Instead of Stand Up

Healthy Schmealthy

2011-02-28T10:24:00.002-05:00

So, Meat Locker and I are doing just fine. The only problem I can see is that my lack of romantic misery has really limited my writing topics.

Statistics show that married men live longer. Why? Because women make them do healthy things like go to the doctor and stop eating pork rinds and vodka for breakfast. This is what happened with me and Meat Locker. He didn't ever have vodka for breakfast (well, not for a few years, at least), but he had not been to a doctor in FIFTEEN YEARS. Mostly this was due to the service industry and its wretched treatment of their employees - no benefits. But, under the auspices of a corporate restaurant, he finally got insurance. So, off to the doctor he went.

Before I get into that, let me fill you in on our plans for a fabulously funny video blog called "Healthy Schmealthy". We both know that we need to improve our health, so we thought we might make a blog out of it, with activites like veganism and jazzercize. Come on, a large man doing dance aerobics in a church basement with old ladies in spandex? HILARIOUS.

Well, now that Meat locker has gone to the doctor, we have some actual medically-based fodder for out blog. Namely that he has high cholesterol. Not surprising when you live in Fat City, where the most healthy item on the menu is usually gumbo, which, despite its innocent, soup-like appearance, is actually mainly made of flour, oil, and animal fat. I remarked to Meat Locker that despite New Orleans being called "The Fattest City" , most of the people I saw around looked quite slim. He replied, "those are the ones who go outside". Good point.

So, Meat Locker is mourning the loss of pork and duck fat in his life. He eats oatmeal and vegatables. He rides his bike to work. And he lost 8 pounds in a week! Fucking men. They can lose weight so easily. I would have to fast for 2 weeks to lose 8 pounds, and then it would all fly back on the minute I ate a piece of skinless chicken breast. But I'm glad he lost the weight. Even if he celebrated with a steak and a bag of nuts which might not have helped matters. But now he calls and says things like, "I think we should make sure 51% of the food we eat is raw". I might have created a monster. I might have to eat only raw vegetables from now on. I might have to kill myself.

I'm going down to Mardi Gras later this week, and I think it is safe to say that all diets are off. But after that, I will be doing a horrifying cleanse that promises to provide endless entertainment for my one or two readers.

Prison Rodeo

2011-02-18T08:40:00.002-05:00

So, like I said, I went down to New Orleans to see Meat Locker. He was very excited because my stay overlapped with the time that the annual Angola State Prison Rodeo would be taking place. For the uninitiated, this is an annual event at the Louisiana State Prison, also called "The Farm" because it is a working, um, farm. Prisoners with good behavior are allowed to train for and participate in the rodeo, a big deal for them because when else do they get to be in the middle of an arena, possibly about to die, while the crowds cheer? Probably every day at meal time, but whatever.

Before the rodeo, there is a huge crafts fair and a ton of food for sale. This varies from inmates who you can walk right up to and discuss their rocking chairs to guys you have to negotiate with through two layers of chain link fence over a Dora the Explorer fake wishing well (creepy, avoided them). There was a disturbing preponerance on Michael Jackson themed art. I bought a beautiful landscape painting from a lifer who has apparently also sold to Harry Connick Jr. and other famous people (I didn't know this at the time, I just have celebrity-level taste in art).

As for food, the Angola Drama Club seemed to have the best food and the longest line. The Lifers club had chicken sandwiches. We tried something called fried Coca-Cola which turned out to be essentially fried dough in a cup of sugar water. We also bought a huge, refillable lemonade that I was very excited about, because it was very hot. However, it tasted like plastic.

This was an issue because I was not feeling well. At all. Let me set the scene for you. It's our first in-person date. We don't really know each other that well and are trying to make a good impression. You know how you pretend at first that you never even pee or sweat and that you naturally smell like a field of flowers? Well, that ended when I woke up that day with diarrhea. Like, really bad diarrhea. As I was about to get into the car with Meat Locker for a 2.5 hour trip, I had no choice but to tell him. He took it in stride and offered to stop by CVS on the way to the rodeo. I decided to take a double dose of Immodium for extra protection.

Everything was fine until we sat down in the rodeo arena. Suddenly, I was hot and dizzy and felt like I couldn't breathe. I was able to watch monkeys riding dogs (they herded a ram!) and the big deal event, "Inmate Poker", where four prisoners sit at a poker table playing cards while a bull is let loose into the ring. Someone comes in to piss the bull off, it eventually charges the table, and the last one to stand up wins. Apparently, getting injured is desirable because then the prisoner gets to go to the infirmary, which is better than general population.

In the midst of this, I was all woozy and panicky, and I spotted a grassy place outside the arena. I wanted nothing more than to go lie down there. Meat Locker graciously agreed. I threw myself on the ground and took my shoes off. Some weird inmate was watching intently from behind chain link, but I didn't care. I was so hot and dizzy! Meat Locker suggested that maybe the superdose of Immodium was causing this. I sniped, "Immodium doesn't have those side effects. Jeez". He was like "ok, sorry".

We eventually left and went back to the car. I looked at the Immodium package and it said possible side effects included dizziness! Meat Locker was right! But he was nice about it. To entertain me, he even asked "what do you have that's good for diarrhea?" when we went to Sonic to get something to drink.

Maybe being happy and in love isn't as boring as I thought?

I Want to Shoe You Things

2011-02-17T09:23:00.002-05:00

So, after I left New Orleans, I spent a few days reorienting myself to being in a place where daytime drunkenness is not the norm. As I did this, I missed Meat Locker. We had been emailing a lot before my trip and then it was suddenly radio silence. This made me upset, but I couldn't figure out why. Meat Locker is not someone I would have normally picked - he wasn't arrogant, unobtainable, or mean. He had no criminal record. He was nice to me. I also thought he had no hair because his head was shaved (the only dignified choice for men who are balding). It turns out he actually does have a full head of hair, but had shaved it for the brutal New Orleans summer.

Anyway, this was at the back of my mind, and I was figuring out what to do. He eventually tagged me in a post on facebook, and we emailed a bit. I told him I was interested in him and his reply was: "I want to shoe you things. We can go for bike rides". Um. I told him I meant I was interested in him ROMANTICALLY and he was like, "I want to show you high end New Orleans, low end New Orleans, and everything in between". Was Meat Locker trying to let me down gently?

Finally, I was at a friend's house and sort of tipsy. We were sitting outside smoking and it was one of the first cold nights of fall. I texted Meat Locker "I'm cold, I want to sit in your lap". I can't remember what he wrote back, but it was something like "it's warm here". Yeah, thanks for the weather update buddy, I'm totally hitting on you here and you seem to be oblivious or rejecting me.

Eventually, we stepped up out communication from texting to instant messaging (we played a game where we took turns sending songs to each other and discovered that we both love MC 900 Foot Jesus) to skyping. Meat Locker finally got it through his head that I was interested in him and he was interested back! Also, he still didn't seem to be a psycho. I was sort of disoriented.

A few weeks later, I made plans to go back to New Orleans to visit him. Our first date would be at a prison rodeo (more on that later). Remember how my last two boyfriends' names rhymed with hurt and pain? Meat Locker's real name is Dean, which rhymes with mean, but it's ok because his real name is James, and in Greek (which he is) James is Dimitri. And I can't think of anything bad that rhymes with that.

My biggest problem now: being happy and in love is WAY less funny that being a disgruntled single person.

You Say BEES-traw, I Say Bistro

2011-02-16T09:15:00.003-05:00

I don't know if anyone is still reading this. My last entry is dated November 15, so my legions of followers (18 at last count!) may have given up on me. But fear not, I have a story to tell and my New Year's resolution was to blog more. Now that it's almost March, I'm finally getting to that.

So, New Orleans. My last post was about the day after a crazy night in the French Quarter. My friends and I were preparing to go to dinner with the meat locker guy. Remember him? He was referred to as my "online boyfriend with a meat locker" and the first time I met him in person I told him that he was an alcoholic and tried to give him a $50 bill. Also, I tried to make a video on my phone that is totally black and consists of me drunkenly yelling things and him nicely repeating them so that they actually sound like English.

Anyway, we had dinner with him at a very nice place far from the Quarter. He took us to New Orleans staples such as the Maple Leaf and Snake and Jake's. We bonded a little over our shared hatred of the use of "lol". Fuck lol! But I was still sort of a wreck and so the night ended early. He suggested we all have lunch the next day, and my friends and I went back to our hotel.

Meat Locker texted the next day to let me know we should meet at a restaurant called Cochon, which is French for pig. New Orleans, as you probably know, has a big French influence and many things have French names (the French Quarter!), but they don't use French pronunciation. So, Burgundy St. is Bur-GUN-dy St., Corondelet St. is said with the hard T on the end, and Cochon is, well, Cochon, with a hard N at the end.

This is just fine with me, but not with some other members of my family. My mother and her siblings lived in France for a few years when they were very little, and they are also sort of snobby, so they say French words the the proper accent. At all times. Like, even if they are ordering a Crossanwich ("quossaintwiche") at McDonald's. My uncle is a chef and says things like "yeah, I used to own a small BEES-traw in Portland, Maine". This might not be coming across as funny as it really is because you have to hear it to really appreciate perfect French pronunciation thrown into the middle of what is otherwise a run of the mill northeastern American accent.

This all relates to Cochon because I later had a conversation with my mother about the place. She was telling me that she had once had a fabulous meal at a great place in New Orleans, but she couldn't remember the name. It went like this:

Her: Very typical New Orleans food, and the name was French.
Me: Oh, Cochon?
Her: No, French for pig, maybe?
Me: Cochon is French for pig.
Her: No...
Me: Yes! Cochon is French for pig! God, mom!
Her: Oh, Co-shaw? (Suddenly sounds like she is native Parisian)
Me: Whatever.

The food is great, no matter how you say the name. After we ate, we were standing outside, and one one my friends didn't feel well (not surprising, considering our recent behavior). Meat Locker said, "there's a convenience store right there, if you want to get something for your stomach", or something like that. But he's from the South so he said "convenience store" in a drawn out way - "con-VIEN-yence sto" that made it sound like a wonderful place instead of a flourescently lit hell stocked with overpriced things like Spaghetti-Os.

My friend left and the rest of us stayed with Meat Locker, who walked us over to the street car line. My friend asked "who is that statue of?", and he said "General Lee. He's lookin' to the North, watching out for you all". I cannot tell you why, but I really liked it when he said this. We got on the street car, he got on his bike, and my friend turned to me and said "smoochy, smoochy".

To be continued. Hopefully soon.

Bread and Butter

2010-11-15T21:12:00.002-05:00

Yeah, yeah, it's been a while. I've been involved in...things, which I will get to. There is a somewhat logical progression and a surprise ending. Well, it was a surprise to me.

I left off at 7:30 one morning in mid-September. My friend and I had returned to our New Orleans hotel room after a night that was scandalous and totally fun. Needless to say, we passed out. I was rudely brought to consciousness many hours later by my phone. I answered and and heard my other friend say, "oh, we thought you guys were dead". I croaked that we were out all night and hung up. I went back to bead and realized it was 3:00 in the afternoon. Now, I might not have a problem with drinking all night and making out with strangers, but sleeping all day just makes me feel bad about myself. So I got up.

I got dressed. I gathered my wallet and my sunglasses. I looked in the mirror and saw that I appeared to be 150 years old and put on eye cream. I did not brush my teeth. As I looked for my room key, I passed my bed and something caught my eye. Was that a condom wrapper? Oh god, things were worse than I thought. Then I realized: it was a packet of mayonnaise. An empty one. I have to say this was more horrifying than if it had been a condom wrapper. Had I been drunkenly sucking on a packet of mayo? Did I eat a whole sandwich and not remember it? I fled the room.

I only remember the rest of the day because there is a 15 minute video of me in the hotel bar giving a stream of consciousness report of how I was feeling and what I knew had happened the night before. I was in that state where I was still drunk and also hungover. So even though I wanted to vomit, I kept laughing hysterically.

After getting coffee, I woke up my friend and we went swimming. We still felt horrible, so we decided to get a bloody mary. This made things worse for me, so I decided I needed food. The thing is, in New Orleans, it's like, "well, we have duck quesedillas and shrimp somethings". No. Fucking. Way. I just wanted plain bread and butter. So I went to the store to get some. They let you bring your own bread and butter to bars in New Orleans.

After making my purchase, during which I had a conversation with a man wearing dirt-encrusted clothing about the expiration dates of butter (he won't buy anything that expires less than six months away), I was walking down the street in the French Quarter, and I suddenly became aware of some things. I had not taken a shower in two days. I was not wearing a bra. I needed to be wearing a bra. I was sweating and my hair was a mess. And yet, I did not care or feel out of place. I blame New Orleans for this. Even in Vegas, I feel like I should be clean.

So I go back to the bar and eat my bread and butter. This is on video. I talked about the killer and the guys from the night before. I answered many questions with "I don"t know" or "I can't remember" or "whatever, I don't think I did anything wrong". My friend and I burst out laughing when our other friend, the one who thought we were dead, called and asked where we were and I said "in the bar".

Later, we had to rally to go have dinner with the Meat Locker guy. He took us to a nice place far from the French Quarter because that is only for loser tourists like us. I ate a huge dinner and kept saying "I'm going to have to work hard to get drunk tonight". So I didn't really try. I didn't drink the rest of the time I was there. But I did hold on to my bread and butter. You never know when you might need some. The mayo packet remains a mystery.

There is more to this story. I'll get to it.

New Orleans Part 4: Prince Valiant, The Killer, and What's-His-Name

2010-10-01T18:41:00.004-04:00

After a pretty mellow day, we decided to go out for pizza. Ref and his wife left, and for some reason, I decided to switch from beer to my new favorite drink, The Hurricane. My friend and I went into the bar where they are served the the strongest, and chatted for a while. There was AC, a big relief because it was hot and I had yet to take a shower in the city of New Orleans. I figured, hey, I went swimming, it's cool. I just put on some more perfume and deodorant and tried not to look into the mirror.

The Hurricane started to take effect. As I was near the end of it, a dorky older guy approached with another one and asked, "do you want this?". My friend immediately asked, "why, what did you do to it?". He explained that he had bought it for the commemorative glass and then had it poured into a plastic cup. Since my friend and I had made an iron-clad agreement not to separate, I felt safe. The dorky guy went away, and I started sucking own the drink.

We went to sit at the bar, where my friend ran into a former coworker, who was bartending. This was Prince Valiant, so named due to his Prince Valiant haircut. Later, we decided it might have been an attempt at a Justin Bieber haircut (um, lame at any age - Tom Brady, are you listening?) . We asked him to do a shot with us and he said, "I can't, I just did one, I'm already drunk". But then he did about eight shots with us over the next few hours.

Prince Valiant is seared into my memory for this and several other reasons. At one point my friend asked how he had been, and he said, "My Momma's dying and shit, so I'm taking her on a Civil War tour". I asked my friend to confirm he had actually said this. He had. I repeated this line ad nauseum over the next few days. Actually, I have yet to stop saying this whenever I feel like it.

Then, I met The Killer. I'm not sure how we started talking. I had somehow acquired some Mardi Gras beads (no, chest-exposure was not involved, I'm THAT GOOD), and we were suddenly having a very sexualized conversation and standing about two inches from each other. He whipped me with the beads and I did not like that, but I did like him. This is a testament to my very poor taste in men. He told me that he had just killed a bunch of alligators and that he is a real estate lawyer. I made it clear I had no intention of sleeping with him and he disappeared, only to reappear later for a reiteration of the same conversation.

At 4 am, when that bar closed, my friend and I went with Prince Valiant to another bar. More drinking ensued. I remember telling a gay man that I was VERY ANGRY about people who are against gay marriage, to the point he was like, "ok, um thanks" and left. Then What's-His-Name appeared. At that point, my friend was making out with Prince Valiant. I turned to What's-His-Name and said "wow, they're making out" and he kissed me. So we started making out. This seemed totally logical at the time.

Eventually, we left that bar and went to another. I have no idea why. We stayed there, making out with Prince Valiant and What's-His-Name until we realized it was light out. My friend asked someone the time and they informed us it was 7:30 am. Time to go!

We miraculously made it back to our hotel room. I think I might have eaten a sandwich or at least a packet of mayonnaise (more on that later). Then we passed out. The next day was both awful and hilarious and will be described in cringe-worthy detail in my next post, which I will call "Bread and Butter".

Moral: beware of places where there is always a bar open.

New Orleans, Part 3: The Bachelor Party

2010-09-30T20:07:00.002-04:00

So, the first full day we were there, we hung out by the pool. This worked well, since it was hot, I was mildly hungover, and, well, there was a pool.

We did well until about noon. I drank coffee, reconstucted the night before, and ate, which was a help.

Eventually, other people started showing up. They were all male, and they were all greeted by cheers. This was the Bachelor Party.

As the day wore on, we started to drink again. We mostly stuck to light beer and made sure to eat. We didn't want to get crazy or anything. We also eventually started talking to the bachelor part atendees. The most notable was one we called "The Drunk Guy". It turned out that he had already been rolled for about $7000 and had not slept the night before. He spent a few hours talking to my friend (Ref) in the shallow end of the pool. It became obvious that he was hopelessly drunk when I offered to get him a drink and a sandwich when he said, "you are so polite". I told him that actually, I am known as a major bitch. But I got him a beer and a roast beef sandwich anyway.

I got into the pool an he said many, many nonsensical things. He kept asking if I was Irish, and I kept saying no, but then would be like "so, we're Irish". I eventually concurred, just for the sake of convenience. He was also excessively focussed on my chest. There was debate about whether this was the result of true interest or his inability to focus his eyes higher than anyone's chin. He kept saying, "I hope your daughter gets your tits" and I told him that I did not have a daughter and did not plan to, but he was so insistent that eventually was just like, "yeah, me too".

Eventually, the Drunk Guy decided that he wanted to set me up with someone. At first, he suggested we approach a group of women. I explained that I was not interested in women. I was also worried that they were seated near the deep end and that he would drown if we swam over to them. So he said, "I want to set you up with Anderson Cooper". I said, "The reporter? He's not here, and I'm pretty sure he is gay". The Drunk Guy poited to one of his friends, who I could not help but notice was wearing a wedding ring. I pointed this out to the Drunk Guy and he said, "Oh, I forgot".

The bachelor party eventually left for dinner, and my friends and I hung out by the pool for a few hours. Then we decided to have a low key night and get some pizza. This is how the night took a mellow turn for some of us (Ref and his wife) and a crazy turn for the rest of us, where we drank Hurricanes and met Prince Valiant, The Killer, and a guy I made out with without knowing his name. That's the next post. Viva New Orleans!

New Orleans, Part 2: Adult Disneyland

2010-09-28T14:25:00.002-04:00

So, we got there. After four planes, lots of yelling from me, lots of tranquilizers for one fellow traveller (nervous, should learn to boss people instead of using drugs), and too many meat locker jokes, we arrived in the city of New Orleans.

We got to the hotel in the very touristy but convenient French Quarter, dumped our bags, doused ourselves in perfume (this would come in handy when I didn't shower for the next 2 days) and hit the streets.

Our first stop was a place where one of my friends used to work. Everyone there seemed to know her, but I didn't really notice after half of my first drink, because at that point I felt like I was on drugs, and I mean that in the best way possible. New Orleans, of course, is famous for the cocktail called the Hurricane, which, based on appearance, taste, and, mainly, effect, I think is made from a pint of rum and a shot of fruit punch. Man, I love those things. I also love that if you do not finish your gigantic drink (only $8!!!), they just put it in a plastic to-go cup, and you can take it with you.

Take it with me I did, as we stumbled onto Bourbon Street. I was well into my second one at this point and had only eaten a little bit of alligator (tastes like chicken) to offset the path of rum directly across my blood-brain barrier. The rest of the night seems like this: people everywhere, plastic beads, alcohol everywhere, YOU CAN SMOKE INSIDE, it was hot, everything was funny.

I contacted my friend (the meat locker guy) and he eventually met us, but I don't remember much from about 8:00 on. Based on the reports of others and some videos on my phone, I have pieced together that:

1. I had several other rum based drinks. I applaud myself for maintaining type-of-alcohol consistency in the face of so many choices.
2. I smoked at least 2 packs of cigarettes.
3. I made a video of my friend who was holding a giant plastic cup that said "Big Ass Beer" on it. The video is mostly me asking stupid questions and then proclaiming that it is "the funniest fucking video EVER". Upon sober viewing, the only funny thing is how drunk I was.
4. When my friend met us, I apparently told him the whole meat locker story and then kept asking "but you're not going to kill us, right? RIGHT?!?!" to the point that he probably did want to kill me.
5. I made another video that is pitch black and had loud music and me saying "fuck that!" in the background.
6. My friend and I had to take a cab 4 blocks because she didn't think I was going to "make it" back to the hotel.
7. We got pizza, which I uncharacteristically ate with a knife and fork. There are photos to prove this. I actually look pretty good in the photos, and now plan to only permit picture-taking when I am drunk. Yes, I can see how this could backfire.

We woke up the next day feeling surprisingly good. I spent the first few hours finding coffee and figuring out what the hell had happened. Then we went to the pool, where we met up with a bachelor party group. That deserves a post of its own, which will happen soon.

Moral of night one: alcohol pretends to be your friend for a few hours, but is not good for improving memory. That is why photos and video were invented.

New Orleans, Part 1: The Meat Locker

2010-09-27T16:13:00.003-04:00

Yeah, yeah, I'm back.

Where was I?

I was actually applying myself at my job (exhausting) and then I decided to quit smoking, and that apparently takes a lot of time and also makes writing unappealing. But, my nicotine habit came back with a vengeance on my recent trip to New Orleans, which lasted only 4 days but yielded about 4 years worth of material. So I'll present this in parts.

This is part 1, The Meat Locker.

