Oh The Douchebaggery

Happy Birthday Murgo!!!

2009-06-13T00:39:00.002-04:00

My infinite love and kisses.

Hopefully aforementioned love and kisses are enough to remind you of my moon crater-deep admiration for you, as I have no actual gifts to give.

MMuuahhh!

no mercy for the wicked

2009-06-11T19:56:00.023-04:00

Or the walking dead leather-people, as it turns out.

Thank god.
I despise the claw-fisted pilate'er that is Madonna.

Don't get me wrong...I went through a period (as most 80's era pre-teen girls were wont to do) where all of my fashions were dictated by Ms. Blonde Reptilian. I mean ambition...who? what?

Don't get me started about my first trip to an actual Broadway show.

I arrived wearing a mesh sweater with only a lace belt, matching fingerless gloves, and an awful case of Material Girl.

There was a time.
There was a place.

It's called the eighties. Early MTV, guys!.

Point is, Madonna had her day.

Long live Madonna!

But her corpse has got to realize that it ain't gonna' happen again.

The salad days are OVER!

Oooh, I get heated up over Madge.

Now she's in legal ramblings with the government of Malawi.
Lay Ninja-style law on her ass already!

Snap!
I smell alliteration.
Sorry.

All these esses (shut it--- spell check! it's a word!), and m's?

Oh yeah. Madonna blows a mighty hard trumpet of suck-dom.

And she has been attempting to basically kidnap Malawian baby girl Mercy for over 5 months now.

I am lil' Georgie Washington!

I cannot tell a lie!

I have been praying for this adoption to fall flat...

Not because I think this child deserves to be raised by a father who clearly wants her, or because the alternative is being forced to live with Jesus Luz' next corpse bride..

But because that lil' baby stole my name!

I had it first, and, I know.....
that once the Bride of Frankenstein has her gnarly mitts on it...

Shoot!

All bets are off.

Dr. NO!!!

2009-06-01T23:01:00.013-04:00

I had a harrowing day.

Now, don't get me wrong, I really do try to avoid the woe is me's...but, shit!

Give a sista' a break!

Let me start out by saying that I don't sleep all that much.

Somebody call the fire department because my synapses are aflame!

Lemme break it down to brass tacks...
I have slept a total of four hours in the past three days.

Am I tired?

Yes! God.

I could stand to take a Rumpelstiltskin sized nap right about now.

But I have too much on my mind.

So I am cranky and just disagreeable to the world.

Therefore, when I rouse myself from my zombie state in order to make it to my doctor's appointment, I am already angry as all get out.

I don't do the doctor appointment thing unless I have a valid reason.

I could get into my history with doctors and its penultimate resulting of my severe hypochondria but, truth is, the facts here are stranger than fiction.

I swear to Jehu! My schnauzer could give me a more accurate diagnosis for the collective ills I have suffered than most of the pill-peddlers I have seen.

And she's soft to the touch. Like cotton candy!

So I am already apprehensive when I walked in today.

I made the appointment a month ago after I had gotten a worrisome sunburn..the second of such in as many years.

I worry not just because of the aforementioned hypochondria, but also because I am damn white.
Irish white.
I burn and then freckle.

Other words I will never get that coveted Ms.Hawaiian Tropic sash I always longed for.

Hold me?

So I face my fears.

I make an appointment.

And because the medical system in general sucks and clearly wants to torture the irrational part of my brain that not only tells me that I have a definitive case of skin cancer, but also, possibly lupus, most likely diphtheria, perchance smallpox---

I have to wait a month to see the doctor.

So today I go in.

I am prepared for the worst.

My sorry ass...
And yes! my ass was involved!

The good doc asked permission to see my butt...I'm like okay...I'm all Coppertone babied out---I prepare for a full body check, homies.

I'm bathed and lotioned. Par for the course, yes?

But you know when I felt a hint of resignation about allowing her to access my ass?

When I realized she also asked if she could take off my shoes to examine my feet.

I said, "Sure"!
You're the doctor.
And she spread my toes.
Yessss.

That thought definitely reared it's ugly head when I realized that what she did to the piggy who went to market and the piggy who stayed home was actually happening to the left and the right cheeks of my posterior.

I didn't expect that.

Nor did I expect her to keep dropping all of her instruments on the floor followed by exclamations of, "Oh! I don't know what's wrong with me today!'

Three times I counted.

And once she put the rubber gloves on it was like a Howie Mandell act.
The shit kept popping off her hands---and all this sideshow kept saying was, "Oops".

Peeps, If you are involved in any kind of medical examination, especially one where you are sitting prone, naked, but for a life size dinner napkin, and the person in charge of your welfare says, " Oops", run for the motherfucking hills.

I wish I did.

Instead I let her circle (in sharpie) parts of my body that she later forgot she circled, call a white spot on my chest "weird", stab a needle into a wound I got last week (and before the lab results were back, write me a script).

I despise the power that I have given doctors over my perceived sense of well being.

I took a walk with a friend tonight and was telling him about all of the horror stories I have lived on account of M.D.'s.

He was laughing, and by the end, I was too.

Because if you think about it too hard, as I often do, you give these totally fallible creatures the right to dictate what may or may not determine your demise.

I came to the conclusion that the doctor I saw today was either a psychiatric patient/actress on leave from the Rocky Horror Picture show or just plain drunk.

My guess is the latter.

P.S. If you have a skin condition you want checked out, email me and I will tell you who to avoid.

This is sick

2009-05-29T23:21:00.007-04:00

And not in a "Wow dude, that ollie was sick" kind of way.

I was watching my local news, like the upright citizen that I am, when they featured a story about some pin-headed hatemongers who decided it was their duty to rally outside a local high school.

Their message?

I won't even repeat it because it was so thoroughly reprehensible.

I tried to find a video link but was unable.

So you gotta' get the info the old fashioned way.
Read this crap.

http://newsblog.projo.com/2009/05/hundreds-protes.html

Oh and, I have been feeling hugely nostalgic for the south lately...
and go on, haterade drinkers!

Bring it!

But the one thing I have come to discover about the north is how thinly people veil their hatred.
It's gross.
Stop it now.

At least in the south people put on an air of propriety.
Even if they are just two steps away from a walk-on role in the next Jim Varney vehicle.
(pronounced vee-hickle).

So, while I have been looking on Craigslist for jobs in North Carolina and just generally being angry about my town....I am feeling completely overwhelmed with admiration for the local student stockade that took on these blowhards.

Also, they got the usually mum Catholic Diocese to come out in support of said stockade.

Go Rhode Island!

Also, Happy Birthday Michael!

Read your blog.

Happy also birthday to Jennie R., Telly, and Patrick.

Shoot!

It's an auspicious day!

I have been SCHOOLED!!!

2009-05-28T20:12:00.004-04:00

I like to think I am smarter than thou.

Not gonna' brag....

Oh Yes! I will!

I had two champ years...89-91

First, I won the Junior Spelling Bee Tournament in Central Florida.
Then I got first chair in the Florida Youth Symphony.

Flute, bitches!!!

I don't have any awesome stories about band camp.
Never went.
I got turned off when we were required, as members, to wear uniforms.

We were the Vikings.
It was Florida.
It was fucking hot.

It was awful enough that to be a band member you were required to wear orange and white polyester mid-summer, and---as Vikings, we were also supposed to wear a solid white helmet with horns.

Suck much?

Let me answer my own question..
Yes, indeed it sucked.
Enough that I quit the flute forever.

I also quit the spelling game after my first total loss.

It soooo blew for me.

I didn't get into athletics until college.

All I had were half-assed attempts at mind sport.

I always wanted a trophy.
My Bro and sis had a full wall.

Point is, I am sleepless and watching the National Spelling Bee and cursing at perfectly cute little geniuses.

Thunder, you have been stolen.

and so we have to say goodbye for the summer

2009-05-06T19:11:00.005-04:00

Not to you, of course...

I can't quit you, silly!

Nah...
I got me a summer job at the beach.
Yes, I know.

I am bathing in sugar sprinkles and marshmallows right about now.

Life is sweet.

Never worry, friends.
I have been told that even the nether regions of R.I. are capable of fielding these newfangled communiques we call "internet postings".

I will never leave you in the lurch.
I'm like a pristine bald eagle whose utmost duty it is to feed her noble chicks...

Only instead of vomiting in your mouth I will do it via your computer screen.

Mmmm...

Taste that?

It's the truth.

Happy Birthday , Mom!--Happy Mom's Day!

2009-05-04T00:40:00.005-04:00

I know you never read this blog because you disapprove of my French...

But in the off-chance that ya' find it...
You are rad.

RAD

And if you put up with my antics for a lil' bit longer, I promise I will pay you back in full for all the faith and support.

I promise you that you will receive no I.O.U. coupons on your next B-day.

Only legit, tangible, presents are on your horizon.

Fabrege eggs, Tiffany diamonds, trips to St. Bart's...

20% off coupon to Pizzeria Uno.

Just like the Trumps!

I love you, mom.

Soo-ee!

2009-04-30T22:25:00.013-04:00

Yeah, I had to check the proper spelling on Wikipedia.

I wasn't raised in a barn, yo.

As if things weren't bad enough---
Now we have the mother flippin' swine flu.

I'm already eating bread sandwiches for breakfast lunch and dinner, have a sunburn that limits all of my outdoor activities (and mama likes the outdoors!), got called "mature" recently, and can't manage to commit to a fully funded trip to beautiful Nicaragua per my fear of flying...

Now I have another reason to stew.

Way to drive a nail into the casket, asshole pathogen carriers!

I was thinking, "I am immune. I don't eat pork".

Turns out, and I am no member of the C.D.C., that's not how you get it.

NOPE!

You get it by walking around and breathing.

Awesome!
I do that almost all the time.

Thanks, Occifer!

2009-04-28T21:18:00.007-04:00

Man, my timing is priceless.

The last blog I wrote was all about my recent fascination with the television show Cops.

And all the while I am sitting behind the relative safety of my laptop eating crackerjacks and applying lotion.

I am a pretty lucky girl.

I have had a few run-ins with the 5.0, and always manage to squeeze my way out of a jam.
I have an unparalleled ability to cue crocodile tears at will.

Take that, Sucka!

So yesterday was just unbelievably gorgeous up in the R.I.

Day at the beach, anyone?

My co-conspirator and I took off to S. Kingston early in the A.M..

I dunno' if it was the fact that I was pretty close to full-frontal (holla' bathing suit season--I equally love and hate you!) or that it was early enough that the sun had yet to do its thing....
but it was chilly and I required a blanket.

I threw that shit on myself and fell fast asleep.

4 hours---COUNT 'EM---four hours later I awoke.
My blanket/sun-shield had long since been discarded, unveiling what can only be described as a wicked pissah' bad sunburn.

You'd think I would learn.

Nah, not so much.

The fact that I got sincerely lobstered is not the surprise twist.

NO!

My friend and I got busted doing things that may just be construed as, ahem, illegal.

Our cop was sooo genuinely cool that he might just have ruined the reputation of R.I. cops everywhere .

So, though I may have skin that rivals that of an inside out pig...

I am not in jail.

Word!

Bad boys, Bad Boys

2009-04-26T09:53:00.015-04:00

I try not to frequent the FOX network too often....save Family guy and the Simpsons...
'cause I don't want to contribute to their fascist organization.

That said, every once in a great while, I get a hankering for Cops.

I'd describe it as that "apple nugget" feeling---KRS.1, if you are out there you know what I am talking about....

My B.F. and I used to visit Checkers fast food ,late at night---in high school.
They had a dessert called apple nuggets---deep fried slices of apple.

They were so good when you were eating them, but hours later you would feel the hurt.

So, Yeah.
I have that same relationship with the television show, Cops.

It hurts so good.

I am just laming around being completely unproductive and watching shows online when I come across an old episode of Cops.

Hallelujah!

Said episode featured my ex---you know who you are!!

I sent a link to aforementioned B.F. and she agreed, it was indeed the douchetard formerly known as my ex-boyfriend

HA!

I'm sorry for your injuries.
You shouldn't have resisted arrest.

But a wee part of me is happy to see that your life has taken a turn for the worse.

Apple Nuggets!

Dip Shit...I mean Dip stick.

2009-04-23T21:50:00.012-04:00

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the anus customer (black S.U.V.) at the Cumberland Farms on Hope Street for his obvious interest in my well-being.

Yeah, guarded insults are my specialty.

What I really want to say is, "Thank you for making me feel worthless and degraded".

Here's to you, douche-nozzle!

So, I was on my way to a potluck at around 8 p.m. (sorry, I was late, but mommy had some primping to do..i.e. I brushed my hair) when I saw my car's maintenance light come on.

I pull over to check my fluid levels, as any one who OWNS A MOTOR VEHICLE is wont to do.

I am hindered by the dark...can't find any relevant dipsticks and, so, go inside to borrow a flashlight.

Everybody there knows me.
It's where I go to score my cigarettes, mountain dew, farmfresh coffee, and other vices.

Oh, and, every once in a while, I buy some motor oil....
Purchases that keep both me and my car going.

But, I suppose, because I am dressed for a night out, I am a target.
Who knows?

I am looking under my hood with the help of said flashlight when some troglodyte driving an environment killer shouts across the packed parking lot, "You need help, Honey"?

I say no.

Shouldn't that have been enough?

He shouts again.

"I just don't think a pretty lady should be messing around under the hood".

Let's get two things straight..

1) I have been operating a motor vehicle for over half of my life. It would be completely irresponsible if I didn't know how to conduct basic maintenance on my car.

Please!

I have driven all over this map.

2) Is that some kind of sick euphemism...and if it is...what kind of women are you attracted to?
Those who can't do for themselves?

I will admit that I managed to burn my first car into oblivion.
But I was sixteen.
Shit tends to happen.

I was merely changing my oil when this fuck decided to ruin my night.

Every three seconds he kept cat-calling me with an "offer of help".

And yeah,I swear, I am not bitter.

But every time I am checking under my hood I get some offer of "assistance".

It's never from a lady.
No.

It's always from some dude who thinks that I have some physiological retardation when it comes to my car's upkeep.

So, ass-hat...

I managed to get my car back in working order, short skirt and all.

Oh, wait....(3). Thanks for calling me pretty.

Summer wedding?

The Roof, The Roof...

2009-04-23T21:19:00.003-04:00

Holy effin' , I don't even know.

My hometown is on fire.
In fact, my brother's house burned down last night.

Cars were melting and, according to my pops, an entire county is demolished.

Best news I heard all day was that my brother was thousands of miles away in Nicaragua.

That's the good news.

I suppose the bad news is that a fairly substantial portion of Horry County people lost their homes.

But so far, (knock wood), nobody has lost a life.

My love and prayers, people.

And, I know I often talk shiz about the area in which I was reared (and let's be honest...Myrtle Beach is indeed the Redneck Riviera) I am obliged to thank god for it's ultimate safety.

I say a little prayer tonight for you, bro.
And I sincerely hope that your neighbors can see through the smoke and fog and realize that, the good news is, they are still here.

And, Mikey, if you are reading this..call me...

I love you.

o.k. guys, wait for it

2009-04-23T00:12:00.006-04:00

I wrote a few new blogs which g-mail has been unable to locate.

I will try my damnedest in the a.m.

For now, I'll leave you with my thoughts for the day...
And, oh...my recent musings are colored by the truth that I have been looking for a job for far too long.

Customer service sucks if you are over the age of 22...

Stripping is almost never an option (no hate!)

Degrees are useful only when you run out of three-ply...

I am currently applying to jobs that I am way over and under qualified for.

You can trust that I will report back.

Shit, I thought it was scientifically impossible...
But I do actually have steam erupting from my ears.

ME MAD!!!
ME NEED JOB.

Must Flee T.V.

2009-01-27T19:09:00.006-05:00

The posts have been sparse lately.

My bad.

The easy explanation is that I have been doing nothing of note lately.

I have been wrangling with my bills, going to the Y, talking on the phone and---
watching far too much T.V.

I don't have an actual functioning television so I have been watching HULU online.
Those who have never heard of HULU, forget I ever mentioned it.
That shit is crack.

And because television in general sucks, I have been forced to watch such gems as The Bachelor, Momma's Boys, and Hell's Kitchen.
"Reality T.V."

I'm positively catatonic.

Promise to return to vitriol spewing when I can manage to unhook the i.v.

In the meantime, it's my birthday on Sunday and the beautiful and talented Jess is hosting a party this Saturday.
If you'd like to come and haven't already heard from me, gimme' your email address and I'll send details.

I have it on good authority that there will be bean dip.

One flew over the wayland sq. medical center

2009-01-16T12:50:00.007-05:00

I find I attract lunatics into my nexus quite frequently.

It might have something to do with the fact that my blood is thick with the crazy juice.

But holy nut job!

I finally acquiesced and went to the doctor yesterday to get myself right after having suffered with smarmy bitch Influenza far too long.
And because mama lacks insurance at the moment, I had to go to the ghetto clinic.

It's rarely very busy, but because it's cold and flu season, the joint was packed to the rafters with ailing freaks.

Words won't do justice here, and I didn't have a pen handy, so I will have to rely on my memory.

First there was a woman whose butt you could have stacked 5 or 6 martinis on. No hate...'cept' that her actual butt, sans underwear, was in all it's glory.
She was talking on her cell phone the entire time about some chick who, "'Gonna get her face slapped if she don't stop talkin' to my man".

You go,sista.

But then it got kind of scary.

She went into detail. I swear I was looking for the candid camera.

She proceeded to describe the ways in which she would cut/shoot/set on fire, said offender.

Oh my.

I was wondering if my cough was really bad enough to wait around and see what would happen next.

Fortunately she was the first one called in.

Whew.

I was waiting far past my scheduled appointment and had the urge to pee, so decided to get up and use the facilities.
But just before I stood up, I heard the loudest, wettest, most blatant fart I had ever heard in my life.
I looked over to see a man walking, ever so slowly, in the direction of the restroom.
And he made one continual fart the entire way there.
Did I mention he was walking very, very, slowly?

Needless to say, I held my sauce in until after I left the clinic.

There was one dude just standing in the corner grimacing at me.
And he looked like a dead ringer for Ernest Borgnine, complete with three-piece suit.

But, ladies and gents, I save the best for last.

I always manage to choose the wrong seat.

The woman sitting next to me was sporting a do that had clearly not been combed in years.

Pigpen called. He wants the critters swarming around his head back!

And she was wearing an entire tube of blood red lipstick on both her lips, and her teeth.

When I first came in she was listening to a head set.
There was no need for the head seat.
It was like Studio 54 up in there...shit was so loud.
And it was bad, bad slow jams.

I turned and looked at her shyly, so as not to arouse her crazy to come out.
Surprisingly she turned the volume down.

Aaah, silence.

Not!

In the wake of her sweet jams' absence, she began to talk...to no one in particular.

It started out innocently enough.

"Did you see that" (keep in mind, there is nothing to see).
"I said, I know!"

But then it turned to...
"What the fuck!?!"
"I will not take that, you fool"
"You better get the fuck away from me"

Uhhhh.

And as much as I joke about my ability to fit in with the mentally deranged, I know I am not, in fact, certifiable.

When I am around the kind of people I described above, I politely pretend that I have no idea that they are acting a fool.

Nope, just another day in the neighborhood here.

But what is so funny about crazy people is that they have no qualms staring at each other. It's like they have some special pact.
For instance, fartman was looking at butt-lady like she was crazy, and headphone lady was looking at fartman like he was crazy, etal.

Maybe none of them were looking at me because my silence and total lack of interesting quirks and/or outbursts seemed nutso to them.

Who knows?

All I know is I need to get me some of that fine, fine insurance.

The Wackness

2009-01-14T12:48:00.010-05:00

That title serves two purposes.

First of all, I have the flu.
That's wack.

And my birthday's coming up.
That, in and of itself, doesn't piss me off.

I have never been one who is afraid of aging.

Hell, I was telling bouncers all over the clubs of Tampa that I was 21 when I was a mere sixteen.

And I started rounding up to thirty when I was 28.

The point is, and I have mentioned this before, that I tend to get sick around the holidays.

And last year on my birthday, there was no exception to the rule.
Happy Birthday to me!

I suppose it could be stress, or, ahem, pre-gaming, that lowers our immune system's ability to defend itself.

There have been multiple times I claimed to be sick just to get out of a party.
My dance card is chock full, folks! You can't all have a piece of this!

Point is, my excuses inevitably turn out to be self-fulfilling prophesies.

