It's Britney, Bitch

It's no "Toxic," but it's not half bad, either. I could listen to it at the gym. Maybe she's going to have her big comeback after all. Here's hoping.

Take a listen. You know you want to. It downloads in two shakes of a lamb's tail, too. Big sloppy smooches to Miss Tanya for, not only emailing me the mp3 last night, but also texting me to let me know she had done so. Clearly I'm not the only one excited by this.

The List

So, like most people in relationships, I have a list of three famous people I'm allowed to sleep with should I get the chance and The Young Man isn't allowed to get mad and/or dump me. They are as follows:


Anthony Bourdain


Paul Rudd


Rob Zombie

This list changes frequently. Well, the #2 spot does. Anthony Bourdain and Rob Zombie don't ever really go anywhere. And it doesn't really say anything about my preferences in real life. In real life, I like little Jewish guys. Well, at one point it was just little guys with big noses, but I swore off Italians (Weird sexual hang-ups and Mommy issues -- I can say this because I am Italian). Shaved heads and tattoos are optional, though appreciated. TYM, incidentally, has all of my desired characteristics, save for an average-sized nose.

Here's TYM's list:


Cameron Diaz


Milla Jovovich


The redheaded chick from Mythbusters

Actually, he recently put in a request to swap out the redheaded chick from Mythbusters for Martha Plimpton, not because he actually wants to bang Martha Plimpton, mind you, but because I once had a dream that he came dangerously close to cheating on me at a party with Martha Plimpton. He's a riot, TYM. I responded by asking to swap out someone for a famous playwright/screenwriter I once had coffee with, and was denied because you aren't allowed to have someone on your list if their number is in your cell phone or something. It's also worth noting that he tried to put the Olsen twins on his list because he thought he could get two for one.

So uh, does anyone know how to get in touch with Anthony Bourdain, Paul Rudd or Rob Zombie? I have a couple of free nights next week.

Keep It In Your Pants

If you're wondering what holds a relationship together, it isn't honesty or communication or any of that nonsense. No, it's making fun of people together. Skeptical? Don't be. That shit is romantic, yo.

Anyway, The Young Man and I were looking for that blog by that guy who likes to out all of the closeted Republican politicians that overcompensate by publicly hating on the gays (AKA my hero) when we stumbled upon GodTube.* And I have to say, we were a little disappointed. We expected a full-fledged dose of the crazy, but what we got instead was kind of boring, as in the case of this British dude who hates women, and the sad, in the case of this woman who sang some song in her kitchen about how the devil lies that made me cringe, and not in a fun way. More in an "Oh my God I can't even believe Angela just said that to Jordan Catalano. Stop talking, Angela. Really. This hurts" kind of way.

Then we stumbled upon Robert Breaud, formerly one of the gays before Jesus saved him from a life of depravity. And he sings songs. And I'm going to share my favorite with you. It's called "Abstinence" (great for college campuses and abroad!). Please to enjoy.


















I had no idea that having sex meant I was going to get cancer and be rendered infertile. Well, it's too late for me, obviously, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. So wait until marriage, ladies!

The Young Man preferred "Transformed by Jesus Christ," where he informs us that in God's eyes, being gay is a "real big no-no." Watch it here. It's actually kinda catchy.

*I have no problem with people of faith. I know a lot of people of faith who are just dandy. And they believe that being Christian means accepting everyone, and helping people and being active in their communities, and not one of them thinks that picking up a guitar and singing about how "it's not okay to be a homo" is how God would want them to express their faith and devotion. Just sayin'.

Romance, brought to you by Mead

Summer: Road trip dates? Any luck?

Me: I'll know tonight. My binder with the schedule is in my locker at school.

Summer: Oooh! A binder!

Me: Ha!

Summer: Sorry, binders make me excited. (Ed Note: Evidence of binder excitement here and here)

Me: Should I tell Lozo? Maybe he can make you a "why we should be together" binder.

Summer: That would be impressive.