A few months ago an old friend suggested I become Facebook friends with a guy he knows in New Orleans. I agreed, and, as it happened, I was planing to go down there this month anyway, so it worked out well. We emailed back and forth and discussed a bunch of things. Music, life, food. He's really into food, especially the preserved meat category. He would list items he had just gone into Cajun country to buy and then be like, "Google it".

So, right before our trip, he had just gotten a bunch of said meats and also wrote about how much he likes to cook. I was heading down there with three friends and thought it would be cool if he could take us out or cook for us or something.

As usual, a trip that seems like a great idea when you plan it becomes a tactical nightmare as it approaches. I felt overwhelmed and I only have a dog and myself to deal with. Collectively, my three friends had four dogs, five cats, a bunch of chickens, and three children to make arrangements for. This turned into an ordeal for a number of reasons which eventually were resolved. Still, since we had a hideously early flight, I ended up talking to one friend late the night before we left and told her about my friend with the preserved meats and my great plans to have everyone meet and eat some local cuisine.

BIG MISTAKE.

A very elaborate and ridiculous game of telephone took place between our conversation (about 10 pm) and meeting at the airport (about 5 am). What had started as me saying, "I have a friend I met through a friend who is really into food and knows all about preserved meats" turned into me having "an internet boyfriend" with "a locker full of meat" who wanted "to kill us all". The more I tried to explain it ("he really likes sausage" and "I know him through my 7th grade boyfriend!"), the worse it got.

I gave up and directed my anger into bossing everyone to and fro when our multiple flights were delayed multiple times. This is my travel M.O. I compensate for the lack of control over my safety by exerting very tight control over my personal possessions (no checked luggage for me) and the actions of anyone with me ("get back in this line! you cannot go get coffee! FINE!!! I'll see you in New Orleans, IF YOU MAKE IT!!!").

We did finally make it, and many, many scandals occurred, which I'll get to later. However, we did go meet my friend for a few meals. Since he lives in New Orleans, his first priority was to get us the hell out of the French Quarter, where, as stupid tourists, we naturally wanted to stay. As we rode in the cab to each far-flung meal, everyone was like, "wow, this is far. I think he's luring us out to the country so he can kill us and put us in the meat locker" and "how are we even going to get back?". When I said we could get back the same way we came, in a fucking taxi, they were like, "yeah, he'll be like, oh, I have the number right here...inside this big meat locker!!!!".

Needless to say, he did not kill us or even try. But I almost killed my friends. I am also pretty sure I had a semi-romantic interlude with a serial killer. More on that later.

I Have a Bunch Of Aliases

2010-08-08T09:33:00.003-04:00

Yeah, I've forgotten what number I'm supposed to be on. That didn't really seem to be working as a motivational tactic anyway. Onward.

I first learned that I had an alias about fifteen years ago. My parents had moved and in the process of carelessly boxing up my belongings had misplaced my passport. I was planning to visit my sister in Spain and needed it, and my mom took me to the storage room shared by the 400 other residents of her apartment building, a space roughly 15,000 feet in size, waved her hand at the whole place and said, "it's in here". I did not find the passport. Needless to say, I still resent this.

Now, this was pre-9/11, but the State Department still made a big deal out of it if you were seeking to replace a lost passport. You needed to provide lots of identification. This was complicated by the fact that at age 10, when my mother got remarried, I started using my step-father's last name. He did not adopt me, so there was no attendant paperwork to document this. Thus, the State Department informed me that I had, at age 10, created an alias and that I would now, in the three weeks before I left for Spain, have to prove that I had been using the name for at least ten years.

You are probably aware of this, but as a 10 year old, you don't have lots of identification. In the intervening years, I had gotten all forms of ID - driver's license, social security card - in my "alias". So, the State Department informed me that I should get old school records to show that I had been using my new name since at least 1983. This is where the ridulousness comes in. The records I got from my middle school could have been produced by anyone with paper and a typewriter, but they were good enough for our government. I got the passport and have never trusted my parents to move any of my things since.

The next alias, Lazy Spy, was created last fall when I wanted to create a fake Match.com profile to see if a friend's soon to be ex-husband was online dating (we wanted this to be happening). Although I came up with this very quickly, it fits me to a T - I am very nosy but also lazy. So, I resort to blunt and offensive tactics for getting my info, like just asking horribly intrusive questions.

My newest alias is Jasmine. As I mentioned in my post "Male Strippers", I decided to use this name in case any thong-clad freak tried to talk to me. As also previously mentioned, this happened, and the neon green thong man snapped "that's a fake name!" and ran away. Weird, and...just weird.

What I really want, though, is a Jersey Shore style nickname. I think that must have been a casting prerequisite for the show - they've got Snooki, Sweetheart, DJ Pauly, JWoWW, and, my favorite, The Situation. If I have a nckname, I want it to have "The" in front of it. Please feel free to post suggestions.

11. In Defense of Making Out, Even at a Seemingly Advanced Age

2010-07-15T01:21:00.002-04:00

Making out is generally the province of teenagers and 20 something rockers. And celebrities. And gross relatives and friends. And insecure people trying to make a point (Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley, Al and Tipper Gore). I, personally, think making out, within reason, is vastly underrated, and, although sometimes public in nature, it is not as horrid and "get a room"-ish as it seems.

We all know the drill - we start out sexual experimentation with making out. We created a baseball metaphor for the whole progression. But the thing is, after we start having sex (which we inevitably do), making out falls by the wayside. It becomes a perfunctory act that leads to the real goal. I believe this is a tragedy.

Now, I'm not against sex. As long as two people (or more, if they can negotiate it effectively) want to do it, fine. I just think there is something lost in not focusing on making out, or at least making it a main feature. You lose a lot of dedication and creativity when kissing is but a brief stop on the way to Doing It.

People feel like teenagers when they make out because that is what they did (at least briefly) before they had sex. It's like animals smelling each other to determine compatibility. Men kiss deeply to transfer testosterone the their partners. This sounds weirdly clinical, but is true and good. If kissing (and, more importantly, I would add, smell) doesn't work, and efforts at remediation fail, it's a deal-killer. Even teenagers know this.

I am defensive about this because, as documented, I have been on a bit of a make-out-bandit tear. It has slowed a bit of late, but I find myself remarkably able to zero in on some guy and ask "wanna make out?" True to my bitchy demeanor, I often preface this with a diatribe about how being a good kisser is important. I have been know to reject first attempts, saying things like "whoa, what the fuck are you doing with your tongue?". I'm happy to report that this actually led to a vast improvement in technique.

So, I'd like to propose that we shift our collective priorities and judgements. Let's declare making out (even in public, within reason) acceptable, since it probably saves countless people (me included) from ill-advised one night stands. Forty is the new thirty, and making out is the new flirtation. At least in my worldview.

10. I Wish I Could Be a Stand Up Comedian

2010-07-14T22:41:00.000-04:00

Perhaps this is obvious, given the title of this blog. As I've said before, people frequently urge me to pursue a stand up career. This is impossible for many, many reasons.

First of all, while I will admit that I am funny, I don't have a "funny script" that I could bust out as a sustained routine. There is no bit such as "so, how about airline food?". My humor is reactive - something happens, and I immediately react with a joke or tell a story in a dramatic fashion.

I make deadpan remarks and say things that other people think but don't dare utter. I do this with an air of insouciance and a goofy facial expression so it's clear that I'm being irreverent. I like to take things to crazy, but somehow logical (to me) extremes. Like the whole Spychology thing or creating the perfect trifecta in the awesome game "Shag, Kill, Marry". (If you don't know what this is, Google it. It can provide hours of fun.)

I have a weird voice that can make mundane comments subversively hilarious. I wish I had more control over this, as I'm not always sure when I'm going to get laughs. My sense of humor works on most people, but as a guy I know recently told me, I am "the sort of woman who a lot of guys might want to punch in the face". I played this off easily, acknowledging that some women might want to clock me too, and he mumbled something about it being because I am "strong", but the damage was done.

I always think I am being smart and clever, but in a lot of cases I am probably just being a bitch. This is a work in progress.

Another barrier to a stand up career is my extreme self-consciousness. Once I'm in, I'm in. But if I need to penetrate the confines of a group, forget it. In situations like these, I tend to narrate the situation, out loud, which is apparently bizarre to all lookers-on. I did this once when I was having a heartfelt exchange with a friend's mother - she was thanking me for something, and I hugged her, but the grandmother was also there, and I didn't think I should hug her, so I said, "I'll just shake your hand". I got endless shit for it.

I also recently narrated the entire array of buffet selections at a baby shower, as if I were the star of a new culinary show called "What Have We Here?". I told my friend, in my very loud voice, "this seems to be some kind of pasta salad, asparagus, peas...these are sandwiches, I see tuna and turkey and roast beef...I have no idea what this is - taboule?". I didn't even realize I was dong this until my friend gently said, "you are narrating this". I shut up and started eating. I also won the Guess How Many M&Ms are in the jar game, but never collected on my prize of 1200 M&Ms. Not that I'm bitter about it.

I also think that if I started to bomb on stage, I would freak out. As in, flee the scene or cry. Probably in that order. Comedy is brutal. You have a bunch of people disguising their self-hatred and bone-shearing observations of humankind as "comedy", which is a genius creation because it takes smarts and special talent to parlay life into hilariously true narratives and sound bites. Once the crowd goes with you, they stay. But if you fail to capture them at first, it is the rare person who can pull it off without faking a seizure (my preferred method of getting out of a bad situation). The whole thing is a rhapsody of sorts - setting things up, establishing themes, and then referring back to previously hilarious things with a word, tying it all together in a glorious mind fuck that also makes you laugh hysterically.

As usual, I digress. I would love to do stand up, but only if I was guaranteed the adoration of the crowd. I realize this is impossible, and anathema to the very premise of comedy itself - you go out, you lay it all on the line, you integrate the feedback, you hone your craft and you get better.

I lack these skills. Maybe I could just read the blog out loud to comedy audiences?

9. The Ones I Like Only Seem to Hate Me, the Ones I Hate Only Seem to Date Me

2010-07-14T21:14:00.000-04:00

For the duration of this post, I will be referred to as Young MC, who is responsible for the titular quote above. Yes, he was a one album wonder in the late 80s and early 90s. And yes, I only really rediscovered him after hearing the always classic "Bust a Move" during the closing credits of the roller derby film "Whip It", but that doesn't mean he doesn't rock in some way.

Also, he is responsible for the quote that describes my current dating situation to a fucking capital T.

While I cop to having many issues, most prominent of which is probably my lack of self-esteem, I am also periodically in touch with reality. So, I know I am not completely unappealing. There really does seem to be someone (or multiple someones) for pretty much everyone, and so I know that my chances are good.

And yet.

I can attract men. As previously detailed: sociopaths, narcissists, criminals, guys I'm just not that interested in, guys who make random and totally unappealing cat calls on the street, and men so damaged by previous relationships that we discuss that ad nauseum. Thank Christ I'm a shrink.

But I can't attract the men I really want. In some cases, this is no doubt a blessing in disguise, as I am naturally drawn to the aforementioned inappropriate males. And in some ways, it's not that different from what many people experience - we all have the dream people, the ones who got away, the ones who outright rejected us but we managed to get over. This is why I hate online dating; it makes it seem like there is a game plan for finding love - follow the directions and you will find your match - but this applies rules to an outlaw emotion. Plus, it's like a horrible second job, filled with emails and profile picture staring and awkward dates.

So, considering all of this, I take heart in the words of Young MC, who stated sharply and clearly that love and attraction are messed up. They might make the world go around, but, damn, what an ordeal it can be.

7. I Have Some Lame Claims to Fame

2010-07-12T17:08:00.000-04:00

We all have our special stories and quasi-friendships with famous or infamous people. Mine aren't that great, but they're all I've got. Goal for the next 40 years: get some better stories.

My First Love was in a 3 Musketeers Commercial

When I say first love, I don't mean the first guy I kissed or the first one who I had a crush on. For me, first love involved obsession (mine), legal involvement (his), and parents forbidding us from seeing each other (both). I fell hard for this guy. I went to public school and he went to the local Catholic school. We met through a friend (actually, the celebrity discussed below) and that was it - professions of love, endless making out, and plans for marriage. We were 13. He was as much of a badass as a 13 year old can be. He never listened to his mother, did drugs, and eventually ended up in juvie, which, as far as I could tell, could also have been called Criminal Finishing School. His father was, of all things, a horse dentist, who left my love and his three younger sisters in the care of his overwhelmed and probably mentally ill mother. He ended up in juvie after she lost all control of him. He send me letters (which I still have) professing undying love and a continuous plan to break out of detention to see me. He is the only person I have ever dated who tattooed my initials on his body. (Digression: I saw him when we were about 20 and he still had the tattoo on his wrist. I asked him what he told people about it. Since my initials are AG, he said he told them it meant "Always Good".)

Anyway, he was very good looking and so had a burgeoning career as a commercial actor. He landed a 3 Musketeers commercial that entailed him flying through a blue sky while taking a huge bite out of a candy bar and looking thrilled. I remember that his mother called my mother in a snit because the day of the shoot he had a giant hickey on his neck and the make up people had to cover it. I saw the commercial a few times and always felt like a celebrity wife. Then he got sent away and that was it, both for our romance and his acting career.

I was Best Friends with a Well Known Celebrity Gossip Show Hostess in 8th Grade

I'm not going to name names, because I'm not really up on current libel laws. I'll call her Famous BF. She was a year older but we met at diving camp one summer (she was great and went to college on a diving scholarship, I managed to master only a swan dive). A few years ago, my sister and parents started calling to say they had seen her on tv, doing gossip segments on major morning news shows. She now is the hostess of her own show. She looks pretty much the same, although I think she had at least her nose done and very likely a lot more. We are Facebook friends but that is it.

I Slept with Someone Who Slept with Someone Who Slept with Billy Idol

That's all I've got on that one. I have no idea if any other past sex partners are carnally connected to other famous people. I'm really bad at that game Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, so this is not an easy things for me to figure out.

Those are my current claims to fame. I told you they were lame.

6. I Hate Summer

2010-06-30T13:05:00.000-04:00

Yes, I realize that this is a very controversial statement. It's like saying that you hate puppies or ice cream or freedom. But to me, summer is like New Year's Eve 90 times in a row - high expectations result in disappointment. And I'm always really sweaty too.

I think the heat is the main thing that started my hatred of summer, especially since my parents didn't "believe" in air conditioning. Well, at least for my sister and me. Their belief system changed at the threshold of their bedroom, which had a window unit I coveted. I had an ancient fan. As soon as I had my own credit card, I bought my own air conditioner, and I use it as soon as it is about 80 degrees, but it makes me feel weird. In the winter, it feels fine to curl up inside during a blizzard, but something about hiding from a "beautiful" sunny day because it is 95 degrees makes me feel like a strange robot person.

Summer also makes me feel like everyone else is having a great time, grilling and getting tan and having dazzling love affairs while I am sweating or staring out at the blinding sun from the air conditioned comfort of my living room. I complained about this to Fat T, and he said a few things, some helpful, some not:

1. "It doesn't seem too hot". Hello, he lives almost on the equator, not qualified to judge.

2. "Boy, there sure aren't any restaurants like this where I live". He says this at least 500 times every visit and I just needed to vent.

3. "Why don't you try to plan some summer vacations or other things to make it more fun?"

Taking his suggestion, I immediately planned three vacations - Long Island, the Cape, and then New Orleans. Now I feel sort of jet-setty, although I will be with my parents on Long Island, sitting next to a skinny friend on the Cape and feeling like a whale, and New Orleans will be an empty, oil-soaked swamp by the time I get there, but hey, I'm trying.

Serendipitiously, a friend recently called and said that she heard we can go to the outdoor pool at a local place for only $5. We went to check it out and it is AWESOME. Not only does $5 get you all the swimming you want, but there is a FULL BAR and they serve french fries. And it's outside so you can smoke! We now call this place "Headquarters" and plan to sunbathe and drink and smoke ourselves to death there.

The discovery of this wonderful place was overshadowed only by the bizarre night that followed it. After enjoying a cocktail or five at Headquarters, we went home to take showers, feed dogs, and text everyone we know to see if they wanted to go out. We went into a bar and sat down. As I looked at the wine list, I heard a voice. Not a good voice, but a familiar one. I turned my head to the right and realized that we had just unwittingly sat down next to my narcissistic freak of an ex and his girlfriend. This is what happened next:

1. He introduced us all.
2. His girlfriend said to me, "I thought that was you when you walked in".
3. I panicked. Was I supposed to know her? Had I met her when I was drunk and I didn't remember? Was she a therapy client I had forgotten? AM I FAMOUS AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW IT?
4. I said, "I'm sorry, have we met?".
5. She explained we hadn't but that she had seen me some other time, maybe at that bar, and so she associated me with it or something.
6. The bartender arrived with my wine and I said, "Can I have a shot of Patron? Actually, I'll come up to the bar".
7. The bartender was very nice and did a shot with me and didn't charge me.
8. I returned to awkward-land and sat down. It would have been weird to move. Not that I was acting like a normal person. It was just so surreal to have to sit right across from them.
9. Another friend arrived and I recovered (or just got drunk) enough to talk. At one point, we said we would tell our newly arrived friend something later and my self-worshipping ex said, "we used to date but now I'm here with my girlfriend and it's awkward" and I got to tell him that, in fact, we were talking about someone else entirely (actually, we were).
10. His girlfriend said "was it about another guy? We'd love to hear about that!".
11. I am rarely speechless, but in this case I was. No clue what she was talking about. Wanted it to be over.
12. Eventually, they left.
13. Things got better. We all had crashing hangovers the next day.

So, I'm working with summer. Trying to accept summer on summer's terms. Only 83 days until fall officially begins.

5. I Hate Bicyclists

2010-06-09T15:23:00.000-04:00

I don't mean people like Lance Armstrong, although he seems like one of those charismatic womanizers who seduces you in spite of yourself. I mean people who ride their bikes for pleasure or to save the environment. I hate them because they want it both ways.

I live in a very liberal area where lots of people ride bikes to work or wherever. There is a very nice bike path, which I enjoy walking on with my dog while wearing headphones so I never hear "on your left" until it is almost too late. There has also been a long-standing campaign for bike lanes. I am not against this. In fact, it might help, because people who rides bikes are, despite their cries for equality, really just selfish and incapable of seeing the big picture. By "equality", I think they mean "I want to do whatever I want and pretend I am saving the world".

Exhibit A:

Bicyclists feel they need to be protected from traffic. Witness the desire for bike lanes. I can understand this, as I certainly would not want to be run over by a car under any circumstance. But then why, in the name of all that is holy, do they ride down the middle of the street RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY CAR, going 10 miles per hour? Do they think they are cars? Do they think they have less chance of being run over if they are right in front of my bumper rather than on the side of the road? Is this what they mean by "Share the Road"? They think they are cars, and they are not. But they want car rights.

Exhibit B:

Bicyclists also think they should be treated like pedestrians. They might ride down the middle of the road, leading a line of angry car drivers up to the light, but do they stop for the red light? No. They make sure they are not about to get run over, and then they go through the red light. Oh, how convenient. Before you were a car-like thing who needed me to "Share the Road" with you and now you are just a little bike rider who is not a car and can therefore cross the street like a pedestrian. Up yours.

They also ride on the sidewalk, which is definitely not allowed for cars. I'm going to start a "Share the Sidewalk" campaign and throw myself in front of people riding on the sidewalk and sue them. Another thing they love to do is magically change from being car-like to being pedestrians when they are in a crosswalk. My town has many. Bicyclists are supposed to dismount and walk the bike across. Do they? No. Because they just do whatever they want.

Conclusion:

Bicyclists are grossly out of touch, self-righteous people who fail to see the contradictions of their actions. They want bike lanes so they can ride in traffic, but they ride in traffic anyway, slowing everyone down. They morph into non-cars when it suits them. They want to have pedestrian rights too. This is clearly ridiculous.

This post will, without a doubt, make Fat T angry. He has not owned a car for about 20 years due to his environmental beliefs. I'm serious. He rides his bike all over the place and, coincidentally, is coming to visit tomorrow. I'm getting psyched up to discuss this with him at length (read: yell at him for many hours without allowing him to defend himself, then declare myself the victor).

Five.

4. I Am A Denim Rights Activist

2010-06-06T08:38:00.000-04:00

Yes, Denim Rights is a new area of activism that I have created and specialize in. It was born when I realized that people are unnecessarily unable to bear the wearing of denim pants in certain settings. Jackets, shirts, skirts, dresses, and even wretched denim rompers are somehow tolerable, but put on a pair of jeans and anyone born before 1967 is like, "whoa, are you doing some yard work or painting today?". Usually, these people are wearing a pair of chinos, a wrinkled Wal-Mart brand golf shirt, and gigantic white sneakers that close with velcro.

When I first started working, I happened to be in a long skirt phase, and so not being able to wear jeans did not bother me. Then I entered an expensive dress pants and cashmere phase and things also went well. But then two things happened - the consumer machinery spit out high end denim, and I liked it. Jeans are ok everywhere now, because they are better made, flattering garments that can be combined with dressier elements and look good. I knew this had been achieved when my mother, whose answer to the question, "what should I wear?" was always "no jeans", started rocking jeans, heels, and a cute little jacket when she went out for dinner.

At first, I went underground with my denim wearing. At an old job, I would wear jeans on the days I knew I would not see my boss. Then I got a new job where my new boss was pretty casual and I decided to just go for it. The dress code technically says that employees are not allowed to wear jeans unless their supervisor approves it. Once, early in my employment, a co-worker I did not and do not like AT ALL told me "we can't wear jeans" in front of our boss, who was also wearing jeans. I gleefully quoted the dress code and pointed at our boss.

