suggest you click on the one labeled "coffee pot." You won't be sad you did.

Sunday was Curly's first annual (Semi-annual? Bi-annual? Wow, the more you type the word "annual," the weirder it looks.) Weenie Roast. It was mine and The Young Man's anniversary, but we decided to put that on hold until next weekend and support our favorite lesbians. I met many awesome bloggers, but I'm not going to link to all of them because all of this linking business is getting exhausting and I don't actually know who many of them were in the blog world. If you'd like to know who attended and read about them, I suggest you check in with Curly later today. It was her party, so she can take care of all the links. she did post some pics already, though.

Phew. I need a weekend to recover from my weekend. I'm tired, yo.

For All Your Funeral Planning Needs

The Roommate (soon to be three blocks away neighbor) alerted me to something interesting yesterday -- Costco sells caskets, urns (both human and pet) and keepsakes. How freaking weird is that?

The have an FAQ which is required reading for casket purchasers, with all of this legal information and disclaimers and such. Apparently, you can only order caskets from Costco if you live in 26 states.

Is it weird that I kind of want one? I mean, I'm not going to buy one or anything, but the idea of buying a casket online from Costco kind of kills me.

Added Incentive

Today, as I strolled around the neighborhood trying to decide what I wanted for lunch, I noticed that a new nail place had opened up on Avenue B. And it's gotta be hard to try to open up a new nail place in that area, what with the millions of cheap, dependable places already there.

I wouldn't normally try this particular place, because I'm pretty loyal to my place on Houston with the chairs that massage your back while you get a pedicure. And as I've mentioned before, I am a firm supporter of The Bush. However, this new nail place had a sign out front which read:

FREE TEQUILA SHOT WITH BRAZILIAN!!!!!

And something about that just makes me want to give them my business.

Do you think they have nail places in that strange, faraway land called Brooklyn that I'm moving to next month?

Jane Magazine, Blah, Blah, Blah

So I've been covering the demise of Jane Magazine and Cocktail Weekly pretty closely. For one, I read Gawker and Jezebel on a borderline psychotic regular basis. Secondly, as I've mentioned before (see post below -- I'm too lazy to link today), my relationship with Jane was a tortured one. I also nearly accepted an Editor job at Cocktail, but had to pass because of the obvious conflict with my Cosmo duties. Phew! Dodged that bullet!

Anyway, back to Jane. The New York Times has an awesome article about the promise and shortcomings of Jane, and if you were ever a Sassy reader, I'd even go so far as to declare it a must-read.

On Nostalgia and a Pet Peeve I'm Probably Not Entitled to Have

I have a pet peeve.

Well, I have many, and they include wrapping oneself around a pole on a crowded subway train, the concept of multiple lines gone awry at Duane Reade, and guys referring to each other as "bro." But I have another one.

I'm the first to admit that, being neither married nor in possession of children who burst forth from my womb, I may not be the best authority on this. I first witnessed it during those long, dark days during which I was employed at iVillain, uh, I mean iVillage. My job was all about writing promos, and when I was struggling with one, I'd often turn to the message boards on the site to see what the discussion was around that topic so I could cater my promo to the needs and desires of the audience. Usually, where I struggled was with parenting topics.

So many of the women discussing parenting topics on the message boards would have membernames such as; tommysmommy, beckysmom, momtomanny, dannyswife, mrsbloomfield. It bugged me, and I hate to get all Women's Studies on y'all, but it bugged me because I was like, "Don't you have a name? An identity that exists outside of motherhood and marriage?"

Fast-forward to last night, when I had one of those "let me look up everyone I've ever known on MySpace and see what they're up to" nights. And I found an old college pal, who was a hardcore party girl, a giant pain in the ass, and a very good friend. Her MySpace url is myspace.com/mrs[insert husbands last name] and her title is "[Insert baby's name]'s Mommy." We fell out of touch a long time ago, and had a falling out of epic proportions, but I'm still happy for her that she's married and has a baby and is presumably happy. I don't know. I guess I just wish she were still "Maria," too.

A Eulogy to Jane Magazine

It is with both great sadness and great relief that I say goodbye to Jane Magazine today.

Sadness because for one, many people are now out of a job and that sucks. Having been laid off twice (Although one was technically a firing with a killer severance package so I wouldn't go ballistic. Best. Summer. Ever.), I know what it's like to be suddenly unemployed, and it's a bit panic-inducing. I'll also miss the Jane Petty Criticism Corner in Bitch Magazine. And I'll surely miss having something to mock every month. Yes, I have a subscription.

Seeing as how I write for a woman's magazine, I won't criticize the genre as a whole (Apologies to all my Women's Studies professors at Marist College). However, I will say that with most of them, you know what you're getting. There isn't an expectation followed by a letdown. I wanted to love Jane. I loved Sassy. Sassy practically changed my life. I expected Jane to be the grown-up version of Sassy, but it fell short in so many ways that are explained in-depth in the link above.

So why have I had a subscription to Jane for years and years? Two reasons. 1) Their renewal process was evil. Really. They automatically renewed you without you knowing that you were even due to expire, sent you a couple of issues and then demanded payment. I'd be all confused and just pay the bill, thinking I'd renewed at some point and chose the "bill me later" option, and then forgot about it. 2) There was always at least one truly awesome thing in every issue. And cute shoes.