Summer: Kyle would then have to make a competing binder.

Me: You could have a binder-off for your love.

Summer: That's so romantic.

Good Cook, Terrible Waitress

Once upon a time, I was a waitress. A really, really bad waitress.

My clumsiness has been well documented. I walk into things, drop things and break things. I cut myself. I sometimes hurt others. The simple act of moving from one apartment to another, with the assistance of movers, has left me looking as though someone took a switch to all four of my limbs.

So naturally, I thought waitressing would be an excellent job choice for me while in college. Let me take you back to that first day on the floor.

I'm working at Coach's, the restaurant in the Schenectady Ramada Inn. It's the lunch shift, and I only have one table. Easy, right? One table. Six people. Piece of cake for my first foray into waitressing. Herb, the tiny spaz of a manager who bore more than your passing resemblance to Hitler (seriously, it was uncanny) was hovering, watching my every move and barking directions at me.

I grabbed two drinks to carry them out to the table.

"You have to carry those on a tray," Herb said.

"Okay," I said nervously, putting two Sprites, two tap waters and two Diet Cokes on a tray.

Herb followed me into the dining room. I put the tray on the table next to me and picked up the two Sprites.

"You can't do it like that," Herb hissed in my ear. "You have to hold the tray with one hand and serve the drinks with the other."

I looked at Herb in a panic. What he was proposing seemed as impossible as carrying the tray while walking a tightrope. Six drinks, one tray, one hand -- no way was that going to end well. Still, Herb's face told me that FAILURE WAS NOT AN OPTION.

Well, I'm not really sure how I managed to dump all six drinks onto one woman's lap, but I did. For some bizarre reason, Herb didn't fire me. And I continued my offenses against casual dining for the entire summer. What I lacked in technique, I made up for in smiles and apologies, which got me by. Once I hung up my apron, though, I decided that waiting tables was not for me.

Fast forward to tonight. Because I'm in the Chef's Training Program at the Natural Gourmet Institute for Health and Culinary Arts, I need to do a Friday Night Dinner floor shift. Wish me luck -- I'm going to need it. Especially given the fact that it's BYOB. I have about a 40% success rate when it comes to not breaking a cork in half while trying to open a wine bottle. Hopefully this crowd likes their plastic corks and twist-off caps, and that they don't wear anything that's dry clean only. Or white.

Not Just Any Grave Robber

jess -- [noun]: A hard-core grave robber 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Men Can Be Feminists, Too (Maybe)

I was a Women's Studies minor in college (save the lesbian comments, Curly). I participated in Take Back the Night Marches. I helped Cindy man a booth for the shelter where she volunteered. I wrote articles about domestic violence. I was also a scantily clad shot girl at a local dance club, because being a contradiction is how I roll. My point, and I promise I do have one, is that being an outspoken feminist was part of how I defined myself, and because I was young and obnoxious, everyone had to know about it.

Because I was Jess the Feminist, the frat boys and football players who were inexplicably drawn to me would try to use it to their advantage.

"I totally think chicks should get paid as much as dudes and stuff."

"I took Women in Film sophomore year, and it's completely opened my eyes and stuff, you know?"

"I think it's really cool that you care about women's rights and stuff."

Not to belittle all of the frat boys and football players who were inexplicably drawn to me. It worked sometimes. Well, not so much worked as, "I think you're cute and would like to make out with you, therefore I will overlook the completely transparent and lame way you are attempting to put the moves on me."

Why am I telling you this? Because we need to discuss the Time Warner cable guy who came to my house yesterday to solve my On Demand woes.

Exhibit A:
He's telling me that the Scientific Atlanta DVR boxes, while sexy and slim, are riddled with bugs and problems. He likens the old cable boxes to "a woman who has been with you through thick and thin, and so what if she has an extra 30 pounds on her?" while the new boxes are like "some hot, young thing who can't even boil water."