Since then, anyone who questions my dress gets the following speech:

1. Fashions change. It used to be verboten for women to wear pants. Men used to have to wear ties. Jeans are in transition - while they might seem to say "casual" now, soon they will not. Seeing a man in a t-shirt used to be like seeing him in his underwear. If fact, it probably was his underwear. Get with the times, people, and stop being so closed-minded.

2. I look better than 95% of the other employees here. Just because you are "following" the dress code does not mean you look good or that you look professional. I regularly see people wearing the above mentioned giant sneakers, pants that went out of style in 1980, pants that clearly showed the outline of a 60 year old woman's labia, and, even worse than that, clothes that make it look like the wearer is about to go on a hike. I have never seen so much fleece in one place outside of a Patagonia store. I don't even wear fleece when I walk my dog, and wearing it with some Dockers or patent leather clogs does not legitimize it.

3. There are many areas in which you may know more than I do, but fashion is not one of them (it is very easy to make this statement confidently when you work in human services and regularly read every fashion magazine in publication. In fact, you could probably just glance at the cover of Vogue when you are in the check-out line and be more fashion savvy that most human service workers). The main thing in looking professional is to make a nod to the fact that you are not at home watching tv. My nod is that I wear nice shoes, nice shirts, jackets, nothing is a wrinkled mess, and my grooming is excellent. So, the overall effect is one of care, of investment in my appearance. It says "I am at work and I am aware of that. I am not about to climb a mountain. Now, tell me about your childhood". Jeans, nice jacket? Communicates this. Dockers, giant sneakers? Not. So. Much.

I have been getting away with this for five years and counting. If I had an employment contract, I would ask that a provision be included stipulating that I can wear jeans every day. And, possibly, another one stipulating that others cannot wear fleece.

That's four.

3. I Just Got My First Mammogram

2010-06-03T10:29:00.000-04:00

As I have mentioned ad nauseum, I turned 40 this year. That means that it was time for my first mammogram. I wasn't worried about this, as I have no family history of breast cancer, but it turned out to be a quasi-traumatizing experience nonetheless.

First, while I really like my gynecologist, I think she is either a masochist or has a really low pain tolerance. A few years ago, when I was having an IUD put in, she warned me "I have one, and having it inserted was the worst pain I have ever felt". She gave me a bunch of drugs to take ahead of time (ok, that part was good) and I staggered into her office, waiting to be tortured. Then there was a little pressure and I asked "was that it?". She said yes, and I had to have a friend come drive me home because I was so wrecked on Ativan. At least I knew I wouldn't get pregnant in my drugged out haze.

So, when I went for my last annual exam, she gave me the first mammogram talk. She explained that a lot of first-timers get called back for a second look due to calcifications or breast density or something, and not to worry if this happened. Then she said "it really hurts, and if it doesn't, they are doing it wrong. It only lasts 7 seconds, which doesn't sound like a long time, but let's count it out - one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three...." All the way up to seven! What the hell, lady?

I figured I'd be ok, since I survived the supposedly horrible IUD insertion. So, I show up at the hospital lab on the appointed day. They give me a gown and are all pro-lady and sensitive and professional as they squeeze each boob (twice) between two pieces of plastic. When I see the images on the screen, they actually look pretty good and I consider asking for a copy.

Then the fun really begins. The technician takes me into another room for a "risk assessment". She explains, as my doctor did, that I might get called back, and not to worry because young breast tissue is often very dense and so it can be hard to see things well. Then she looks at my breast images and says, "actually, yours aren't that dense". Um, thanks? She points out that large areas of my breasts are in fact fat, and that as I age they "will all turn to fat". Thanks again, lady. Then she asks, "so, do you still get your period?". I practically shrieked, "Yes! Like clockwork!". Jesus, I'm 40, not 140.

This reminds me of the time that I came to this same hospital when I was 32. I had sprained my ankle very badly (it involved dogs, a piece of plywood and alcohol) and was sent for an x-ray. I went at about 7:00 am and was wearing sweats and had my hair in a ponytail. Before I was x-rayed, the technician asked "any chance you are pregnant?". I said no. She looked at my chart and exclaimed, "oh, you're 32. You look about 17! I wouldn't have asked about the pregnancy thing if I knew how old you were". What. The. Fuck? There is something sinister going on at this hospital, like they are stuck in the 1950s when a woman was past her child-bearing years at 28 and menopausal at 40, I guess.

Anyway, I comforted myself with the idea that my gigantic purple ankle would at least get me some pain killers. The doctor came in and asked if I was allergic to any drugs. I said no, but that I did better with percocet than vicodin. He gave me a suspicious look and said "I'm giving you motrin". Nevermind that every person I know has gone to that same ER and gotten opiates for, like, a splinter. I apparently just seem like a drug addict.

That's three things, plus a few extra thrown in.

2. I Am Not A Car Person

2010-06-02T14:32:00.000-04:00

I do not care about cars. My requirements for cars are that they run reliably, and that they have heat, A/C and a stereo. I prefer power windows. That's all. In reality, I could probably drive a fancy car, but I electively drive a Hyundai (the first new car I have ever owned) and I plan to drive it into the ground before purchasing another Hyundai.

This preference (or lack thereof) is puzzling to many people, but mainly to people who are trying to set me up on dates. They all seem to think I am a fancy car whore. One conversation went like this:

Them: He's a great guy. He has a lot of money, a big house, a Mercedes, and he'll take you out to dinner.
Me: You just described my parents.

Another, much more demoralizing story went like this: a friend is dating a guy who has a roommate. All I ever heard about was how this guy sat around in his bathrobe, watching soft-core porn and drinking straight gin. Once, my friend saw him blow drying his entire body in the bathroom (he had left the door open). Then, for some reason, my friend and her boyfriend started a full-court press to get me to go out with him. It went like this:

Them: He really likes you!
Me: He's never met me.
Them: But he's seen your picture of facebook and he heard about you from (another guy I dated).
Me: Um, no. Not into the whole soft-core-porn-bathrobe-gin thing.
Them: He's a great parent.
Me: I have parents.
Them: He has a Mercedes.
Me: I don't care! Plus, didn't you say he works at a Mercedes dealership?
Them: (Silence. But then they arranged an "accidental" meeting for which they will never be forgiven.)

I have no idea why this is happening to me of all people. I do not care about cars, I do not think I seem like a gold-digger, and I don't think I have ever expressed awe over any vehicle except for monster trucks, which are cool because you can just drive right over shit. Like people who are trying to set you up with guys who drive a Mercedes.

That's two things.

1. I Love/Hate Patchouli

2010-05-27T19:48:00.001-04:00

Patchouli smells really good, but you can't wear it, or you smell like, well, patchouli.

This is not one of those things like, say, the smell of grilling meat, which is awesome but would make a really bad perfume. It is more of a social statement thing. It is the tie-dyed t-shirt of fragrances, and announces to the world that 1. you are within a one mile radius of the smeller, and 2. you are a hippie freak. That's fine if that is, as my brother-in-law would say, "part of your brand" (he's in advertising), but if it is not, you just can't wear it.

For some reason, this has not happened to the other resinous woods - sandalwood, vetiver - and I'm not sure why, but I really wish it wasn't the case, because I really love the way patchouli smells. Perfume is one of my many nonsensical obsessions, and I've tried fancy kinds that promise to be "sophisticated", but everyone is still like, "you smell like patchouli". I tried to make my own mixture of patchouli and lemon, but then I smelled like a hippie who had been cleaning with Pledge. I also tried patchouli and orange, but that smelled like I was a hippie who just peeled an orange. Not a bad room fragrance, though.

My patchouli history is this: it was my first year at boarding school. There was an older girl who was one of the butt-room queens - always smoking, edited the literary magazine, wore like ten layers of drippy lace clothing with combat boots, and wanted nothing to do with me even though our grandparents knew each other and we had played together as kids. One of her most marked characteristics was that whenever she was nearby, I would smell this smell I had never smelled before, and it was unplaceable and great. I only found out it was patchouli when a friend told me that the girl in question had accidentally dumped a bottle of patchouli oil on all of her shoes and so always reeked of it. I immediately got my own patchouli, which I could carry off (or thought I could) because I was 15 and in my mandatory east coast boarding school dead head phase.

I abandoned it a few years later when I realized the cultural significance, but I still wear it around the house and pretend that it is ok. I also had patchouli hand soap in my bathroom for a while and everyone was like, "this reminds me of college!".

That's one thing about me.

The Taming of the Shrew

2010-05-26T15:47:00.000-04:00

Yes, I can be a shrew, and I am certainly in need of taming, but that is not what this is about.

As my 16 followers have undoubtedly noticed, I haven't been writing anything lately. My good mood continues. I need something really bad to happen to fuel my artistic process. I can't believe I just wrote that.

Anyway, as you hopefully know, The Taming of the Shrew is a Shakespeare play about a young woman who is not allowed to get married until her older, shrewish sister does. So, she sets about taming that bitch so she can get hitched. This was converted, like so many of the bard's works, into a teen movie called "Ten Things I Hate About You", starring, I think, Julia Stiles and the late Heath Ledger. She was the shrew, and he tamed her with witty insults and the apparent underlying passion they had for each other. As an aside, I would like to mention that I did not experience anything similar to this when my younger sister got married five years ago. While I definitely got a lot of "oh, is this hard for you?" questions from family friends who were generally 55 or older, my mother gleefully planned the wedding and seemed perturbed only when I demanded that she get me a room at The Ritz because I didn't want to stay at her apartment. She also seemed a little weirded out when I got in the limo at the end of the night and was like, "Mom, this is James, he's coming back to the hotel with me". Got that? Part one.

Part two is that there used to be a thing on Facebook called "25 things about me" that people would fill out and send to you with an invitation for you to do the same. This seems to have died out, or maybe nobody ever sends it to me anymore because I never responded. This is now a regular feature in US Weekly magazine - every week a celebrity (or, more likely, their publicist) provides a list of 25 things about themself, like that they hate ketchup or that they grew up on a soy bean farm. Part two, okay?

All of this - Ten Things I Hate About You, 25 Things about me, being a shrew, not being able to write anything, all came together in my warped little brain in this way - I am going to try to write 25 posts about me and my opinions about things. Yes, this is basically what I've been doing, just play along. I'm trying to get things going here.

Watch this space. I wanted to do 25 in 25 days but I'm going away so it might have to be a little spaced out. In time, I mean.

Male Strippers

2010-05-18T15:17:00.000-04:00

Under much duress, I was persuaded to go see a male strip show. It was for the retirement of a 75 year old coworker. It was held in a really lame town at a club called, I shit you not, Maximum Capacity. The look of the place was this: here is some plywood and some cheapo tables and chairs. You have 10 minutes to make a strip club. Go!

I paid my $10 and went in. It was about 45 degrees in there - to stop the dancers from sweating? To keep their nipples hard? I don't care to think about that. Naturally, I proceeded right to the bar where I was given a shot of tequila in a plastic med cup like they use to give you pills in the hospital. Um. Guess what I had to do next? Order another.

I had developed a plan to keep any and all strippers away from me. I went to the bank and got 30 dollar bills and 10 fives. I figured I would give the singles to all of my friends, and if that didn't work, I would give the guy a five and tell him there was another in it for him later if he LEFT ME ALONE. As it turned out, I did not have to do this. This is how the place operated:

1. You could pay $20 to go on the stage while the dancer performed. This generally meant that some over-excited female sat in a chair while some 5'5" guy whipped his leather chaps off while sticking his ass in her face.

2. Then, once he had finished the "stage dance", he would come into the audience and we were told to hold up dollars if we wanted them to come over to us. I held dollars behind other people's heads, but someone must have done this to me too, because one stripper came up, put his arm around me and asked "what's your name?". I replied, "Jasmine". He said "that's a fake name" and stalked off. He was right, but why was he pissed?

3. The guys had regular names like Mike or whatever, but had theme costumes and music. First, and yes, this is deeply unsexy, Michael Jackson. A black guy in a militaryish/black suit/too short pants outfit doing the moonwalk. He was a pretty good dancer. Our 75 year old was the special lady on stage for his performance, and we all looked at each other in horror when he PICKED HER UP. This woman has a cane. I thought we were going to spend the rest of the night in the ER trying to explain how this had happened. Although, ERs have drugs and cute doctors, so maybe that would have been better. Next came a cowboy and a biker and someone who maybe was supposed to be a business man in a suit. I have come to the realization that the Big and Rich song "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" is to male strip clubs what "Pour Some Sugar on Me" is to female strip clubs.

As low brow and disgusting as this was, it was sort of fun. I don't think women are as visual as men, so we don't get the enjoyment they do out of watching a naked person (actually, I would rather have gone to see female strippers and I'm like 97% straight). But there is something really fun about being in a room full of women who were openly giving or denying approval of an array of male forms. I feel like this happens to women all the time, but we never get to do it openly to men.

Since our table was in the back, we kept going up to a place by the soundboard to get a better view. This led to me having a conversation with the sound guy, who looked like a cross between the muppet Animal and an 80 year old man. In about 10 seconds I learned that he was really there for the AC/DC and Led Zeppelin cover bands that were up next, that he has been married for 20 years, and that his wife will not sleep with him and even buys him sex toys so he'll leave her alone. (I'm like, what, blow up doll?) Again, I am very good at getting right to the heart of the matter. Then, out of the blue, he told me, "you are a 9, but intellectually you are a 12". I know I should be flattered by this, but I'm like - what? you couldn't throw me a 10 for looks? How high does the scale go?

So, all in all not too bad, and I emerged unscathed and with this knowledge: a neon green thong is a very bad look, but a neon green thong with cowboy boots is even worse.

What's she going as?

2010-05-12T14:13:00.000-04:00

When I was in high school, my best friend's big insult was "what's she going as?". This meant that the person in question was wearing a bizarre get-up, as if they were attending a costume party. A version of this happened to me last night.

I was invited to a birthday party at a restuarant. Yes, the workplace of My Second Husband. Since I have decided to try to actually wear all of my clothes instead of using my house as a large storage closet for them, I was wearing a dress, which I never do, and boots, which I always do, even though they are never visible under my ever-present jeans.

So, I show up and it turns out that everyone except for me and one other person speaks Russian. This causes me to abandon my new rule against drinking during the week, since I figure it will be easier to cope with this situation if I am drunk. The only other time I was in such a situation was when I was at a wedding in Jerusalem and sat at a table full of Israeli fighter pilots (although they spoke Hebrew, not Russian, of course). I coped with that by leaving immediately and going up to my room to watch Northern Exposure reruns with Hebrew subtitles. That was also the night my mother saw Kenneth Jay Lane, a famous costume jewelry designer, naked, but that is a story for another time.

Anyway, there I am at the restuarant, and I have a little conversation with My Second Husband. He asks if I am going rollerskating later. I think he must know about the rollerskating from the blog, and assume he must somehow know that Tuesdays are the nights I plan on going, even though I haven't written about that here. I tell him no, I'm going in a few weeks, and I would invite him, but it is girls only. He says he can still come watch, especially if we are wearing sassy costumes. We had communicated about the costumes at some point. Alright, FINE, I once sent him a drunken email asking if he likes fierce bunnies as a rollerskating costume idea, ok? Maybe that's how he knew about the costumes. Whatever.

This morning, I had two realizations:

1. Not drinking during the week is the best idea I ever had.

2. My Second Husband had asked if I was going rollerskating because he thought I was wearing a costume. There can be no other explanation - he did not know Tuesdays are the night, I was wearing a semi-crazy get-up, and he knew rollerskating would involve costumes.

All that was missing was him asking, "what are you going as?".

Roller Derby

2010-05-09T17:54:00.000-04:00

I haven't been inspired to write any posts lately, and it has me a little worried. Have I run out of ideas? Is my life so boring that there is no new material? Have I had a small stroke in the creative center of my brain? Or is it because I only have 16 followers, so there is no point?

I have come to the conclusion that it is none of those things, although if you are reading this and you are not a follower YOU ARE LAME. You can use a fake name. About 15 of 16 people do. I think I write more when I am in a bad mood. Which, looking back, means that I have been in a bad mood for the past six months. There is no reason for me to be in a good mood now, since, as it turns out, God is seeing someone, My Second Husband has a girlfriend, I have quit online dating because I only attract freaks, I am gaining weight like a wrestler after weigh-in, and there is something wrong with the foundation of my house (I mean this literally - the concrete block is fucked up - but an argument could be made that this is this is true in the figural sense as well). My computer got something called Russian Death Syndrome and I lost all my numbers and my calendar. My taste in jewelry has grown even more bizarre, and everyone hates my gladiator sandals. And I even feel like vomiting right this moment, and no I am not pregnant or hungover. Minor miracles, both.

And yet, I feel fine. This could be due to the fact that my house is very clean and that I did not clean it myself. Or it could be all the food I'm eating. Or it could be the crazy new gigantic pyrite ring that I just bought, which looks like a small mountain on my hand. Or just the regular ebb and flow of neurotransmitters. But my money is on roller derby.

I am not an athletic person. At all. As a kid, I played fullback in soccer because I was so big, and generally scored goals for the other team. I had one great season as a pitcher in softball, but it turned out I was just on a really lame team (we were actually called "The Specials") and my talent disappeared when compared to the full range of softball talent the next season. At boarding school, where sports were mandatory, I was on not Varsity, not JV, but something called "thirds" field hockey and lacrosse teams. I used to be able to sort of play tennis, but now just miss the ball and curse a lot, which has not improved my parents' standing at their tennis club.

But I was always good at rollerskating. As a child of the 1970s and 80s, I was totally in on this craze from the age of about 6, when I had the metal skates you needed a key for and put on over your shoes. I graduated to the actual boot skates around age 8. I used to go out in the street and just skate up and down, and figured out how to skate backwards and turn and stop. I had my first boy-girl party at a roller rink on Long Island called "Laces", which was the shit back in the day. I had feathered hair, pink Levi's cords, and a shirt with my name on the back in fuzzy letters, and I OWNED that rink on my 12th birthday.

I can't remember when I stopped rollerskating or why, but I know I did have rollerblades for a while in my twenties. It was never the same. First, it is much harder to stop, so it can be terrifying. Plus, there was so much gear - wrist and elbow and knee pads - it took away from the joy of it all. But lately, rollerskating has made a weird reappearance in my life. This could be due to some hipster-generated nostalgia, or to the movie "Whip It". For me, it started at a party, where I got into a conversation with another woman who happened to mention going rollerskating. I practically yelled "I want to go!". So, I've been trying to get that together, and have been instructed to come up with costume ideas for a trip to the local roller rink. So far, I have animals, super heros, and gladiators.

I posted this intention on facebook and one friend sent me a link to the local roller derby. I responded that there was NO WAY I could ever do derby, as I lack the toughness and willingness to be injured the sport requires. I said it might be possible with a plastic surgeon, orthopedist, cosmetic dentist, and anesthesiologist rink-side. Then, just yesterday, as a friend and I were going to a craft fair, we were greeted by two girls, one in skates, who were publicizing the local roller derby. They did this huge build up all about practices and how you don't get your face smashed in and how we wouldn't be the oldest people by a long stretch, and then they said they actually weren't recruiting players right now. I yelled, "what the hell, bitches?!" and they laughed. These are my kind of women. They said we should come see a match, and then there would be recruiting later on. They also told us the cool fact that when you are coming up with a roller derby name (like "Bloody Mary" or "Iron Maiden") it has to be COMPLETELY original. Nobody, ever, can have registered the name before.

So, I'm taking this all as a sign. I am going to the roller rink. I will try to get as many people to come along as I can (female people), but I will go alone if I have to. Actually, my fantasy is to host a weekly, themed roller party, but I have no idea how to do this. Sleep with whoever owns the roller rink? I will go to see the roller derby match. I will get my own skates. I will come up with an awesome derby name and get a huge, rapper-style pendant (or, even better, a four finger ring) made spelling it out.

I will triumphantly return to the only sport I have ever been good at, and if my face is smashed in the process, I will use it as an opportunity to get a face lift and pretend that it was just a really cool roller derby accident.

God and Other People I Met on Saturday Night

2010-05-02T09:50:00.000-04:00

I went out last night with a friend. We were supposed to go to a party, but that didn't work out for various reasons, so she suggested that we go to see her chiropractor play bagpipes in his band. She calls him "God" because he fixed her neck or back or something. She also said he is really hot.

So, we pre-game by drinking Corona Light, which is like soda to us because our alcohol tolerance is so high. As we do this, she tells me about God, who is apparently 6'2" (awesome), totally HAWT (subjective), funny, talkative, confident, recently divorced, and able to fix any back problem. I ask her why, if he is so great, she's setting me up with him, and she just says he's not for her. I secretly start to wonder what is wrong with him.

So we go down to the bar and get some real liquor (thank you, producers of Patron). My friend points out God, who is in fact good looking and also successfully rocking a kilt. To go with the bagpipes. We send him a drink, but then he has to go play again. My friend and I go outside to smoke a cigarette and start talking to the bouncers. We play "guess my age" and get their ages right, but don't let them guess ours. I disabuse the cockier one of his notion that if a woman touches her hair, it always means she likes you. I told him that sometimes we just want to get our hair out of our faces and show him what some truly flirtatious body language looks like. He then declares that I must be interested in him because I did the come hither body language. I explain it was just an educational demonstration, but is isn't buying it.

Then, God appears. He performs a diagnostic exam on my shoulders on the sidewalk and does something to my back that I did not want him to ever stop doing. This draws a crowd and practically applause. He shows us that he is wearing boxer briefs under the kilt. And they look good. He leaves to play again.

