Joss Whedon Fans!

If you're anything like I am, you're probably insanely tickled that the man behind Buffy, Angel and the ridiculously underrated Firefly has a new show in the works, Dollhouse. It got pushed back because of the writers' strike, but will be premiering in January '09. I'll be drinking champagne and eating popcorn at home that night, if anyone would like to come by and watch it with me. Here's the trailer, which leads me to believe that the show will be awesome. Not that I'm biased or anything.

I’m a Bad Daughter

This weekend, I’m heading up to Schenectady for Mom’s birthday. For a gift, I’m giving her a laptop and the Internet. She has never used the Internet before, isn’t entirely sure what is it, and is somewhat scared of it. On the other hand, she’s excited about learning how to IM, email and feed her hypochondria with Google.

Me? I’m just excited about all the blog material this is going to give me. If she was this hilarious when she got a cell phone, imagine what shenanigans she’s going to get into on the World Wide Web. I seriously can’t wait until she gets her first porn spam.

Perfectly Nuts

Me: Did I tell you my therapist diagnosed me with perfectionism?

The Former Roommate: You could have just given me the money, and I would have told you that.

Me: I honestly had no idea.

The Former Roommate: You didn’t??? Wow.

Me: No. I thought that perfectionists got more accomplished than I do. Apparently, they swing back and forth between over- and under-achieving, and procrastinate a lot, which is what I tend to do.

The Former Roommate: Um, you kind of have accomplished a lot. You just live in a weird world where being published and graduating from cooking school aren't major deals.

Me: She seemed rather incredulous that I didn’t know that already.

The Former Roommate: That would make two of us.

Me: So now I’m searching Amazon for books on perfectionism, but there are so many, I don’t know which one to buy.

The Former Roommate: You have to buy THE BEST ONE.

Me: I know.

The Former Roommate: So you can work on being THE MOST PERFECT PERFECTIONIST EVER.

Me: That’s the plan! I have a spreadsheet started and everything.

Forgive but Never Forget

Those who know me (or who have read this blog for a long time) know that my cat, John Brown, is a giant asshole. He pees on furniture, breaks into the refrigerator to steal food, and relentlessly humps my smaller, sicker cat, Mulder. JB is about 12 now, and I keep hoping he’ll mellow with age, but so far, nada. Here’s what that fucker did to me this weekend.

I had to get up at the crack of dawn on Sunday to attend Sharona’s bridal shower/brunch. I managed to get myself out of bed, showered and even looking pretty despite the early hour, and got myself out the door with a few minutes to spare. I got an F-train right away despite the fact that the F-train wasn’t even supposed to be running, with a choice of seats, and sat down, pleased with how smoothly my morning was going.

After a few stops, I noticed that my beloved Kenneth Cole bag, the one I use for work that was, at that moment, on the floor resting against my bare leg, was wet. Really, really wet. I picked up the bag, sniffed, and got an overwhelming whiff of cat pee. I weighed my options, and decided against turning around and going home, thereby missing a good chunk of the soiree.

I got off at the Delancey stop, because it’s in my old neighborhood and I know where everything is. I headed straight for the Duane Reade, where I purchased Febreeze, Clorox wipes, and procured a large plastic bag. After that, I headed into the Washington Mutual vestibule next door, and removed each item from my bag, gave it a wipe, and placed it in the Duane Reade bag. Luckily, everything was salvageable, save for my journal. Once everything was wiped, I gave it a spritz of Febreeze, and then gave myself one, especially on the side where I’d carried the bag before realizing it was drenched in cat urine. Then I went next door to Rainbow, where I bought a giant pink monstrosity of a faux-leather bag for $10. It’s actually pretty cute. I did have to toss the Kenneth Cole bag, though. It was old and starting to show signs of wear anyway, plus it reeked of cat pee.

I arrived only 15 minutes late to the shower, with an amusing story to tell. When I arrived home later, I made myself comfy on the couch. John Brown immediately jumped onto my lap, and started rubbing his annoying little head on my hand, trying to get me into pet him.

“Fuck you,” I said. And then I started petting him, while he purred. Because that’s how it goes in my house. That cat has no idea how lucky he is to still have a roof over his head.

Going Down

"Listen, not a year goes by, not a year, that I don't hear about some escalator accident involving some bastard kid which could have easily been avoided had some parent -- I don't care which one -- but some parent conditioned him to fear and respect that escalator." -- Brodie, Mallrats

I have a fear of escalators.

Not like, to the point where I won’t take them. I may have a phobia, but it’s not so strong as to overcome my extreme laziness. Once I’m on an escalator, I’m generally fine, but I have a bit of anxiety when it comes to the take off and landing. I could step between two steps and plunge to my death, or come to a thudding halt at the bottom, pitching forward and breaking my nose when I faceplant into the hard floor. I like being alive, you see, and I have a cute nose.

Last night, I was faced with a severe escalator dilemma. After purchasing two cucumbers that just screamed, “Pickle me!” I’ve become obsessed with pickling. If you live somewhere that isn’t New York City, chances are, you have a pickling section in your supermarket, where you can purchase supplies for this endeavor. Here, not so much. I figured I could start by buying a few mason jars and a funnel, and go in for the whole shebang if I didn’t lose interest as quickly as I usually lose interest in things; including but not limited to soap making, embroidery and savory muffins.