So today, my relationship with Jane magazine officially ends. I feel like I'm getting out of a long, bad relationship. Sure, my magazine consumption with be much less angst-ridden, but I'll also miss the familiar feel of the glossy pages in my hands. And of course, the shoes. And I sure do hope that Sarah loses her virginity one day.

Later, Jane.

Worst. Excuse. Ever.

[I told this story to Miss Tanya the other night, and had her laughing pretty hard, which may have been the martinis, but may also have been my brilliant comic timing and superb storytelling skills. I'm not really sure which one. Probably the martinis. Either way, my blog has been sucking hard lately, so I thought I'd share it with y'all. Plus, a little teenage sex, drugs and rock n' roll might help bring my rating up to NC-17.]

It was the summer after my freshman year in high school. I was dating a 20-year-old named Jeff, which sounds creepy on his part, and it was, but there was a certain period of time around the late 80s and the early 90s where, if you were in a metal band, having teenage arm candy was cool, a status symbol even. I blame Kip Winger. Plus, it was all very innocent -- I don't think I even let him touch my barely-developed boobs. Lots of kissing, sure, but that was about it. I was raised Catholic, for God's sake.

Jeff had a friend named Rich, who was closer to our age, though still too old to be hanging out with us. He had a skeevy-hot thing going on, kind of like Tommy Lee or Kid Rock, and he was a coke fiend. Naturally, Heather #1 and I were all about Jeff and Rich, because that's how we rolled back then.

Friday nights were spent at the roller rink, which was the juvenile delinquent hangout in my town. It was also where we met the majority of the losers, I mean "bad boys" we got involved with. This is how it worked. We skated for awhile, hung out in the smoking room for awhile (although I didn't start smoking until I was 19), and then we'd go out into the parking lot, meet up with the older boys, drink all of their beer and smoke all of their weed. We'd lie and say someone's parent was bringing us home, and then either hitch a ride with someone sketchy or walk home. Most of the beers we drank, and the pot we smoked, and the sketchy rides we got home that summer were courtesy of Rich and Jeff.

One night, Heather #1 had gotten permission to stay over at my house. We'd tipped back a few more than usual, done some making out with the boys in the car and behind the car wash (white trash alert!), and after a McDonald's run (which left Heather #1 with ketchup and mustard smeared over the entirely of her shirt), Jeff drove us home.

I knew there was going to be a problem when Heather #1 and I started up the stairs. She fell and started laughing in that loud laugh she has, which you can't hear without dissolving into a fit of laughter yourself.

"Stop it!" I whispered through clenched teeth and giggles. "You're going to wake my mom up!"

After one more fall and a few guffaws later, we opened the front door. Not only was mom still awake, but she was waiting up for us in the living room.

"Hi Mom!" Heather yelled, and teetered a bit. I glared at her. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said, and scurried off.

And then I said what might actually be the dumbest thing ever said to a mother by a teen girl, ever.

"Jess, is that a hickey on your neck?" she asked.

I froze, and tried to think of something to say. Did I tell my mom I'd had an accident with the curling iron before going out? No. Did I tell her I'd walked into a rose bush? Been the target of a pebble attack? Nope.

"I don't know," I began. "I haven't looked at it yet." And then I calmly walked out of the living room, and barged in on Heather #1 while she was peeing.

"Oh. My. God.," I said, falling back against the bathroom door. "I just said the dumbest thing to my mom."

It should come as no surprise that "I don't know. I haven't looked at it yet." accompanied any one of my friends getting a hickey for a decade after that. The weirdest part? I never got into trouble for it. I think my mom was so dumbfounded by my idiocy that she just decided to let it go, rather than try to make sense of it.

Baby That's Actual and Factual

Believe it or not, there are many disadvantages to working from home. It's way harder to focus, for one. And when you have computer problems at 9:30 in the morning, and you can't figure out how to fix it yourself, and the IT dudes are on West Coast time, well, that sucks. And if you keep NY1 on for longer than a hour and forget about it, the repetition in the background will slowly drive you insane, only you won't notice it. And it's alarming how much one would theoretically talk to their cats when they have no one else to interact with.

Today I discovered one thing that is most definitely an advantage, though. I can listen to TLC's greatest hits and belt out the words, and maybe even dance a little, without shame. Well, until I just admitted it to y'all, anyway.

Fans of Rachael Ray, UNITE!

You know what I haven't done in awhile? Made fun of someone who left an angry comment on my Open Letter to Rachael Ray. Which is a shame, really, because they're such fun and easy targets. Here's the latest, by someone who calls himself "BM":

You are just jealsous of Rachael. I love everything Rachael Ray. I would eat her pussy any day, all day long.

I'm not going to be petty and point out the spelling error. (Oh, but I just did! Me = petty.) What I am going to point out, however, is that he didn't say he'd like to eat her cooking any day, all day long, and that says it all, doesn't it?

A Public Service Announcement

Warning: the only people who will care about this post are girls and Jake.



I don't work for this company, nor do I have any particular stake in their success. However, Curly alerted me to this new site, Shop It To Me today, and it is beyond awesome. You choose brands you care about from a long, long list, enter in your shoe and clothing sizes, choose what kind of apparel and accessories you are interested in, and they will email you when stuff you're looking for goes on sale. Marc Jacobs cropped pants for $55, marked down from $178? Yes, please.