So, we head back inside, where we are approached by a guy who asks us to come and sit with him and his friend, who is billed as "a Jamaican soccer player". Of course, it turns out that he is a Jamaican soccer player turned lonely property manager. The guy I'm talking to is kind of weird. He used to live in London but now he lives in a really lame local town known for kielbasa and a high heart attack rate. He gives me his number, and as I leaned down to put it in my phone, he tries to kiss me. I automatically stiff-armed him and said "none of that". This is a personal triumph for me. I had the chance to make out in a bar and I didn't do it. Progress. But maybe not, since I would have made out with God or the bouncer.

Onto another bar with God and his band. Things get hazy at this point - there is whisky in a flask and beer and conversation about...something. Then I run smack into My Second Husband, who is there to see his girlfriend. Argh. At least he says the blog is good. My friend and I see him outside later, and after I introduced them I was so drunk I was like, "This is him! This is the Waiter! This is my Second Husband!". He is good natured and takes this in stride. Later, my friend was like "oh he is cute!" and I almost push her into traffic.

Our final stop was at a burger place. It was a madhouse, thick with drunken cheeseburger whores like ourselves. It took forever to get our food, so I went up to the counter to see what was going on. I started a conversation with a guy. We complained about how long it was taking and I said, "whatev". He said, "did you just say whatevs?". I said, "no, WHATEV, no S". This caused me to launch into a list of things I can and cannot say, based on my age and opinion.

I can say:
Whatever, whatev, awesome, dude, word, word up, word to the mother, off the chain, off the hook, sweet, foxy, as if, easy there, beyotch, tore up from the floor up, and like.

I cannot say:
Chillax, mad skills, off the chizz-ain, off the hizz-ook, it's all good, lol (I will not even write this wretched little thing), and whatevS.

Then we got our food and ate it and went home. I have already gotten two texts and one voicemail from the Londoner turned Lamo-lander.

Online Dating

2010-04-29T22:28:00.000-04:00

I have many feelings about online dating. Some good, some bad.

What's good is that it is all out there - another convenient use of the internet, you can see who is single, meet people you would otherwise not know existed, see a bunch of freaks. Feel less alone in your singlehood.

What's bad is that you really can't tell too much from someone's profile. It seems like you can - they list their height, body type, religion, substance abuse preferences, ability to cook or play instruments, etc. But, to me, this really isn't the crucial information. The crucial information is: if I am talking to this person, do I want to keep talking to them? And, more importantly, do I want to have sex with them?

Another problem is that it is nearly impossible to make the choices you are forced to make. You must specify an age requirement. This always makes me nervous - what if I say 30 to 50 and there is a really awesome 29 or 51 year old? What if I say I want someone within 25 miles and Mr. Right is 26 miles away? Plus, what to say about yourself? I try to be honest, but not too crazy. I admit to smoking but not to kissing my dog on the mouth.

Online dating becomes like a second job. You have to be really invested. Especially, I have found from recent experience, if you post a photo of yourself wearing bunny ears and growling at the camera. Then you get tons of messages that you have to weed through and reply to (if you want). Then, the next step - who to meet? What to do? What if they are a serial killer? I think I might lack the dedication for this. You have to be in it to win it. And I'm not sure I am. I prefer a more organic dating process. We meet, we like, we proceed.

My recent foray into online dating has yielded many bizarre interactions. I say I want someone a certain age within a certain distance, yet I get messages from 75 year olds in Canada and Germany. I say I smoke but get emails from people vehemently opposed. Other weird things:

1. There are a lot of polyamorous people on the particular site I am using. if you don't know what that means, google it or watch MTV once in a while.

2. A large number of men seem to have a boilerplate intro email that they copy and paste into their first message. It generally goes something like "Hello. You are so lovely. When I saw your profile I could tell that you are a very special person. I am looking for a special woman to share my life with. I think that we would get along very well". Then it gives me their instant messenger name and asks for mine. I think this is a scam. The profiles generally have pictures of old white dudes, but I think these messages are in fact generated by people in the Congo who hope to lure lonely women into sending them money. This theory was confirmed when I responded to one guy that since his profile said he is a "devout Christian" and mine clearly states that I am an atheist, I did not think we would get along. He replied with another boilerplate message trying to get me to instant message with him.

3. One guy emailed, I wrote back, we had a little conversation. Then I noticed that he was 21. 21. I wish there were capital numbers so I could emphasize this. TWENTY MOTHER FUCKING ONE. I wrote to him - "Dude, I'm 40. I'm sorry, you are just too young". He wrote back, "Hey, most women like you are happy to have a guy like me, but ok". Women like me? Does he mean OLD women like me? Jesus. The only way I can imagine that going is that at least, at his age, he should have the sexual stamina to have sex with me again after I'm like, "that was terrible, have you ever even done this before?"

4. One guy wrote that he thought he had seen me around town. I asked where. He said Whole Foods. I replied that seemed weird, since I never really go there that often. He wrote back "well, this conversation is going a whole lot of nowhere". Jiminy Cricket. At least he wears his impatience on his sleeve. Or he knew that I was onto his bullshit ice breaker.

The weirdest part is that I am now semi-obsessed with a 54 years old who runs a commercial maple tapping farm. He has goats and pigs and chickens. Did I mention that he is 54? There are pictures of him doing manly tasks like chain sawing things and climbing huge mountains. He asked if I like older men and I replied that I wasn't sure, but I was certain that I do not like younger men (see number 3 above). So, we're meeting for coffee. Then I might go see his goats. I really like goats.

Lesbe Friends

2010-04-26T12:32:00.000-04:00

If this past weekend taught me one thing, it is this: I apparently have a very low evergy level. Either that, or my friend is manic and despite my training as a psychologist, I have failed to recognize it. I'd rather be seen as lazy than dumb, so I'll go with the former.

It all started when my friend was like, "hey, let's make some dinner this weekend". That turned into "something challenging" and then became "a dinner party". We decided on Mexican, and I must have been somewhat in denial because I was still thinking it would take about an hour to prepare, maybe make some tacos, whip up some guacamole, get some Coronas and maybe some tequila and wham, instant party.

But no. The event began on Friday night, when we met to select recipies and make a list. Then we went out for dinner, which was pretty easy. The next day started with a rewriting of the list (it had to be in the order of where things are located in the store) and a trip to an antiques store to see if they had any proper serving devices for sangria and spiced chocolate pudding. A giant pitcher and some ramekins, to be specific. As we looked around the store, my friend had the following conversation with the owner:

Owner: Can I help you find anything?
Friend: Well, we're having a Mexican themed dinner party, and we don't have the right containers to serve the dessert in, so we were looking at these glasses..
Owner: Uh-huh

At this point, it dawned on me that the use of the words "we", "dinner party" and "we don't have the right [household items]" made it sound like we were a couple. We live in an area where this is extremely common, and it is no big deal to see same sex couples doing all sorts of things. Like, for example, shopping for specialty dinnerware on a nice Saturday morning. This did not bother me, but it set the tone for the day.

Our next stop was at a crafts store, where we bought, among other things, rainbow colored tissue paper to make paper flowers (apparently we were having party favors). Now it looked like we were making a gay flag to celebrate our union.

Onto Whole Foods. I was almost at my limit of energy and had to eat almost a whole bag of "natural" cheese puffs while we were there. We argued like a couple when I was mad that I had two jobs - holding the list AND pushing the cart. In the checkout line, we split the bill, and my friend was like, "ok honey, I know you're getting tired, I'll pull the car up for you".

The rest of that day is a blur, but we ultimately located our ramekins and giant pitchers at the job lots store. The cashier overheard our discussion and helpfully suggested that we consult the Food Network for more ideas. I think she thought we were together too. Since we were actually having the party at someone else's house, I kept joking that they would freak out when we showed up with five boxes of platters and pitchers. And paper flowers. I was like, hey, let's get a mariachi band. And a donkey with one of those blankets. And a pinata. And a sombrero for their dog. And have a ton of sand dumped on their deck. And hire some drunken college kids to come in, do beer bongs, vomit, make out, and leave, to make it like spring break in Mexico. I also said we could get wigs to make us look more Mexican, but my friend said that was racist. I was too tired to care. I went home and passed out. My friend went for a 20 mile bike ride, went to the store again, and made the sangria.

Then it was Sunday. Time to cook. I had to peel tomatos for one recipe. Why? I still don't know. I don't think tomato skin would have ruined the dish. I made the largest amount of quinoa ever. I made beans. I stuffed enchiladas. My friend did the hardest parts, making a complicated sauce and the pudding. I went home to let my dog out before we went to our friend's house, and I was lying on the couch, exhausted, thinking, "now I have to actually GO to this party".

So we show up with five boxes of platters and pitchers and ramekins and paper flowers. There was enough food for an army, but only four of us. We told our friends about how everyone thought we were a couple and my very low energy level. During a conversation about online dating (more on that later), I said that I had met a guy who runs a commercial maple farm and also has a farm stand business with fruit, vegetables, meat, and eggs, and that while I wanted all that food, I knew I did not have the constitution to actually help grow it. I wondered how I had actually come into being at all, if my ancestors were all as lazy as I am. How did they grow food? Out run predators? Carry pails of water?

We decided that they were probably really good at manipulation and hiding behind trees.

Divorce Party

2010-04-22T16:17:00.000-04:00

The other day, my friend called and said, "It's official. I am divorced". I said, "CONGRATULATIONS!" because she really wanted this divorce. There is a six month waiting period, kind of like when you buy a gun. I guess they think you might change your mind about pulling the trigger, but I don't think that is going to happen in this case.

So, I started to plan a divorce party for her. I guess these are getting very popular, but my main motivations were: 1. A party (duh), and 2. A wedding-like cake decorated with a triumphant bride and a bloody groom lying at the bottom. I planned to customize him with green waves coming out of his mouth to symbolize his bad breath. I was excited not only to see this cake, but to experience the expressions of horror it would inspire at the bakery, as I described in detail how I wanted the most morbid and violent wedding cake ever made. Maybe it could even be black.

Then I googled "divorce party favors" and came crashing back to earth. Basically, all that is available are things you would buy for a bachelorette party, but adapted to the divorce situation. So, penis shaped EVERYTHING (lollipops, hats, necklaces) and sashes that declare "Just Divorced". This pissed me off for a few reasons. First, I detest bachelorette parties in their current form (see my post "Drunken Bachelorette"). Second, this all just seemed wrong. A bachelorette party is the final hurrah before marriage. A divorce party is like, "yeah, I'm free!". I guess some recent divorcees want all the penis stuff because they are looking for, well, a new penis, but I'd rather see divorce parties as sort of pagan, gleeful celebrations of your hatred for your ex. The only party favor I liked was a necklace that had the big "NO" sign through a heart and said "Just Say No". This probably says a lot about me.

So I have to figure this out. I'm still doing the divorce cake. Or maybe a series of cupcakes depicting the stages of a failed marriage:

1. Bride and groom together and happy.
2. Bride and groom together, bride leaning away
3. Groom leaning in, hands up, like "what?"
4. Throttling each other
5. Each on own cupcake

This could be varied depending on the circumstances of the divorce - other parties could appear if there was infidelity, they could be shown at opposite sides of the bed if there was no sexual chemistry, or they could be in their own little boats if they just drifted apart.

The Other Me

2010-04-20T19:12:00.000-04:00

The other me describes herself this way: "If you were to reduce me to my simplest elements, I would be glitter and sunshine. My life is essentially one hot mess". Her interests are "men's gymnastics, sea isle city, jeopardy, being short, driving with my windows open, coloring, etc". Her activities are "living the dream".

This girl is the other me because we have the same name. She friended me on facebook a while ago, probably because of the name thing. A bunch of other people did the same thing, but I had to block them because they all seemed to be constantly drunk Brits who had endless wall arguments like "OY! Juff cuz you ain't fly as me, you slag me off". I had to block those people. But this me was different. Ok, so she's 19 and I am 40. She attends the University of Miami, while I toil away as a shrink. I did not go to Cancun for spring break (this year) and I do not have over 1,000 friends or over 1400 photos (I have 176 friends and 4 pictures, thank you very much). She also looks much better in scanty clothing.

The other me seems to have a lot of fun and looks good doing it. This reminds me somewhat of my college years, but with more bikinis, more beaches, and more general openness about her activities. I probably partied as much, but in 1989, didn't have a way to broadcast this to the world. And thank Christ for that.

I'm sort of jealous of her. I generally love being as old as I am now. What I have lost in skin elasticity and the ability to wear very revealing clothing, I have gained in wisdom and self-confidence (or so I tell myself). But when I see her status updates, I feel like maybe I did it all wrong. I finally commented on one of her posts, bascially saying "hey, I'm old enough to be your mom, but you seem to be having a great time. Don't block me, this is too fun." Her friends seemed to think this was funny and one guy commented "not real life". Either I am being punked by a bogus profile or these precocious teenagers realize that partying in Miami while giving a nod to school on your parents bankroll is not "real". Good for them.

I know we only have the same name and are both female, but I think of her as the other me because the other prospects I have seen are demoralizing. Like the woman I saw today while walking my dog. She was sitting on the sidewalk, weeding her garden. My dog went up and licked her, and she said, "Thank you for liking me! And I have cats." Yeah, who dragged her in. Then she seemed honored when my dog peed all over her flowers.

It's a no-brainer - who would you rather be? Actually, if I could be anyone, I would be me, only I'd be able to sing really, really well.

My Reading Problem

2010-04-16T11:08:00.000-04:00

I have a certain type of reading problem, not necessarily like dyslexia, but where I misread things in a funny way. This used to be limited to a hearing problem - someone would say, "is that what you wore?", and I would think they had said "is that you, whore?" - but this has gone away a bit and has been replaced by a similar problem with reading.

For example, at work there was a post about holiday hours that I read as "holiday horrors". This seemed to make sense, holidays can be horrible sometimes, but I couldn't figure out why my employer was underlining this fact. Then I realized it was about hours, not horrors. I wanted to get a psych evaluation, but since I give them all the time, I know the answers to all the tests, and so I'll never know if I have a weird neurological condition. Well, other than the obvious ones.

Another time I was at CVS and I walked past a bottle of perfume that I thought was called "Sexist Fantasies". I was like, wow, maybe we're just in a real backlash period with feminism, or that a bunch of chauvinists were trying to cash in on the trashy perfume phenomenon. Then I realized that the perfume was actually called "Sexiest Fantasies". One letter, big difference.

Related to this, I also have a unique problem with people's names. Not only do I not remember them (a common thing), but I make up new names for people. Once I went to a house warming party, and the next day talked to the friend who has hosted it. I was like, "yeah, so I was talking to Reynaldo, and...". She was like, "who is Reynaldo?", and I was like, "you know, that guy with the grey hair, he was sitting across from me". She then informed me that the man I had named Reynaldo was in fact not named that, that he had a regular name like Al or something, and that she was certain of this fact because he was her father-in-law. Oh. I still call him Reynaldo, just not to his face. I also named this same friend's neighbors Fritz and Anna for some reason, even though I have only met him once and never met the wife. This might be contagious. For some reason, people call my dog, who is named Cleo, "Chloe". About 50 people have done this, and I have no idea why.

Finally, I always read the word "public" as "pubic". Part of this is because it is one of those typos that spell check does not catch, because pubic is a word, as I'm sure you know. For job-related reasons, I tend to use the word public a lot, like "so and so should be monitored in public situations". You can imagine what this would be like if I let a document go out that said "so and so should be monitored in pubic situations".

I really hope I don't have a rare neurological disorder. Or a common one, like dementia. But I'll just pretend I don't, and I will read and re-read things very carefully. Ok, now I'm off to go out in pubic.

Drunken Bachelorette

2010-04-12T18:29:00.000-04:00

No, I am not the titular heroine of this post. For once. Today our stars are a group of drunk women, one in a veil, who are part of a cultural institution that I consider to be pure evil - the bachelorette party. Actually, bridal showers are pure evil. At least bachelorette parties involve alcohol and bad behavior, not me buying sheets for someone just because they are getting married and forcing the bride to wear a hat made out of all the ribbons from the gifts. This really happens.

Now, I love a party. And I don't object to having a gender-specific celebration to usher the soon-to-be-wed gently to the alter. But I think the boys have got it right - Vegas, sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Women seem to have followed this trajectory:

1. Bachelorette parties used to be glorified wedding showers. Maybe a sedate luncheon. Maybe a wine tasting. Still pretty unappealing.

2. The racier version: all-girl outings that involve lots of booze, making the bride-to-be wear a veil or a t-shirt that says "bride", and flirting with men who are definitely NOT their intended.

3. What we seem to have now: drunken women in bars, the bride wearing some kind of whorish identifier (a shirt with life savers glued to it that says "suck for a buck"). There has to be some sexual element - penis straws are big. I had to get some for my sister's bachelorette. Which I tried to have in Vegas, by the way, but failed. Another new thing is that the brides are given cards listing things they have to accomplish that night - get a picture with a guy with a tattoo, get a picture with a guy with his shirt off, get a sexually transmitted disease. Men, on the other hand, go to strip clubs and tote around blow up dolls. I've witnessed this. The blow-up dolls.

I'm thinking about this because I was on a date - yes, a real date, where you get asked out to dinner and get picked up in a car and go and talk and act like an adult. It is shocking that this is happening to me, but it is and it is good, so I'm not going to jinx it by writing too much about it. I don't even have a code name for him. Yet.

Anyway. We were out after dinner and the bar was suddenly flooded with rowdy women, one in a veil. Their group immediately and stealthily scouted the place for men willing to help the bride accomplish the tasks on her list. One guy took off his sweater to reveal a dirty t-shirt. He flashed a tattoo and a picture was taken of him with the bride, who had her list of things to do clenched in her teeth. This attracted his crowd, and we watched one guy try to horn in on dirty t-shirt's action, but fail.

This led to a discussion of "The Pick-Up Artist". If you don't know, this is a movement started by a dude who claims he can pick up any woman. The strategy is this: you approach a group of women and go up to the most attractive one. Then you make fun of her. Like, tell her that her shoes are lame. Then you turn on your heel and target the most unattractive one of the bunch. This apparently makes the hot one think, "Hey, wait a minute! I'm the hot one! Why is he hitting on her?". This piques her interest, the pick-up artist engages in something called "cocky-funny" behavior, and gets the hot girl. I'm told this works, and I'm ashamed to say that I have often been the victim of "cocky-funny". I think it also means "narcissist and possible sociopath" or, "every guy I have ever dated".

As this went on, so did the bachelorette challenge. They found a guy with a tattoo, photos were taken in compromising situations, and I don't think anyone involved escaped with their dignity. At one point I talked to the maid of honor, who told me that dirty t-shirt boy was supposed to take off his shirt, but only agreed to removing his sweater in the end. We agreed that this was a good decision on his part, judging from what we could see of his physique.

Eventually, the bachelorette party left, probably off to finish their list elsewhere. Suddenly, an extremely drunk girl started wandering around, bouncing off chairs and looking very confused. Since my job makes me hypervigilant to what can happen to a vulnerable young woman, I leapt up to talk to her. Another woman had also noticed and we asked her, "Are you ok? Are you with friends? Where are they?". She replied, "I'm an English Honors student!". We congratulated her and redirected her to the matter at hand. The bartenders ran over to assure us they had not served her (do I look like an ATF agent?) and said she had just shown up, lost and drunk and alone. Just as we perfected our plan to help her - the other woman was going to pull her car around and give her a ride home, if she could remember where she lived - her friends showed up. We walked out after them, and I could only hope that poor girl puked on the way home, or she would be even more hurtin' for certain than she seemed destined to be the next day, Honors English or not.

Meanwhile, the soon-to-be-husband of the bachelorette was probably in Vegas, yelling "that's right bitches!" at a blackjack table. We need to fight harder for equality, ladies. Also, let's work on those lists of bachelorette tasks to be accomplished. Let's think big - steal a police car, kiss a girl (or a boy if you are marrying a girl), finagle 100 free pizzas, get a tattoo, and marry someone else by the end of the night.

Teenage Whores

2010-04-09T15:43:00.000-04:00

It is raining today, and everyone is upset because it was 90 degrees two days ago, but I don't care because I have the coolest rainboots ever. They are like regular black rubber rain boots, hit a few inches below the knee, and have black studs on them. I wish I could post a picture but I don't know how to do that. Anyway, they ROCK, and I hope it rains forever so I can wear them every day.

As I have already established, I really like clothes and shopping. This is somewhat strange because I always buy the same things - jeans, white shirts, black shirts, cashmere, black boots, gladiator sandals, scarves and coats. Oh, and bags. But small variations in detail (especially if they are kind of perverse, like the studs on the rain boots) make an item almost identical to the 40 other versions I own totally irrestible. So I converted an extra bedroom into a big closet. Now I have a really large space in which I cannot find the exact black shirt I am looking for.

As usual, I digress. Or I'm over-doing the set up for my real topic today: Teenage Whores. I discovered this phenomenon at the mall a few years ago. Not actual whores(although who knows?), but teenage girls who are dressed like whores, and the stores they shop at. Now, the best clothing store in the world is Topshop in Oxford Circus in London. But since I don't live there, I go to my local mall. A few years ago I discovered my mecca, Forever 21. It is really called that, I swear. They have really cheap clothes that they steal directly from the runway, and a lot of it is whorish. So, I started calling it "The Teenage Whore Store". And when someone asks, "where did you get those earrings?" or "why are there weird, like, fringy things hanging off of your otherwise normal shirt?", I say, "I got it at the teenage whore store". Once, my very confused uncle asked, "do you really want to look like a teenage whore?". He is quite WASP-y and looked pained.

I avoid the whorish clothing, opting instead for more conservative things, like the gold necklace all covered with paper clips that I just got. It cost $4.80 and I actually went "OH!" when I saw it. But I've noticed that the intended target market for this merchandise, teenage girls, wear the whore clothes like it's their job.