I am reminded of way back when....
I must have been seven or eight and I was staying at my dad and step-mom's house for the weekend.

I would never want to go home to my mom's on Monday because the pops had cable, CABLE!

This was big.
This was when MTV still played music...and it was good.

So in order to bow out of going back home to my mom's and back to my hellish elementary school existence, I feigned illness.

I was rolling around, claiming I was dying, the whole spiel.
And, folks...Even when I am ordering a coffee, I am dramatic.

This shit was Liza Minelli over the top.

And what happened next?

I came down with a hardcore case of the chicken pox within hours.

Turns out you shouldn't fuck with deceit.

All this talk about my youth brings me to the second reason for said title.

I just watched The Wackness.

Totally dope!
I doped it right there cause it is set in the mid-nineties and has an awesome soundtrack, relevant props (hello! prototype Nintendo) and straight-up,nostalgia-inducing references.

Seriously one of the best movies I have seen in a while.

Word.

I hate Suze Orman

2009-01-08T16:49:00.004-05:00

That title has nothing to do with this blog, but I had an awful day and had to come home to smiley holly home-maker on my fucking t.v.

If I have said it once (and, yes, I know I have said it more than once), I need to get the heck
out of Rhode Island.

The day started out well enough.
I went to the Y, got my groove on via the elliptical machine...
went home, made a few phone calls.

My sister and my wonderful baby-angel nieces came over.

I got hungry and decided to hot-foot it over to my favorite sandwich place, Meeting St. Cafe.

I ran a few errands on the way while my cuisine was prepared.

I squeeze into the lot...and, Jesus H., guys, you know parking is do or die on Thayer...I avoid it at all costs.

But I needed me a Meeting St. Veggie, so I was prepared for hell.

Well, come hither, high water!

Some douchebag rammed my car while I was inside.
He totally T-boned it and took out my left side window.

Fucking-A!
My vehicle is my sole remaining source of commodity given the times.

I mean, when times get rough (and it has been mother-effin' rough lately) I can always look at my car and say, "Your blue book value is decent enough...Let's sell!"

Never no more, my friends.

My car has been haranguing me with it's absolute need for upkeep.
It seems all my major bills are somehow tied to Ms. Honda.

Fortunately (and I must give shout outs where shout outs are due) the owner of (my still fave sandwich shop) the Meeting St. Cafe offered to pay the damages.

Aaaah....the veggies taste that much sweeter.

The land of "ire"

2009-01-04T21:14:00.011-05:00

So I am busy doing my best impression of traction up in my bedroom.

My back kills.
I am bored.
And I get two lousy stations (three on a clear day) on my artifact of a television.

So I turn the tube to "Superstars of Dance".

And the first group up is representing Ireland.
Oh Danny Boy! Am I excited!?!

I am Irish.
I don't have an accent or anything...no, I'm third generation.
But, close enough.

I love when I meet a fellow person of Irish descent...
It's like kismet.
We are all about our Irish-ness.

Then I watch the "Superstars of Dance" and realize that the Irish manage to turn everything so, well, gay.

It's airing live now, so I can't provide a clip.

But in it's absence, let me offer you this proof...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HW3fhWegNuw&feature=related

*UPDATE* Ireland won.
My bid was on the monks of the Shaolin Temple...cue the Wu Tang...those guys were on fire!

The results are evidence that lame has gone global.

Go raibh maith agaibh!

Another Year, Little cheer

2009-01-03T17:38:00.010-05:00

So I promised I'd kick this blog off on the good foot at the dawn of 09'.

My bad.
My foot seems okay, my back not so much, and my computer....

AAAARGH!

I had to give my thinkin' machine up to the Mac gods to resurrect,once again, for, who knows, what particular ailment. NOT ME!

I am of decent intelligence and yet every time I bring the thing into Apple and get told the diagnostics, all my ears hear is Charlie Brown's teacher talking.

"Whah, Whah, Whah, Whah", What the fuck?

And I feel stupid because I am a slave to this machine.
But I was born well before the advent of the internet.

So all these "geniuses" half my age know what they are talking about without regard to the fact that I was introduced much later in life to computin'.

Give me a break!

I hate it when I have to preface every question with, "Okay, this might sound dumb, but..."

Bratty know-it-alls'

I could school you in Trivial Pursuit so hard your whole being would ache.

But I got the thing back.

So we are on, bitches!

It's another year...aaaahhhh.

New Years blew pretty hard but it always does.
I mean I went out (and mad props, Sandrine and Al, for taking me along for the ride---you were stellar company) but all the events that seemed mildly intriguing were cancelled per the fact that we inhabit a windy, Nordic, frosty, snow globe.

That, and I got no kisses.
Or at least, I don't think I did???

It just seems that we always get our hopes up that our particular New Year's revelry and/or, it's total suckage, will be the acid test for the rest of the year.

And though I was lucky enough to have been accompanied by lovely peeps, we ended up being the only people who showed up to the party unaware that we were not,in fact, auditioning for the Mambo version of So You Think You Can Dance.

From now on, I think we should all celebrate New Year's on a more auspicious, less pressure-inducing, date.

I propose February First.

It's the first day of the month of love.
The shortest (yet only changeable month of the year).
It's the underdog to January First's all high and mighty, "we are number one" attitude.

February First is number one in the number two business...(and, yes, I know how that sounds)...

After all, It is the birthday of a very radical person I happen to know very well!

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough

2008-12-28T14:22:00.006-05:00

Why the deuce don't you love me?

Aaaargh.
I cannot be that bitter tard who complains about getting older while maintaining a perpetual singleton status.

But come the fuck on!

Every dude I meet is either in a relationship or contemplating screwing one of my friends.

What is so awful about me?
The ladies like me.
Here I go tooting my own horn, but, yeah, the ladies like me a lot.
I could be a seriously busy lesbian.

But I am not.

I choose the dudes.
Sorry ladies...don't mean to break those hearts but a butterfly has got to fly, ya' know?

So my mom has this theory.
And of course she's my mom so she might be a bit biased...but I like her story and I am fucking sticking to it.

Mom thinks I am just too smart for most bros.
That's the kind of rationale I can get down with.

So here is my challenge for the day...

If you own a pair of gonads and think you are up to it...
give a sista' a call.

I promise scintillating, mentally challenging convo and, if you play your cards right, a possible nip slip.

Oh yeah, boobs.

I have those.

Shut your stupid face hole!

2008-12-26T15:29:00.006-05:00

Tis' the season for well-wishings and all that garbage.
But I am here to remind you that things still blow heartily.

oh crap..did I just say that?

Yeah, consider me the beckoner of un-joyous things.

I have scores of grievances that just leave me appalled...ala' the fatuity of cheer accompanying the season.

2008 sucked hardcore.
Even those who weren't affected economically must admit that the past year had little in the way of good tidings.

A few examples...
1. George W. reigned supreme (oh, and on a not-so-side note, we are still occupying Iraq)
2. The economy earned a top grade in FAIL!!
3. Paul Newman died, thereby rendering my list of top two (holla' Marlon Brando!) stars I would totally fuck in their heyday, down to zero.
4. I have a herniated disk---probably not on your list of fuckage, but this is my rant..so---go bob an apple or something.

Point is, I have neglected this blog.

So sue me.

I promise that on January first I will write something relevant...

Who am I kidding?
Probably not as much relevant as acerbic and mean spirited.

Until then, get your nog on.

The H is O!

2008-12-13T19:12:00.004-05:00

Shit, my family is weird.

Today was my nieces' birthday celebration.
Much love, Nico and Lena!

And my dad and step-mom flew into town to join in on the festivities.

Much fun was had.
We read books, made yarn-balls (yup! I was a straight up girl gone wild with the crafts today), and played dress-up...the usual.

PAR-TAY!!!

So my pop and I are kickin' back in the big people room talking current events and family stuff when he informs me that my brother recently got married.
Wait. What?

I like to think that I am close with my family.

Sure I dodge a call here and there when I just can't take the inevitable barrage of questions...i.e. "What are you doing with your life", "What happened to the last guy you were dating", "Are you eating enough", and, oh, my fave.."Should we be concerned"?

But I keep in touch.

My brother lives in Nicaragua, so it's feasible that distance just got the better of us.

But MARRIED?

That's kind of a big announcement.

So I am assuming there is only one reason that Michael (and, Mike, if you are reading...congrats and call me immediately) neglected to tell me the news.
You are worried I won't approve.

Pisshah!

I learned for the first time today that you are fluent in Spanish.
How did I not know that?
Color me impressed.

Then I learned you were married.
Color me confused.

I love you bro.
Reach out and touch someone.

So, after having my mind completely fucked, My mom and I take our leave.

I couldn't shut up about Michael and his new bride.

My mom looks at me and asks, "Are you feeling the pressure"?

I had to take a moment before I realized, excommunicated though they may be, my parents are, for all intents and purposes, still stalwart Catholics.

And I am their spinster daughter.

Thanks Michael and Mehera.
For making me look bad since 1977.

12 days of Christmas? How many until sweet, slow death?

2008-12-09T17:59:00.009-05:00

Mama has a new job.

I know I should be hallelujah'ing, but it's not like I am movin' on up.

I had to go to TJ Maxx today to find an undershirt that would magically transform my new work shirt into something less than a one-woman burlesque show.
Whoever decided that a form-fitting, transparent, poly/lycra blend was appropriate for daytime wear is clearly a sadist...
or, well...a straight man.

I'm not exactly complaining.

I mean, it's Christmas. I keep seeing softly lit commercials with the faintest twinkling of bells and voice overs of people talking about their loved ones followed by the ubiquitous ad-spot for jewelry, toys, McNuggets...ya'know, all proofs of love, Capitalist style.

I would love to go shopping.

Wait. Let me reiterate.

I am the rare woman that detests Sex and the City (go on haters, bring it!), loathes fruity drinks (folks, that splash of cran is just there to fool you into thinking I am a lady), and HATES shopping.

I would just love to be able to have that disposable income.
And let's face it...If you are buying somebody an ear-muffler/sock set, chances are you have money to throw away.

Yeah, we are in a recession.
I am feeling it.
You are probably feeling it.

If you had the foresight to make your chosen field that of a doctor, a pharmaceutical sales rep., or a real-estate agent dealing in foreclosures, than YOU are only feeling the aftertaste of champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

Good for you.
And Merry Christmas to yours!

As it stands, I have this romantic vision of Christmas...sugar-plum fairies and all.

We might not have had a lot of money growing up but my parents were damn good at fostering dreams.

So. Here I am...When my mother was my age she already had three children and more than a few Christmas' under her belt.
As much as I am bothered by the actuality of the season, I am heartened by the intent my parents' gave it.

It's all about surrounding yourself with the people you love.

I mean, if I was on the dole and had one stick of government cheese left, sure as shootin', I'd pick up some complimentary toothpicks from the Whole Foods and make a ghetto deli platter to celebrate the occasion.

Looks like I am about to be able to afford my own cheese.*

*(But it really is about surrounding yourself with the people you love. And the cheese you love. Stay away from my cheese, good for nothing scoundrels!)

I'm Yosemite Sam!

Merry Christmas!

Close encounters of the bored kind

2008-12-06T23:17:00.005-05:00

I have moved around a lot.

I suppose some of the times the destinations have been legit.
Parents divorce, I moved to a state with a lower cost of living, I went to college...blah, blah...natural progression.

But the majority of my moves were solely based on fanciful impetus.
Here are some of the major reasons I have abruptly left one state for another:

My friend slammed my head into a car door and I was so pissed I decided to ditch town.
I really liked a song about the place.
My out-of-state friend was lonely and swore we'd be the prettiest girls there..

The list goes on.

Along the way I have made some friends, joined a few circles, and vagabonded my way out of dodge.

Every once in a while a person from my past suddenly materializes and we end up engaging in some stilted rehash of our past, regardless of how little time we actually spent together.

This used to happen often via myspace when I used my real name.
It always made me feel awkward when I would get a friend request from someone I barely remembered or someone I outright disliked.

Long story short, I dropped that account.
Now both my myspace and facebook accounts are under pseudonyms.
The people I talk to on there are actual friends.

So, imagine my dismay when I was walking to the store the other day and ran into a girl who grew up right down the street from me.

One in a million chance here, as I grew up in South Carolina and now live almost 1000 miles away.

I also rejected her as a friend on aforementioned legitimate, now defunct, myspace page.

Uncomfortable!

I'm not an asshole.
I just always found this girl unbearably boring.

You know those types who have absolutely no opinion about anything. They never make a joke. If you go out with them they cling to you like so much saran wrap.

Imagine this scenario...
You go to a movie.
Afterwards, as so often happens upon exit, you give the show your own review.
Something like,
"Wow, those special effects were so sub-par. Talk about suspension of disbelief! And that story line must have been written by a fifth-grader. I mean why did all the women from planet Zortron look exactly like Victoria Secret models? And do you really believe that Liv Tyler would end up with Steve Buscemi?".

And boring friend opines, "Yeah".

Period.

So, I am standing outside the store just trying to think of things to say.
I am asking open-ended questions, attempting to get an ounce of reciprocation from a clearly dead horse.
I was so bored I could have taken a nap right there on the curb.

Talk about "blanket" statements! Oh, I am bad!

It maybe lasted five minutes but felt like mother-effin forever...so I did what I had to do...

I pretended I had an appointment and gave her my number, promising to "catch up".

Dear lord.
Please don't punish me for giving out false digits.

Growing Pains

2008-12-06T17:02:00.011-05:00

Some friends accused me last week of referencing my age too much. Or, rather, that I often complain about getting old.

Let me defend myself a little here.
I know I am ,by no means, old.

When I talk about getting older, it's usually in relation to the fact that most of my friends are younger than me.

All of my friends are extremely bright. Stupid people bore the hell out of me (take note, Anne Coulter).

And I know that wisdom is not directionally proportionate to the length of one's tooth.

It does seem ,however, that while the majority of my contemporaries, as well as my younger friends, had their shit figured out by twenty-five, I am still floundering.

I have been applying to jobs that pay the equivalent of what I was getting paid when I was fourteen and working at McDonalds (and yes, I know, evil empire....but before you scoff, I was underage, had an in, and a burning desire to afford a car by the time I was legal. I really wanted out of the styx).

Point is, I just feel too old for the same old dead-end job.

Of course, I majored in Creative Writing, so I might just be one of those people who floats through a banal existence only to get published and lauded posthumously.

I mean, I do actually write (I mean besides this little baby girl).

But I can't seem to figure out what to do about it.
It is sooo hard to get published.
Especially if you are unmotivated.
Ahem, not that that's me. Motivation and laziness are totally different animals.

Aside from all my whining about my lame path at the moment, I am also plagued by my body's reaction to aging.

Nobody can guess my age and I get carded all the time (though I think a lot of bartenders do that to up their tips...especially considering that there are ones who do this repeatedly, probably as a reaction to my emphatic, "Oh yes! You may".

I think my main problem is that I have no desire to become a workaday adult...A clock-puncher.
And because my daily life is so monotonous, I spend every free moment searching out fun.
Perhaps more often than I did when I was half my age.

You may ask (though probably not) where this coming from?

Well, I have been laid out in bed for three days straight, unable to move.
It blows. My body has betrayed me for my youthful escapades.

I have had a bad back since I was in high school.
I ran a lot. Up and down mountains.
That will fuck up your alignment as much as Boss Hog's after chasing the General Lee over a ravine.

So because it has been Holiday season, friends have come into town...and those who are already here had time off.
And because I have been a veritable hermit since I quit my job, I decide to cram three months worth of shenanigans into two weeks.

My back went out on Thanksgiving.

It does it a few times of year and usually with no apparent trigger.

This time, I blamed it on the mattress I slept on.
Usually, I take it easy and recover after a few days.

But because I am a fool for fun, I figure why not just worry about it later?

I am so grown up.

Needless to say, I went out dancing (and in pain) every single night after I killed my back.
Up until three days ago.
It was then that I tried to get out of bed and ended up screaming so loud I worried the neighbors would call in a domestic violence report.

I just cannot reconcile my body's limitations with my need to eat life for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I am totally going to be the old lady on the dance floor when I am seventy.
Only I will be wearing my bling in the form of one of those medical alert necklaces.
You know...the ones you push when you have fallen and can't get up?

XO, Bombay

2008-12-02T17:33:00.006-05:00

I talk.
A lot.
It's kind of my thing.

I like to keep it light and airy for the most part.
But I am pissed as all get-out and this is as close to a diary as I have so... here goes.

What the fuck is wrong with the giant cock-tards bombing the hell out of India?
I get it...sort of.
You are extremists and, therefore, every move you make is a calculated attempt at getting attention.

Why bomb a factory making capitalist-friendly goods when you can bomb a hospital?

That will certainly earn you a place on the nightly news.

I try to avoid politics on this blog as much as possible because I tend to think of it's format as an enjoyable alternative to the suck-fest that is life.
But I have way too many family and friends in India to just remain silent.

I am no Tom Brokaw, nor do I purport to be.
That said, I know what I know... as a human being with a conscience.

Of all the people in the world to target, these industrial sized ass-hats choose the people of Bombay?

I'm going to get a little personal here, as I have some history with the region.

I have never encountered a more lovely, loving, spiritual, and completely centered people.

My love and prayers go out to you, India.

The dick-faces responsible for your suffering are sure to endure a world of hurt considering the folks they are messing with.

crappy holidays!

2008-11-30T17:43:00.010-05:00

Man oh man.

Do you remember when you were young and it was Christmas eve and you couldn't get to sleep because of the promise of shiny new toys awaiting you outside your bedroom door?
And then Christmas morning would come and for an hour or so, you were on top of the world.
And then Christmas night would dawn and you would lie in bed wondering where all the merriment went?

I hate the holidays.

I feel like we use them as a marker for our slow march towards death.

Thanksgiving was a few days ago.
It's a holiday I'm not really jiggy with at all.

Hey! Let's celebrate the raping of this great land of ours! With mashed potatoes! And dead birds!

I mean, thanks, Columbus.
Or was it Amerigo Vespucci?
All depends on your sixth grade teacher's account of "history", I suppose.

That said, I am lucky enough to have spent face time with family and friends.
And for that I am indeed thankful.

But holidays inevitably lead me to think about what exactly I was doing on said previous holiday.

Okay.
Last year at Thanksgiving I had a steady boyfriend.
Um, sucks that I don't now, but, honestly, I can give thanks that he's officially curb material.

I also had a full-time job.
Sucks that I don't now, but...
Yeah. That one still stings.

My sister was pregnant.
Uncomfortable for her.
Not so much me, really.
But I have a brand new member of the family.
And she rules! (but then, she is an Aquarius...so it goes without saying)

One of my B.F.F.'s had yet to take root elsewhere.
I miss you, banana!

But some of my friends have returned.
Thankful scores another!

I am bothered by so many elements of the whole holiday concept.

As soon as Halloween was over, all the fucking radio stations started playing Christmas music in heavy rotation.

Are you kidding?

Who bops along to Silver Bells when driving down the street?

I see you bobbin' yo' head...cause' those bells be a' jinglin'

For real?

There are maybe three Christmas songs I enjoy.
But only ONE time every 36 hours, please.

I'm getting off course here, but Jesus. (I meant that as an expletive. I wasn't naming him as the reason for the season)

Can't we just fast forward to New Years Eve.
Drinks, debauchery, making out with random strangers....that's a holiday I can get down with.

What's wrong with my milkshake?

2008-11-26T19:02:00.000-05:00

It's certainly not bringing any boys to the yard.

I went out with a friend last night who, as of late, is making all the men swoon.
Of course, she has a boyfriend, so all the attention is moot.

Meanwhile, I am desperately single and ready to get my lovin' on.

What the hell.

Everytime I have a man in my life I am constantly hit on.

It's like some serpent eating it's own tail affair.
One can't win.

So if I need a man in order to get a man, I might as well just settle, yeah?
Attention all balding, overweight, middle-aged, acne pocked men with self-esteem issues:
I'm available!

oh no she dit-int!

2008-11-25T18:37:00.008-05:00

I woke up late today.

This is good, as I have been a straight-up insomniac lately.
That said, the days are short, the sun is all but a memory, and it's frigid.

I swear I had to summon up my internal jaws of life in order to just get the fuck out of bed.
I figured I had exactly two hours before darkness dawned.

Sure it was sprinkling, nee, pouring...but it was relatively temperate considering the arctic blast that has been the mainstay over our region this past week.

So, I decided to take a walk.

People, my walks are not cute little jaunts around the hood.
My walks are exodus-style journeys.