Exhibit B:
A Jenny Craig commercial comes on. Cable Guy asks me if I've ever been to Europe. I tell him I have. He starts to talk about unrealistic body images in America, and how women in Europe aren't afraid to look like real women, because society expect them to look like real women, and how everyone is so skinny here and he doesn't like it one bit.

Exhibit C:
News of Leona Helmsley's death comes on NY1 for the 50th time that morning. Cable Guy asks me if I think people would have judged her so harshly had she been a man, because he thinks they wouldn't have.

Maybe Cable Guy was sincere. Maybe he was practicing his feminist line for the next lady he wants to make out with. Maybe he thought I was fat and wanted to make me feel better. Who knows? All I know is that, after a week in Brooklyn, I finally have working cable, and that rocks.

Exercise Your Right to Vote

An announcement. The Roommate, who isn't really my roommate anymore, but for whom I have not yet come up with a suitable new nickname for, has been nominated for a Golden Pastie award at this years New York Burlesque Festival. Now, I don't ask much of y'all, but I would be forever grateful if you'd follow this link and vote for Creamy Stevens for "The Best Booty Shaker in Burlesque." And if you'd like to attend any of the New York Burlesque Festival events, which I highly recommend as a past attendee, then you can buy tickets on the site as well. They sell out fast, though, so buy early!

If you feel like you can't make an educated vote on someone's booty shaking abilities without having seen said booty, then click on this link and get fired from your job.

Unfortunate

The Young Man and I ordered Chinese food last night from that place in his neighborhood that I like very much but can never remember the name of. The thing I like most about this particular Chinese restaurant is the fortune cookies, which often contain something more closely resembling an observation than a prediction, but which are of the rare chocolate-flavored fortune cookie variety and that makes me incredibly happy.

Anyway, I finished eating and tore open my chocolate fortune cookie to see what surprise awaited me inside.

You will receive a surprise bill or unexpected expense.

What the hell kind of fortune is that? Why not just say, "Your apartment will burn down tomorrow?"

Later, The Young Man tore into his.

You will receive a surprise payment or windfall.

Those chocolate fortune cookies can suck it. Not fair.

Tribute

In early 1999, a naive, 24-year-old cavefish settled into an attic apartment in Yonkers and got a job as a receptionist at a teeny tiny little dot-com in Tribeca. The plan was to do that job until her big break at CNN came along. That didn't happen, but what happened instead is that she became the CEO's executive asistant. Then she became the office manager. Then she hired and managed all of the administrative staff. Then she weasled her way into a job as a PR cordinator, which, despite the two every awesome ladies she was working with, decided that PR wasn't right or her, because, well, you have to like talking on the phone and schmoozing and stuff, and the cavefish did not like either of those things.

She set her sights on the editorial department, moved on in, and ended up being a senior poducer, managing all of the large advertising client's campaigns and a team of freelancers and production assistants, and generally loving her job. And then the bubble burst, the layoffs started, and after four years at Bolt.com, the cavefish was let go in round five of letting people go. She was ready to move on, sure, but it was hard to leave a company she'd invested so much of herself into.

In those four years, she got her heart broken, made some lifelong friends, made a drunken ass out of herself on some occasions, made the CEO cry, hired some good and bad people, fired some good and bad people, watched what went down on 9/11 with her co-workers, got over her fear of public speaking, and became an X-Box master.

This week, an email chain started. A 10-Year Bolt Reunion email chain, to be exact. And also this week, that same cavefish who spent so many years there what feels like a lifetime ago, went to the little website that started it all and saw this:



It's a little sad, but it was also time for the site that so many people really believed in -- that was a haven for teenagers who wanted to feel like they belonged and were a part of something, and wanted to have a voice that they didn't have in their every day lives, and did, until the company decided that the bottom line was more important than the community, which is what happens when you're a sinking business -- to shut its doors.

From the email chain, which I think sums up Bolt.com pretty well, on how Bolt was really the first "social networking" site that existed:

Remember, the only thing worse than being late on a trend is being too early. Like Faith No More and Mallrats, we were tragically ahead of our time.