This makes me happy and sad. Sad for them, and happy that when I was a teenager, being attractive or sexy or desirable or whatever was achievable via a pair of too big Levi's, sneakers, and a sweatshirt (preferably with the name of a college on it). Perhaps this reflects my upper middle class East Coast background, but I don't think I'm alone in noticing the whore-ification of our nation's adolescent girls. I can't imagine the pressure. It's bad enough to have zits and be worried about boys and getting your period, but to have to be really hot in tight clothing on top of that? I can't even do that now. Although having a teenage body might help. But no, still, this just seems like too much.

And is there a teenage boy counterpart? Do 15 year old boys have to be, like, hotter than they used to be? And what would that look like? Calf implants? Custom made suits? Spray tans? Everything I think of seems like it would just make them look gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). Come to think of it, there is a guy's section at Forever 21, but I would never sleep with any male wearing any of the clothes there (clarification: I am not a pedophile).

So, I'm starting a new experiment. I never look at what men are wearing because I really don't care. But I'm going to start paying attention, especially to teenage boys (reminder of non-pedophile clarification) and see if they are being made to dress like whores too. I will report back on my findings.

Nana Said No!

2010-04-08T18:37:00.000-04:00

I assure you that I am not biased in this matter: my 2 year old niece is the most adorable, smart and funny child on this earth. I recently spent a week with her, and while she tried my patience at times (my sister kept saying, "she's 2, what do you expect?"), I am obsessed with her.

First of all, she calls me "My {my name}". I think this is because she says "my mommy, my daddy, my nana, my pop-pop" - although she sometimes calls my stepfather by his first name because the rest of us do, which is hilarious - so this makes me "my{my name} and my dog "my {her name}".

When we were out shopping with her, she picked up a necklace and asked my mother to buy it for her. My mom said no, but I saw it and had to have it. I tried it on and said I was getting it and she said sternly, "Nana said no!". I explained it was an adult necklace, but she was unmoved. "Nana. Said. No." She said this everytime she saw me wearing it.

When she naps, it is like a pause button has been pressed. My sister told her that she could have ice cream after her nap (granted, this nap was in a stroller at the mall, and we wanted her to sleep so we could shop more easily, but whatever). She went right to sleep, and about two hours later, started to stir. We all kept quiet, hoping she would go back to sleep, but she suddenly sat up and yelled "I want ice cream!".

While I was in Florida with her, we spent a lot of time in the pool. We made up a game called "Mamma and Baby Sea Otter". I showed her how sea otters swim on their backs while their young ride on their stomachs. We played for a while and then she said "you thinking?". I was like, "I'm thinking? What am I thinking about?". She said "no, you thinking!" and pushed my head underwater. Oh, sinking. She loved this game so much that we played forever. She would say "you sinking", I would pretend to drown, and she would hold out her hand and "rescue" me and lovingly hug me while I thanked her for saving me. Then she would yell "YOU SINKING" and shove me back under. She would only play this with me. I'm a little worried.

Nancy Drew, Girl Detective

2010-04-07T20:45:00.000-04:00

My brother-in-law calls my sister Nancy Drew because she is too snoopy for her own good. She almost discovered his elaborate plan for proposing to her. I think this is a genetic problem.

In graduate school, while my fellow trainees at the school clinic were falling all over themselves to impress the cute Freudian supervisor with phallocentric theories about why a client exhibited a certain symptom, I was daydreaming about developing my own offshoot of psychology - I called it Spycology. In this field, you would have regular clients with the typical problems, and they would come in for therapy. Then, you would spy on them. The next session would be like:

"Hey, delusional person, 40 FBI agents did not follow you to work today. I was there, I know."

"Hey, person who claims to be sober but continues to have all kinds of problems? You have bottles of vodka in your car, your desk, and even in the bushes outside this office. Here are the photos".

"Hey, couple with seemingly unsolvable marital problems? He really does drink in the garage and she meets her old high school boyfriend at a no-tell motel. Discuss".

Of course, I now realize that this would have been just plain mean and violates the rules of confidentiality and consent to treatment. After a while, I learned why people lied, and with the exception of a few vexing cases, I stopped caring. For the most part, why people lied lost its mystery, a killer for any love affair.

But I'm still nosy as hell. Part of this comes from my job, where it is not uncommon for me to ask a total stranger about their childhood, their weight, their sex drive, any history of sexual abuse, and why they have stayed with a cheating spouse for so long within a 45 minute period. This bleeds into the rest of my life, and I'm always the terrible one asking "Not drinking, huh? Alcoholic?" or "So, how much did that in vitro set you back?”. The area where this is the worst is in what passes for my dating life, where I am like a dog with a bone - I won't give up until I'm sure I know what is going on, FOR REAL. Even if it hurts.

Over the years, this has resulted in discovering affairs, drug addictions, and the hoarding of Little Debbie snack cakes (maybe this was to keep them away from me, I’m still not sure). My ruthless interviews have resulted in the revelations that I have “no muscle tone”, that I am “too domineering”, that I’m not “concerned enough with other people” (this from the most selfish person walking this earth), and that I have a really bad snoring problem. Also, that I missed my true calling as "a heartless trial lawyer". Something in me seems to crave the death of hope that this information gives – even though my ego gets battered, I can stop obsessing and move on.

But I’m ready to give this up. I am still curious and love honesty, but I realize that not knowing everything is like not wearing my glasses – everything looks a little better, and perception, after all, is reality. I still think Spycology is a great idea though.

The Soundtrack of Our Lives

2010-04-05T23:24:00.000-04:00

The Soundtrack of Our Lives is actually a Swedish band who came out with an album several years ago. Not bad, if you like (non-ABBA) Swedish pop. But this is not about them.

There is a guy I went to junior high with, who I remember mainly by his nickname. We're facebook friends now (where would this blog be without facebook?), and it turns out that he is not only a psychiatrist, but also a lawyer. A few days ago, he updated his status, saying that he was about to give a talk about depression and that he was listening to the Grateful Dead song "Morning Dew" really loud as part of his prep. Then he wondered what it would be like if we had soundtracks to our lives, like in the movies. I commented that I thought the LACK of soundtracks was a CAUSE of depression, and the more I think about it, the more I realize what a great idea he had and that I actually do have sort or a soundtrack to my life.

Ever since high school, I have loved the songs "Love is a Rose" (performed by Neil Young but probably an old song) and "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" by the Beatles. These songs not only sound great, but both were regularly performed by a friend in high school. I dated his wonderful but enigmatic best friend, and so the lyrics rang true to me - "love is a rose but you better not pick it, it only grows when it's on the vine, handful of thorns and you know you've missed it, lose your love when you say the word mine", and "If he's gone I can't go on, feeling two foot small...hey, you've got to hide your love away". My friend recorded himself playing and once gave me a tape (this was 1988) where he said, "this is for {my name} and then sang "Love is a Rose". Remembering that still makes me feel like an extra special groupie. So that was the soundtrack for high school, plus REM ("Radio Free Europe" rules too, although the lyrics were not as fitting to my romantic situation).

College was all about The Grateful Dead, at first for love (I seemed to be attracted to Dead Heads at that point), and I went to college for a while in California. To this day, nothing captures the perfect California day like the Dead's "China Cat/Sunflower" or Bob Dylan's "Tangled Up in Blue" - "She opened up a book of poems and handed it to me, written by an Italian poet from the fifteenth century. And everyone of the words rang true and glowed like burning coals, like they were written in my soul from me to you". To me , this is all blue skies and sunshine and mountains and seeing bands in outdoor ampitheaters.

LL Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out" was also big in college, and to this day, when someone acts like I've surprisingly come up with a great idea, I think: "Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years".

Since then, many songs have seemed apt, depending on the day. When I was doing my psych internship at a VA hospital, I used to play Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train" every day on the way to work. It was so fitting - "Crazy, but that's how it goes, millions of people living as foes.". This seemed to fit the mixture of mental illlness and combat vets I saw every day. It still fits my life so well - "I've listened to preachers, I've listened to fools, I've listened to drop-outs who made their own rules. One person conditioned to rule and control, the media sells it, and you live the role." Plus, who can resist that opening guitar riff?

And Fleetwood Mac's "You Can Go Your Own Way" always fits somewhere, with "loving you isn't the rght thing to do". As does Rush, with "Limelight" - "cast in this unlikely role, ill-equipped to act, with insufficient tact, one must put up barriers to keep one's self intact". Amen. And no, I'm not ashamed of loving Rush.

I've lost track of the soundtracks in between, but more recently, I've found that songs find me when I need them. The first time I did a comprehensive psych testing assessment, it was on a 17 year old whose parents thought he had more problems than he actually did and it was my job to document this clearly and even-handedly. The parents' theme was "he thinks he knows everything". The Raconteurs "Old Enough" was perfect - "Maybe when you're old enough, you'll realize that you're not so tough, and some days the seas get rough, and you'll see - you're too young to have it figured out, you think you what you're talking about, you think it all will work itself out, but we'll see". And then the part for me: "what you gonna do? what you gonna do now? The only way you'll ever learn a thing is to admit you know absolutely nothing. Think about this carefully, you might not get another chance to speak freely". I had the do this kid justice in my report, and I only had one chance, as I feared he might too.

When I was in sexual thrall to a guy who turned out to be a narcissistic douchebag a few years ago, I listened to the Police's "De Do Do Do De Da Da Da" incessantly, beacuse that was all my sex-addled brain could manage: "when that eloquence escapes you, their logic ties you up and rapes you". When we broke up, I favored the Foo Fighters' "Let it Die" - "I've seen your face in another light, why'd you have to go and let it die? Do you ever think of me? You're so considerate". The triumphant guitar makes this feel so righteous.

When I loved a crack addict, I listened to Staind - their Run Away says, "Run away so I can hide, I've mastered feeling nothing. I'm dead inside. Why don't I care?". This is what I imagined he was thinking. I was just like - "where's my wallet?".

When I saw The Hangover, I loved Dirt Nasty's "What do you Say", which admonishes -"Don't do drugs. Without me". This stands on its own and seems appropriate for any occasion.

Lately though, I'm back to "Love is a Rose", and "Hide Your Love", and Beyonce's "Single Ladies", which tells the boys who played their cards too close to their chests that "if you like it, then you should have put a ring on it". Admittedly, the last one is mostly for the video and because it hits on the idea that people only want things once they can't have them, since I actually don't care about getting married. But I'm also obsessed with Vampire Weekend's "A-Punk", not for the lyrics, but for the jubilant, ska-ish sound, which reminds me of The English Beat, who I also loved in high school - "Save it For Later" is a masterpiece.

Right now, I find myself singing and re-phrasing Beastie Boys songs to fit my life -"We need body rocking, not perfection, let me get some action from the back section" (Body Movin") and "O'B (the owner of my favorite retaurant) with your bad self running things" ("Shake Your Rump"). The Ettes "While Your Girl's Away" goes out to My Second Husband: "I'm a passeneger on this train, just a fellow of yours, and this I'll remain. But sometimes I find what you do bounces off the walls and works on me too. I don't want to own you, I just want to hold you until tomorrow". But I think that "bone" rhymes better with "own" than "hold" does.

Still, it would be cooler if these songs played out loud, like in the movies, so eveyone else could hear them.

iPMS

2010-04-04T14:12:00.000-04:00

I think my iPhone is giving me PMS. More specifically, an application called "iPeriod", which tracks your cycle. Most people do this so they are not surprised by their period or because they are trying to get pregnant or not. I do it so I know when my fertile days are so I can flirt with men typically out of my league. Research has shown that this works. I'm a shrink, I know these things.

At any rate, I never really had a problem with PMS. Yeah, sometimes I'd be in a bad mood or fatter than usual for no real reason, then I would get my period and be like "oh, OK". But ever since I got this app, I swear it has made me have really bad PMS. First of all, a week before your period, every time you look at it, is says, "Alert! Your period is due in 7 days" or 6 days or whatever. It then invites you to record your mood. I always pick sad or irritable, as those are the only options available on the free version. If I paid 99 cents, I could pick from 100 additional moods. I figure I have enough problems being irritable or sad.

I'm STILL in Florida, which may seem like a blessing but is not. I am typically blissfully unaware of the anniversary of Christ's miraculous rising, but here in bible country, everyone is like, "Happy Easter!!!". There are ten million little kids dressed in pastels and hunting for eggs. I should be entertained, but since my phone is telling me to be sad or irritable, I can only feel annoyed. I am also further ruining my already aged skin by lying in the sun. I know I should not, but I can't help it.

Unlike most people, who need to consume alcohol to cope with their parents, I go in the opposite direction and become a teetotaler when I am with them. This is mostly because, for me, alcohol and cigarettes go together like peanut butter and jelly. My parents know I smoke, but I just don't feel right actually smoking in front of them. But today I broke down and went to Walgreen's to buy a pack of smokes while my parents were out golfing. I didn't want my mom's car to smell like smoke, so I walked around the Walgreen's parking lot in the broiling sun, sucking down Marlboro Lights like they contained the salvation others were seeking in church. A man in a van started circling and trying to talk to me. I think he thought I was a hooker - who else hangs out in a parking lot in a bikini top and an almost see-through sundress, smoking like there's no tomorrow? I told him to go away and hoped that at least he thought I was high class when I got into my mom's Mercedes and drove away. I don't think he got the irony of me blasting "Big Pimpin'" as I sped away.

Tomorrow I return to my regular life, and while I don't look forward to all the piled up mail and work and emotional carnage I had hoped to leave behind, at least I can drink and smoke without guilt and, hopefully, won't be mistaken for a hooker.

Sister Love

2010-03-31T14:02:00.001-04:00

No, this is not about incest. It is about my sister and how there seems to be some force field of hilarity surrounding us, so that something that would be medium-funny between two non-related people is exponentially funnier between us.

Mostly, we laugh at our parents. For example, you know how on facebook, on the right side of the page, there are usually suggestions for friends or reminders to "catch up" with a friend or whatever? Well, the other day, I noticed that it was telling me to help my mother find friends. Specifically, it said "{My mother's name} - help her find friends". I took a picture of this and emailed it to my sister, knowing it would make her laugh. And to try to find something positive about my mother being on facebook. Now one of us will say "can you help mom find friends?" and laugh hysterically.

When my sister got married, I was her maid of honor and made a toast at the reception. The theme was basically that while I had no marriage advice to offer, I did have advice for her husband based on being her sister for the past 30 odd years. I gave my new brother in law a first aid kit because my sister always thinks she has some disease or has some actual medical problem - over the years I have treated her for sunburn (she is terrible at applying sunscreen, always missing a strip of skin right below her butt or down the side of her face), sand flea bites, an earring stuck in her ear, a piece of onion stuck under her fingernail, and imagined cases of cat scratch fever, lupus, and the Hunta Virus. I also advised the newly married couple to find a common enemy to strengthen their bond and cited our parents as our common enemy. My mom was pissed, but the speech was awesome [if I do say so myself], and my sister and I still laugh about it.

Just the other day, yet another hilarious incident occurred. We were out shopping, an activity we often enjoy with our mother. We are also training my 2 year old niece to be a shopper. We always demand the biggest fitting room and it quickly becomes a huge mess, with clothes everywhere. I try to keep things organized, but my sister just throws things around, and I am like her lady in waiting, picking things up, putting them back on hangers, making "yes" and "no fucking way" piles. Well, this excursion was particularly messy because for some reason Ann Taylor Loft refuses to have a normal number of places to hang things. They have these weird ledges that don't really hold anything. The mess got so bad that even my sister noticed it, and she was like "let's get the stuff we don't want out of here". Good idea, except we were both half naked. Our mother was out in the hall, and seemed to be good only for opening the door just in time to expose our naked bodies to any passersby. So, my sister, wearing only underpants, gathered up a big pile of clothes and tried to drape them over the door. The problem was, the door wasn't closed all the way (we blame our mother for this, of course), and so when she put the clothes on it, she essentially threw them out into the hallway. Half naked. Even my mom, who is always running around without clothes, shrieked, "what are you doing?!".

My sister and I laughed so long and hard about this that her 2 year old seemed gravely concerned. But come on, it looked like a naked person was just throwing a pile of clothes out of her dressing room onto the floor! This is probably not funny to anyone who is not our sister, who is everyone but us. Perhaps this is nature's way of making me love her, even though she is taller and thinner than I am and everyone thinks she is both "the pretty one" AND "the smart one".

Florida Rules

2010-03-29T11:10:00.000-04:00

No, I haven't had a reversal in my feelings for Florida. It's just that there are a lot of rules here. Maybe this is a reaction to the criminal element, but it could also be that this particular area, the Gulf coast, attracts people who love order. People from the mid-west and German industrialists, as far as I can tell.

My first experience with the rigidity of this place happened when my parents almost had to hire a lawyer for their dog. They bought an apartment in a dog friendly building, but the dog had to be a certain height, maximum, at the shoulder. Their dog fit this ridiculous requirement, so they bought. Then a contingent of other tenants with small, yappy dogs decided they did not like my parents' dog and went to the building's board of directors. My parents had to have their dog officially measured, there was a battle over American Kennel Club versus other ways of measuring a dog's height, letters threatening legal action were sent, and the issue ultimately went away, probably because the uptight residents found some other pressing problem, like people using non-regulation wallpaper in their elevator foyers.

When I visit, I stay in a guest room downstairs, sort of like a hotel room. There is a sign in there that lists the following rules:

1. No food outside the room. (Where? In the whole rest of the world? Or are they worried that I'll order a pizza and eat it in the lobby?)
2. Dry off and use the service elevator. (This makes no sense. The pool is on the same level. Do they want me to use the service elevator to go up to my parents?)
3. Tenants are responsible for guest's behavior. (My parents are screwed)
4. Remember, this is not a hotel, people live here.
5. Enjoy your stay! (Yeah, because now I feel so welcome, bitches).

The way I try to subvert all of these rules is to be as weird as possible without being disowned by my parents. So, conversations with their friends and neighbors usually go like this:

Them: So, are you married?
Me: No.
Them: Do you have a boyfriend?
Me: No.
Them: Oh, um, where do you live?
Me: (Name of my town, known for having a large lesbian population)
Them: Isn't that.....
Me: Lesbianville, USA? Yup.
Them: (Stare at me)
Me: (Stare at them with a provocative look, like, are ya gonna ask if I'm gay?)

Hey, some people play golf, and I like to torment right wingers who are obsessed with rules. It's a free country.

Also, I have yet to start the passionate love affair my horoscope predicted, but the day is young.

Florida Sucks

2010-03-28T10:59:00.000-04:00

I'm writing this on my phone on the beach, so please excuse any typos. Before you get jealous that I am on the beach, let me point out that it is in Florida, home mainly to criminals and severe right wingers.

As a shrink, I have noted that almost every troubled person I have ever interviewed has lived in Florida at some point. I guess they think going to a boiling hot place completely devoid of culture and social services will some how cure what ails them, but it doesn't and they move back. I never say it, but I'm always thinking "LA! LA! It's warm there too". The other clinical scenario is that someone was originally from Florida and moved north to clean up their act. Or the Florida cops all chipped In for a bus ticket.

The reason I am here is that my parents are here. They live in an area filled with staunch Republicans, golf courses, and gated communities. Every time we drive through the gate, I ask my mom if she feels safer knowing that the rich people next door can't get in. The place they live in was only built about ten years ago, but they have already redone the main road and made the guard house bigger. Like, as big as my house. My parents explained that the purpose of this was to have a "better entry statement". To me, this sounds like something you would do to your pubic hair.

My horoscope says that I'm going to begin a "passionate affair" tomorrow, but that seems unlikely. Unless I am actually attracted to old dudes, Sarah Palin supporters, or criminals. Oh, criminals! I'll let you know tomorrow if I fall for (another) one.

Blog-Worthy/Boy Crazy

2010-03-26T09:02:00.000-04:00

Remember the Seinfeld story line where Elaine had a limited supply of Today contraceptive sponges and had to decide if a guy was "sponge-worthy"? I'm in a similar situation, but with this blog.

No, there is not a limited supply of blogs, I can post as much as I want. And this blog is not a good form of contraception (or is it?). But not everything in my mostly boring life is worth writing about. You will never see a post about my hatred for vacuuming, for example. Unless something really funny happens while I am vacuuming, which it could. Like I could write about how much it scares my dog and if I even put the cord across the floor, she acts like it is the Berlin wall (before they knocked it down) and will not cross it.

The worthiness comes in due to my new boy craziness. As mentioned ad nauseum, I am now 40. My love life has been, um, checkered. My response to this was just to opt out entirely, until a little while ago, when I somehow transformed into a boy crazy teenage girl.

Now, I don't pretend to be mature. I'm not like, "why don't I have a golfing husband? And why is my social life pretty much like it was in college?". But, as mentioned, I had boycotted relationships as a rule, and now I am back with a vengance. I find boys and make out with them like I did in high school. Maybe because it is spring? Maybe therapy is finally working? Maybe this parallels my alcohol consumption?

Enter blog-worthiness. I did write about one guy who I made out with in a bar (keeping it classy is very important to me), mostly because he pissed me off by blowing me off and wishing me luck as if I was about to star in a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof. But since then I've stopped, because I don't want to seem like a big whore (guess that's over) and because not every encounter is funny. Plus, I'm afraid these guys might be reading this.

The best part of my newly found inner teenager is that my big pick up line is: "wanna make out?". This provides endless entertainment to my friends, who can't believe I actually say this. Or that it works. If I'm telling them a story, like about my boss, and they seem bored, I say, "then I said, wanna make out?". They are suddenly paying attention and laughing and everything is back on track.

So, watch this spot to see if you are blog-worthy. Don't be sad if you aren't - nobody is writing about me. Or maybe I haven't found a funny angle on our encounter yet.

Wanna make out?

Monetize

2010-03-25T13:04:00.000-04:00

At the top of the webpage where I write these posts, there is a tab called "Monetize". Sounds intriguing, huh? I clicked on it and found out that I could make money with my blog if I allowed ads to be placed on it. Um, ok.