My poor dog.

It's storming and i am dragging my pooch all over Providence.
She looked like a key character in Watership Down.
And I was the scary fuhrer at her lead.

So I am two hours into my walk when my dog refuses to move.

When I first procured the lovely Ms.Sheena, she was but a baby.
8 months old.

At the time I was living in North Carolina (Holla atcha Ashevegas!).
I spent my spare time hiking.
And I had ALOT of spare time.

I would take Sheena up on the trails with me and she would poop out after an hour or two of our uphill climbs.

I inevitably would have to carry my sweet little bundle of fur down the mountain.

But she's now eight and her time with me has been pretty predictable.

My dog is the most exercised dog on the block.

So I was not at all pleased when, two miles from home, I had to pick up a soggy mass of stink and carry it all the way home.

I was singing a new version of Manilow's Mandy all the way to the homestead.

America's next top gas face

2008-11-24T17:02:00.004-05:00

I have a wickedly talented friend who has recently designed a line of t-shirts.

Friends, I limit the usage of my signature tag line to the few things worthy of it...but I will go ahead and say this,
Debbie Allen's tees are phunky phresh.
That's right, you heard it from Krunky Brewster first.

(For all of you scratching your heads, that's my breakin' name)

So Debs enlisted a few of her friends to model her shirts in order to pump up her look-book.

I was on board because:
a) I'm a ham
b) I honestly have nothing better to do
c) FREE AWESOME T-SHIRT!!!

I'm not harboring any delusions of grandeur.
I know I am no Giselle (even Giselle's not Giselle, but rather a space alien cloaked in humanoid skin), but I like to think I am easy on the eyes.
Dear god, either I have been fooling myself or the camera HATES me.

I do not like having my picture taken.
I am always the one with her head turned or down.
I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I am grandstanding if I actually pose for a picture.

I mean, every time somebody tells me I have pretty eyes, I can no longer look them in the face.
It feels like bragging.
Like, "Damn straight! Look at these superior orbs!"

In other words, I make a terrible model.

I walk around everyday using my face.
I eat, I breathe, I smile, I grimace (oooh, do I grimace!).

But put a camera in front of me and I am a one-trick pony.

My go to face says "Do I smell a fart"?

Tyra and crew would have a field day with me.

Add modeling as one less option in my search for gainful employment.

If I should die before I bake

2008-11-18T17:31:00.013-05:00

I am allergic to gluten.

Every time I eat wheat I develop a cough that sounds like a malfunctioning steam engine.
It's not at all appealing.

And, unfortunately, gluten is in everything.
I dare you.
Take out a few containers of food from your fridge or your cabinet and there she is.

Evil bitch is in more food than Will Smith is in movies.

So it makes for a serious quest when I am searching for a suitable meal.
I like esses!

I just got back from staying at a friend's house.
Much love, sugar biscuit!

And due to the aforementioned omnipresence of my gastronomic nemesis, I was left few choices.

Fruit, blah.
Vegetables, blaher.

When I snack, I like to make it count.

Then I see them.
Lit by what could only have been the halo of the gods (or at least a built in shelving bulb) were my beloved cheese cracker of choice---Cheez-Its.

I cracked.
I was in the midst of culinary delight for the briefest of melancholy moments, for I knew tomorrow I would suffer the injustice of bronchitis.

I'm still not sure if a moment of pleasure was worth the gluten-induced huffiness I endured on my walk the following day.

I do know that when (or, I suppose, if) I end up sentenced to the electric chair and the death waiter comes to take the order for my final meal, I will already have a menu in mind.

I will calmly request a freshly baked loaf of bread (with a side of cashew butter), a white pizza, a heaping plate of pasta, and an economy size box of Cheez-its.

It will be, from now on, the best day of my life.

Until the inevitable after party in hell.

Our endless numbered days

2008-11-14T20:07:00.016-05:00

I have been waxing lunatic lately.
Seriously, I eat a box of looney-tunes for breakfast each morning.

Those who don't follow this blog regularly may not know that I quit my job just in time for the worst economic collapse in American history.

Oh, yes I did!

So I have made finding a new place of employment my full time job.

Nobody will throw me a bone.

I honestly don't get it.
I am way over-qualified for most of the meager positions I apply to.
And consider my horn tooted, but I am damn personable.
I can rock an interview like AC/DC rocked a seventies era concert hall.

And yet, by noon today, I had sent my resume out to 3 different prospective employers and got back exactly 3 rejections.

I wanna' be done with the food industry.
I really do.

Nothing is sadder than a career waitress.

Shit, there is this one pizza delivery guy who frequents my place and must be pushing sixty who, if humanity has a heart, must be making bank...'cause "there but for the grace of god"...

That kind of decrepitude earns big tips.

So today I went to my mom's in order to "borrow" some dinner and was all kinds of confused.

I went on another of my epic walks and returned at a quarter to 7.

I could have sworn I left at 4.
I judged my time by the show she was watching before I left.

I remember distinctly because Beyonce was on.
I was like, "Mom, since when are you into Beyonce"?

She said something along the lines of, "Ah, not so much. But she's on Oprah"
You know women of a certain age group love the big O (no judging!).

So when I got home and pilfered her fridge I asked about Beyonce's performance.

Mom said, "That was yesterday".

Holy mother of hell.
I have lost track of time.

I need something to do.

Bartender, I'd like some milk with my looney-tunes!

I could just kill a mac!

2008-11-13T15:37:00.019-05:00

I am once again pissed off at my computer.

Many of you know my problems with mac have been frustratingly frequent.

A few days ago my firefox went haywire so I have been using the wildly inferior Safari browser.
And every time I want to look something up that I know I have looked up like, a million times before, I have to type the whole damn thing in.

Now, I am by no means fluent in computer terminology, but isn't that called enabling cookies?
I cannot for the life of me figure out how to do it.

And I cannot bring myself to go to the apple store yet again, because I'm sure they have started to think me some feeble-minded putz.

I have too much pride to drag my ass into that shame spiral.

And, oh lordy, please do NOT get me started on Itunes.
I can't afford a fancy Ipod. No, I have a faux-pod.
And because apple has such a monopoly on music sharing, I am unable to get my music onto my crappy Mp3 player.
So, when I want to rock out at the gym I am forced to listen to f.m. radio.

Heavens to murgatroid! Contemporary pop sucks a fat one.

There's this new media darling, Katy Perry, who just gets my goat.
She kissed a girl. Big deal. What self-respecting woman hasn't experimented a little.

Wow, you are soooo counter-culture.

So today I heard her new hit.
I'm not sure what it's called, but suffice it to say, it blows meteor-sized chunks.

The refrain has this clever bon mot..."You change your mind like a girl changes clothes".

Ummmmm, since when did girls corner the market on changing clothes?
What kind of stinky-ass dudes are you hanging with?

Some stupid magazine I was reading dubbed this bitch "America's next pop goddess".

Well, if that's true, consider me a heretic.

Finally!

2008-11-11T15:18:00.002-05:00

It has happened to me.

I'm as excited as Jessie Spano when she got her hands on some no-doz and a unitard...

witness my missed connection here...

http://providence.craigslist.org/mis/910790558.html

Thanks, Michael.

Yeah, I know it's a fake. But it's nice to know my friends care enough to falsify an internet listing in order to qualm my supreme bouts of insecurity.

Much love!

Plentiful Dance-Induced Perspiration

2008-11-10T17:44:00.017-05:00

If you abbreviate it, you get P.D.P.

It's also the group whose mix-master extraordinaire, one Mr. Dox, got me actin' a fool up on the dance floor at the Local 121 Saturday night.
I must say, I got down in a bad way.

When I say bad, I mean I was throwing out moves like the robot, the shopping cart, and, god forbid, the fishing line.

I know a lot of people don't know the technicalities behind most of these moves (besides the regrettable robot) because I have made them up, Paula Abdul-style, as well as having given them their respective monikers.
I like to think I can dance.

I have seen extensive wedding video footage proving just the opposite.

But hell. I like to dance.

I just cannot shake my fury for the funk.

And my propers go out to all those who had to be within three feet of me on the dance floor because I was sweating so hard I could have been the before pic in an Arid Clinical Strength photo shoot...or an extra on Titanic...after the ship has sunk.

Holy hell, I was drenched.

I swear, I never sweat.
My pores are like a miracle of science.

My friends who have gone on a run or to the gym with me can back me up (please back me up).

But something about hitting the dance floor and getting jiggy turns me into a fountain of perspiration.
i think it must have to do with the pure pleasure of moving around wildly on account of delicious beats. One loses time until the bartender shouts last call and you realize you have been shaking your shit for six hours straight.

I was glistening like Richard Simmons when I finally left the joint.

I have to once again give my stamp of approval for the boys of the P.D.P., for their skills are admirable in that they got a relatively gland-less wonder like me to produce enough moisture to irrigate a small African village.

Corn Nuts!

2008-11-08T07:46:00.005-05:00

So my friend is in town visiting.

We went out for a late night soiree (classy, right)?

After the festivities had died down and we had gotten our cardio via funkin' it up on the dance floor, we head to the 7-11 to replenish our resources. My late night snack of choice is corn nuts.

I do love corn nuts. Mmmmm, barbecue, thank you!

As I put my bag on the counter, a well dressed, seemingly sober, and, quite frankly, fairly decent looking dude, turns and asks if he can pay for my purchase.

I am thinking, wow... what an upstanding gentleman. Chivalry is not dead!

My bafflement was evidenced in the form of shocked silence whose void he quickly filled with an addendum...

"All you have to do is suck my cock".

What?

A bag of fried corn kernels for my virtue (not to mention outright professional skills, bitches).

I was so taken aback that I had to walk away and tell my friend.
Visibly livid, she confronted him.

"What the fucks?!" followed as she let out a torrent of rage much to the obvious shock of the clerk.

After the assbag made his exit, the clerk apologized, head hung in shame.

I'm sure he must have felt emasculated.

I know the economy is horrific right now and that any stable employment is hard to come by, but come on!

The customer is not always right.

Especially when he is a fucking pile of misogynistic stool.

five words (one hyphenate)

2008-11-05T16:55:00.003-05:00

It's about mother-fuckin' time!

I swear to god, I was walking with a spring in my step today.

I was smiling at strangers, filled with admiration for my fellow man, and just generally enjoying this new day.

No lies, I was concerned because the polling place was empty when I went to cast my ballot.

And Florida had me freaked for a hot minute, but then Florida always has me freaked.
My Floridian friends know how I feel about the state, but you guys pulled through in the clutch, so thank you.

Hell, I am positively on the verge of tears just writing this.

Obama, '08!!!

what the?

2008-11-04T12:20:00.003-05:00

Today has just been craptastic.

I went to vote but apparently I was the only one.

I swear to god, during the primaries, it was standing room only. And today I could have said "Obama '08" in a whisper and gotten it back ala' echo.

I'm starting to freak out.

Mainly because I have decided, whole-heartedly, to make good on my plan of getting the fuck out of the U.S. if this election doesn't go my way.

Land-ho! Antarctica!

Tomorrow, Tomorrow! Please, sun...come out!

2008-11-03T18:24:00.010-05:00

Yesterday I was at the gym, just trying to chase away the doldrums.

I brought along my latest issue of Blender (which featured the reprehensible media sensation Katy Perry) to read while I attempted to forget my decline into poverty.

I was happy to find an exclusive with Chrissie Hynde, whom I have always admired.
She was going on and on about her recent return to Ohio, her burgeoning community activism in said state, when the reporter asked her about her thoughts on the upcoming election.

Her response was priceless.

She'd rather "vomit and lick it up" than talk politics.

I'm on board with that!

Can we just get this election over with already?

But then Chrissie said something that troubled me.
She swore allegiance to Obama but declared that he would never win.
She claimed she "knew her people" i.e. the people of Ohio, a key swing state.

I might be a perpetual Pollyanna wearing rose-colored glasses, but seriously, I find it impossible to believe that any person owning a fully-functioning cerebral cortex would vote for anyone other than Obama.

I am positively stymied when I walk past a car with a bumper sticker celebrating the McCain/Palin ticket.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

I got home today to find this sweet little youtube nugget.

Palin, you are owned!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4aHL12vtEM&feature=related

rabbit, rabbit

2008-11-01T17:59:00.009-04:00

Yeah..
Not much new here. But I am supersticious and felt I had to say it aloud.

Yesterday was Halloween and, like every single other holiday ever, I was sick.

The majority of those reading this blog know me personally.

Can you remember some kind of holiday-related festivity when I was not under the weather?

It's as if my immune system detests parties.

So, I had a rad costume ( I know it was rad because I tested it out on the audience at "The Friends of Brown St. Park" get-together yesterday afternoon, to much acclaim) and a few parties to hit when I came down with a serious bout of "I feel like ass".

So, I bow out of my party-going, make a mess of mashed potatoes (nothing soothes the soul like dreamy, fluffy, carbs) and take to bed.

I was enjoying some Family Guy when the first of way too many trick-or-treaters came a 'knockin.

I had two bags of candy.
One was a mixed bag...Paydays, Whoppers, Heath Bars, Milk Duds...all respectable sweets.

I also had a reserve bag...the shangri-la! Reeses Cups.

I was hoping that I wouldn't have to dig in to my Reeses.

Not gonna' lie, I usually end up going out before all my candy has been distributed. So the second bag, the one holding the delicious chocolate/peanut butter goodness, was supposed to be all mine.

My very first costumed hellion, after receiving a box of milk-duds, looked at the bag on the foyer table and said, "Can I have one of those too?"

My precious cups?

I expected her mom to butt in, say something along the lines of, "Don't be rude", "Appreciate what you got", "Say thank you", or, I dunno, "I was clearly drunk when I conceived you, you bastard!"

No.

Nothing.

So, being the magnaminous person that I am, I opened my bag of Reeses and gave the brat her charitable due.

Folks, I know we are in an economic decline here, but, what the fuck?

I had more visitors/beggars last night than ever.

I swear people were pulling up in wagon trains.

I had thirty people at my door at one point. And some of them weren't even dressed up.
That pisses me off to no end.

I mean, if a stranger wearing sweats walks up to your door on any other night of the year and asks you for candy, do you give it to them?

Now, I know I may sound like a grinch. But come the fuck on!
If you are over the age of 14 and can't at least dab a little Clearisil under your eyes ala' Bride of Frankenstein, buy your own damn candy!

Traffic got so bad that I ran out prematurely and had to turn my lights out, fearing that I might get egged or t.p.'d.

I am done with holidays.

Bah Humbug.

I didn't even have to use my A.K.!

2008-10-28T18:37:00.006-04:00

I woke up feeling awful.

I was weirdly tired as I have been the past few days.
I say weirdly because I haven't been doing much at all.
I swear I had to deliberate the pros and cons of remaining as is and just allowing my dog to pee on the floor.
And it's cold and rainy, perfect "staying in bed" weather.

Finally, my better judgement won out and I threw some paper towels down.
Just kidding!
I layered up and released the hound.

I got back inside to make coffee, realized I was out of cream, threw the whole day in the pisser, and got back in bed.

I spent the next few hours watching the daily show on my laptop.
It's the only news source I turn to these days.

I finally had to get myself together enough to bathe because I had an interview.
I quite honestly didn't have my hopes up because though I may be charming, witty, own a Breck girl smile and buns you could bounce a quarter off of, the job market is, shall we say, as slumped as Lindsay Lohan after a night on the town.

But, gotta' keep the faith, right?

I'm not gonna' count any chickens before they hatch, but fingers crossed, I do believe I nailed it.

This comes on the crux of a new potential writing gig (unpaid, but damn interesting).

So,I get in my car enjoying a tiny glimmer of hope.

And I turn on the radio and they are playing And She Was by the Talking Heads.

Friends, that is one of my all time personal favorite feel-good songs.

So I am just driving along, singin' aloud...
God was my co-pilot.

Just as I pass the big blue bug, I spot a rainbow.

Are you kidding me?

You could have knocked me over with a unicorn sprinkled in fairy dust.

It turned out to be a good day.

P.S.A(sstastic)

2008-10-27T19:00:00.005-04:00

I was walking to the store today and passed a bevy of candidate support signs.

I also think I ran into Nosferatu, but that is a whole other story.

So I was thinking about politics. How, I am indeed and whole-heartedly behind one candidate. How my politics are right 100% of the time and how people who disagree with me disgrace humanity...and the good ol' American way.

Shit has been bleak.

Sliding down a razor, dousing yourself in acid and then rolling around in rock salt, bleak.

So imagine my dismay when Hollywood came a courtin'.

Every time I watch t.v. (and it's a brand new day, America, 'cause I watch all my t.v. online---fuck all this converter box business! I don't need no stinkin' H.D., I need something that converts television into something less like a giant seething pile of crap) I am bombarded by some loser celebrity telling me about my need to vote.

Duh.

If you don't vote then you are retarded.

And if you are retarded, then that means you are voting for the McCain/Palin ticket.

So, we are safe, right?

But right now I must immediately bathe and say a few rosaries, 'cause that Nosferatu is one scary dude.

Aaaargh! My eyes!

2008-10-25T20:21:00.014-04:00

I recently re-joined the Y because I have nothing better to do.

I am ambulatory enough as it is, I don't need some cardiovascular machine making me it's bitch! No thanks.

But I am just bored as hell and need something, ANYTHING to do.
So, I take stock of all the possible options (a. completely succumbing to crazy-person behavior and walking around the burg mumbling and acquiring tics, b. moving to Cambodia to do charity work....i.e. help raise the Pitt-Jolie's next pet project, c. taking up macrame, or the god awful d. making myspace a serious habit) and I settle on the most palatable recourse...working out like a fiend. Anything to cure me of the "what-to-do's".

It's helped a bit.

I have some place to go besides my godforsaken apartment.

I even amp myself up before the two block walk with mantras like, "hey, maybe you will meet somebody new".

As if!

Since I renewed my membership I have seen a score of ass-hats that I would never, ever, talk to if polite society didn't deem it necessary.

There is the grunter. He is at the gym 24/7 and I'm not even sure if he has a larynx because all he manages to say is "uuunnhhh" and "aaaahhh".
And p.s. your parachute pants are not fooling anybody!

Then there is the anorexic hipster.
I'm confused.
You are on a cardio machine and wearing a sweater vest.
What?
I was on the machine behind you for well over an hour. I must admit, It's kinda' enviable that your body doesn't emit sweat. But, seriously! I was trying to figure out your butt the entire time I was there. I am not the proud owner of junk! Wish I was...but you are just frightening. Get yourself to an outpatient clinic immediately. Honestly, Karen Carpenter called and wants her body dysmorphic disorder back.

And finally, former customer who might just double as a creepy exhibitionist.
Why is it that every time I am in the locker room i see you in all your Adam and Eve-ery?
It's weird.
It makes ME feel like a perv.
And you wanna' make small talk when we are both buck naked?
EEEEEW!

Dress thine self..and then maybe?

At a later date.

At a less pervy environment!

aloha, lower 48!

2008-10-20T20:06:00.012-04:00

As you well know, I have been caught in the grips of some life-changing bull lately.
I just don't know what to do to fulfill my dream of making my life as awesome as it possibly could be.
I wanna be loving it like those air-jumpers in the mid-nineties era Toyota commercials.

Instead I feel like I am driving around life's highway in a Yugo.

So, I have a friend, Julia (x's and o's, my friend, and thanks for changing the landscape of my google analytics page to represent the foreign corners of the globe...keep on logging in...I needs to cover the global map, muahaha!) who is a trekker of the nether regions of our little planet.

She writes about her travels and gets a few odd jobs along the way.

Other words, she is living my dream.

I had it first!
Only I never had the determination or drive to make it happen.

Ladies and gents, if there is anything I have in abundance right know, it's determination and drive.

Something has got to change.

So, while Julia's been continent hopping and sending ecstatic reports all along the way, I have been sitting at home reading every last jet-setting account with more than an ounce or two (okay, maybe a kilo) of envy.

And as much as she has enjoyed her travels, my little butterfly wants to return to the cocoon of stability.

She suggested months ago that we move out west together.

I was all in, because it had been a plan of mine years ago, which was quickly thwarted when I ended up totaling my car in Memphis.

Graceland was sooo not worth it.

A moment of kitsch was all I got from what was supposed to be a soul-lifting sojourn.

So we have talked on and off about the possibilities.
The where and the when, as you have it.

Two days ago I got a report from Julia, who is now on her way back to the states.

She suggested Hawaii.

Fire up the poi, boys. I am there.