Word. Bye, Bolt. We had some good times, and we'll be drinking to you in September, one last time.

UPDATE: A former Bolt member weighs in.

Out to Sea

This just in from the young man, sent to both myself and his roommate:

Subject: No More John and No More Cincinnati

Well, it was a pretty crappy and unwatchable show. And now it's gone and it will be out of our lives forever.

Jerk. And the worst part? It's true. It doesn't pack the same punch as losing, say, a Firefly or a My So-Called Life after the first season, but it kind of puts a damper on my Sunday nights. And don't give me any of that Flight of the Concords nonsense either -- no. Just no. At least I still have Rock of Love. Sigh.

Home Sweet Home

Please excuse the mess. I just moved in.

Big ups to Curly for the fancy photo work.

Did I really just say "big ups?"

Nothing to See Here

Don't mind the ads, y'all. I'm testing something out for work. I mean, if you want to get your free daily horoscope by master astrologer Rick Levine, or a comprehensive, free astrology report that will unlock your inner mysteries and give you a clear vision of, not only your true self, but where you're headed in this lifetime (and maybe even the next!) then by all means, click on them. But no pressure or anything.

TTFN

I'm swamped, kids -- with work, with packing for the new apartment, with emotional crises of varying degrees -- which means I need to buckle down, pronto, and take care of my messes. I'll be back to entertain you next week, from my new superfabulous office in my new superfabulous apartment in superfabulous Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, which I always have to say with a British accent because it sounds so fancy, even though it's a less fancy Park Slope. Also, there will be pictures. Caio for now, babies.

Cooking School Update

Saturday we did beans. That means my group cooked four dishes with beans, the other group made four dishes with beans, and my instructor made six dishes with beans. Just imagine what tasting 14 bean dishes will do to your digestive tract. If you imagined something in the "rupturing" category, you'd be correct. Here's a dorky picture of my group. The pot in front of me contains yellow split pea soup, which I made and which the instructor deemed "perfectly seasoned." Go me! From left to right: Danielle, me, Mike and Ed. I may be biased, but I really do think our group rules the school.

Not All Trends Are For Everyone

You know those cute tent-like dresses that are all the rage? AZ rocks them like nobody's business. I decided to get in on the trend and buy two, because they look comfy and I figured they'd be good for working at home.

I wore one a couple of weeks ago to hang out with The Young Man. I saw him eyeing the dress.

"What do you think of the dress?" I asked.

He furrowed his brow. "It's cute, and I like the color, but it makes you look kind of …"

"Pregnant?" I offered.

"Yeah," he admitted.

I decided then that these dresses were not to be worn sans belts. In my younger, healthy-12-year-old-boy body days, it would have been another story.

Fast forward to a ½ hour ago. I'm lounging in one of the dresses and decide to run some errands. It's hot, and the idea of putting a belt on is not a pleasant one. So I don't.

I go to my neighborhood ghetto home store to buy some plates I've been eyeing for $.99 each. I start stacking them up in my hands, and an older black woman in a wheelchair comes buzzing along behind me.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm coming behind you. Be careful -- I don't want you to lose your baby."

Clearly I won't be leaving the house unbelted again.

A Big Day

I've just been alerted to the fact that August 18th is Bad Poetry Day. In celebration of such a wonderful national holiday, I'll be posting a bad poetry extravaganza on Friday, August 17th! Why the announcement so early? So I don't forget. In honor of the occasion, I'll even bust out the Kurt Cobain and Desert Storm poems. Mark your calendars, both of you who love the bad poetry!

Um...

The United States Postal Service sent me a letter today confirming my mail forwarding to the new address, which I thought was awfully nice of them. I'm a bit perplexed by this bit at the bottom, though:

[If you do not speak English or you do not understand this letter, please take it with you to your local post office for assistance.)

I don't know about you, but I'm thinking that sentence might not really fulfill its intended purpose.