This was thrilling for about a day. I kept checking to see how much money I had made (none). Then, I got an email explaining that I had been REJECTED due to "inappropriate content". I'd like to take a moment to remind everyone that the porn industry makes more than all other media combined, but that my innocent little blog was somehow "inappropriate". The email went on to say that I should review their policies on content. Oh, those.

So I read them. It turns you can't curse (what the fuck?), make references to sex or drugs (there goes half of my content) or talk about pretty much anything good. The only rule I had followed was that I had not made any racial slurs. I briefly considered cleaning up the blog, but I felt that would be like trying to change my whole personality (not going to happen at this point). Someone suggested I just allow porn ads on the blog. That's still under consideration.

Eventually, I consulted my cousin, who is an entrepreneurial genius. He suggested that I use Google Analytics for a while to see what kind of traffic I am getting and so that I can gather information that I could later use to sell ads (yeah, right). So now I obsessively check Google Analytics. I don't get a lot of traffic (If you read this regularly, please become a follower - it will help me Monetize), so I mostly use Analytics to try and figure out who has been reading my posts. This has not worked well because I only have one reader (Fat T) who lives out of the country, so his ISP is pretty much a dead give away. The rest of the time, I'm like, who has Comcast and read 3 pages in 8 minutes?

A lot of people say I should link to other blogs, who will then link to me, creating a bigger following. But I'm too self-absorbed for that.

Parenting Advice

2010-03-23T09:50:00.000-04:00

I do not have children, and barring the death of my sister and her husband, I probably never will. So, most of my ideas about successful parenting come from what I see others do and from taking care of my dog (who, as I have attested, is very poorly trained). Let’s do this Letterman style, shall we?

10. Crate training seems to work well. I know you can’t put the baby in a crate, but they do have cribs with lids on them. Really. Also, chew toys are good for hours of fun.

9. Don’t freak out if you can’t breast feed for some reason. This happened to my sister (well, her kid) and it seems like formula = baby sleeps longer.

8. Do not buy that onesie that says “Bitch Better Have My Bottle”.

7. Also, don’t get the one that says “Breast Man”.

6. Set limits with your friends early about when you can and cannot talk on the phone. Almost every phone conversation I have with a parent goes like this: “STOP THAT!!!” I’m like, “I’m not doing anything”. They’re like, “I’m not talking to you”. Then I start describing my latest trauma and in the middle they say “ok, who pooped?” Then, they say, "why aren't you talking?", and I'm like "I didn't know it was my turn". I cannot tell you how demoralizing this is.

5. Find a good babysitter(s) early. I know people who have not left their houses with their partners in YEARS. They do not seem to be doing well.

4. Enjoy the immobility of infancy. Once they can move, it’s a whole different ball game.

3. Those ruffly head bands on infant girls, intended to show they are female, are just wrong. I'd rather be mistaken for a boy any day.

2. Don’t fear letting the kid watch TV. My niece does and she has the best vocabulary of all her friends. Plus, adults who don’t watch TV never know what is going on in the world. Whatever you lose in the ability to entertain yourself with construction paper and fishing wire, you gain in cultural literacy and the ability to know what the hell everyone else is talking about all the time.

1. And finally, the number one piece of parenting advice: Don’t smoke crack.

Google Yourself

2010-03-22T08:37:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I've Googled myself. I'd like to pretend this happened after I saw a bunch of warnings about what kind of "racy pictures" might be seen by "future employers", but I started doing it a while ago simply out of narcissism.

For a while, all I found were some academic credits on an article I helped write in graduate school and the soccer stats of a teenage girl with the same name as me. No racy photos. Not that any of those exist. But earlier this year, things got more interesting. I found a reference to myself in an article written by my 7th grade boyfriend. He's actually a great writer and is the editor of an online magazine. He wrote an article about an English teacher of ours who had died, and made reference to a trip our class took to Fire Island. Specifically, he wrote that he spent the trip back "making out with my geeky/awesome girlfriend [my name] to Eddie Grant's 'Electric Avenue'. "[My name] are you out there?".

This needs a little back story. First of all, I may have been awesome, but I was not geeky. The only geeky thing about me was that I, along with 20 of my classmates (including my then-boyfriend), had been selected to be in a program called 'Talented and Gifted' (yes, TAG, which quickly became "tag fags" to everyone but us) because we tested in the top 10% of the class. So, we had all of our classes together, got to skip extra English for something called "enrichment", and were mocked by our peers. We all quit by 8th grade.

I was really into the boyfriend. We were lab partners in science and he was hysterically funny. This is probably the point at which humor became an aphrodisiac for me. We did eventually "go out" (that's what it was called in the 80s, none of this "hooking up" crap). His article reminds me of why I always thought "Electric Avenue" was a really good song. But what pisses me off, more than the "geeky" part, is that he knows I am "out here" because we are friends on Facebook. As soon as I read the article, I sent him an email basically saying, "you motherfucker, what is this literary conceit? Am I out here? You know I am". He's married (to a woman who bears a resemblance to me, as it happens), but I was mostly pissed about the fake "are you out there?". Ok, and the "geeky" part.

He responded that yeah, he's a writer, so he has to occasionally resort to the use of little conceits and hyperbole. And that he knew I was fully aware of the possibility that someone could be both geeky and awesome. Whatever. I have too much class to post his real name here, even though he's kind of a fame whore and would probably like it.

Ok, off to Google myself.

My Favorite Bitch

2010-03-18T15:43:00.000-04:00

My dog is the greatest. Except, sometimes I get jealous of her. Like when we're walking down the street and some stranger says "Oh! She's so pretty! You can tell she's a girl!". I stand there waiting for them to break out the old adage about people and their dogs looking alike, but this has never happened. Bitch.

I got her sort of by accident on purpose. I really wanted a dog forever (cats are so distant, and I am so neurotic I can't handle that, even from an animal) and finally bought a house, fenced in the yard, and then, nothing. The day before Thanksgiving a few years ago, as I was driving to New York, my sister called and said she and my mom were about to go see a litter of 5 rescued puppies and that they should get me a dog, so our pets could be siblings too. This seemed like flawless logic at the time. I hung up, but then I had a panic attack, remembering past pet traumas - my first dog, Pretzel, got sent to a "farm" because city living made her nervous. My second dog, Chessie, was insane and ran away all the time and bit everyone. She went to a farm too, where a 5,000 pound pig named Diana tried to eat my mother's pants right off her body. The only good thing that came out of all of this is that my porn name (name of first pet plus street you grew up on) is Pretzel Kensington, which I think captures just the right amount of contortionist skill and fake class a porn star needs.

I tried to call my sister back to say I wasn't ready for a dog, but I had no cell phone reception. Then she called a while later to say I was now the owner of the runt of the litter, an "escape artist" named Kiwi. My mom had picked her out because she wanted me to have a "smart" dog. This is what happens when your mother realizes you are not going to produce grandchildren.

But when I met Kiwi (I changed her name. I wanted to name her Shawn Carter, Jay-Z's real name, but nobody would let me. Noodle was also rejected. As were Joey and Beyonce) it was love at first sight. She is tan and white and lean, with a pretty face and what looks like really cool eyeliner. I have tried to copy her look, but have always failed.

We have had our issues. She got sprayed by a skunk (see "Skunked") and she used to chew a lot of expensive things. Last week she locked me in my foyer while a pizza was being delivered. It was late at night and I was wearing sweats and socks. I couldn't get into the house, and kept running outside, trying the windows, and then coming back to the foyer to eat pizza and yell "open the door!" at her through the glass. She just looked confused. Finally, I said, "fine, then get back, because I'm breaking this window", which I did. I got in and she tried to steal my pizza while I cleaned up the broken glass.

She is somewhat disciplined, but not really. She is allowed on all the furniture and sleeps with me every night. She nudges my shoulder which means, "lift up the covers so I can get under". She has a chair she really likes and sits in all the time. I was getting a new chair (not a replacement) and wanted a black one, but was afraid her light hair would always be all over it. I figured I was safe because she already had a chair. For the first year, she stayed in the easy to clean chair. Then, all of a sudden, she developed a love for the black chair, which is now pretty much tan and white with a faint black background. Why did she wait a year to do this? Why?

The weirdest experience I've had with her is when we met her mother. It turns out that some woman rescued her mother and then set about finding all of the puppies she had ever had. Yes, this woman needs a job. So, she came to my house while my sister was there with her dog for a "family reunion" (her term, not mine). While my dog is friendly and loves all humans and other animals, my sister's dog is a bit insane. As this woman and her husband approached the house with the mother dog, my sister's dog began barking wildly, ran straight through the screen door, and attacked his own mother. My dog stood by, barking. The woman was fairly horrified, and kept saying "I think they know they're related".

Yeah, and they were apparently pissed about it.

Boarding School

2010-03-15T16:16:00.000-04:00

Yeah, that's right people, I went to boarding school. It was the fake English kind, situated in a big tudor building. We called grades "forms" and were all prepped out (in the 80s, this meant we were all Dead Heads). Sadly, although it was a pretty good school and anyone else who went to boarding school has heard of it, nobody else ever has. It's not Andover or Exeter, so people are like, "oh, you went to boarding school?" and I'm like, "yeah", and they're like, "which one?" and then when I tell them they get this look like it was probably a reform school instead.

Anyway. I thought about this a lot this weekend because a friend from boarding school visited. As we reminisced, I was struck by how many rules we had and yet how wildly out of control we were. We were bascially supervised by a bunch of 22 year-olds and a bunch of 85 year-olds. The faculty were either just out of college (there's a good group) or had been there since the Eisenhower administration. They read the classics, all seemed to be deaf, and were no match for us unless we were trying to conjugate a verb in Latin (this was the 85 year-olds; the 22 year-olds were all having sex with each other, and sometimes with students). There were about 400 of us and 50 of them.

For example, we lived in dorms (hence the "boarding" part) and there were lots of rules - no one of the opposite sex allowed, except during "parietals" two nights a week for a few hours. Door open, four feet on the floor. We were very scheduled - class, meetings, MANDATORY sports (this must violate some human rights agreement), required meals and chapel and study hall, and back in the dorm by 10:20, or 11:00 if you were a senior (that would be a "sixth former"). You had to be seen by a dorm parent or someone on duty, so if you were visibly (or olfactorily) wasted, you were screwed.

And yet. My dorm mother my senior year helped me make hotel reservations for me and my stoner boyfriend because I wasn't old enough. She told us about her disastrous affair with another faculty member that ended in hysteria when they realized he was allergic to latex (condoms are made from latex, people). My stoner boyfriend stored LSD in her freezer to keep it fresh for senior parties. And also so he wouldn't get expelled before graduation. We were allowed to smoke if we were older than 17 or had "Smoking Permission" from our parents. We were restricted to an area called "The Hedge", but during my senior year I talked the administration into giving us an indoor room because it would be "healther" during the cold winter(!!!). Hence, the "Butt Room" was reborn, and we smoked out brains out in there.

We ran around like feral creatures in the woods, constantly drinking, smoking, or taking some other kind of drug. The unlucky got caught and expelled. The rest of us graduated, went to good colleges, and became bankers, doctors, lawyers. And shrinks. My friend and I marvelled at how clueless we were about who we we at school with. We were like "oh yeah, um, Forbes...I guess that kid had a lot of dough...". We regretted not marrying one of them so we could be disaffected, but in higher style.

The biggest irony of all of this was the Dean of Students while I was there. He was sort of a rakish dude, with dark hair and nice blue eyes. He seemed ancient when I was 16 but was probably like 35. He was very strict, busting me for, among other things, wearing leggings (it was the 80s for christ's sake), having a bong in my room, and being disrespectful in general. He was friendly until you broke a rule, then he basically lobbied to get you expelled. About a year after graduation, it came out that the entire time he had been enjoying this douchbag reign, he had been having an affair with an english teacher. He left his wife and kids and went to some even worse boarding school in Hawaii. I can't believe I had to argue with this man so I could wear leggings. I won, by the way.

I always wonder what the school is like now. When I was there, each dorm had a payphone in the common room. There were computers in the computer lab and no internet. No cell phones. Not even pagers. I always wonder what they do now, with students able to talk and email and text all night. Maybe they have cybersex instead (we did it in the "tunnels" a complicated labyrinth in the basement that were always about 100 degrees due to the massive boiler).

It's like bike helmets. My mother rode around with me on the back of a bike, with just a little seat, like a mini lawnchair, no seat belt, no helmet, no nothing. Through traffic. In New York. City. I am fine, mostly. Maybe boarding school is the same - they thought the kids were alright then, and we think they're alright now. Otherwise we'd go insane, I guess.

Schadenfreude

2010-03-08T14:17:00.000-05:00

Schadenfreude is my favorite word. It is German (duh) and it means "pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others". I don't love it so much because I am vengeful, I really just feel validated that there is such a word, and that someone besides me was like, "we need a word for this wonderful feeling I get when someone else fails".

I don't like failure in general, but I do like it when people who have angered me in some way have a bad experience. For example, a friend recently texted to let me know that she had seen an ex of mine who is now "really fat, with man boobs and a bald spot". Awesome. Schadenfreude.

I've also recently experienced some schadenfreude in my professional life. I used to have a job that drove me crazy - someone was always mad at me, and the government was involved. Need I say more? Anyway, I changed jobs, but I still interact with the person who took over for me. At a recent meeting, she talked about a wretched, ridiculous situation that could have been ripped from the pages of my autobiography (if I had one). I didn't feel happy about her misfortune, I just felt satisfied that I was right to leave the job, that nothing had changed, and that it wasn't me. Turns out working for the government always sucks. Who knew? Mild schadenfreude.

Now for some pure schadenfreude. Yesterday, a friend called me, very upset due to a big fight with her husband. She came over and we hung out for a while, which mostly consisted of me being on hold with my credit card company (someone has been using my card to rack up charges at a Mexican grocery store) and her trying to get my dog to leave her alone (the dog was starved for attention; I have been distant since Saturday, when she locked me in my foyer in stocking feet, equipped only with the pizza that had just been delivered, making it necessary for me to break the original glass in my door from 1925). After a while, my friend said she wanted to go for a walk downtown "to look at weird people so I can feel better about myself". I immediately wondered why I was living in such a freakish place.

So we walked around. Mostly, I was preoccupied with my dog, who was overwhelmed by all the people (it was a rare warm day). Every time she saw another dog, she just cut in front of me, creating a deadly trip wire with her leash. She cared not if I broke my face. For comic relief, I would quote my new favorite ad ever, the Old Spice one where the guy is like, "look at me, look at your man, look back at me, sadly I am not your man, but I am the man your man could smell like". If you have not seen this, go immediately to You Tube and search for Old Spice. It's the one with the black guy. So, I'd look at my dog and be like, "look at me, look at my friend, look back at me, I'm not my friend, but I'm the person who could smell like my friend". I don't think my dog got it, but I was cracking myself up.

Then fate intervened to provide my friend with what she sought. A couple was walking in front of us. He was not that bad, just of a certain type, with designer jeans, a leather jacket, gelled hair, and too much swagger for that big old mess. But his woman took the prize. This is true: she was wearing light pink, acid washed jeans. On the back, instead of pockets, there were some rhinestone designs. She had an unfortunate, flabby, pancake butt, and her panty lines were clearly visible (probably from space), giving her 4 butt cheeks. I can't even tell you anything else about her, I was so mesmerized by the pant situation. My friend said, "I feel better already".

They went to their car and I wanted to see what kind it was, because it looked sort of Camaro-ish. So we pretended to be hanging out next to a parking lot, making gestures, like "oh, we could go there" ( and pointing for authenticity). They finally drove by and we saw it was a fucking Honda. But no model name, like Accord or whatever. It was the most Camaro-ish Honda I have ever seen.

At any rate, there was schadenfreude all around.

Black Like Daddy

2010-03-07T17:20:00.000-05:00

The same woman has cut (ok, and dyed) my hair for the past 15 years. I don't even feel right calling her a "hair dresser" or "stylist" or whatever the correct term for people in the hair trade is these days, because she is so much more than that.

First and foremost, she can deal with me - no easy feat, since I have hair issues. I actually don't have problematic hair - I sort of won the genetic lottery on that one (although lost it on butt, under eye area and fingernails, according to my sister). But when I was six, my mother cut my long hair off WITHOUT TELLING ME FIRST, after PROMISING TO DO THE JUST THE OPPOSITE, because it was very tangly and looked like "a rat's nest". I still had plenty of hair, but this experience has obviously darkened the corners of my subconscious ever since.

I had a series of unfortunate 1980s hairstyles through junior high, then just basically let it grow from about ages 16 to 23. For some reason now completely a mystery for me, I also eschewed the use of conditioner during this time. I really have no idea why. Anyway, during my last year of college, I dyed the ends of it black (it is blond). This is what you had to do in the early 1990s. Also, get your navel pierced and get a tramp stamp. We all had to do it. My mom wanted me to have the black ends cut off before college graduation, so she sent me to a fancy New York salon. Long story short, after talk of the "long hair expert" being at "an emergency hair show appearance", some crazy lady hacked off about a foot and a half of my hair, even though I had given her the three inch dyed black part as a guide. Needless to say, this put the final nail in my hair issues coffin.

I let my hair grow for a few years. Finally, a friend (now that I think of it, an almost bald man in his 60s - what was I thinking?) made me go see my hair person, who will henceforth be referred to as The Math Genius, because she is one. The Math Genius, at my behest, cut about 1/4" off, even though 6" minimum was really needed. This was heroic because, 1. it still looked like crap, and 2. I was likely to tell people who had done this to me. But, it made me love The Math Genius for life. I now allow her to cut as much as she wants, and it is always awesome.

But that's all a huge digression and a very long set up for the real story here. I went to see The Math Genius on Friday, and her young daughter was there. They had just returned from the toy store, where The Math Genius' daughter had picked out two new dolls - one black and one white. We talked about how great it was that her daughter was so diverse in her preference for dolls (she is white). Then The Math Genius said: "Well, she thinks [her father] is black".

Now, I've met this man. He is Irish and looks it, with curly hair and piercing blue eyes. I know we are are all a little bit of everything, but this man does not look black. He wouldn't even look black next to Gwyneth Paltrow, the whitest person ever, or at least the first person who popped into my mind when I tried to think of really white people. The Math Genius elaborated that her daughter often says, "Daddy, even though Mommy and I are white and have white skin and light hair, and you have cinnamon-colored skin and dark hair and are black, we still love you". They have explained to her that when a person is referred to as "black", it usually means that their ancestors came from Africa, and that Daddy's ancestors came from Ireland. She is unmoved by this explanation. To her, dolls are fun, brightly colored tights rock the house, and Daddy is black.

As The Math Genius was doing my hair, her husband arrived to pick up their daughter. I joked with him about his offspring's insistence that he was black. He said "she's really serious" in a sort of baffled, very amused, resigned way. Perfect practice for her teen years, I'm sure.

Result?/Re-slut?

2010-03-04T11:09:00.000-05:00

So, the guy from the bar? Nice teeth, no obvious issues with deviance? Got in touch, said he's sorry, but that he never goes out (? Do I seem like I require lots of going out? Was he in some kind of going-out-induced fugue state?) and doesn't want to be involved with anyone now. But he wished me "good luck!". Like it was a job interview or a road race or something.

This happened right as I was leaving for work, and I was just like: Fuck. You. I was going to reply (this was all conducted over text) that I wasn't looking for "involvement", whatever the hell that is, but that seemed defensive, and honestly, who wants to have sex with someone who's like "good luck!"? So I just asked what he wanted me to do with the hat he had accidently left at my house. He was like, "if you go into (where we met) or something". I texted back that I'd be sure to let him know, and that the social awarkwardness of that experience should provide me with lots of blog material. Nothing says "I'm not only a whore, but an unsuccessful one at that" more than an exchange along the lines of:

Me: Hi, can you give this hat to [him]?
Bartender: Didn't you leave with him that night?
Me: Um, yeah. (Giving arch, meaningful look)
Bartender: And now you need me to....oh, ok, I'll give it to him if I see him. (Immediately tells whole restaurant staff my tale of woe).

Yeah, I don't think I'll be doing that. Some ideas, some mine, some other people's: burn it, do some kind of voodoo ritual (too much effort), give it to a homeless person, sell it on ebay, and throw it away. I actually can't remember where I put it. It was on my front table and it was in the way so I put it somewhere I was certain to remember (I out-clever myself like this all the time) and now I don't know where it is.

So, maybe I'll just leave it at that.

Result!

2010-03-03T16:53:00.000-05:00

Result! is what they say in England (or maybe the whole UK) when something goes as planned, like "score!", or "how's that for an outcome, huh?" I learned this, as well as many other fantastic Britishisms when I almost married a Scottish dude who lived in London. Another is the use of the word "dead", as in "that guy is dead sexy". That means he is really, really sexy.

Then there is the word "phwoar". I found out about that one when I became obsessed with an English TV (telly) show called "This Life". I asked my then-boyfriend to get me a DVD of the next season and he did. I was reading the back and it described one of the characters like "Edgar is a talented young barrister who is smart, ambitious and phwoar". I was like, "you got be some bootleg copy! WTF?". Then it was patiently explained to me that "phwoar" was in fact a word that meant hot.

Another great expression is "on the pull". If you are on the pull, you are out, probably with your friends at a bar, looking for some action. If you succeed, you "pulled" someone. Like, "I once pulled this guy who turned out to be illiterate".

But the best by far, in my opinion, is Cockney rhyming slang. In this riff on language, two words are used to describe one word, and the second word rhymes with the actual word. Then you use the first word to describe the thing you have slanged, and there is usually a clever co-meaning. So, an "oily rag" (an "oily") is a fag (a cigarette people!). "Trouble", from "trouble and strife", that's your wife. Or, "ball for life". "Raspberry ripples" ("raspberries") are nipples. I wish I knew more of these.