I had a fleeting moment where I doubted my Hawaii-iability.
I was thinking, "Could I really subsist in the great land of the brohan?"

But I had to mentally slap myself when I realized, Duh...It's Hawaii.
Who couldn't make a go of it there?

They have my two favorite natural features, the mountains and the ocean.

Crap. I think I might just be a wahine in the making.

freegan awesome!

2008-10-19T17:41:00.007-04:00

I finally found a philosophy I can get down with.

I am newly obsessed with the show, Taboo, on The National Geographic Channel.
And by newly, I mean since 5 a.m.

Damn this arctic tundra we live in! I was arrested from sleep no less than four times last night.
I miss you, slumber...You were so kind!

So I am tooling around on my computer because it is within arm's reach and I am too motherfunkin' cold to leave the warm nest of my bed.

I am willing my stomach to shut up because it wants cereal and I can't bring myself to put on pants just yet and make the 10 foot trek to my kitchen.
Instead I banish my culinary yearnings (albeit meager, because my cabinets hold mainly spices and dried goods---livin' la vita dolce here, my friends) in favor of a few pre-dusk viewings of Taboo.
I won't insult your intelligence by going into detail about the shows content.

The name speaks for itself.

I got caught up in a few episodes about nudist colonies.
There was some full-frontal attack on my senses.

Why are nudists always so damn un-sexy?

It's completely counter-intuitive...Why you wanna drop your drawers when you own a twelve pack?

Beats me!

I think the problem is that National was covering (to loosely coin a phrase) American nudists.
I swear they don't look so rotund and furry in the south of Cannes.

Whatever.

My most favorite episode thus far covers a wee group called Freegans.

These are people who subsist on the waste of others.

Hello! That's me!

Those who live in or around the east-side know there is an abundance of pure gold in the form of trash.
I have furnished my apartment with cast-offs.

And those of you who know me, know that there is a certain dumpster residing in the 02906 that is shangri-la for unwanted goods.

Finally, a name for me.

I am a freegan!

Only snag I can foresee is food appropriation.

I am not at all jiggy with the idea of eating vegetables from a dumpster.
I am not interested in harshing your mellow if you happen to be alright with said excavations.

Hell, one of my best friends hitched her way from North Carolina all the way to Big Sur with zero cash in pocket and a will to thrive subsidized only by eating trash remains.

I have worked at enough bakeries to see that there is a huge contingent for this activity.

But I draw the line at old food.

Unless I spent money on it.
Then I am in it to win it.

I say, psshah! to bacterium!
What's a little tummy-ache compared to the act of getting a meal for free?

the fake-out

2008-10-18T17:56:00.003-04:00

I have said it a million times...Providence is small.
But lately it has been getting downright claustrophobic.
In a town that's barely a few miles wide, it is impossible to retain any amount of anonymity.

It blows.

Inevitably, one has to encounter their past.
I'm not sure of the proper decorum when running into exes. I don't know if anybody is prepared for such awkwardness.
But I'd like to think that I can rise above the weirdness of the situation and behave like an adult.
I mean, we all know there is a giant fetid elephant in the room, so let's just do away with the pretense, say hello, exchange some non-controversial pleasantries, and move on.

Where is all of this coming from?

I got the fake-out today.

You know the move.
I'm sure we have all been guilty of the maneuver at least once or twice.
I was walking to the bank today when I became unfortunately aware that I was sharing the sidewalk with someone from my past.
Now, let's just delve right into this conundrum...
You have seen me naked!
You have heard me utter some meaningful nothings.
We shared a period of time together that meant something, at the time.

I am no floozy!

My dating history is not littered with many casualties.
So when I see you out, I expect at least a nod of recognition.
Instead, you are pretending to make a call.
I know you are pretending because you are overly animated and flushed and just doing your best to act like the meter-divide that seperates us somehow offers a cloak of invisibility.
Guess what?

I saw you.

And now is where karma catches up with me because, I too, have used the fake-out.
I'm not proud.
Uncomfortable conversations are not high on my list of enjoyable activities.
But we are for all intents and purposes (not to mention, calender-wise) adults.
Say hello to a sista'.
I'm not going to bite your ankles, I swear!

c est' la froid

2008-10-18T16:43:00.001-04:00

Yeah, I have now decided to be French.

Something about short grey days and chilly nights makes me go all Anais Nin.

Shit, it's cold.

I have been drudging through my wardrobe, dressing and undressing, all just for a short jaunt to the Cumby's.

How the hell did this happen?

It seemed like yesterday I was walking around in cutoffs and a tank top.
I am now wearing my fuzzy pants.
They are not cute at all.

How the hell am I supposed to get laid if I am dressed like a frickin' Inuit?

Ahh, man.
I need cute winter-wear.

Does that exist?

such great heights

2008-10-16T21:21:00.000-04:00

I have recently been introduced to a book-sharing club (by proxy, thank you! I am not at all that nerdtastic!).

I don't buy books anymore.
I have moved often enough to learn that accumulating books is moot.
I mean, once they are read, they are read.

My father called me a couple of months ago asking my permission to ditch the library I had growing in his garage.
Yessir!

I loan books from the library.
I own a few essential tomes...
Please Kill Me, Lovesigns!!!, Roget's Thesaurus...the classics!

So, color me tickled when I find a venue for sharing books that doesn't involve actual pay for purchase.

The fun thing about this literary community is that you never know what to expect.

One week it could be some Tuesdays with Morrie affair, the next, The Collected Works of Will Shakespeare.

Shit runs the gamut.

I recently received a book entitled Into Thin Air.
I am obsessed.

I dig non-fiction, mainly because most modern fiction seems hackneyed and makes me doubt my chosen dubious profession.
Reading is a lost sport, sadly.

And writing is the Chicago Cubs of professions.

Ouch.

So, I would have never gone to a book store and chosen this account of an Everest climb. It was chosen for me

I am going to give a shout out to my N.C. friends 'cause they know I like to hike.

I adore making mountains my bitch.

I have fervently climbed to peaks well after daylight has given way and resources and reserves were low, whilst pushing for the summit.

I'm not fooling myself.

I know Everest is no Candy-Mountain land..but gosh, darnit! I have made climbing Everest my new "goal to achieve-before-I-die".

If one Sandy "reprehensible" Pittman can do it, for the love of god..so can I.

cleanliness is next to idleness

2008-10-13T21:44:00.015-04:00

I have nothing of real import to do...
Nothing to set the alarm for, nothing to mark the calender for (save friends' visits, doctor appointments, the charting of my decline into poverty, etal.).

So I have become obsessed with minutiae.

I have slept an average of three hours per night for the past week and a half.

How do I fill my days?
I have been cleaning like an underpaid and overworked migrant.

Two days ago was a dear friend's birthday...Happy, happy, Rosa Sparks!

Because I am like the little drummer boy and have no gift to give, I decide to a)
make a mix tape and b) clean out my closet and give my cast-offs to said wonderful lady.
Apparently she liked both. Or she is just completely un-superficial and doesn't give a diddly about the net worth of my "present".

Either way, awesome!

It took me well over an hour to clear out my wardrobe.
I was psyched to have spent 60 minutes doing something conclusive---something with a purposeful end result, if you will.

I proceeded to get down and dirty.
I rid my apartment of all meaningless detritus.
Bye-bye, high school and college yearbooks! Sionara, first drafts of stories I thought I might someday complete. So long, letters from exes!

You have been exorcised from my living space.

So I am running around just trying to find things that serve no purpose in my life so that I can do the ultra-cleansing ritual of throwing them to the curb...and I keep coming back to my refrigerator.

When I was working full time I never cooked.
Excuses prevail but, not the least of which is, I am tired and can afford to eat out.
Long story short...my fridge became the burial ground for more than a few take-out containers.

I am quite frugal.
I refuse to leave half of my dinner uneaten.
It goes in tupperware if I am at home or in a box if I am out.
Thing is I never eat the remains.
The act of taking it with me soothes my conscience even if it makes for a nasty breeding ground of bacteria in my Frigidaire.

One plus about not having a steady income is that I honestly don't eat that much.
I don't have to spend a ton on groceries.

And seeing as how I am on a fucking gluten-free diet and gluten-free equals highly specialized and highly specialized means I shop solely at Whole Foods and Whole Foods equals wallet raping, I can thank god for the small grace that I am not a foodie.

Whew..

Anyways, Ms. Rosa came over after my crazy merry-maid fanatics went down and was like, "Holy, shit! Your apartment is spotless and so organized!"

Then she went to retrieve a drink from my fridge, which I formerly dubbed Darth-Rator.

"Umm, haven't hit the fridge,yet?", she asks.

I answer that, with all my newfound zeal for cleanliness, the refrigerator is the final frontier.

Scary ominous shit goes on in there that I don't want to know about.

Who knows? The purple moss growing on the butter tray could hold the cure for AIDS.

I'm too scared to look inside sometimes.
True story.

Folks, I got so antsy today that I tackled it.
My fridge is so clean, Outkast could write a song about it.

Cue Star Wars music.

The final frontier has been conquered.

Sadly all that is left on it's landscape is a loaf of bread, some cottage cheese, a million condiments, and some turkey dogs.

Fortunately, thin is in.

namaste, bitches.

2008-10-11T10:26:00.005-04:00

I have been feeling stressed lately (see below post).
The world is just nuts and I have been seeking some kind of recourse for my anxiety.
If I had the dough, I could just throw caution to the wind, get loaded on liquor and drugs, flee to Vegas, and kill a stripper.

Been there, done that.

Time for something new.

As you know, I have taken to walking everywhere.
I am doing my part for the environment (hell, my mere presence outdoors is beautifying the neighborhood, zing-o!) while keeping my mind on leaves and pretty things rather than the current state of affairs.
But it's turning chilly and Providence is only so big...I'm getting cold and bored.

So, I decide to take me some yoga. Word.

I grew up on the ancient art of pretzling. My parents were hippies, tried and true.
So I am not unused to the exercise.
It has been awhile though, so I am unsure of what to expect for my first class in three or so years.

Let me tell you, when you have taken yoga from a ninety pound human contortionist in a dingy little mud hut in India, the paunchy nose-breather at the Y is not at all intimidating.
Dude teaches ghetto yoga.

So I situate myself in the back, because I am new and quite frankly don't want to embarrass any of my humble classmates with my skills, fo' realz. I kid! (no really, I kid.)

And I find myself next to "the talker".
This woman keeps asking me questions like, "He wants us to put our hand where?", "Is this supposed to hurt?", "Do you come here often?"...you get the gist.
All the while, every time we strike a pose, she is groaning like Monica Seles.

People keep turning around with a look in their eye that says, you are ruining my chi, bitches.

I am guilty by association.

And there was a mighty wind a'blowin'.
I imagine that 80% of those taking the class are vegetarians/vegans and because the class starts at eight, it's safe to say that a fair number of them had already supped. Surely some legumes were consumed. Any one could have been the guilty party.

But the aroma came from my vicinity.
Jesus H.

Ever feel like announcing aloud(much to the condemnation of the gaseous person standing--or as in my case, grunting and rolling about ,next to you) that you are innocent of the smell?
Like when you enter a public restroom after the previous patron has dropped the bomb and then you have to exit defiantly with that disgusted look on your face that says, "Not me!".

But that would be breaking Murphy's Law, right? I mean wasn't Murphy's Law, whoever smelt it dealt it? Or something like that?

Just for the record, I have never, ever farted in my life. Ever. Gross.

No matter. I pat myself on the back because I am hyper-extending, reaching things nobody else can reach, screw the sun---I am saluting the milky way!

Other words, I am showing off.

So much for harnessing my chi. I seemed to have harnessed, instead, a world of hurt.
Might be time to look into cheap flights to Vegas.

no news is good news

2008-10-10T17:12:00.011-04:00

It's gearing up to be election time and, as per the usual, everybody seems eager to share their views.

And because I am no stranger to espousing my opinions whenever and to whomever I please, (Dear RISD student in ironic Urban Outfitters tee, Everybody does NOT love an Italian girl---I happen to think Sofia Coppola can kiss a ripe ass....don't get me started on the theatrical version of the Virgin Suicides--rubbish!) people have been bending my ear for weeks about my take on the race.

There is a surfeit of coverage out there just gagging up the airwaves and I have had my fill.
Most of the the mainstream news is manufactured hype anyways.

The televised news program is a fairly boring genre.
There's no stunts, no laugh tracks, no real big draw most of the time.

I mean, ever heard the way these guys enunciate?

Take for example Stone Phillips (The fact that his "name" is Stone should tip you off that he's a fraudulent prick)..."I'm Stone Phillips. Tonight, a gruesome discovery--there seems to be a giant metal rod betwixt my ass cheeks. More after these commercial breaks".

Even respected news anchors like Brian Williams sound like douchenozzles.

Point is, I have enough problems to worry about than the fucking Dow Jones falling another hundred points. I get it---hell in a hand bag!

I have heard enough!

So, I vow to keep my eyes and ears off the news until this election blows over.
I will vote. I am no dummy.
I will watch the returns.
And depending on the outcome, I will breathe a sigh of relief and resume to my pundit-ing, or I will pack my bags and hitch a bus north.

Amen.

A plug for The Plug

2008-10-08T12:22:00.003-04:00

Oooh...my name is in lights.
Or at least my candy-bar's name is in script.
http://theplug.net/35/ifyoucouldnameacandybar.htm

I highly recommend this blog.
Mainly because they printed something I had to say.

No seriously, it's one of the only blogs I read.
Good times.

Mad props

2008-10-05T18:48:00.010-04:00

I was taking a walk around town yesterday, as I am likely to do, like....everyday.

I am just feeling mad insane on account of having absolutely NO obligations.

So I am people watching...one of my fave hobbies.

And I see some of the usual townies...

the stereotypical Norman Rockwell'esque misfits that make our 'burb unique.

There is the dude who looks like skinny Santa in short shorts who carries a cane despite being completely mobile as evidenced by the fact he rides his bike everywhere and slings his walking stick over his shoulder for, show?

There's the kinda' scary, kinda' hot (in a grizzly adams kinda' way) lovable neighborhood schizophrenic pacing about.

Then there's fucking hippie dude walking around with ribbon sticks.

What is it with hippies and their props?

They always seem to have a hackey-sack, a bouncey ball, a frisbee...

Is there a connection between crunchiness and O.C.D.?

Must you always carry a prop?

So, my Debs came in for the night...

Love you Debbie and yo moms!

Big thanks for the brunch, Mrs. Allen.

And you guys sooooo need to try hushpuppies.

Life-changing experience for the palate, I swear!

And we get to talking about recent events...i.e. how all I do all day is walk around town like a certifiable nut.

I'm thinking, "I'm okay. I don't have a prop. What all these weirdos have in common is a thing, a gimmick...a schtick...if you will'".

Father Time has his tiny man pants.

Schizo dude has his facial hair and noticeable tic.

Mr. Phish (p.s. the Jesus look is not at all hot) has his girlie ribbons.

I'm safe, right?

Then I realize....oh, Shit!

I was walking down the street the other day when I tread past a golf ball.

It was unassuming... nestled in a patch of wet grass.

I am thinking... I can't bother.

Must. Move. Past. The. Ball.

Ten minutes later the thought of it is weighing down on my psyche like the North Korean Crisis.

I had to go back.

I have been carrying this golf ball around with me like it's a medic-alert bracelet.

Oh god.

I have a prop.

The Po-Po

2008-10-02T20:42:00.007-04:00

Generally speaking, I am freaked out by the police.

Even when I am being nothing more than an exemplar citizen, I am frightened.

Nothing makes me more nervous than seeing the MAN in my rear-view.
I drive a little slower.
I chuck anything and everything I am smoking.
I am the picture of propriety.

I have had quite a few issues with the police...because I break laws...and often.

I don't endanger other people.
I am not at all reckless.
I reserved that right for my twenties.
That's what your twenties are for, right?

No. I break stupid laws.

I jay-walk. I throw the occasional cigarette butt out the window.
I commit man-slaughter.

Who doesn't?

So, I am pleased when I come across a 5-0 who has a sense of humor.

For some reason, all the cops on the east side hang out at the take-and-bake pizza place I often walk by.

They recognize me and my dog.

And for a gag that never gets old...

I got one of those hair-dryer looking things that measures one's speed pointed at me the other day... followed by, "You are walking way too fast...Slow down, miss".

I love you Mr. Cop Guy.

Remember that sense of humor the next time you pull me over and I claim I am on "cold meds".

Alex Trebek is a tool

2008-10-01T19:02:00.006-04:00

One of my fave shows is Jeopardy....'cause I am a nerd.

But I am pissed as hell at it's proctor.

Will Ferrell might not have done anything good in awhile, but his parodies of Mr. Trebek are so hilarious and on-point that they made S.N.L sweet...for at least a hot minute.

Jeopardy has been on air for well over 20 years.

I don't need to research that fact because Toolie Trebek and my family have some history.

I was born and raised in the redneck riviera...a.k.a. Myrtle Beach, S.C., a.k.a., home of Hooters, a.k.a., Putt-Putt capitol of the world, a.k.a., birth-place of Vanna White.....You get the point.

Trashy!

For a clearer representation of the wonder that is the South Carolinians...
witness this beauty.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj3iNxZ8Dww

So my mom, my sister, and I went to some stupid tourist attraction one day.

I can't remember the specifics because Myrtle Beach is rife with stupid tourist attractions.

And we happen upon none other than Alex Trebek!

My mom is psyched, I am indifferent, and my sister is, well...just a hot looking 14 year old.
My mom is trying to have a conversation with her hero--
One intellectual to another, if you will.

The entire time my mom is talking, Trebek is sizing up my sister.

EEEW!

Alex Trebek pinched my sister's ass.
She was 14.

Grodie, much?

So I am watching Jeopardy tonight and answering the questions aloud.

Not gonna' lie, I got a few wrong.

I know's what I know's.

But I don't make a living rattling off trivial factoids.

Other words, knowing shit about anything and everything is not my full-time job.
No, it's just a hobby.

Let me tell you, Alex's smarts are all a front.

Dude really doesn't know shit.
He's got a tele-prompter with all the answers.

So I don't know the capitol of Moldavia?

Do I really need some knucklehead in a suit condescending me?

You have been called out, douchey-McGee!

The penis mightier than the sword.

Holy...Cow!

2008-09-30T17:12:00.002-04:00

The news has been depressing lately, to say the least.
I love that I quit my job just in time for the economy to go belly up.
I have always had awesome timing.

So imagine my delight when I came across this little snippet.

http://www.wlwt.com/cnn-news/17589970/detail.html

This woman is my new favorite person, ever!
The accompanying picture is utterly priceless.

See what I did there? Utterly? 'Cause cows have utters?
Yes. Yes, I am that clever.

close...still cigarless

2008-09-28T17:15:00.008-04:00

So I am browsing the Craigslist Missed Connections today, because, let's face it, I am obsessed.
And I come across one that describes me and my friend to a T...
Something along the lines of, "Wow, you were hot". Definitely us, right?
Well, there were other factors at play in making my ultimate determination, of course.
They named the place my friend and I were hanging out at and seeing as how we were the only ladies there, and it was a M4W posting, Bingo!

Let me back up to the night in question.

My friend and I went out to watch the debate on the big screen.
After it was finally over, we and a few other girls decided for some godforsaken reason to go to the gay bar.

Let me clarify by saying we didn't go to the lesbian bar.
No we went to the dudes looking for dudes bar.
I am okay with that because ,as of late, I have grown aggravated with the encounters I have had at the places around town that we typically patronize.
That said, I usually only end up at the gay bar when I am hanging with one of my gay male friends. So I have a buffer, if you will.

I tell you what, the drag queen at the door was not happy to see us.
It was blatantly obvious. Afraid of a little competition, perhaps?
She had 'tude to spare, folks.
And all the guys at the bar were looking at us like we had some kind of agenda.

Let me reiterate, we were the only women in the establishment.

So my friend and I take a seat while the others go and engage in some tomfoolery on the dance floor.
This guy walks up to me, introduces himself, says something about how we look like we need some shots...and proceeds to heavily vibe us.
After our obvious snub, he casually walks away.
Afterwards, I ask my friend, "What the fuck... Is that dude trying to pick up ladies at a GAY bar?"
I believe he might benefit from rethinking his tactics.