So there I was, telling Sean about my potential pickling passion, when he informed me that he’d dabbled in canning briefly, and had a whole kit that I was welcome to have if I wanted to come pick it up. (Side note: Having friends who share your enthusiasm for new things and lack of follow-through is awesome when it comes to things like this) I stopped by his place after work and was soon on my way, with a monstrous stockpot, seven mason jars, 12 lids, a funnel, a wire rack and a baffling long plastic thingy.

I made my way to the subway, arms circled around the pot, with the rest of the items inside it. Then I got to the subway and was confronted with my dilemma -- three flights of steep stairs, or one steep escalator? Of course I decided on the escalator. When I looked down from the top, though, I started to get dizzy, and imagined myself plunging to my aforementioned death. I started to sweat. It would have to be the stairs, then.

I hoisted my bounty into the crook of my left arm, grabbed the railing, and started down. My fear of heights kicked in, then, and my hand and arm began sweating profusely, making it difficult to hold the pot on one side. No way was I letting go of the railing, though. Having flashbacks to cautiously and tearfully making my way down the rickety wooden stairs of one of the Mayan ruins in Tikal, I made my way down one step at a time. The first flight was the hardest -- I started shaking and had to stop at one point to take some deep breaths. The second flight was easier and the third, a breeze. Moments later, I finally sank into a seat on the A train, and felt my entire body relax.

In hindsight, the escalator was probably the better option. But on a brighter note, who wants some pickles?

Now THAT'S What I Call Marketing

Can. Not. Wait.



Via TVGasm

Blast from the Past

My buddy Zach sent me an IM today informing me that "some dude we used to work with at the TV station" is featured in this clip on Lozo's site. So I watched it, and it was none other than Brad Holbrook, former WRGB (now CBS-6) anchor. I remember Brad as being a nice, not particularly funny guy. But he is funny! And now he's an anchor on the Onion News Network. Good for him. Apparently he was also in the Manchurian Candidate and did some Law & Order, too.

Unlike Rachael Ray, I fully support this former WRGB coworker in any and all future endeavors.

Happy Anniversary To Me

Two years ago today, I met TYM at a dinner party. Despite thinking that he was too young, and despite the fact that he had zero game, I gave him my phone number because I thought he was adorable. Then he waited five days to call me, and Sharona told me I wasn’t allowed to make a date with him that weekend because he waited so long. But I did anyway. And I’m glad. The end.

"Sex-positive feminism: UR DOIN IT RONG."

I enjoy both Feministing and Jezebel on a nearly daily basis, but I have my issues with both of them. I wish Feministing would have more of a sense of humor sometimes, and I wish Jezebel would have less of one.

Here's a classic example of why I often can't stomach Jezebel. Sigh.

84, Baby! In the World!

I never thought I'd see the day where I'd be included in the same list as Michelle Malkin, but here you go.

The Clash

You know when a ridiculously expensive purple Betsey Johnson dress that you bought in the middle of the day on a Saturday after consuming too many Bloody Marys with brunch doesn't look good? When it's paired with the hair that you accidentally dyed purplish-brown over the weekend, that's when.

But on a brighter note, speaking of ladies who are bloody, my period stopped on Day 18. As did my bloating and crying and contemplating drinking bleach. After researching the options given to me by Dr. O, my gynecologist, I decided that instead of risking "bone density loss" and "cervical erosion" by switching to even scarier pills, I'm going to engage solely in anal from now on. No babies that way!

To-Do List

TYM: [Glancing at a bikini-clad celebrity on the cover of my most recent issue of US Weekly] Who’s that?

Me: Rihanna

TYM: Nice

Me: [Thinking to myself] He’s going to ask if he can add –

TYM: Can I add her to my list?

Me: Who’s coming off?

TYM: I’ll tell you who’s NOT coming off!

Me: [Rolling eyes] Martha Plimpton*

TYM: That’s right!

Me: You would actually have sex with Martha Plimpton just to annoy me, wouldn’t you?

TYM: I’m allowed to!

*As mentioned before, I once had a dream that TYM cheated on me with Martha Plimpton, adding to her inclusion on The List and this piece of Photoshop art:

Half Empty, Half Full

Things that are annoying:

• I have officially had my period for 15 days. (Fuck you, new bitch control pills.)

• The behemoth company I’m freelancing for encompasses two smaller companies that I currently do work for. The first company set me up wrong in the system, and after three months, I have yet to be paid. The new company has basically said, “Well, we can’t pay you until you get it sorted out with the other company.” Everyone I talk to directs me to someone else, and then people who have previously directed me elsewhere keep coming back to me with conflicting information. And all of the people I actually work with there are on vacation.

• Dina Lohan.

Things that are awesome:

• TYM comes back from Prague today.

• The cafeteria at the behemoth company I’m freelancing for is magical.

• I’m having a killer hair day.

• I just finished up a food pairing tool at work, and now I’m working on a cooking tips tool.

So all in all, I can't complain. Much.