But I digress. My result! is that I successfully undermined the wishes of my podiatrist and a bunch of his ugly shoe-wearing minions. I went into the clinic where they make the orthotics and let them know that I would NOT be purchasing the "sports" model, as sports are not my issue. Heels are. The receptionist got that look and tone in her voice like, "oh, she's one of those", and launched into a speech about getting the full effect, people complaining when the "dress" models didn't relieve their pain, etc. I politely explained that I was paying upwards of $400 for these and would get what I wanted. But they all tried to convince me - the podiatrist, the physical therapists, some weird people in scrubs. I remained stalwart and said I just hoped for a bit of relief and would sign something if they wanted.

After watching me walk, video taping me walk, and looking at my feet, a few pieces of interesting information were discovered. First, I have a certain kind of walk "that the guys like" because it gives me "a wiggle". This is because I land on the outside of my fore-foot, whip it around, and then blast the hell out of the poor balls of my feet. The second piece of info is that this is not due to wearing heels. That hasn't helped, but when I mentioned that as a kid, I had pain in my achilles tendons, they said that was the first sign that I had this type of "problem foot type". Result! I could, at least in part, blame my mother, since she never took this condition seriously.

So, they made the orthotics I wanted. When I went to get them, they fit into my un-ergonomically correct high heeled boots. Result! My feet feel better. Result! I asked about sandals, since these giant black things seemed unlikely to fit into a fabulous pair of gladiator sandals, of which I have too many to count. The staff explained that there are "many stylish sandals" that can accommodate orthotics. I expressed doubt. They said (I'm not kidding), "no, really a lot of them are from Germany."

Ok, the Germans are known for many things. Um, good cars, no speed limit, genocide, taking lots of vitamins and travelling a lot, but they are not known for stylish footwear. This I know for sure. The podiatrist and his staff have clearly gulped down large helpings of the ugly footwear kool-aid, but I don't care, because I subverted their evil plot to get me to wear flats.

RESULT!

Lame Injuries

2010-03-01T15:03:00.000-05:00

I have a history of hurting myself by doing every day things. Not even every day things like chopping onions. Every day things like reading.

I sustained my first lame-o injury while reading Alaska by James Michener. I was going on a trip there and wanted to bone up on salmon and the Aleutian Islands. The paperback was quite long (about 1000 pages) and I held it in my left hand a lot, with the pages bent back. After a while, the place around the base of my thumb really started to hurt. It was hard to pick things up. Shampooing became painful. This went on for a while until I mentioned it to a friend who is a physical therapist. She poked it a little and said it seemed like tendonitis. Had I been doing anything different? Had I wrenched it in some way? Noooooo....although I had been reading a big book. Diagnosis: injured by reading. Don't hate me for being so glamorous and adventurous.

I also once hurt myself by spray painting a lamp. I decided that a red floor lamp should be flourescent pink and that spray paint would be the best way to go. You know what? Spray painting is hard. I developed new respect for graffiti artists. First of all, you have to spray A LOT for good coverage. Then the paint drips everywhere, so you have to keep moving the thing you are painting around. But the worst part is that you have to keep your index fingertip pressed down on the nozzle for long periods of time. For me, this resulted in a very painful forearm/finger injury that I refused to accept was related to spray painting. It just did not seem possible, but I did have to admit that there really could be no other cause. Hurt by painting. Not even by falling off a ladder or something.

I was reminded of my history of nerdy accidents last night. I was at my friend's house and noticed that my right shoulder really hurt, especially when I moved my arm behind me. I talked to her about it and tried to figure out what I had been doing that had caused this...extra laundry due to skunking incident? Making out with a guy in a bar? (oh yes, people, very exciting - more to come), rummaging through my sock drawer? Then I realized that I had spent the day on my couch, repeatedly reaching behind me to fix the pillow that kept falling down from behind my head. Injured by lying on the couch and adjusting a pillow. New high? New low?

So, since you are dying to know: the guy in the bar. It was actually the bar of the restaurant where My Second Husband works. I was there with my friend, all cleavaged-up and ready to party. My Second Husband actually remembered me. But then the hostess told me that he JUST started seeing someone. Oh, and that he's great in bed. OK. This was terrible news until Possibly My Real Husband But Not Someone I Want To Freak Out By Calling Him That came in. We started talking, I really liked him, and we made out. Classy? No, but whatever. It was fun. He has really nice teeth and does not seem to be a criminal, drug addict, or sociopath. Except now I'm all nerved up about whether he'll call me or not.

Like my favorite neuropsychologist always said, "If it's not one thing, it's two things".

Skunked

2010-02-24T19:05:00.000-05:00

It all started with a grilled cheese sandwich.

It was Saturday night at 11:00, and I wanted one. So, I went into the kitchen and started making it. My dog then pulled one of her signature moves - she went to the back door and indicated that she wanted out. She does this about 10% of the time because she actually needs to go out, but 90% of the time she does it because I am making food and she knows that if she goes outside and barks her little head off, I'll lure her back inside with said food. Yes, I am a trained behavioral scientist and it has come to this.

So, I let her out. A minute or so later, as I'm watching cheese melt, I smelled skunk. This has happened before, and I ususally get the dog to come in and smell her to make sure she hasn't been skunked. Until this fateful night, she never had been. I looked outside and saw her wiping her face on a snow bank. My first thought was that she was trying to get some gross odor onto her face, because she is that kind of dog. But once she came in, I realized that she was trying to get skunk spray off her face, as she had just been drenched. In the next 90 seconds this is what happened: she ran into every room of the house, onto the couch, and onto every chair I own. When I went upstairs to close the bedroom doors, she stole my grilled cheese.

Now, I usually go around extolling the virtues of the internet. I'm like, "how did we ever live without it?". I Google everything - homemade drain cleaner, various medication I might be taking, myself. But in this moment my lizard brain forgot about the internet and went, instead, to The Brady Bunch. You know, the episode where their dog gets skunked and they wash him with tomato juice. I had tomato soup and a can of crushed tomato. I went with the crushed tomato, and smushed them all over my dog's face. It didn't really help, so I went to the convenience store and got the two things I needed to get through the night: tomato juice and cigarettes.

When I got back, I took my dog upstairs for a tomato juice bath. She hates baths and I had one goal: to make sure she did not shake tomato juice all over the bathroom. Of course, this ended up happening. My bathroom is painted black (sounds weird, but looks better than you would think, and, in this case, prevented it from looking like the scene of a murder). By then, I could not tell what smelled and what did not, so I took a sleeping pill and went to bed.

The next day, all I wanted to do was watch the Keeping Up With the Kardashians marathon. Instead, I finally remembered the internet and found out that the tomato juice thing is a myth. So, I went out to get what I apparently really needed: peroxide, baking soda, and dishwashing liquid. Also, de-skunker to wash all my linens, clothes, and self. Everywhere I went, people were like "I smell skunk" and I had to say "it's me". Another bath for the dog, endless loads of laundry, and $150 spent on a product that is called "Room Shocker" and is supposed to remove all skunk scent.

By Monday, I didn't even care if I smelled. I figured, hey, it's better than smelling like I pooed my pants or something. Today, Wednesday, the Room Shocker arrived. This product claims that it is harmless, but also warns you to leave the house immediately after activating it. So, the dog and I needed a place to go for four hours. This seemed like an ideal time to go to Trader Joe's to stalk My Husband.

As I walked around the store, not only did I not see My Husband, but it seemed that all the staff had suddenly become female. A cosmic message? I pondered this as I tried to decide which identical items I would ask My Husband to help me decide between - Romaine lettuce? Garbanzo beans? Uncured bacon? I approached the check out, demoralized and wondering if I still smelled like skunk. Or wet dog. Then I saw him! He was bagging at a register and I got in that line. Then, another cashier said "I can take you over here". There was no graceful way out of this, so I went over.

As this was happening, the Simple Minds song "Don't You Forget About Me" was playing. My Husband was explaining to a twenty-something woman (those bitches are everywhere!) that it had been in the movie The Breakfast Club, which of course she had never heard of because she wasn't even born when it came out. A debate ensued about the merits of this movie, and I kept looking over, trying to figure out how to horn in and seem irresistible. I knew that My Husband would realize that I was better for him than Little Miss 22 if only I could say something witty and culturally aware about the Brat Pack and their cinematic legacy. Miraculously, My Husband said, "anyone else care to chime in?". I practically shreiked "Loved it!". He turned away abruptly, either because I am so weird or because he had to help another customer, I'm still not sure. As a totally lame consolation prize, my cashier was happy to talk to me about how while it was no Citizen Kane, The Breakfast Club does hold an important place in the history of American Cinema.

I walked out of the store as slowly as possible, regretting my accidental snow-day hoochie mama outfit: all black, leggings, weird furry boots, and a dirty jacket. It didn't help that I really scrutinized My Husband and saw that he is really cute, and that he had no apparent interest in me.

Ugh. The upside? Room Shocker works, if you prefer the smell of chlorine to that of skunk.

Vegas, Baby

2010-02-18T17:33:00.000-05:00

Those of you who have been to Las Vegas know that it is a weirdish place. Like New Orleans, it is a location that makes people abandon all of their inhibitions. You can drink in public and play craps at 7:00 am. Something about it makes people feel like "yesssss! I am in the land of hedonism!". While I was there this past weekend, it was not only Presidents weekend and Valentine's day, but also Chinese New Year, which all Chinese people apparently celebrate by going to Vegas. The hotel we stayed at caters to Asians, for whom the number 4 is bad luck, so there were no floors 40-49. There was also a dragon parade (it is now the year of the dragon).

Weird experinces abound. Going to have coffee at 7:00 am? People are gambling and drinking. Walking down the street? People are drinking foot long margaritas and drinking glasses of wine. The people are either totally gorgeous or hideous, and normal clothing rules do not apply - weigh 300 pounds? Time to break out the spandex hot pants and down to the navel shirt.

I thought I would have a lot of great stories, but this is all I have:

The shopping is great. Every store ever. The sales people aren't even pushy, because they do so well. My mom, sister, and I went into Kiehl's to check out a new lavender oil face thing (we are all obsessed with lavender and anti-aging). While there, my mom noticed the actor who plays Dr. Spencer Reed on the show Criminal Minds. This was right after she had accidently dumped a bottle of lavender oil onto the floor. I decided to try to get a picture with him in a discreet way - this means that I skulked in the background, laughing hysterically, while my sister tried to take a picture that made it look like we were "together". After a few weird minutes, the salesman realized what was doing on and asked the actor (his name is Matthew Gray Gubler) and intervened, asking if we could take a photo. He graciously obliged, resulting in a photo where I look like a sweaty, nervous teenager who weighs 300 pounds, despite the fact that at the time I was 39 years and 364.5 days old and am not close to 300 (yet).

My sister posted this photo on facebook (no tag, thank fucking god). All I could think was that as he was leaving the store, Mr. Gubler would slip on the oil my mom spilled, hit his head and die, and then the horrid picture of me would be all over the national media as the last known picture of him before his tragic death. Nice, huh? I'm so selfish.

Other discoveries: gold watches cost $20,000. So my sister bought me a gold-tone Swatch instead. Bling-ish! In the end, we all paid the price for our debauchery: I got a cold and my mom caught it. My sister arrived at home only to have her toddler barf all over her, and now she is sick too (but she'll look awesome in the skinny jeans I bought her!)

OK, gotta go put on my hot pants now.

Putting the lymp in Olympics

2010-02-12T08:18:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah, the winter Olympics are starting today. I just cried watching Matt Lauer running with the torch, somewhere in Canada. No, I am not a sports fan, and I am not moved by countries putting aside their differences to come together for athletic competition and new merchandising opportunities. I've just had a challenging week.

It all started on Monday. I have a dressing table that was my grandmother's. I had it in my room as a girl, then my sister had it, and I've had it around for a while, trying to figure out what to do with it. I finally figured this out and got in touch with a local person who will transform it from old ladyish to cool (or my idea of cool, which is stripped-down wood and bright purple paint and leopard skin). The plan was to drop it off on Monday after work. So, on Monday morning, there I am, sitting at the dressing table, putting on make-up and then wiping it off because I think I look like a whore, and feeling like all was right with the world and that maybe I was not The Crusher, since The Crusher would never have such a dainty dressing table. Then the seat broke and splintered into a million pieces under me. This was all captured in my giant mirror. The only thing that made it ok was that I did not get a giant splinter up my ass.

As I might have mentioned, I am turning 40 soon (very soon). To celebrate, I am going to Las Vegas with my mom and sister (Raise the roof! Sort of!). This is great, and I'm leaving in a few hours. There are a few complications though. One is that my wonderful friend, who is taking care of my wonderful dog, arranged a little surprise party for me last night. It was at the restaurant where My Second Husband works (he was not there, of course). I was really surprised and happy and was gifted with an awesome Aquarius constellation ring (everyone should go to etsy.com, find the onegarnetgirl shop and buy everything they can afford) and a bottle of wine (like I need that). Everything was great, except I drank a lot, and now I am hungover, and I have to fly on two planes and deal with my mother. And I just got my period. I guess I should just be happy that I am not menopausal. Yet.

I will update on Sin City, but don't expect The Hangover, Part Deux, since plans include going to the Hoover Dam and seeing a show (no sexy, sexy, I could never with my mom!). My big dream is to go to a pawn shop and capitalize on the desperation of others.

Will trade sex for help lifting heavy objects

2010-02-07T18:17:00.000-05:00

So, this weekend I went for a combo of being social and being a homebody. Everything in moderation.

Friday:

Went out for a beer with a friend, ate a bunch of ice cream, and then came home to my dog. No significant male interactions.

Saturday:

Went to IKEA. I love IKEA. I know it is all cheap, but it is so...cheap. I was there to return some ill-thought out lighting fixtures and to buy a big floor mirror. My first mistake was going on a Saturday afternoon. Bedlam. People walking too slowly with big carts. Not enough food, too much caffeine. I couldn't find anything I wanted except the floor mirror, which was GIGANTIC. These are the moments I truly regret not having a boyfriend. Someone to help lift heavy things and prevent me from carrying a huge mirror up a flight of stairs, falling, having the glass break, and bleeding to death, alone.

Now, I have a strange philosophy, which is that we are all whores, we just sell different things. Traditional whores sell sex. I have no idea why this is stigmatized, since we can now buy eggs (the kind that make babies), sperm, rent wombs, and adopt chidren. So, we can buy the end product of sex, but not the act itself. We all sell little parts of ourselves, the services we offer, every day. As a shrink, I sell a particular set of skills intended to help people. I would not do this for free. Yes, there are rules, like a restriction on my personal information and confidentiality, but whores haves rules too: cash up front, and no kissing on the mouth.

This is relevant to IKEA and the mirror because I have often thought that I would have sex with someone in exhange for help moving furniture. Or putting in the air-conditioners every summer. So, there I was, all cracked-out on coffee, facing a huge mirror. I got it into the car, and then I was grateful for not having a boyfriend, because there would have been no room in the car for him and the mirror. That night, my friend came by before we went out and helped me move the mirror. By helped, I mean that she just picked it up and carried it upstairs by herself. And I've been working out, people!

We did go to a party that night, at a gross old polynesian restaurant. The lights were too bright, the food was fried and dipped in sugar sauce (or salt sauce), and I did not know anyone. Home by 10:00 though! This gave me more time to stare into my huge mirror and get depressed about seeing myself in such detail. All that was standing between me and possible suicide was that I do not have flourescent lights and I was not wearing my glasses. Ignorance, it turns out, really can be bliss.

Sunday:

Done. Did laundry, lifted weights in case I need to move that mirror, and declined three Super Bowl party invites, figuring I had socialized enough and the 5 pounds of nachos I would consume would just make me hate the mirror more.

So, all in all, not too bad.

Ramblings of a Failed Stalker

2010-02-04T15:39:00.000-05:00

The facts must be faced, people. Not only am I bad at dating, I am bad at trying to date, and I am bad at stalking.

So, I told you about my plans to go see (stalk) My Second Husband at his workplace last night. But he wasn't there. Know why? Because he doesn't work on Wednesdays, he works on Tuesdays. I realized this after thinking back on all of the other times he had waited on me and not remembered me, and was like, hmmmm...all Tuesdays. This was the same brilliant move I pulled last time I went to stalk him - I was all upset he wasn't there and my friend was like, "but the time you talked to him was a Saturday, and today is Friday". Wine can do these things to a person.

Instead of My Second Husband, our waiter was a lovely gay man who was very complimentary and attentive and REMEMBERED ME. In fact, he was nicer to me than any heterosexual man ever has been. I have decided to only hang out with gay men. No, not in hopes of "changing" them, just in hopes of improving my self-esteem.

So now I have a new dilemma. Do I just give up? Sit at home with my dog and a female friend and bottles of wine? That has resulted in my current situation, which, in case it isn't obvious, is less than ideal. But the evidence also shows that the get-out-there approach has not really worked either. There are several theories on this. One local bartender told me it is because my town is "flooded with women in their twenties". He did not have to tell me the upshot of this - I am an old hag and men prefer young women. My friend asked "What about the divorced guys? Where are they?", and the bartender said, "with the women in their twenties, which is why they are divorced".

On cue, a friend of his came in with three young women. My friend hissed, "they're not even pretty!" (she was right, they were not, but they were young). The guys next to us did talk to us, but only after we spilled red wine on them. Then an extremely drunk English dude paid our tab, for some unknown reason. This would have been promising, except he was tiny. I am not tiny. When I see men like him I think, "Hi, I am The Crusher. I will crush you with one little hug. I will hurt my neck bending down to kiss you. I will feel like a pedophile". Best part of the night? Learned that white wine removes red wine stains.

So, I am debating between:

1. A weekend spent alone at home with my cuddly, attentive dog and my DVR, obsessively moving art around, thinking of new ways to renovate my house, shopping online, eating well, not drinking, doing laundry, and exercising. Sad. Yet healthy.

2. A very social weekend where I will attend a 40th birthday party (not mine) that could be full of men and potentially also go to a bar that a friend assures me is always chockablock with males. This would probably preclude abstinence from alcohol, involve lots of fried food, would result in no laundry getting done, and my dog will be pissed and chew up another chapstick. Fortunately, I have lots of chapstick.

As always, I'll let you know how it goes.

Things That Bother Me

2010-02-02T19:29:00.000-05:00

After writing that title, I realize that there are waaaay too many things that bother me for one post. So I'll go with one short one and one long one for now.

1. The show Chelsey Lately. It should be five hours longer.

2. The Victoria's Secret line of clothing called "Pink". This seems to be a bunch of "casual" wear (sweats, baby doll nightgowns, tissue thin tank tops) and underwear directed at females ages 15-25. Now, I didn't used to mind Victoria's Secret. Their bras were ok (although apparently not serving me well - see my post "I'm a D Cup, Bitches"), and they couldn't seem to be faulted for shilling perfume that smells like cotton candy mixed with cheap musk, since America's women seem to hanker for this. And yeah, the clothes in their catalog looked good, but then you would order them and they would look like shit on you and you'd be like, why? why? only to finally realize it was because they were badly made and shown on supermodels. It seems notable that they do not sell the clothes in their stores, only by mail, because if people tried this stuff on, it would never sell. I think they rely on laziness, hoping that customers will not return items by mail. That's their marketing strategy. Supermodels and laziness. Hey, it works for every other consumer product.

Anyway, back to my original point - "Pink". Ok, so maybe this is supposed to be girly and fresh and fun. Youthful, hopeful, candy-colored and chipper! But, to me at least, it extends beyond that when the word "PINK" is emblazoned across the ass of a pair of sweatpants. This is what it makes me think: "VAGINA", or "Mucous Membrane". This seems sort of grossly seductive and weirdly blunt all at once - like calling a new erectile dysfunction drug "Unlimpitor" (actually, that would be a great name for an ED/cholesterol reducing drug. I'll call Phizer tomorrow.) Or making a t-shirt that says "FULL OF SHIT" over the colon area. Plus, this whole Pink thing is clearly a rip-off of the Juicy craze that preceeded it. Not a fan of that one either. We KNOW what is in people's pants, because we have the same stuff in our pants. We know the color. I do not like PINK. But I love that Chelsea Handler. I bet she hates "Pink" too.

Shopping for Love

2010-02-01T16:47:00.000-05:00

I have kind of a high stress job, where I hear about human misery all day, so I often fantasize about working at a supermarket or some other job you do with minimal trauma, go home, and forget about it.

I actually did work in a supermarket the summer I was 16. I think my mother thought that being a cashier would show me that I should stay in school, but it was oddly comforting. I knew my hours. I knew when my breaks were. I knew the customers. I knew I did not want register 5 because the belt was broken and I would have to pull all the groceries toward me by hand. The worst thing that ever happened was when a customer would stand there (usually with a bunch of her able-bodied kids) and watch as I bagged up all their crap. To this day, I always bag my own groceries and I feel like a failure if I am not done at the exact moment the cashier tells me the total.

So, although I did what my mother wanted and went to school for ever and ever, I still wish that expectations weren't so high for me and that I could be a hair dresser. Or a dog walker. Or a waitress. I actually love waitressing, it's like a big puzzle you get to put together over and over - but in motion, and with free food.

So, maybe it's not surprising that I have crushes on two guys in the food service industry. The first one works at Trader Joe's. I don't know his name, so I'll call him My Husband. One day, I was standing in the produce section when My Husband came up to another customer who had a question. This was their conversation:

My Husband: How can I help you?
Customer: Well, I'm trying to decide between these two salad dressings.
My Husband: Um, ok. What can I tell you about them?
Customer: Well, I don't know. Just, which is better?
MY Husband: Um, that's up to you. We can open them both and taste them if you like. (What a guy!)
Customer: I'm sorry, I can't do that, I'm wearing Invisalign braces and I can't eat anything.