It reminds me of this one bum that lived by the trash can outside my building in New York.
Everyday I would walk to school and he'd yell out, "Hey, ugly! Hey, ugly! Come over here, I got something I wanna' ask you".
Hurt my pride a little bit, but the guy was clearly drunk on the mad dog 24/7, so I can rationalize it by blaming the beer goggles.
Finally one day I had had enough. So I go over and say, "What?!! What do you have to ask me?"
He answers, "Come lay down naked beside me".
Ummm, might wanna try a different approach, bud.

Sorry about the tangent.
I just can't figure out dudes sometimes. Not to mention the whole ritual of going out to a bar and trying to meet someone.
It seems to me like the last place on earth you would expect to find a suitable mate.
I know it does happen on occasion. Hell, it's happened to me once or five times.

Okay, back to the missed connection.
I'm thinking this has got to be the guy (name withheld for obvious reasons).

So, the more I am thinking about it, the more I need to know!

I am away from my computer so I call up my partner in crime from the night in question and ask her to respond to the poster for details.

She does.
He responds.

Turns out, we are not the ladies in question. I had gotten the nights mixed up.

Oh well.
I wasn't looking for any romantic outcome. At. All.
I mean, dude is clearly confused about a few things.
And anyways, he wasn't my type.
No sir! I say expose your chest hair only when you're naked.

I have just always wanted to be a missed connection.

But here's where things get weird.

My friend writes back to say, sorry, wasn't us.
And the guy writes back, saying, "Too bad. I would love to chat sometime".
And, wait for it, he includes photos of himself!

Hunh?
What?

He's responding, sight unseen, to someone he's never met before on the premise that she is, well, a she?

Or maybe he admires the fact that she can use a keyboard?

Man oh man, I will never understand you guys.

Long time, no blog...

2008-09-27T18:08:00.015-04:00

So sorry.

Let's just say I had a helluva whirlwind week which culminated in my lying in bed all day trying to recover.

Good times were spent writhing around and praying for god to end my suffering.
Excellent!

So, anywho, when I finally felt my motility returning, I forced myself to take a walk.

Of course it's raining. And hard.

For the love of mother nature! What the hell is happening?
Maine...Mother effiin' Maine is under a tropical storm warning.

As if I need another reason to leave the planet (besides the fact that McCain's popularity is on the rise and how the fuck did that happen considering the ass-whupping he took in the debates last night).
Dude is a total doppelganger of Quagmire. Honestly, what is wrong with his face?

Okay, back to my day.

I need to get out of the house. Screw the elements, I'll bring my umbrella.
So, I find aforementioned umbrella, leash up the hound, and get to walking.

It's sprinkling, but nothing to alert FEMA about, yet.

Ten minutes into my jaunt it starts to really come down end of days style.
I am fumbling with my umbrella, pressing the button and then manually trying to push the metal rods up....all to no avail. My cursed umbrella is broken. I am getting soaked.

So I turn around to get my damp ass home when I come to a cross-walk.
I am standing there with sopping wet hair, a more than likely anguished look on my face, holding onto an unruly dog and a bum umbrella--- when not one, but THREE cars pass me.

I have said it before, I will say it again...

What is wrong with your stupid heads?

White lines in street=stop for pedestrians.
Especially pissed off wet ones.

My urgency is (for lack of a better description) more urgent than your urgency.

You are in a moving vehicle with a roof.

I apologize and fully retract if you had a stubborn sun-roof that was malfunctioning.

Seriously, I have been there.

And in Florida, no less!
Those downpours are apocalyptically torrential.

Snap! Most uncomfortable twenty minutes of my life.

But my guess is, you just didn't give a fuck.

Perhaps, dear readers, you haven't gotten my drift...albeit a continental-sized one, but I need to get the hell out of New England.

R.I.P. Paul Newman

2008-09-27T18:04:00.003-04:00

I just heard the terribly sad news.

Paul Newman was the ultimate guy.
I mean for chrissake, Cool Hand Luke?

He will be missed as a beacon of everything that does not suck in Hollywood.

Which, let's face it, is pretty much everything these days.

Freakin' all weekend

2008-09-23T19:32:00.012-04:00

See what I did there?
It's fun with phonetics!
Snap! I did it again!

So, last week my mom and I were having a conversation when I made what I thought was a perfectly relevant observation (I think it might have had something to do with how pink is the spectrum's ultimate color winner---orange and yellow, you are sooo owned!) when she opined, "You are so weird. You have always been so weird. Even as a baby, you were so weird".

Okay, mom. I get it.

It's been coming up an awful lot lately.

My friend and I were having a discourse the other night about the ills of high school, the psychic scars that it leaves, and how nerds do indeed triumph.
I mean, doesn't it seem like people who were popular in high school always manage to abandon their cool status the minute their cheer leading uniforms and glamour shots become irrelevant?
And how were they relevant in the first place?

God, teenage-ism blows so hard.

My best friend does the most wonderfully precise recount of the day we met in high school.

It was my first day.
I had bonded with a chick in typing class over our "tats".
Oh, god!
I happened to get the most horrible offender covered up with yet another offender.
Don't get me started on tattoo regret.

I still have an ankh (yes, an ankh! so counter-culture, so unique, I know) on an area that fortunately doesn't see the light of day that often, but makes for some hilarious pillow-talk when it does get viewed.

Point is, the true test of any first day of the high school experience is the lunch room.

I never brought lunch. Not once.

So, my first day at this particular school, all I had on me was a bag of fire flavored jolly-ranchers. Mmmmm.
Do they still make those?

Never mind, my teeth weren't what they were 15 years ago.
I tried to eat a sugar daddy the other day and almost knocked out an entire row of chompers.
Damn human fallibility!

So, my friend reminisces that on the day of our meeting I said nothing but, "Psst" and then dropped a jolly rancher under the table and into her lap.

She's like, "You were sooo weird".

And then I was talking with another friend who was sharing her own horror stories about being an outsider and a nerd, when I said in agreement, "Oh, god, yeah! I was a total nerd".

And she says, "You aren't a nerd. You are just a freak".

So it's unanimous.

I was thinking about this today as I was walking around town (as I am wont to do, because I have now officially crossed the town-line into crazy-person-ville and have nothing better to do than amble about aimlessly...keep your recyclables safe, folks!) and having a conversation with myself.

I do it often when I think no one's watching.
Shut up! You do too.

Then I get home and read the news.
I find two bits that trouble me deeply.
1) Sarah Palin okay'd charging rape victims for test kits.
2)Global warming has gotten so bad that Polar bears are resorting to cannibalism.

I'll be renewing my visa soon.

Destination=Moon!

This little snippet made me feel 1000 times better.
Finally a voice (or voices) of reason!....

http://www.kpho.com/news/16758520/detail.html

'Tis the season for snuggling

2008-09-22T17:08:00.015-04:00

It's officially fall and with it's arrival came some cooler temperatures.
Today was the coldest day so far this year since last spring.
Way to hit the ground running, Autumn!

So I am rifling through my dressers looking for a long sleeve shirt. Any long sleeve shirt will do.

Hand to god, I am not in possession of a single long sleeved shirt.
Jesus on a pogo stick, what the hell happened?

And then I remembered that I had a rather speedy exodus from my former apartment which resulted in the sacrificing of a pretty substantial chunk of personal belongings.

Apparently a fair portion of the stuff I left behind was my winter clothing.

So, until my financial situation changes or the wardrobe fairy graces me with some new clothes, it's all about layering, baby!

Fortunately, I have a new favorite hoodie...thanks Jana!
So, I am comfortably dressed and ready to drink in the fall with a walk around town.

I can't believe how much bitching I have done over the end of summer.
I plumb forgot how much I love Autumn!

I find myself thinking about cuddling.
I realized that the majority of serious relationships I have been involved in were conceived in the fall.
I figure it might have something to do with our evolutionarily driven need to find a partner in order to keep us warm throughout the colder months.
Then, with the inevitable return of spring and summer, we shed our layers and those irksome partners!
Ah, the circle of life.

Whatever the reasoning, there is nothing like hibernating under the covers when the thought of getting out of bed is just unbearable.

I wanna' snuggle.

Time's a tickin'!
Any takers?

My mom can kick your mom's ass

2008-09-21T19:39:00.012-04:00

I spent all day at the zoo yesterday.

I'm not at all a zoo fanatic.

Matter of fact, I try to avoid it at all costs.
I don't like seeing animals behind bars.
There is something unsettling about bearing witness to a creature out of it's natural habitat.

I mean, if you are a giraffe, native to west Africa, how the fuck are you about to enjoy fall in New England?

Not so much, probably.

And don't get me started on all the scrotum munching Rhode-Islanders who tap on the glass in an attempt to wake a sleeping animal for no other reason than to pacify their whiny brat's desire to see it up close.

Calm the fuck down!

As I learned yesterday, a snow leopard can leap 32 feet! The fence enclosing said beast looks half that.

So, you want your adorable little spawn to see the creature's face?

Let's see what her face looks like after it's mauled off, chewed like so much Wrigley's, and spat on your stupid feet.
Sooo precious!

Yeah, the zoo and I have issues.

But I needed some cute kid therapy and my nieces fit the bill so, I acquiesced.

The day started out peaceably enough. My nieces were rad, the weather was nice, the smell of excrement was not yet downwind (curse you, 4:00 p.m. gust)...all's good.

About three hours in, however, I was having a straight-up boredom-induced nic-fit.

I removed my niece from my shoulders, bid my mom and sister adieu, and made my exit.

Next hour or so were spent with me chain smoking, soaking up the last gasp of the summer, and growing very, very, hungry.

By the time my family met up with me I was willing to chuck my humanitarian ideals out the window and eat a fucking snow leopard....with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, good sir!

My mom was right on board.

Thing is, my mom is singularly minded.
When we hang in the 'konk, we dine at one place only.
I have no say in the matter as I am just along for the ride and, therefore, dine for free.
So, though I hate the themed restaurant she prefers, I keep my chow hole shut... 'cept for the eatin' times.

As we walk up to the hostess stand, I realize there is some weird shit going on in my uterus.
I need to get home as soon as possible.
But the promise of a free meal is so tantalizing that I suggest we stay, but take our food to go. In the meantime we can wait at the bar while it's prepared.

Mom's down! So she orders a beer and we bide our time playing ghost.

The food took so long that we practically ran out of letters in the alphabet.

I'm antsy and uncomfortable and mom's losing her patience.

We ask about our order.

Bartender comes back with our food and we are set to jet.

As we take our leave, the server asks, "Oh, did you already pay"?
My mom answers, "Yeah".

I'm confused because I don't remember the portion of our evening when we anted up, but my insides are jumping and my mood is slumping and I need to eat my dinner like, yesterday!

We get outside and my mom is walking with total tunnel vision towards her ride.
We get inside and I ask, "Did you really pay"?

Diabolical laugh...

"No, did you"?

Holy Christ.

I aided and abetted my mom.

My salad sucked...but I would so do it again.

Ha! Ha! Earth=1, Collider=0

2008-09-20T18:47:00.005-04:00

God is laughing at you and all your silly science, Hadron Collider technicians!

So, clearly this is an issue that has been on my mind since I first became abreast of said shituation.
That could probably be evidenced by the number of times I bumped my initial posting about it.
I am going to spare you another bump, so if you don't know what the hell I am talking about, please avert your eyes to the list of previous blog entries to the right of the screen, click on the "0 minus right fucking now" posting, and prepare to get schooled.

Turns out, the collider has been shut off.

WooHoo!
Go back to partying like it's 1999...when times were simpler and s.t.d.'s like Sarah Palin hadn't yet blipped our collective radar.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/TECH/science/09/20/hadron.collider.damage.ap/index.html

My favorite part of this article is when they expose that the collider emitted a pretty substantial amount of helium.

Can you imagine all the scientists running around, freaking out, saying things like, "Trouble in quadron three! Danger! Let's go on highest alert!"...all in the dialect of Alvin and the chipmunks? Awesome.

Consider my mellow harshed

2008-09-18T19:16:00.003-04:00

Man oh man. It is practically fall.

I know, Captain Obvious called and he wants his earth-shattering observation back...

But the season just crept up on me like all get out.
I was taking a walk today and had to wear a jacket for the first time since memory allows.

Waaah! I was just getting into the summer.

And for some reason, the colder the weather, the more melancholy I get.
I found myself listening to some wrist-slittingly somber music today.

Spring and summer were all about hip hop and dance music (shut up, haters...I can get down to a Kelly Clarkson remix! Yes I can!)

Something about less daylight and chilly temperatures makes me want to listen to the shoe-gazers.
It's totally counter-intuitive.

I mean I'm feeling down and what do my ears want to hear?
Interpol, The Editors...God forbid, The Cure!
Misanthrope music!

I am not at all ready for the fall or winter.

Anybody else wanna go to Alaska and spend six months in daylight?

No, scratch that...I forgot how ass-backwards Alaska is (sorry, 3030).

Greenland it is!

P.S.A. Alert!

2008-09-15T21:04:00.005-04:00

This is not an angry jokity joke blog.
This is a message to runners and bicyclists everywhere.
Heed it, my friends...or pay the consequences.

I get the allure of outdoor physical activity.

Hell, I ran cross-country for years, much to the detriment of my knees and my menstrual cycle (t.m.i.?).

And those who read this thing know I like to bike, even if my ass hates me for it.

Point is, there are certain things you should know when engaging in these undertakings.
You wear a helmet, duh.
You don't run down the middle of a highway...that would just be too supremely dense for words--- although I do know this one guy named Peanut Butter who routinely did it.
Let's just say, he was five cans short of a six-pack and the last time I saw him he was on an episode of Cops, but other than that, stellar guy!

I digress.

I was walking my dog around town today when at least four runners came up behind us unannounced.
My dog freaks out. It's kind of her thing...
I mean besides all the pooping and sniffing as per the usual canine antics.
These people are creeping up behind me all stealthily and just completely oblivious to the fact that I have a dog.
Sure, she's small and unassuming, but allow me to clue you in to one fact...
The more petite the dog, the bigger the fight or flight response!

Imagine that you are barely a foot tall and some sweating behemoth comes barreling at you with no warning...
I'd nip the hell out of your ankles too.

For the health of your lower extremities (and if by chance you encounter a larger dog) the family jewels, announce yourself!
A simple cough, ahem, or "behind you" will suffice.

Don't look at me with disdain when my dog barks or startles.
You have been forewarned.

Umm, okay then.

2008-09-15T08:20:00.010-04:00

Dear Anonymous,
I believe I know who you are. (pop, goes my heart!?)
In response to the request for an anti-Palin rant, here goes...
I try not to talk politics too much because the current state of affairs has got me in a tizzy. But since this is the first outright request I have gotten (and I will take requests, folks...I am here all week...uhh, make that until I get gainfully employed) I'll bite!
Oprah has been in the hot-seat lately for her refusal to invite this N.R.A. lovin', moose-killin', abstinence- only toutin' (ha! arrogant proselytizing is a karmic bitch, no?), completely un-qualified dilettante onto her couch.
How can you blame her? Cooties are contagious!
But seriously.
I harsh on Oprah a lot.
Mainly because every time I have bothered to tune in over the past five years she has either been talking about how high her duvet's thread count is or her very, very good friend John Travolta.
We get it. You have money and famous friends.
Whoopee!
Can I have a car?
But today I tuned in to CNN and found a little snippet about some idiotic Republicans urging women to boycott the Oprah show.
Whiny little conservatives!
No lies, I was unimpressed when Oprah officially backed Obama due to previously stated annoyance with her show and it's "topics".
But I am now going to tune in every day (even if my T.V. is on mute with a well-placed sheet over it) just to stick it to these pedantic grandstanders.
I'll take my Oprah show.
You get dibs on The 700 Club.

I am sure everybody and their second cousin has seen this by now...but lookie! I just learned how to embed stuff! Yay! It's like I have seen the future of technology! Or Russia....from my house!

Jason Bourne for President!

2008-09-11T13:58:00.008-04:00

I love Matt Damon.

Mmmm...yes I do.

I never understood how such an obviously talented and intelligent (not to mention bad ass) wunderkind got the dubious distinction of being best friend to the seething genital wart that is Ben Affleck.

And how is Ben Affleck more popular than little bro Casey?

That dude is hot.

Seen Gone Baby Gone?
I rest my case.

Anyhow, I just saw this--and I was going to avoid broaching the whole "politics" thing again...but dude has spoken my mind for me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6urw_PWHYk

Ha! Dinosaurs! Priceless.

The Friendship Dole

2008-09-10T22:40:00.012-04:00

I realized tonight that I have eaten for free the past five nights in a row.
I have literally been feasting on the spoils of friendship.

The one thing that has kept me from going completely bat-shit insane (not to mention, broke) is my wonderfully awesome friends.

I know I use this forum as a sounding board for all the ills and general* qualms I have with, well, life.
*albeit legitimate---'cause let's face facts, 90% of the populus sucks....which is why I feel so fortunate to have befriended those of you about whom I'm speaking...smooches!

But I would like to take a moment to thank god for all of my friends.
I honestly, HONESTLY, don't know what I would do without you.

Michael, thank you for laughing at every one of my silly ideas (p.s. guerilla/gorrilla art is a go!).

Leslie, thanks for being your wonderful self and passing along a good reference about me to your cohorts without my even having to ask...I love you!

Jess, I would have totally rocked it at trivia tonight. Alas my wallet was hungry and unfortunately she takes precedence right now. I swear to god, I will kick it phunky phresh next week if you'll still have me. I just adore you!

God, this list could go on and on. These are just the wonderfully smart and superior human beings (not to mention damn foxy...seriously, how did I end up befriending a crew of such supremely attractive peeps?) that helped me out today when I was feeling particularly low upon awakening.

I really do feel like I am having a Sally Fields moment but I must say, oh guy in the sky...I am gonna' get sentimental, but the gratitude must be spread like land'o'lakes! . I'm not winning an Oscar but this is the closest thing to a platform I have, so...
I love you all.

And, Banana...I just cannot wait to see you!
I know it's going to be brief but time with you is always time well spent.

I miss you, angel-face.
I will buy some blueberry vodka and ginger-ale in preparation for your arrival ('cause I can't exactly go out all Biggie Smalls style at the club...but we never needed any lousy clubs to enjoy ourselves, did we?).

I hope I can give each one of my friends an iota of the solace that they have given me.

I complain. I bitch, I know.

But life is good knowing you guys are there. So thanks.

When I am rich and famous (in a non-skeezy or opportunistic but in a totally acceptable literary way) I will pay you back.

You can live in my villa.

The one in Paris will probably be more hospitable than the one in Tuscany.

Those Tuscan flies are killers!

Back to angry postings next time..Swear !
Gushing done! This tempeh bacon sandwich ain't gonna' eat itself!

Social Networking...Schmocial Schmetworking

2008-09-09T22:26:00.010-04:00

So I had some dinner with a friend tonight (big ups on the stir fry, J...it was "peachy" keen...if you know what I'm saying) and the talk turned to Myspace, Facebook, and other "social networking" sites.

I gotta' say, I think the whole idea of social networking is bunk.

Not gonna' lie, I have a Myspace page.
Or should I say, my dog has a Myspace page.

I can justify it because it belongs to my dog, not me! I trained her well.

How many creatures do you know who lack opposable thumbs and still manage to run their own web page? My dog straight up rules.

Anywho, what happened to actual meaningful conversation?

Seriously, how many times have you been involved in face to face dialogue with a person who drops some inanity ala' You are 100% Virgo if...
I could care less about your ridiculous lists! So you're proud of your astrological sign

Awesome...

Get a regrettable tattoo.

Don't bother me with all the ways in which you think your sign is superior. (p.s. It's not! The waterbearers are the leaders of the Zodiac. Ever heard a little ditty called The Age of Aquarius? It has sooo donned!)

I cannot even start to describe the atrocity that is choosing your top friends.
If I wanted to start a pecking order I would just go ahead and commit manslaughter and see who ends up becoming my bitch first...and then second and third.

God, prison puts things in perspective.
I recommend hard time almost 100% of the time!

Truly, though...I am a huge fan of telephones which, I suppose, makes me a relic.
And I gotta' give another shout out to J. because I have gotten exactly six pieces of hand-written mail this year and one such correspondence was from said lovely person.

I am still looking for a suitable frame, as snail mail is clearly experiencing a decline and that shit is about to become a museum-worthy artifact.

Myspace and it's ilk has made this generation uncomfortable with actual human contact.

And now I am going to sound like some bitter grandma, but come on!

Can't we just talk anymore?

0 minus right fucking now...last bump ever 'cause tomorrow the shit hits the fan. In the meantime, party like it's 2008

2008-09-09T17:45:00.001-04:00

'cause things are looking mighty bleak, my friend. I was browsing CNN.com this morning and read one of those stories that the editors sneak in there amidst all the heart-warming human interest "news" so as not to generate much hype. Don't get me started on the government control of the media! I swear to God, Amy Winehouse's punching incident eclipsed this shit. And this is the possible portent of the fucking APOCALYPSE! So, apparently for quite a while the Swedes (those supposedly pacifist but clearly dead-bent on nihilism dirty blond bitches) have been building something called a Large Hadron Collider. A what? The name even sounds like some Kubrick-esque scary-ass earth-eater. Dude, that was a lot of hyphen's...sorry, I'm downright panicked. So this Collider is basically more powerful than God and every other attempt at smashing atoms (you know, as in atomic m'effin' energy) and could potentially have the power to create black holes. No Earthling has seen a black hole yet. The shit is still theoretical. * But if this black hole actually forms, we could potentially be absorbed into nothingness. Earth was fun while it lasted! See You Never!!

The collider is set to get plugged in (sure that's probably not how it's operated) in August.

Ed.'s note; ooey! I'm an editor! Clearly it's no longer August. Anyone else worried that they overshot the launch date by a month. I smell trouble!

The thing is, I understand the interest behind letting this thingamajig get started. And now because I introduced my counter-point so eloquently, let me continue with my perfectly genius rationale for letting this play out. If this collider is able to tap into all of it's crazy commie Swede's foreseen possibilities, we could discover if string theory holds any water...the evidencing of quarks and such. And now, I am no scientist (unless you count my masters in krunkology) but from what I learned from a few New Yorker articles and Back to the Future, string theory is the root to time-travel. So either the world is going to end or I am going to be funkin' it up in the 3030's 'cause I hear them's times is blarnk! That's the lingo we use in the future, magdh.

*Although there was this one time in high school I ate some pretty powerful stuff and when I asked Alice and the talking rabbit where I was at, they just laughed and telepathed to me that I was on the other side.

OUCH!!!

2008-09-08T19:43:00.012-04:00

My body got bitch-slapped by the East Bay bike trail today.
My thighs feel like a thousand mini-daggers are repeatedly stabbing them, my vajayjay is numb, and if my ass had tear ducts it would be sobbing like Kathy Lee Gifford in a televised visit to a sweat shop.

Fucking ow chihuahua!

The entire day unfolded the exact opposite of how I had planned it.

I lounged around for the better part of the morning and early afternoon until I had grown aggravated with my own sloth and decided that I hadn't properly sucked enough marrow out of the summer yet.
I'm thinking, I am going to sweat out some frustration on the bike path.

But first I need caffeine for reals!

I decide to go to Starbucks, and before you admonish my decision to offer up my patronage to the corporate gods, let me explain my rationale.

Starbucks has vanilla powder on their condiment counter.
It's free! I don't have to pay an extra 50 cents for a flavor shot.
Yes! Yes, I am that cheap.

It's around two so I figure the crowds would be to a minimum.
But Jesus H. People really love their Starbucks. Confounding!
I had to park down the street because the lot was full.

And there was a line.
It took me about twenty minutes to get my cappuccino (and I use the word cappuccino loosely, as there was a surprising lack of foam.) Bad, bad barista. I likes the foam!

So, by the time I get home, it's far later than I had projected for my departure time.

And now I had to deal with the tumult of getting my bike into my car.
Holy shit!
I must have broken some kind of Guinness record for dropping the f-bomb.

I am lowering the back seats of my car and wrangling with this bitch for like 30 minutes. I am sweating up a storm and I haven't even gotten to the exercise portion of my day yet.
Finally I get the thing in there and take off for my destination.

I get to the trail head at 3:30 and figure everything will be okay if I keep a steady pace.
All told, the trail is 30 miles round trip and going by my history with it, I should be back to the start in around three hours.

I'm good to go! A finishing time of 6:30 means there will be daylight still and just in case I have brought my handy dandy knife.

Mess with me and you'll get a good shanking, bitch!

Allow me a minute to remind all the girls and boys out there to ALWAYS wear a helmet.
Seriously, I once took a psychology class presided over by a professor whose specialty was in brain damage and I have heard some horror stories about bike-related head injuries.
A helmet might look stupid but nothing is more unsavory then a drooling head case who has lost all their basic capacities.

So I am wrestling with getting my bike out of the somewhat precarious position I have managed to have gotten it into.
Situation was ridiculously hard.
I am moaning and groaning like a porn star and feeling like I am birthing a whale, when finally I set my bike free.

I start pedaling when I realize I can't get the unruly whore out of first gear.
I'm pissed as hell 'cause it's a new bike and I am thinking that I want to feel the burn that only second and third gear afford me.
I recall that there is a smartly located bike shop right off the path and so figure, I'll just stop and get their expert advice.

An hour into my journey I am no longer concerned with down-shifting. The path seems more laborious than ever.
I am getting straight-up jelly legs.

I wasn't hungry before I left because I overdosed on some delish pad thai last night (thanks again, Leslie! You are such a catch, you don't even know!). So I took along only a dollar thinking that if I needed some substinence to fuel my adventure I could stop and get a bag of nuts.

Holy fuck! A dollar really doesn't get you anything anymore!
No nuts for me! Just pain and a grumbly belly.

So I get to Bristol and am psyched to have made it the distance but am now completely not okay with how I am feeling.
My body has never resisted the bike trail like this. I am confused.

Then I realize, It can't be me! I have not fallen that far out of shape since my last ride.
So what variable has changed?
Aha! The bike!

I opted for a smaller bike because I am clearly superficial and the twenty four inch bike came in the most pleasing shade of pink. The twenty-sixer only came in purple. Old people and transients like purple. Trust me,purple is not the color scheme of choice for someone young and vibrant like me.
Hand to the bible, I chose my ride based on it's color.

So here I am, proud owner of a pink bike and an even pinker skin tone.
I am huffing and puffing the last leg home.
Fuck all that, get me out of first gear business...at one point I get off to walk the bike but it's taunting me all the while. I'm channeling Lance Armstrong.
Throw me a bone, cycling god. I don't think I can make it.

I am sore and getting attacked by gnats all the while being passed by elderly people.
Senior citizens are whizzing by and smiling like the whole fucking ordeal is a walk in the park. Fuck you and your feel-good endorphins! My endorphins have failed me. I want out!

I finally get midway to the trail head and start chanting a little mantra.
The Little Engine that Could had "I know I can, I know I can..." I had "This fucking blows, this fucking blows"..I am literally saying it with every breath.

At this point I am no longer concerned about somebody coming at me all predator-style. Screw my knife, I could kill a bitch with my bare hands.

I come to within three miles of the end and the sights that had originally lured me to this path are now taunting me. Ooh, a pretty swan, just became "fucking glorified duck living a life of leisure". Sweet, sweet sea smells just became the funky aroma of a nasty yeast infection.

I am done! I want out.

I drag my numb ass along to the finish line and literally have to sit on the hood of my car for twenty minutes before passing go. I was still far too shaky to entrust my feet to maneuver a motor vehicle.

But I did. And I got home.
And for now I will bathe in the Epsom salts of futility because I know that tomorrow I am going to walk like I got fucked. And not in a good way.

DAMMIT DAYS

2008-09-04T21:29:00.021-04:00

I had a day at the beach.
Sounds relaxing, right? Not so much.

So I get all prepped, do the requisite grooming and lotioning, pack my beach bag full of the necessities, and get online to try and figure out my destination.

I've been told that North Kingstown beach is free after Labor day (huge plus as I am fiscally challenged at the moment) and according to my Mapquest directions, it's also surprisingly close.

So I get in my car at around 12:30, thinking I'd get there around prime time, 1:00.
Of course my car is on empty. I have been driving it on empty for two weeks without worry, ya' know, cause' Providence is small and I figure if worse comes to worse I can walk somewhere.

I know, my sense of adult responsibility is staggering.

But seriously, since recent events I have had a lot of time on my hands and I have always preferred walking to driving when I can, so I can justify my avoidance of the pumps.
I figure, I'm doing my part to conserve our natural resources, all the while helping the environment and my anorexic wallet.

I guess that seven dollars will get me to and fro (judging by crapquest's projections) my destination easily.

Three miles, THREE MILES after I hit the interstate, my car is back on E.
Now, I hate pumping gas. Always have. Something about having to pay for my freedom, I guess. I don't know. But I have ended up running out of gas in some sincerely seedy places so I have already studied my owner's manual and kept track of exactly how long I can go once the orange light comes on.

Honestly, I once drove blindly on empty with a gas can in the trunk and the sole intent of finding out how far I could drive without re-gassing.
My car's reserve is around 53 miles.

That's a lot of miles.
I don't even know if Rhode Island encompasses 53 miles from one end to the other.
We live in the Mary-Kate Olsen of states!
Therefore, I have never worried about being stranded.

Point is, it took me seven dollars just to land back on empty.

Do I panic? Do I stop to refuel?
Nah. I am straight up Alfred E. Neuman.
What me worry?

SO, I keep going with the knowledge that I have at least 50 miles before I should start to sweat.

But because I am low on gas, I am forced to turn off my a.c.
And it is hot. So much for that no sweating thing. My fucking eyeballs are perspiring!

So I get to within 1 mile (according to stupid-motherfuckin' don't-get-me-started-i-will-kill-a-shady-bitch Mapquest) of my destination, find a gas station and begrudgingly feed my card into the machine.

I'm good to go!
It's almost 1:15...perfect.

I set the thing that gauges my miles and when I get to three, I stop to ask directions from some utility guy fixing some sort of utilitarian thing (I know, I have a way with words) and the dude just looks at me with a Forrest Gump look on his face.

I couldn't have been more direct.

All I asked was, "Hi! Can you tell me how to get to the public beach from here?"
Blank stare followed by a stupid smile.
Followed by, "Uuuh, yeah. Just keep driving thataway".

Okay.
Thanks, buddy.

I failed to mention that because of the extreme temperatures in my car I had long since removed my top.
I didn't think twice about it because I am wearing a bathing suit and this is beach country. It's not like I am wearing a thong, or a bikini even.

On a side note, I never understood why guys will go absolutely ga-ga over a chick who shows some cleave at a bar or a grocery store, or say a job interview (Never know who you might meet, right?) but you can go to the beach in the equivalent of a bra and panties and nobody even acknowledges your practical nakedness.

Anyway, I follow the sage's directions and drive "thataway".

I am driving until I hit Narragansett.

12 miles, my friend!
What the fuck?

I have now taken the long way to get to a beach I would have gone to originally had it not been for the tantalizing draw of spending less on gas and the promise of no admission fee.
The principle of it all irked me enough to turn the fuck around rather than just parking and taking an easier and faster way home.

So I recalibrate my mile counter thingie and figure my original mapquest location should be round-a-bout 8 or nine miles.

I get there and see a road that is named Beach St. I figure, this has got to be it.
Even if Mapquest never mentioned it.
I dunno if you can read through the subtleties, but I HATE mapquest.
Bitch has got me lost more times than I ever found my destination.
I suppose I should also blame Rhode Island and it's total "road renovation all the time" attitude/complete lack of consistency in actually using placards to mark street names.
I have mapquested a few destinations only to find that some pivotal exits and/or routes no longer even exist.

I swear to God, more than once I have followed the Mapquest directions to a T, only to end up meandering around Connecticut or Massachusetts.
I have seen more of this land than Ponce DeLeon!

So, at this point, I throw the fucking mapquest directions out the window (that's a proverbial window, folks. When you litter it makes a Native American cry. And that makes everybody cry. Give a hoot! Don't Pollute! I know, I am mixing up my eighties P.S.A.'s---if only I had One to Grow On right now!).

I end up turning down the beach road and wander far too long around a residential neighborhood.

It's now almost 3.
I am more pissed about the dollars than anything else and I have already budgeted my time so that I am certain to be back in Providence by 5 at the latest. I have plans!

So, I turn around and find myself back on the street I drove up on 2 hours prior.

I see a traffic cop and pull over.
I ask, somewhat exasperated, "Can you tell me how to get to the N.K. public beach?"
He says, "Take your next left".

Really?

I took my next left, and sure enough...there she is!

At first I am psyched because there is absolutely no one there, save one guy in a beach chair at the far end.
Unfortunately the far end isn't that far.

The beach itself is Skee-Lo short.

Alas, I do have some privacy (p.s. in my head I pronounced that priv-acy---with a soft i...all British-like 'on account of I'm feeling fancy and a little sun-stroked).
So I lay out my towel, apply the SPF 45 'cause I have had one too many nasty encounters with the sun.
I love you, earth-feeder! You keep my vitamin D levels in check and rule over the whole day/night dynamic, but why you gotta' make me so pink and silly looking?

So at this point I am weighing pros and cons.
Pro-I am finally here and the waves are lapping and the breeze feels awesome and I am practically alone.
Con-fucking stingy, buzzy, sand flies biting the shit out of me.

Honest Abe! My right foot looks like a topographical map.

And I forgot my phone. So I have absolutely no clue what time it is.

I do what my body tells me to and turn over when I feel hot and then finally cry uncle when one of far too many aggressive gnats decide my ass would make a delightful dinner.

I get back on the interstate just in time to make rush hour in Providence.

Rad!

I have barely enough time to shower and change before I have to be in Seekonk to baby-sit my nieces.
But I make it.
And as much as I moan about family obligations, I truly do love hanging with my girls.
So, I was trying to get them to go to sleep after hours of play by reading to them in my best drone "you are getting very sleepy now" voice.

I must have read 20 books.

Sounds like a lot, but childrens' books are not at all that comprehensive.
You will never find Clif Notes for Horton Hears a Who.

One of the great literary tomes I read to my angels was entitled, "Feelings".

Sample line, "Sometimes I feel sad, sometimes I feel mad".
Mind blowing, Right?

So, Lena says, "Sometimes I have dammit days"!

I'm like, do tell!

My perfectly brilliant little 3 year old niece clarifies, "Oh, you know, Mimi...Dammit, Dammit, Dammit"!

Yes, Lena! I do know.

The south will fry again

2008-09-01T19:17:00.014-04:00

And I will be there with the coleslaw.

Ever have one of those cravings that will just not go away, no matter how much you try to suppress it like a bad childhood memory.

Shit, I got a hankering that can just not be satisfied. Or should I say, satis-fried? Zing! I amuse myself.

I need a hush puppy like all get-out!

Because I reside in the North and I am assuming that the majority of people who read this also live in the North (or what I will now bitterly refer to as the land of Hush Puppy Hate-itude) let me define for you the total awesomeness that is a hush puppy.

It is an all at once, sweet and savory experience. A deep fried ball of sweet cornmeal served with a perfectly seasoned cocktail sauce. Pure taste sensation. I tell you what, I am totally jonesing for one just thinking about it.

Closest thing in RI to the hush puppy is a clam cake. Fuck a clam cake!

Matter of fact, fuck clams! (I'm about to get sincerely juvenile, but--haha! Fuck Clams...snap! the sexual innuendo is priceless)!
But honestly, clams have the texture of a rubber band. Every
time I have ever disregarded my history with them and dive right in, I end up getting an extended stay visitor betwixt my bicuspids.
Shit is uncomfortable to eat. Don't get me started on popcorn! Evil buttery temptress!

And anyways, the clam cake is not as sweet and fluffy as a pure Southern hush puppy.

So I have been thinking, no, lusting over is more apt, hush puppies all day long.

It's Labor Day and a friend had the day off. I did too!
Imagine that.

So, we walked downtown and stopped for lunch at one of the only places that was open and people were actually laboring.

I'm listening to our server recant the specials when one immediately piques my interest.
Fried sesame chicken over greens with a peanut sauce.
You had me at fried--- yummy.
I snapped back to reality ever so quickly when I remembered that, oh yeah, fried means it's coated in flour and flour=gluten. Aaargh.

I thought about my glorious hush puppies again because, well, like I said, Constant Craving!

And I had the grandest epiphany. Hush Puppies are made of corn! They don't get any special glutenous coating. I can totally go to town on a hush puppy without fear of bronchial retribution!

Now here is where things get sad.

A friend of mine recently moved to Maryland.
We Southerners consider Maryland to be on the cusp of the south. Not quite southern enough and not quite northern enough.
But they are situated on some fine fishing waters* and I must attest, I have enjoyed some delectable hush puppies there.

Last week my friend (not the aforementioned ex-pat), realizing that it was gonna' be a long weekend, up and booked it out of town to D.C. and didn't bother to tell me until she was well en route.
I'm like, wait, Hey! That's close to Maryland, a.k.a. Hush Puppy Territory.
Drop a sistah' off.
Let's kill two birds with one stone (folks, that's next to impossible! every time I try I only end up injuring the second bird, the wing-man if you will!) and visit with my friend and feast on buckets of hush puppies.

Nah. No such luck.

I really need to invest in a deep fryer.

God, I'm not even going to count, but I know I said the words hush and puppy ad-naseum.

Here's hoping a lot of people are desiring info about hush puppies, hush puppy recipes, the movie Hush (awful) or cute pictures of puppies (adorable), because that shit shows up on google.

I need the hits man.
Way more than Amy Winehouse and Nick Nolte combined.

*I should clarify that for some inexplicable reason hush puppies are only available in seafood restaurants. And Damnit! Only in the South.

PHAT!

2008-09-01T10:32:00.008-04:00

I'm confused.
My body has a mind of it's own.
I mean clearly my body is comprised of many parts and of course one of those parts is a brain (a nice big juicy one, thank you!), so when I say my body has a mind of it's own, I mean metaphorically speaking.

I have been feeling like a total lard-ass lately due to lack of physical activity and a recent passion for cheese. Mmmm, gouda.
Plus, my "lady in waiting" is knocking on the door.
Things just haven't been feeling their utmost firmest.

Two nights ago I cracked.
Gluten be damned! The belly wants what it wants. And the belly wanted some pizza, DAMNIT!
So, I go to the place where I go when I needs the cheesy goodness.
The cashier knows me, or at least knows my typical order.
She has never once made any attempt at conversation with me...until this night.
She says, "Are you losing weight"?

I didn't even know how to respond.

Here's the thing.
I am sure this girl thought she was paying me some kind of compliment, no matter how ass-backwards it might have been.
Sadly, the majority of women I know feel that they need to lose weight.

But is it ever okay to comment on a stranger's appearance.
Would you say to an overweight person, "Geez, you are more portly than usual these days"?
I hope not, though it might be kinda' funny.
God, I'm an asshole.

And before I sound like a hypocrite, lemme explain the whole "feeling like a lard ass" thing.
I know I'm not fat. I just feel lazy and I do have that fear of "letting it all go" and becoming one with the sofa and a pack of Famous Amos. I could sooo go there.

Ah, sweet dreams. Sweet chocolate chippy dreams.

Okay, I've returned.
So, I felt taken aback by this girl's comment.
This morning I weighed myself expecting to see at least a little overage...but, NO!
I have actually lost weight.

Now I figure there are only two explanations for the recent lightening of my load.
1) You know how people are always saying, "So and So is carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders" when they are going through some shit?
Maybe this weight of the world actually manifests itself in the lbs. and mine is gone due to recent fun-employment.

2) The average adult brain weighs 400 grams (yes, I googled it). Now, I don't know a gram from a graham cracker, so I am unsure how that figure translates into pounds, or if it even does for that matter. Point is, maybe I have finally actually lost my mind and all the pesky weight that goes with it!

Tropic Thunder!

2008-08-31T19:16:00.016-04:00

I just saw it and gotta' say I don't smell any Oscars anytime soon.

It was funny enough, but not the comedic gem I was hoping it would be.

That said, it was pleasantly and flippantly un-p.c. in that it managed to make fun of a ton of stereotypes without seeming outwardly prejudiced.

I can get down with that as I, myself, am an equal-opportunity offender.

I was first intrigued to see it after having read an article by some hifalutin friend of a friend who knows somebody who is mentally disabled and took it upon himself to write an op-ed piece condemning Thunder's use of the word retard.

Now I have to qualify my next statement by saying that, jokes aside, I understand that the hardships faced by those who suffer from mental diseases and or disabilities are monumental and should not be discounted by those looking for a few cheap laughs.

Heck! I live right across the street from a facility that caters to the needs of the mentally challenged (I know, I totally live on the wrong side of the street..honestly, though. wanna' guess how many time a day I walk out the door muttering, "there but for the grace of God").

I have seen some sad families come and go.

Okay, qualifying done.

I have used the word retard. It's in my humble lexicon.

The alternatives for the word are few. Disabled connotes that you are useless. Mentally challenged connotes that you are a run-of-the-mill human being. What's not to challenge your mind in this world that we inhabit? Shit's challenging!

Oddly, I only became comfortable using the word since my move to Rhode Island.

I am from the South which, as you know, has a long history of racism and general backwoods unseemliness. But there has arisen out of that (and of course there are still rogue redneck quarters where shit hasn't moved past the Emancipation Proclamation) a certain Southern shame. You know the expression, "A northerner says fuck you and a southerner says bless your heart"? It's a deflection mechanism in the South. There really is an air of southern gentility that masks the ugliness of bigotry where as in the North it's all out on the table.
Nothing is veiled here. I have not heard so many ugly racial/sexual/epithets spouted in the 25 years I lived down south as I have since the five I have spent here.

All that said, I really did love how Tropic Thunder left no politically correct stone completely tossed to the curb.

For Chrissake, Robert Downey Jr. is a black man, and at one point a Vietnamese man, and at yet another a Mel Gibson look-alike (I dunno' if it's just me or did you get the sense he was parodying Mel Gibson's zealotry when he was acting as the gay priest...p.s. the opening sequence of Tropic Thunder was the most wonderful 10 minutes of movie magic I have ever sat through...I need some booty sweat, STAT!).

The more that I think about it the more that I realize that this movie might actually be brilliant.
It's a comedy, sure.
But it makes fun of itself and the entertainment industry in general.

I just adore that they picked war to be the genre.

Lemme' get this out of my system.
I have seen quite a few legit war movies. My mom used to teach a course on it.
I know, right? Why couldn't I get into that school?
Actually, now that I think about it..."Mom, why couldn't I get into that school"?

But every time I see one at the theaters and one of us "good guys" blows up a village or something equally offensive, the crowd goes positively hoo-rah! wild.

Guess what? That shit is based on the reality of war.

Killing people is not okay! War is never, ever cool.
Even if it's got wicked awesome sound effects and explosions!

I just dismounted my high horse.

I would like to end this blog entry by making an admission I never thought was possible.

Tom Cruise didn't suck.

Bartender, gimme' two saucers of milk

2008-08-29T18:53:00.002-04:00

Cause' you are fixin' to see a catfight!

So I am unemployed, duh.

My sister asks if I want to baby-sit. I say sure, I needs to get paid! And I love my nieces, so it's a win-win.

We decide to meet up at the Rochembeau Library on Hope where she has her La Leche meeting.

I walk in, see a whole bunch of new mom boobies, and am ready to hotfoot it outta' there like an east-sider at a Wu-Tang show...Oh, yes! I did. Non-tipping hussies.

Nico, Lena, and I take our business to the children's room.

P.S. ! I have totally missed my calling.

Read a childrens' book lately?
They are short, completely lacking in plot development and characterization, and totally anti-climatic.

I swear to God, I have been noticing an epidemic of totally dumbass kids and all this time I have been blaming the mothers! Childrens' Lit. is a totally untapped resource!

Honestly, though. I kid a lot, but why the hell are we treating our young one's like they have the wherewithal of a basketball? I know it's cliche, but kids are indeed sponges.

My nieces are incredibly smart.

I mean, sure, they have superior DNA, but come on!
Why would you talk down to a precious young mind!

I am getting beside myself here, so let's get to the point.

I come back from Whole Foods with Nico and Lena in tow and see the parking slut-tendant.
She's shifty as usual in all her Costanza glory (loyal readers--all 3 of you---know the whorible bitch I am talking about) and pretending not to see me.

I'm thinking, ahh, she's about to get somebody good, wily buttaface!

But because I am dealing with two toddlers and a case of the "I gotta' get away from all this unsexy lactation" , I disregard my gut.

Sorry, gut, I wronged you.
You were right as usual.
Promise to never, ever, eat a guacamole, mayo, and cheese sandwich again.

I got a thirty dollar ticket for parking in a cross-walk.

I'd like to take this time to point out that nobody, and I mean NOBODY, in Rhode Island heeds the cross-walk.

You are putting your life in your own hands if you think that somebody's gonna' stop for you.

That aside, this dried up hag was obviously avoiding me as I parked.
She saw me, coulda' told me to move my car....NO!

Muahaha...
You have just messed with the wrong girl.

I have been looking for a reason to snap the smug satisfaction off your face!

The light is GREEN!

It is on.

Honk if you're a giant tool!

2008-08-28T19:35:00.002-04:00

I have been taking my dog on these epic walks since operation freedom started.

Today we strolled about the entire east-side and parts of Pawtucket.
It was a beautiful day and we had almost no humidity, so judging by the amount of perspiration coming off my body (albeit scented like lavender and dreams), it only goes to prove that the route I chose was, shall we say, lengthy.

I had to stop at a friend's to grab a water bottle with which I shared with my huffy pooch.
I mean I shared the water, not the bottle.
Eeeew, cooties!

So, I am walking around and just not at all cute. I'm dehydrated, sweaty, and probably more than a little red when you factor in the recent lobstering my skin got at the beach. So why the fuck are you dudes honking at me?

I got honked at three times today!

That shit is startling!

I mean, the main reason I go on walks or engage in intentional bouts of exercise and/or activity is because I am seeking peace of mind through endorphins.

I'm unemployed!

I can't afford your fancy crack cocaine!

So when I am pondering some pretty deep stuff, the last thing I need is for some knucklehead in a Suburban Assault Vehicle honking at me while I am in my Zen place.

What do you think this is going to accomplish?

Cue the boom-chica-bow music.

Ooh, I'm gonna' unravel my sweaty pony-tail, turn my head ever so coquettishly, lick the salt off my upper lip, give a wink, and ask for a ride? I was just waiting until the right guy came along and blared his car horn at me! Take me, I'm yours!

Ain't gonna' happen.

I am most mystified why the sight of me has gotten you so intrigued that you even bothered to stoop to such a flagrant display of inanity.

I don't have a pleasant look on my face. I am wearing a pair of shell-toes I have had since I was fifteen.
I swear to god, I still have the bored musings I wrote on the side of the sole when I was suffering through Ethics class.
Ya' know...school sux!...random lyrics to some hip-hop song, a hieroglyphics symbol...the usual.

Point is, it seems my feet have grown exponentially in comparison to my stature, as I have absolutely no toe-room left and I am walking up-hill. I am in pain.

I am so NOT gellin'.

I look down to make certain the barn-door's not open.

Shit's as closed as Rush Limbaugh's mind.
Then, I take a look further north...nope! No nipplage. It's a hot day.

And I'm wearing a black shirt that's rather billowy. It's not like anybody was able to catch wind of the majesty going on beneath my Van Halen tee. You wish!

So what is it?

Thing is, if I wanted to get objective, I could say, "A dude is a dude is a dude" and write it off as just something that women, regardless of how un-provocatively they are dressed, have to deal with because men are just silly creatures ruled by the planet penis (that's the second one from the sun, just a few rungs down from your anus---or as those "expert astronomer" types like to call it---Uranus...I prefer the ultra-scientific classification system as popularized by Mr.Archibald Beavis and Sir Linus Butthead).

But I know that's not the case.

Some men are just eunuchs who can only be forward when they are driving a moving vehicle that has the potential of outrunning me.
I mean I'm sure if the offender is left without a quick response he can always blame it on his sweet, sweet, ride's acceleration and not the fact that he is a total sac-less wonder.

I had a beautiful moment last year.
I was walking down the street when this carload full of ass-hats started harassing me.

They sped up, thinking that they had fled the scene of the crime.
Then they hit a red light just as I caught up to them.

I, being the quasi-sociologist and truth-seeker that I am, walked right up to their car and asked, "What the fuck was that about? Do you have something you want to tell me?"

I haven't seen more pussies with an urge to piddle since before my childhood kittens got spayed.

Now in Technicolor!

2008-08-28T18:33:00.020-04:00

Yeah, things are looking different.

Trust me, it was PURELY unintentional. I really know nothing about these crazy thinking machines and going to online template tutorials is like being surrounded by a bunch of D&D playing, Steven Hawking worshipping egg-heads just blasting your intelligence.

I thought I'd spice things up on here a bit because I woke up at 6 AGAIN and had nothing better to do. Plus, my blog wasn't pretty enough, and from the research I have done on blogs and pretty much all things in general, beauty beats content. I'm living proof! I couldn't be more shallow and everyone loves me! I jest of course! People hate me. Jealous bitches....

So anywho, I found a template I liked and copied the code. It was a free site but I donated 3 bucks 'cause I support the arts and three dollars is all I could rationalize donating considering the salad days are officially over.

I am about to preview the code, but it's nearing 6:30 in the a.m. and my synapses aren't firing properly yet, so I accidentally press save code instead.

Oh my god. The shit looked Terrible (with a capital T, see what I did there?).

So I am frantic and trying to find my old template for hours to no avail. I was crying like a nerd on prom night (okay I just thought of my prom night and there were no tears... just a bunch of Carrie style plotting---one day, bitches---one day you will pay!).

So finally I settle on a template that is passable (i.e. doesn't feature puppies in a basket on the bottom, a scene from the Hobbit, or a banner at the top dedicated to Hogwart Academy...seriously these tech. people are nerdtastic).
I can't figure out how to make the thing look like I want it to and my computer keeps refusing my attempts to get the damnable code in there. I keep getting messages saying vague shit like; cannot be parsed, attempt failed because XrC^ doesn't align with PCP. Please reconfigure all gobbledygook and realign your lameness with your inferior posterior. The Sith is underrated....blah, blah, blah..computer jargon.

I am pulling out my hair and cursing the jerks responsible for these codes. I mean, come on!
I imagine that the aforementioned techies are sitting around in their moms' basements just having a big ol' laugh at my expense.

Typical imagined conversation:

Nerd One:Oh my gosh. This one is as stupid as the tape splicer behind Rise of the Machines. Remember 36.8 minutes in when you could clearly see the...(don't know where I'm going here, imagine somewhere very dorky)

Nerd Two: It's true! This one reminds me of that trombonist at band camp who didn't know her pitch classes from her spit valve.

Giggles abound over the usage of the term "spit valve"

Nerd Three: She's practically Kelly Bundy

Blank stares

Nerd Three: It was a Trivial Pursuit question. I fell on the pink spot.

Heads nod in communal acknowledgment of the dreaded arts and entertainment portion of Trivial Pursuit.

Followed by some laughs over "landing on the pink spot"

If there is anything American Pie has taught me---and it has taught me alot, my friends, is that nerds are dirty birds. (P.S. I'm a spelling bee champ and one time first chair of the Florida Youth Symphony...oh, the sweet flat, pre-pubescent tail I got!)

I digress.

Point is that, despite my idiocy and the 4 hours it took me, I got some semblance of my old site back.

p.s. i have no earthly clue as to how those two conversation bubbles ended up at the top of my page--the one's marked "posts" and "all comments", but you are my new hero if you can tell me how to get them off here.

Operation Freedom

2008-08-26T19:14:00.001-04:00

Is now on day two and I gotta' admit, I'm beginning to panic a little.

Don't get me wrong, I know I made the right decision, however hasty it might have been.
I had to leave before the last remnants of my will to live were hoovered out by the man.

But what the fuck do I do next?

I was thinking of maybe doing some editing but have decided that I can't have a job where all I do is sit. I have too much energy for that. I'm equal parts water, oxygen, vim, and vigor. I gots to move, people!

I was thinking I could be a mail-carrier.

The outfit's stupid but there is a lot of walking around involved and it's about to become supremely beautiful outdoors.

But I don't think you can get a Federal job if you have been convicted of a crime.

Silly, Silly, public indecency charges. People pay good money to see that kind of stuff!

So, folks, I am open to suggestions.

On a positive note I did get quite a bit done today.
For some ungodly reason I woke up at six today.
I wish I could sleep in...ahh, slumber. I remember that fair mistress.

I have friends that sleep all day on their days off.

Although, technically, that could be described as a symptom of depression.

And, as much as I bitch, I really do love life (when I'm not chained to a witless nine-to-five, that is).

But, yeah!

I caught up on some Jerry Springer and I gotta' say, social relevance be damned! I can't believe the guy's not bigger than Oprah. Or Jesus, for that matter.

My apartment and car are cleaner than they have been in a long time and my dog has been walked to exhaustion. Sorry, Sheen.

But I can't get paid for leisuring!

To make that happen I'd have to join the cast of The Hills.

So, seriously. Hook me up with a job tip...please.

I'll love you long time.

UNCLE!

2008-08-25T17:26:00.001-04:00

I am soooo out.

The day has finally come.
I quit my job.

I didn't actually use the words so much as throw my vile baseball hat on the floor, declare my independence, and say fuck this, stomp out of the office and slam the door, but I think they got the picture.

Hallelujah! Praise Jesus! Holla at Allah!

I know I should be freaking out right now but fuck it. I feel
at peace.

Let me just say, god as my witness, I will NEVER work in the food service industry again. I have had enough of the denigration, thank you sir, NO MORE!

The entire time my boss was chiding me today about my "customer service skills" all I was thinking was, I do not give one shit about these idiotic pampered blowhards and their ridiculous needs.

I have a stellar constitution, always have. But there is only so much I can stomach.

Irony of ironies, this week just happens to mark my one year anniversary. I would have gotten a raise. Talk about comic timing!

Oh and just to keep this fun, I really hate one of my co-workers. Every single thing about this person bothers me. I am always nice to said person but I really would prefer if they got run over by a truck.
Guess who you are, biotch!

I will miss seeing you Alli, Mitchell, Kaitelyn, Christina, Will, Aimee---get ye the hell out soon, you are too good for this misery.

The rest of you can bite me.

Terror Level=GREEN

2008-08-24T13:37:00.000-04:00

Ah man.
I have no money. It totally blows.

And I am on the most ridiculous diet ever (sort of...yeah! Gluten---I cheated on your sorry ass---and it feels so good).

Point is, gluten is in practically everything. So I am walking around like a totally misanthropic turd all day complaining about my diet while my stomach is emitting some seriously loud hunger pangs.

And the only establishment that caters to my diet is Whole Foods.

Are you kidding me? They should call it Whole lotta' money you're gonna' be spending on over-priced hippie Foods.

I have dropped some serious coin there since I cut the gluten. And now that I am going about renaming things, let's just call it what it is. It's not so much a diet as it is a vision quest. Seriously. I am so deprived that I am experiencing psychic episodes. I swear the other day I levitated!

So I went today to pick up my single serving of gluten-free pizza ($5) and my Kombucha ($4)---that's a mushroom based soda, folks...oh yeah I am so crunchy my nickname should be Cap'n !--- and proceed to the checkout when I realize I have forgotten to bring one of my reusable shopping bags.

Jesus.

I could get away with this if I was at Stop and Shop. Stop and Shop doesn't give a shit.

But Whole Foods is high and mighty and all about the environment.

Don't get me wrong. I care about the environment.
I breathe air all day long.
I love the shit.

But, god forbid you ask for a bag at Whole Foods.

The few times I have been reduced to it I ended up slinking out of there holding my purchase like it was a bald eagle I just shot down and ground into a nice tetrazzini meat.

The shame!

So, not only am I spending enough money on one meal to feed a Cambodian child for a year, I am also forced to buy yet another fucking grocery bag.

All this going green is robbing me of all my greenbacks.

Break me off a piece of that!

2008-08-24T13:30:00.000-04:00

Oh yeah.
I am bored.

It's Sunday and regardless of what Ms. Susanna Hoffs of the Bangles might have you believe...it is NOT my fun day.

I spend every Sunday trying to savor the flavor of freedom as much as I possibly can before I have to return to my dull, dull, existence. And yet I always end up contemplating said dull existence.

Shit is gloomy.

So I tool around the Internet and invariably end up browsing Craigslist.

First stop is always missed connections because I just KNOW that one of these days someone (anyone---even YOU---even if it's just to humor me--even if you don't mean it---come ON! Somebody!) will post something about me. How I am so charming and witty and adorable, you know, the facts!

But lately I have been disheartened.

All these pedantic little whiners posting about their pathetic love lives.
Fuck you and your "feelings". I have those too.
Rage and ire spring to mind.

So for a little comic relief I skip on over to the Casual Encounters section.
Ohh, yeah. Now we are talking.

This is my recent fave...http://providence.craigslist.org/cas/793481090.html

I am positively smitten!

SNAP!...on two counts.

2008-08-24T12:48:00.000-04:00

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/crime/2008/08/24/stone.fl.pot.at.the.mall.wfor

1) Florida just became a whole lot cooler!

2)Finally a reason to go to the mall!

My favorite reaction is from the third guy. "It's just awesome". I couldn't have said it any better myself. Can you imagine the Cheech and Chongery up in that biz if the wiring blew and they did have a fire? Holy contact high!

All of a sudden that Auntie Anne's preztel peddler is looking mighty fine!

Shout outs to T.S. Eliot!

2008-08-24T09:58:00.000-04:00

I always thought our little burg was a wasteland.

Turns out there is proof!

http://www.cnn.com/2008/HEALTH/08/22/toxic.schools/index.html?iref=newssearch

My apologies to every idiot I flipped off and called, ahem, "a science experiment gone awry" in the five years since I moved here.

Please don't vaporize me with your angry stares.

We're in Business

2008-08-21T21:45:00.000-04:00

So you may have noticed that my blog entries have been sparse this week.

Not much has happened...typical maelstrom of mediocrity here.

That said, I wouldn't disappoint by keeping all my mundane musings to myself, would I? (mama clearly likes the alliteration)

No. My computer wasn't working...AGAIN!

So, after work today I went to the mall all set to get straight-up weepy over what I was sure was going to be bad news. I mean, my computer is still a wee babe and already she's been in the I.C.U. twice. Not Cool.

I have been psyching myself out since Tuesday when the shit hit the fan. My mind has been making olympic size cognitive leaps over possible outcomes. Like, holy shit, they are going to take my computer and hold it hostage until I come up with the money to pay for it to be fixed again.

Problem, meet solution!

The Apple people gave me a brand new Mac.

Fuck YES!

I'd like to take this moment to apologize to my co-workers. I know every sentence out of my mouth lately has been like a Patsy Cline lyric. But we are back on the positive tip, folks.

Now if only I can figure out a way to stick it to Verizon. Cretins!

The Proactiv Solution

2008-08-13T20:05:00.000-04:00

Yeah. That title has nothing to do with the actual acne remedy.*

Wait for the words. I swear I will make a connection.

Recently I had a moment.

I complain a lot. It's therapeutic.

But I have been bitching quite a bit more than usual lately and even I am tired of hearing it.
So I racked my brain (and my friends and family) for some guidance as to a solution and decided to go back to school for my M.F.A. (a.k.a. Motherfuckin' fine ass!---also referred to in polite society as a master's of fine arts....pishah! polite society---with all your strictures and Dockers and Celine Dion balladry).

Horror!
Ever have that dream where you're still in high school but EXACTLY the same age? Holy psychic trauma!

But shit has gotten to the point where I need a change. This much strife is just uncouth. I'm about to freak out Amy Winehouse style and nobody wants to witness that.

So, I am applying to Columbia as my first choice.

Raising the bar high, I know. But it's about time I did something besides belly up to it.

I have a second choice, New School. They already accepted me once for my under-grad and I must say, I like the idea that when somebody asks me which
University I attend, I can reply, "Oh, I'm kickin' it New School".

Fingers crossed that I get into one of the above because my third choice is Iowa.
Pro:Great writing school.
Con:In fucking IOWA

*
Though I hear it works!
Seriously, I once lived in the same apartment building as this beautiful creature who had a subscription to Elle and a Kate Moss endorsed wardrobe.

I used to sneak a peak in her mailbox everyday like it was magic fairy happy land.

Ahh, living vicariously since 1977 should be my new motto.

Ladies and gents, I could count the number of pimples I have had in my lifetime on one hand.
Those eruptions are Vesuvius style occurrences.But I spent the $30 dollars anywho. Whatever.

Gloom is the new foxy

2008-08-11T21:44:00.000-04:00

Apparently I wear depression well.

It's week two of my post-vacation reality check. Said check has been written with the subject line grim despair. Oh, snap. I really loathe my life. But hey! It's great to be passionate about something. Even if it's bitter, bitter, hate-itude, right?

And yet for some reason, when all I wanted to do today was find a nice comfy hole to crawl inside of and die, all I got was, "Wow, you look great"!

Meanwhile, the entire time I was on vacation and loving life I had a chin that looked like beef carpaccio (long story).

The whole day I was like what the hell? I need to get melancholy more often. (Dear God, I know I haven't written you since my first day of camp when I realized that Ginny Hornoffer had bigger boobs than me at a time when boobs were MY thing !----ahh she's probably a hooker now with a serious meth addiction. I mean you DID hear my prayer, right? But seriously, I was jesting about that whole "making my life more melancholy thing"...not so much about ruining Ginny "boobs McGee" Hornoffer's future).

So I get home from my daily torture session (p.s. thanks for the offer of boat drinks, Annie. I know you read this thing---and God help you 'cause you have no idea what you're getting yourself into--but I will so be taking you up on that offer soon) and read an article which offers some hope.

Scientists are actually on the verge of perfecting a cloak of invisibility. (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7553061.stm)

Worldly possessions, prepare to be sold!

If this thing actually pans out, I will be the first in line to buy.
Hell. I already spend fifty percent of my day trying to be invisible and now there is an actual possibility of making it a reality! Sweet, sweet, dream come true.

I think these things are actually in circulation already.

I mean every time I see a jackass in a Nickelback tee, it's like he's not there at all.

And because I feel like being generous and am not feeling very high-spirited myself...Allow me to light up your life with the Engrish of the day.

In honor of the ass-raping that is the Beijing Olympics...
http://www.engrish.com/

An ode to my new neighbors...

2008-08-07T19:25:00.000-04:00

Roses are Red
Violets are blue
You suck

What can I say? I have a gift for words.

So, it's Saturday night and I am just chilling at home.
Around six I start hearing some truly terrible NuRock ala Limp Bizkit/Evenescence, you get the picture...It was like Spencer's gifts up in my backyard.
So I take my dog Sheena (shout outs to Sheen LaQuifah---world's best schnauzer) outside to investigate.
There are two tools hanging out in the garage that abuts my driveway just pumping the cacophony.
I figure, hey, it's six p.m., let 'em have their jollies. Even if it's totally offending my ears.

10 p.m. rolls around and the music just keeps getting louder. And these shitheads have now introduced strobe lights into the mix.

Now I am all for a party. If I had it my way, partying would be a profession and I'd have a 168 hour work week.

But the driveway is shared property. Did I get a phone call regarding potential festivities? Um, no.

And this wasn't some civilized wine and cheese mixer where guests strolled about in cardigans and khakis musing about lawn care and the Nasdaq. This was a straight-up Animal House style rager!

Here's where I get ageist, but I am assuming these assholes are all young idiots who still believe the world is their oyster. Guess what? I share that fucking oyster with you and I hate your crappy music and your crappy friends. DIE!

So of course this is all going down precisely the same night my sister decides to spend the night at my casa with her three year old twins and four month old infant. I just love your humanitarianism, fuckwads! Seriously, your new nickname is Mother Theresa.

What was that? Did your doorbell just ring?

Special Delivery!

One flaming bag of Schnauzer shit to show my appreciation!

TAGGED! You're shit!

2008-08-04T21:32:00.000-04:00

Have you heard the news about Banksy being unmasked?
Some asshole in need of some notoriety and/or duckets supposedly caught a glimpse (i.e. stalked the guy until he got an opportunity to seriously fuck up a legend) and posted a picture of him on the internet.
Granted, the photo is vague and almost impossible to make out...so I guess that, in effect, renders the picture's existence questionable in terms of actually identifying the artist.
Who the fuck cares though.
Whoever posted the picture claims that he is a huge fan.
Excuse me, Banksy has built his fan base on anonymity.
My main concern is that if this picture is conclusive enough to actually make a valid i.d., that Banksy will be charged with a fairly astronomical number of violations.
Sure, he's probably feasting on caviar and Cristal with all the bank he's gotten from the Pitt-Jolie's (UGGH on two counts---1>celebrity's with money enough to afford "guerilla" art only after it succeeds at becoming profitable and, 2>hyphenated last names...grow a sac, Brad...remember Fight Club?).
Thumbs down to you, Mr. oppurtunistic vagina.
I see the future you have enabled.
Bland, pedestrian streets devoid of individulality and expression, covered in stupid fucking advertisements which only serve to dumb-down an already ridiculously dumb society.

Fellini movie or random Providence night? Part one

2008-08-03T15:00:00.000-04:00

A friend and I went out last night with no real plan in mind.
We are tired of the west side and all the kids who get dressed in the dark and refuse to shower on what principle, I dunno'.
And of course the east side is just totally bleak unless you are super fond of Chili's. Or god forbid Tortilla Flats. Worst. Food. Ever.
So we settle on down town (or down city, whatever that whole charade is).
We start at Tazza.
Them's were good times! If by "good times" you mean lame o'clock.
You would have been able to hear the crickets chirping if it weren't for the brain thumping electronica beats in the back ground. I like electronica, I'm a fan. But the poor d.j. was playing to an empty room. It was kind of heartbreaking.
So my friend and I went out on the streets to smoke and people watch.
First victim of our comedic play-by-play was, shall we say, a wee bit inebriated.
He was walking, no, sashaying down the sidewalk... just keepin' it real, kickin' it Colt 45 style.
We see him approaching one of those green electrical boxes. I don't really know what they are there for but they are marked high-voltage so I always try to avoid loitering on or around them.
My friend and I are making bets on whether or not he's going to run into it. What, ooh, watch out guy!
Dude grabs the thing like it's a Nam buddy and holds on for dear life.

The funny thing is that I saw this guy out last week while I was having lunch with my mom at Cuban Revolution.
My mom's kind of the shit. She has been everywhere and done everything...including serving as a U.S. delegate in Cuba. Impressive, sure...but she also happens to have a diabolical sense of humor.
So because of our setting, the talk turned to Communism, how theoretically it's a beautiful thing, blah, blah, blah...
I'm making some point that was I'm sure if I had been allowed to finish would have been so earth-shatteringly relevant that it's effects would have been akin to curing cancer or saving baby seals...But my mom interrupts by grabbing my shoulder and gesturing out the window with a look on her face that says, "oops, I crapped my pants".
I see the dude.
He's drunk and being escorted by two cops down the sidewalk.
It was not even noon yet.
It would have been tragic---in fact maybe it was, but I have a gift for making light of tragedy. Your misfortune is my funny party joke!
But what really made the whole scene gut-wrenchingly ludicrous, was the guy's outfit.
I would describe his garb in three words; cloak of awesomeness.
He was being strong-armed by the law down the streets of Providence in the early afternoon wearing what can only be described as a dressing gown.
And what a pretty gown it was!
It was blue and silky and it billowed in the wind with every misstep he took.
Here's to you, fancy drunk guy! You started our night out right!

And because I just realized that the sheer lunacy of last night was so immense that this post has the definite possibility of turning into a small novel, I am going to break it up.

Ooh, my first installment piece.

I'm like a journalist.

But not. At all!

Fellini movie or random Providence night? Part deux

2008-08-03T13:40:00.000-04:00

So, we leave Tazza to see what other fun times are on the horizon when we notice a whole weird grab bag of people leaving Lupo's.
All the chicks were dressed up for prom and all the dudes looked like extras from a Jay-Z video. Note to self---find out who the fuck was playing at Lupo's last night.
My guess was Enrique Iglesias, because for some reason the ladies seriously hootch it up for that dude.
My hypothesis is that his giant mole has some crazy gravitational pull that effects only suburban white girls. And their long suffering boyfriends had to "man up" with as much bling, backward baseball caps, and cologne as possible in order to deflect any questioning of dudery.
Come on guy, you know you bobbed your head to Hero. Feel the Latin flame...it's all good.
So there are a bunch of cops out front keeping the peace.
And one poor traffic horse just looking ultra-confused.
The "man" literally rides this bitch's ass all day long and what does she get? A fucking diaper.
The horse is a beautiful and majestic animal.
The unfortunate filly who's job it is to carry a fat cop around all day has really drawn the short straw.
Speaking of straw, can you imagine if that was all you ate?
So bland. So monochromatic.
Therefore it wasn't that surprising when the horse started to munch on a traffic cone.
I imagine it was thinking, "Mmmm. Bright and orange, just like a yummy carrot! Hmm, it doesn't really taste like a carrot but it doesn't taste like hay either! I wish humans would stop perpetuating the myth that hay is for horses....we hate that shit. God this cop smells like bourbon. Is that Enrique Iglesias I hear? I will be your hero, baby....Neigh!"

Fellini movie or random Providence night? still going...

2008-08-03T13:02:00.000-04:00

After a while, we decide to venture back in to Tazza.
Some stupid whore was looking at my friend and me like we had just chain-ganged her boyfriend, which was unsettling, but bitches can be irrational, so I let it slide.
Until I went to take a sip of water and, after having downed a healthy sip, discovered that she had spit her gum into my glass.
I have been trying to harness my chi lately. I been on a real Zen trip.
But this makes me angry. Fightin' mad.
So we decide to hotfoot it before things come to Jerry Springer style fistacuffs.
And we end up at good ol' Local 121.
Wow it was smelly there.
And some British dude was spying on us at the bar.
As soon as we sat down, he came and sat beside me and started whispering sweet garlicky nothings in my ear. I'm totally revolted and nudging my friend in the knee like, get me the fuck outta' here. So we draw on an old classic. Straight-up fake lesbianism. Pretending that you are attracted to the ladies is so much easier than explaining that you are not at all interested in them.
And just, f.y.i., I find it can also help get you out of a routine traffic ticket.
Seriously, if you are a lady and get pulled over while escorting another lady friend around town, nothing says "crisis averted" like putting a well placed hand on another woman's bare thigh. Try it, it works. Nine out of ten Mercy's agree!
So British guy inevitably absconded his advances and the evening resumed.
The dance floor was on fire with some hilarious maneuvering.
There is too much eye-candy to describe via essay, so I'm making a list, Santa style.
1) Perfectly able gentleman with cane and James Spader's wardrobe from Less than Zero. Why the hell are you bringing a cane on the dance floor? If you have a cane, you better be able to move like that old dude from the Expedia commercials. No, really? You're just going to twirl it around like a flag girl? How are you even possible?
2)Asian guy who has no use for his lower body. I am more engaged in the music then you are and I am sitting down.
3)Guy totally confused about his identity. He's wearing skinny,skinny jeans and Birkenstocks. He probably just moved here from Montana or something, got into the RISD scene and couldn't decide on smelly hippie or hipster. Why not try both? Simultaneously!
----there were others who rounded out this entertaining group of kids, but I feel like I need to point out that the above suspects were friends and, at one point, actually broke out a CHOREOGRAPHED dance move, which they no doubt practiced to perfection in their dorm before breaking it out at the 121. I'm at a loss for words, and I like the words----
4)Guy in Van Halen t-shirt who has clearly never heard of Van Halen. This kid could actually dance. But he had that unfortunate dance face...you know the one! He's happy, feelin' the groove, but also very concentrated. The feeling translates into the oooh, I smell a fart look. Sweet.
5) Girl who thinks she's at an audition for So You Think You Can Dance. Whoah, Nelly! Fancy footwork. Not necessarily the proper venue for merengue, but whatever floats your boat.

I'm really going to have to start carrying a secret camera so I can gift these moments of beauty to posterity.Words are awesome. They make my mouth exercise. But no amount of verbage could compare to the actual clownish spectacle.

Oh, I could just go on and on. So very much fodder there.
But it's the last day of my vacation and I have important tomfoolery to engage in before I'm back to punching a clock.

Now boarding the astral plane

2008-08-01T21:18:00.000-04:00

Aaaah, I miss the wonderful weirdness that is the south.

I briefly attended college in Asheville, N.C.
Shit got a little too crunchy for my taste before I booked it to New York.
God I miss the days when I left the scene precisely when I felt it was time.
Youth! So precious! So heart-achingly fleeting.

I digress.

Asheville is a hotbed of craziness.
Some shit went down you wouldn't believe.

If you are at all of the literary persuasion then you must visit Asheville at least once before you die.
Shout out Ashevillions! Much love!
Seriously though, I stayed in the apartment once inhabited by F. Scott Fitzgerald (can I get an amen for This Side of Paradise....talk about pre-Salinger truth-spraying!) and almost rented a place at the house where wifey Zelda tried to off her self in a fire. (I dunno' what the Commodores had going on with all that brick house business....them's stones are not 100% flame retardant. Clearly!)

Also, my dog pissed on Thomas Wolfe's grave. Totally awesome considering he was a racist ass-munch.

Thomas Wolfe, not my dog. Bitch is a libertarian.

But weird things happened to me while I was in Asheville.

I had an apartment on Flint St.
It was small and my first of many revolving roomates was a raging cunt.
Hey Adrianna, how are you?

Eat me.

But the woman whose lease I took over was like, "hey, watch out. we have ghosts".

I'm thinking, keep smoking that herb and pumping the nag champa, hippie.

Oath to God! I was visited.

It wasn't some sexy incubus affair. I WISH!

Apparently my apt. was located in a former V.A. hospital. No lies, I would wake up to the sounds of heart monitors, breathing machines, and wails. OH! THE WAILS!

So I was not surprised at all when I saw this news item.

My guess is that unless you have spent a considerable amount of time in Asheville, said link will mean nothing to you. But if you are like me and have witnessed some freaky shit going down there, you will understand.

Rock well, my friends...
http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2008/08/08/legrand.haunted.school.wspa

I'm John McCain and I approve douche-tardism

2008-08-01T10:35:00.000-04:00

What the fuck?

Have you seen this ad?

This blowhard is lumping Obama in the same category as Paris and Britney.

I mean, sure, Obama has a certain star quality.

And I guess if you squint the proverbial eye of reason, one could construe Britney and Paris as "stars".

But only if said star quality is based solely on their ability to contract as many s.t.d.'s as humanly possible.

Oh, NO he didn't's to commence after the link...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHXYsw_ZDXg

Reading is un-fun-damental

2008-07-31T17:47:00.000-04:00

I was strolling the aisles of Whole Foods today when I heard a woman say the following bon mot into her cellphone: "Books are always so long and boring. I just can't stand them". Awesome.

Two aspects of this seriously profound observation bothered me.

1) This bitch is walking around having the most dull and half-assed conversation I have heard in a while and at a decibel level that is just inappropriate for public consumption. Do you think your anecdotes are so clever that they need to be shared? I understand that you need to use a cell phone in public at times. I'm guilty! But to have an ENTIRE fucking dialogue about the random doldrums that constitute your daily life within earshot of EVERYONE is just rude. Either put the phone down or develop a personality that could potentially make a voyeur out of me. I mean if you were talking about a burning sensation down south, a contract killing, or something even remotely eaves-drop worthy I might not mind listening.

2) Books are boring? Wow, that's a pretty broad statement.
Ever thought of trying a variety? Or do you just stick to the Encyclopedia and/or Ian McEwan novels (Yes, that's right, the toolbag responsible for Atonement...um, I feel the naseua coming...must ride the wave 'til it passes...good thoughts, good thoughts...okay, better now)?

That creative writing degree is looking pretty silly right now.

No, really. The student loans were worth every penny.

I use my degree everyday.

It's flat surface makes it the perfect base for rolling cigarettes on.

The birds and the bees and other creatures that suck the sweet, sweet nectar out of things

2008-07-31T17:00:00.000-04:00

Guys are confusing.
And god help me, I still can't get enough.

I was having lunch with a friend and her daughter today and the conversation inevitably turned to men and how downright mystifying they can be.

So, we are talking about "playing games" as it relates to dating. Oh fun times! I just love having my mind fucked. It's so awfully romantic.
And because said daughter is five and actually plays "games", I felt the need to describe to her the adult definition of "playing games".

I explained that when adults play games, it means that they are saying one thing while thinking another (this is the abridged version---I can't be blowing a child's mind with all my knowledge on human behavior as it relates to the opposite sex....oh wait, yes I can---boys are weird--Nuff' said).

And all of a sudden it was like we were at a seance because that little girl was channeling Jung. This little pillar of wisdom opined, "Girls always listen but boys never do".

Aaah, from the mouths of babes.

I love you guys. I really do.
You challenge my mind to work differently. And by "differently" I mean in a When Rabbit Howls type of way.

Remember in junior high when you'd get a note from an admirer and when asked if you returned the affection you were prompted to check one of three boxes---yes, no, and the unfailingly frustrating maybe?

I suggest we return to that route. It would make things a whole lot less confusing.

Like ABBA...but now 3x more ironic!

2008-07-31T16:08:00.000-04:00

About a year ago I got totally turned on to a band called The Knife. They just rock and rule.
Well, not rock so much as play keytars and dress funny. In the best possible way.

And I have done my best to promote their music by putting it on as many mix-tapes for as many friends as possible. I have probably also offended countless

noise violation laws by pumping Deep Cuts as loudly as science would allow via my overworked car speakers (forgive me, Honda God, I have sinned. It's been thirty minutes since my last radio transmission).

Still, The Knife seem to exist in relative obscurity in the states, for shame.
So imagine my positive delight when I heard them played out at a local venue last night.
I was hanging at a half-empty (and yes that is a loaded expression) bar while a couple of guys were playing some music. It wasn't offensive. It just didn't make me want to get my groove on...and I'm pretty much always in the mood to move.

Then like a phoenix rising from the flames of boredom I hear The Knife.

Hercules couldn't have held me back from the dance floor.

It was a beautiful thing.

Sadly, the dance floor was so barren when this song came on that I had to rally a few of my peeps to join me for some funkin'. Irony of ironies, the whole event ended up being completely reminiscent of one of my favorite Knife videos.

I didn't even know these cinematographic gems existed until I recently went about rearranging my music. I opened up the secret back door of a Knife c.d. and found their collection of videos for Deep Cuts.

I gotta' say the video for Pass This On so beautifully portrays the phenomenon of cultivating a group of body-mover's that Frank Capra is turning over in his grave for lack of vision.

witness the majesty here...

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1dvom_the-knife-pass-this-on_music

Celtic Thunder!

2008-07-30T09:39:00.000-04:00

So I am hanging out with my nieces who are just the best company ever.
They are three and because we share the same D.N.A., they are straight-up Einstein smart. They don't want to talk about Barney or hop-scotch, or whatever less evolved three-year old kids talk about. No, they want to talk geology. More specifically, volcanoes.

They are petrified (much like volcanic rock---zing!) of lava.
I guess maybe it was a dinosaur movie that tipped them off to the very real danger of volcanoes. I kid!
I don't want to minimize your phobia, Nico and Lena--- I was absolutely debilitated by my fear of pirates, yes--pirates, when I was your age. Who wouldn't be? Wily sea hounds!

It puts fear into perspective.

I wish my main fear was volcanoes. I could soooo deal with that.
Hell, avoiding the Pacific rim is damn easy.

Other stuff, not so much.

Oh and, cause' this post teetered on the verge of bleakness, I decided to punch it up with a nod to Celtic Thunder!

Have you seen these guys?

I'm not exactly sure what makes their act "Celtic" or ,thunderous, for that matter, but they are truly a sight to behold.

Nico, Lena....fear not volcanoes!
Nothing can rival the force of Celtic Thunder!

Link to awesomeness and what-the-fuckitude...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ToVUVWDdyys

Down in Frugal Rock

2008-07-29T18:32:00.000-04:00

I like to think that my unofficial job title is coiner of terms .

Sadly of late, it has turned to owner of coins.

As in, "That's all I got, Mr. resident of the front step of City Liquors! I know I was generous before. Sorry! Back then I was flush. I have issues of my own right now".

Shit, I'm broke.
I hear there is a creek out there. And every other sonofabitch has a paddle.

Where did you guys get those things?

They seem handy.

Dear all exes in regard to late night texts

2008-07-25T20:59:00.000-04:00

a.k.a. the worst communiques' of all, thank you!

We haven't had an actual conversation in months (sometimes years---you know who you are) and you think it's okay to text me some inane musing, out of the blue, in the evening hour on a random Sunday?

Just because you didn't actually call doesn't make it any less than an erroneous attempt at getting some pirate's treasure.

You are history. I should be history to you by now, for chrissake. I know I am the most woman you are ever gonna' know, but chillax! If I don't respond the first---mmm, 5 times---best thing for your self-esteem is to erase my digits. I know it's hard. I am indeed fly.

But, honestly. If more than a month has passed and it's midnight and the best you can come up with is, "whatcha doin'", I'm on to you.

Times weren't that great between us. That's probably the reason why we broke up. Let's just call it what it is...two words; first word starts with B, second with D, and it rhymes with schmooty rooty.

And it's totally uncalled for. Ha! Un-called for! There's a joke in there somewhere.