At this point, I can't help but turn and look. My Husband and I lock eyes and laugh. I know we are meant to be together forever. The crazy customer picks the salad dressing she thinks looks "healthier". My Husband and I linger a bit, but my quick wit has quickly abandoned me. I know I should say something like "can you help me decide between these two bags of spinach?" but I'm mute. He wanders off, but as I go through the aisles, I see him looking at me a few times. However, I have no game. I decide that the next time I see him, I will ask him to help me decide between two identical items and then say I can't taste them because I am wearing Invisalign braces. I hope he remembers our shared encounter, otherwise he will think that I am insane. But he's never there when I am anymore! And now I have to join the local food co-op because I am all freaked out about slaughterhouses and need to buy local grass fed beef and in season produce. Fuck!

Bachelor number 2 will be called My Second Husband, or MSH for short. He is a waiter at a local restaurant. I never noticed him until a friend said "doesn't he remind you of [my ex-boyfriend]?" (Who, by the way, is a douchebag). In a way he does, but the main thing about him was this: even though I go to this restaurant at least once a week and sometimes up to three times a week (note to self: this is why you are fat!), he always says the same thing to me and whoever I am with:

MSH: Hi! Have you been here before? Are you familiar with the format of our menu?
Me: I've been here like 10,000 times and you always say that!
MSH: I'm sorry, I'll definitely remember you the next time.

But he never remembers me. I went a few weeks ago with some friends and he waited on us. Same thing. Although he was like, "hey, how are you?" to the table next to us. A friend and I ended up staying at the bar for a few drinks and so I got to talk to him when he got off shift. I gave him crap for never remembering me. We had a conversation about drug use and vaginal dryness (long story, not as weird as it sounds) and I said "if you forget me next time, I'm just going to say 'vaginal dryness' and that better jog your fucking memory". I've been semi-stalking him since, but he's never at the restaurant when I go. I'm going on Wednesday. I'll let you know how it turns out.

On Aging

2010-01-16T16:58:00.000-05:00

I'm turing 40 next month. This doesn't faze me too much for a few reasons:

1. I judge my age compared to my mother's. Since I never want her to die, she can never seem too old, so my idea of "old" keeps changing. She's almost 65, so old is now somewhere around 110.

2. When I turned 39 last year, I secretly started pretending to myself that I was actually 40, to get used to the idea.

3. People think I am younger than I am because I have age-inappropriate hair and language (if you curse and use the word "like" a lot, it takes off, like, fucking YEARS).

I do, however, have some problems with getting older. I don't have any major health problems, but I seem to require more maintanance. I'm convinced my health insurance company hates me - no claims forever, and in the past year I've had surgery, started therapy (weekly), seeing a psychiatrist (monthly), and also needed some expensive dental work (not that they paid for that). The dermatologist has to look me over for signs of impending death and weird growths that then must be burned off with liquid nitrogen (ok, maybe some of this is vanity). In the same vain vein, I have a bunch of grey hair. I bleach the crap out of it, but the grey ones are wiry and stick up, which sucks and makes me look like a frizzy haired old lady. But the worst humilitation, the one that made me feel old and deformed and like maybe youth really is wasted on the young? I had to go to the PODIATRIST.

This should not surprise me. I wear heels almost daily. For the past few months, the balls of both feet have hurt, a lot. I tried to pretend that I had some kind of bilateral big toe sprain, or that concrete is harder than it used to be. But one day I looked at the pile of foot gadgets I have acquired over the past year - yoga toes (they stretch your toes out, supposedly returning your feet to "normal" - they don't), ball of foot gel pads, things you put in your shoes to "correctly redistribute" your weight so you walk normally in 4 inch heels, and had to face the truth: I have the fucked up feet of an old person. Nevermind that my mom can wear heels all day and has for years. I apparently got my feet from the other side of the family. They were from Indiana and probably wore practical clodhoppers their whole lives.

So, after a few weeks of denial, I made an appointment with the podiatrist. They x-rayed my feet and said that I have bone spurs at the head of each first metarsal. This is a fancy way of saying that I have ruined my feet with heels. The doc said I was lucky though, becuase this could be treated with "non-invasive therapy" such as icing my feet, having orthotics made, or WEARING FLAT SHOES. He said this as if wearing flats was as easy as, oh, shaving my head. Or only wearing huge ugly muumuus for the rest of my life. He also offered me cortisone shots. I'm not sure how a shot is "non-invasive", but I'm doing it if I have to. Yes, I'd rather get a needle in the foot than wear flats.

Orthotics are a whole other humiliation. I have to go to a special clinic, where they will trace my feet and make a plaster cast. Ok, fine. But then they explained that I have to get the "sports" ones made first, and then I can get the "dress" ones if I want. Oh, did I mention that these cost $450 and are not covered by insurance? I argued with them that I had no use at all for "sports" orthotics, as: 1. I never wear "sports" shoes, and 2. if I did, my feet would not hurt. I'm going to that orthotics clinic loaded for bear, and I'm getting those dress orthotics if I have to threaten them with my pointy high heels.

Will Work For Shoes. Or Bags.

2010-01-11T16:12:00.000-05:00

I really love shoes. Well, boots, really. I have an obsession with gladiator sandals that baffles most people. And I really love bags. I'm a shrink, and I did my internship at a Veteran's Hospital. One of my rotations was on the trauma ward, where combat vets would come for 6 week inpatient stays to work on their stuff. This was pre-Iraq, so it was generally a bunch of fifty-something male Vietnam vets, my fifty-something male supervisor, and me. I got asked all kinds of questions:

1. "Would you ever kill someone?" (Yes, if I had to)
2. "Do you think I am horrible?" (No)
3. "Will you lead the morning exercises?" (Hell no)
4. "Why do women need so many shoes and bags?"

The answer to the last one is: because you can never be too fat for them. Gained weight? Your bag still carries stuff, and your shoes still fit (although I guess if you gained like 300 pounds your feet might get bigger). When I told this to the guy who had asked me, he said, "that is the best thing I've ever learned here".

So, shoe mania is nothing new, but mine recently reached a new level of ridiculousness. I was at a store. A popular discount store. I found a pair of simply awesome boots that were a fraction of their original price. They were also low-heeled without being heinous (next post: my trip to the podiatrist and why I would rather be in pain than wear flats). Only problem? They were a size 7.5. I clomp around in a size 10. I've never done this before, but I crammed my foot into one, and since it fit, I decided to buy them. Nevermind that I could barely walk and would probably get gangrene in, oh, 3 hours. They would stretch, I told myself.

I was only saved from a double foot amputation by my friend, who happened to be standing at the cash register, all virtuous with her infant and the item she was returning, not even buying. I told her what I was doing and she was just like: "no". This snapped me out of it and I put them back. But I wrote down the brand name and found them on ebay! In my size! Now my life will be perfect, I know it.

The Holidays, Condensed

2010-01-07T18:13:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I've been away for a while. Away from writing this blog, at least. Two people asked "what's up with the blog?" and that made me feel so famous/lame that I am posting this now. I generally keep track of my ideas for this blog by using the video on my phone. So, I have a bunch of videos of my computer or my steering wheel, with me saying "Fat T, surgery, the Marshall's Incident, my love life, why my dog is the greatest", etc. But this post is just a condensed version of the holidays. Also, my neurotic response to feeling like I have left work undone by not posting.

Christmas:
This generally went well. Nobody was hurt or horribly insulted by gifts. The highlight, for me, occurred on Christmas night. I was with my sister and her husband. All the guests had left, my niece was asleep, and wine was abundant. My brother-in-law had received an All Stars Game baseball jacket as a gift. I have no idea why anyone would desire such an item, but whatever. I was looking at it, and my sister said:
"It doesn't look that big" (her husband is at least 6'3").
So, I decided to model it. BIG MISTAKE. I put it on and she says:
"See, it barely fits you".
Let me back up a bit and explain that I had spent the entire previous week lamenting my fatness. I groaned about it constantly as I stuffed cookies, bacon, and alcohol into my complaining little mouth. So, to be told that a MENS XL JACKET "barely fit" was just too much. I said:
"Oh my God, you fucking cunt, I can't believe you said that".
Hilarity ensued. My brother-in-law covered my dog's ears. Then, the capper: my brother-in-law said:
"You look like a dirt-bag meth addict at a 7-11 in Wyoming or something".
This whole situation was only saved by our subsequent viewing of The Hangover, which is awesome. However, I continue to make remarks to my sister, such as "I hope you can squeeze into your bed tonight" and "those gigantic Imax 3-D glasses barely cover your huge face". Also, I am now on Weight Watchers. Did you know that 12 ounces of wine has 4.5 points?

New Year's:
As mentioned in a previous post, Fat T was with me for this wonderful holiday. As I predicted, I got drunk (at like 5pm) and made him angry. This seemed to be largely due to my love of rap music and playing the same song over and over. Because I had seen The Hangover and become obsessed with it, I had also downloaded the soundtrack and was really into a song called "What do you say?" by Dirt Nasty. The lyrics are like "What do you say when you're too fucked up? What does your girlfriend say when I smack that butt? What do you say when you run out of drugs?", and may also make reference to erectile dysfunction in the presence of a bad boob job, blow jobs, and cocaine. Oh, and my favorite, "LL Cool J needed love like Dirt Nasty needs drugs".

Needless to say, Fat T was not pleased with the plan I had developed for the evening: getting drunker and listening to my new favorite song 500 times. Or watching The Hangover again. As I amazingly predicted, he got mad, and I went to bed early. Only slight Copier Treatment from Fat T, and we got over it.

So, I'm kind of glad the holidays are over. Now I can return to a normal level of fat insults and drunken indescretions.

Fat T

2009-12-16T14:52:00.000-05:00

My friend Fat T is not, in fact, fat, but he recently asked me to call him that. I have no idea why. We met when I was in graduate school; he came up to me in the hall and explained that we would be sharing an office the following year. I knew we would be friends right away because:

1. He was funny without even trying
2. I could verbally abuse him without protest from him

For example, he went on and on about some "beautiful native art" that he was having framed for our office. This was before I knew about his penchant for hyperbole - every woman he has ever slept with (and they are legion) was "a wonderful lover" - so I figured the art would actually be attractive. Or at least that I would be able to look at it without wanting to stab my eyes out. But no, the day arrives, and I hate the art, which I immediately and indelicately relate to Fat T. He defends his art, but generally takes it well.

Fat T lives far away now, but he is a master of staying in touch (good thing, because I am a mistress of losing touch and alienating people). So, he comes to stay with me a few times a year. He is the only house guest that I don't actually resent because, as mentioned, I can verbally abuse him. Like the time I found a nectarine on the counter with a tiny bite taken out of it. I yelled at Fat T for wasting my nectarine before realizing that the tiny bite was made by tiny teeth. Mouse teeth. But Fat T took it in stride.

Fat T did get really mad at me one time. We got into an argument about something (I actually remember but am leaving it out to protect the innocent) and he just stopped talking to me. The thing is, we were in the car, at the beginning of a one hour ride. He was just silent, even though I was being conciliatory and endearing. He ignored me for the whole week. I saw him at school the following week and this was our conversation, which took place next to a copy machine:

Me: Hi! Did you get my message?
Fat T: (silence)
Me: I called to see if you wanted a ride to school today.
Fat T: Well, I'm here, I guess that's your answer.
Me: Come on, don't be mad. I'm sorry.
Fat T: (walks away)

He got over this in another week or so, and now we call it "The Copier Treatment". Like, "you should give that bitch the Copier Treatment" or "you're not going to get all pissed and go all Copier on me, are you?".

Fat T is coming to see me soon. Most likely, I will get drunk and yell at him. I will probably also disappoint him on New Year's Eve, when I refuse to do anything fun or go to bed at 11:00. Or vomit and blame it on him. Oh, the other talent he has is extreme parsimoniousness - he will use like one wash cloth when I need about 10 towels. Also, he leaves my house cleaner than when he got there. And he recently had a realization that all of his clothes were HUGE. This is hilarious to me, for some reason. I could go on and on. I love ya, Fat T!

0 for 2

2009-12-11T09:09:00.000-05:00

There has been a disturbing trend in my romantic life lately. Ok, it has been a trend for 20 years, but weirder lately. First, I had the realization that my past two boyfriends names rhyme with words synonymous with discomfort - pain and hurt. But that's nothing compared to my more recent adventures.

I have nice friends who try to set me up with people. Also, they are probably trying to validate their own coupled existences by dragging me in the relationship abyss with them. The way this happens in the modern age is via facebook. The friend tells me about the guy, tells him about me, and if there are no dealbreakers (in my case - must be tall and cannot currently be on crack), we become facebook friends so we can court each other electronically. Here's where the disturbing trend comes in. The guy and I start to communicate. Things go well. Then, like clockwork, he gets involved with someone else. It is like I am a good luck charm for meeting other women. In one case, the guy said (emailed) "we can still be friends, right?". Um, no. I declined, pointing out that since we had never met, people were trying to set us up, and he (now) had a girlfriend, it might be a bit weird. Like, he says:
"Oh honey, I'm going out."
"Really?" she replies, "where to?"
"Oh, to meet this girl I've never met before, who people were trying to set me up with, but then I got with you, so I'm just going to be friends with her".
Her: anything ranging from icy glare to homicide, depending on her disposition.

Then comes bachelor number 2. Our cyber-courting was arranged by a coworker of mine. We exchange a few emails. Then, my coworker approaches me, wide-eyed, and asks "are you guys together?!?!?" I explain this would be hard, or stalkerish, since we have only exchanged a few emails. She tells me he has changed his facebook status from "single" to "in a relationship" (I know all this facebook stuff is tiring, but ignoring it is like not having a horse in 1880 - you are stranded, alone, out on some prarie). So, she texts him and finds out he JUST started seeing someone. WTF?

At least if things are going badly for me romance-wise, I seem to be bringing luck to my potentials.

Baby X

2009-12-06T16:54:00.000-05:00

This story has so many funny elements - unawareness of being in labor, a nameless baby, public masturbation, mineral oil as a laxative - that it probably deserves more than one post, but I'll try to fit it all in.

Some friends just had a baby. This was their first, and the mother had been told that she would experience cramps when in labor. So, she gets some cramps. But she figures these are the famed Braxton-Hicks contractions that send hysterical women to hospitals prematurely, so she goes about her business. She goes for a walk. She goes out to lunch. She goes to Target. She goes out to dinner and TO A CONCERT. Not Metallica, but still. Around 11:00 that night, her doula sugguests that it might, in fact, be "time". To make a short story shorter: she got to the hospital at 11:30 and the baby was out at 3:00. AM. That day. She's either oblivious or a she-viking, or some combination of the two.

But that's not all. The baby sort of has a name, but they were allowed to leave the hospital without putting a name on the birth certificate. BIG MISTAKE. They can't pick a name for this boy. Part of this is due to an evil baby name book that lists qualities associated with letter combinations in names. They start out well - ambitious, honest, strong - but often end horribly - bossy, insecure, whiny. As the baby's maternal grandmother said, "this has ruined every name they considered". Interestingly, my name is pretty good and apparently my sexuality can be "addictive" to my partners. Um, if any past partners out there felt addicted, please let me know. Like, ASAP. So, he sort of has a name, but is baby X for now. This is complicated by his father's penchant for names that are verbs. Like Flex, or Grant. I'm still not sure how serious he is about this.

When I was visiting last night, I went in to the room where my friend was nursing. I lay down on the bed (after trying on a garment made to shrink a post-baby belly, but that I think my childless self should don under my clothes every day, forever) and told my friend I had gas. She told me about some technique called Mayan Uterine Massage, where you basically massage your lower belly. This supposedly also helps with gas. So I start doing it, and my friend bursts out laughing, saying it looks like I am masturbating. Then, I realize I am in the line of sight of the 7 people down the hall. So, yeah, it looks like I went in to watch my friend nurse her newborn and indulge in a little self-love. Nice, huh?

Finally, the mineral oil. As all you moms out there know, childbirth can leave you a little, um, irregular. The baby's maternal grandfather is apparently some kind of bowel expert, and suggested mineral oil. He was also drinking vodka (this will be important later). My poor friend understandably did not want to drink mineral oil, but we all told her she had to. Especially her father. This led to a discussion of a specialty shot he could create that mixed mineral oil and vodka. But what would it be called? The "oil change"? The "lube job"? I like the "booze cruise". There could be a market for this, seriously.

The Replacement Wife

2009-12-02T14:55:00.001-05:00

I have a friend who is going through a divorce. It is not an amicable divorce, and her soon-to-be- ex-husband has not been doing things that would make her question her decision to leave him. At a certain point, he started saying that he had to go out for a few hours at a time, like from 3 to 5 pm and then again from 8 to 10 pm. My friend thought this smacked of meeting someone he found on an internet dating site for a getting-to-know-all-about-you coffee date. She could not have been more thrilled, as we had already deduced that the best thing would be for him to meet someone else so he would be nicer to her while they divided their assets. Lazy spy (me) was on the case!

Over time (and many glasses of wine), we came up with the idea of The Replacement Wife. At first, we joked that I would follow her husband (wearing a burka as a disguise, since I have noticable hair) and see if he was, in fact, meeting a woman. Then, we figured, since I was already wearing the disguise, I would wait until he left and approach the woman, encouraging her to like him by saying things like "in my country, bad breath is the sign of a good provider" or "my culture values socially awkward men - they are less likely to cheat". I would say all of this in an unplaceable accent, but one that seemed to go with the burka.

We drank more wine. The Replacement Wife turned into a movie idea. A vehicle for Tina Fey (as my friend) and Amy Poehler (as me). As it turns out, casting imaginary movies is a lot of fun (again - wine) and can also help you get your aggressions out. The soon-to-be-ex's new woman? Kathy Bates (I love her, but she is a good 20 years older than the soon-to-be-ex and he has fantasies of a 23 year old, a 20 year age difference in the other, and grosser, direction) . The soon to be ex? Ben Stiller, at his most contrived and neurotic (think Zoolander plus Gaylord Focker). My friend's new man? Matt McConaughey.

I was actually thinking of writing a screenplay (or a "treatment", whatever the hell that is), but then realized it would require too much energy. So, I started this blog instead. And this post is dedicated to my friend. She knows who she is.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-29T08:34:00.000-05:00

Ok, I know that everyone has their own Thanksgiving dramas. Here's mine.

For my family, Thanksgiving is not a casual, stuff yourself, undo your pants and watch football affair. Every year for the past 20, we have gone to my aunt and uncle's house, where the holiday is a fancy dinner party, complete with men in jacket and tie, waiters serving you stuff (champagne, awesome smoked salmon things), and place cards. The food is amazing, as my aunt always makes the complete Gourmet magazine menu. Now that Gourmet is out of business, the future is unclear.

The cast of characters varies and is always entertaining. The top entertainer is a man I have met every year and never seems to remember me. This year he asked, "are you a twin of Ms. (my last name)?"
I said, "I am Ms. (my last name)".
"No, no", he said, "are you related to the woman in the other room?"
I replied: "you mean my mother - slim woman, black dress?"
"Yes!" he crowed, "are you Ms. (my last name)?"
At this point, I feel sort of annoyed and sort of like I'm tripping on some kind of Groundhog Day mushrooms. Is he asking if my 65 year old mother is my twin sister? WTF?
I tell him, "Actually, I am Dr. (my last name)".
He is surprised (for the 15th time) and asks what kind if doctor I am. I tell him that I am a psychologist, like he is. We review the same facts we always review - where I practice, what I do. He is charmed. I wish I had not agreed to drive and could chug a bottle of the champagne the hot cater waiter is proffering. Or have sex with him. I think we had a connection - at one point I silently wished for more gravy and he mysteriously brought a gravy boat over and set it down next to me. Now, that's service.

Later, the entertainer returns to tell my cousin, who has the perfect, chubby, bald, practically edible baby, that he should look into a kind of technology called the video camera to capture memories because, you know, "children change over time". This is presented in a sort of deadpan/sort of psychotic way, so it is hard to tell if he is kidding, as if he thinks maybe my cousin in unaware of video.

Oh, did I mention that I started Wellbutrin this week? Not sure if it hurt or helped. More on that, as well as some priceless NYC moments, later.

I'm a D cup, bitches!

2009-11-24T04:24:00.000-05:00

So,the story of my boobs. I had never really given them much thought - they seemed to be a fair size (36c), were pretty symmetrical, and weren't horribly saggy. Then, a few months a go, a trend began: my friends started telling me I should jack those puppies up. Granted, this mostly came from, um, less endowed girls who imagined that if thet were in my shoes (or bra), they would be flaunting.

But I kind of hate cleavage. To me, there are two kinds: the old lady, line between two huge flesh sacks, and the "second butt" popuarlized the the Wonderbra. For the uninitiated, this is a bra that contains padding on the sides, so your breasts are pushed together and up, resulting in a small butt-like formation about 6 inches below your chin. Call me weird, but this is just gross to me. Also, I can't help but stare when someone has this going on (am I a lesbian? Topic for another post). One male explained that "any time you have two pieces of flesh touching each other, it is good". But it is so out there and distracting. Maybe that is the point. Mostly,these conversations resulted in me looking down, touching my boobs, and mushing them together. Sometimes, I would undo a button (under duress) to show how whorish this looked. Everyone disagreed. This would usually happen just as the waiter came up to the table.

So, bothered by my (now) problem boobs, I visted a local lingerie shop known for being very helpful with bras. The first wonderful discovery was that I'm a D cup, not a C. The other discovery was that if you crank 'em up, you look thinner. You don't have to have a second butt for this to happen. So, since my motto is "go big or go home", I bought eight bras. And then two more than were on back order. I even wash them by hand. I feel like Sophia Loren (but not as hot, not Italian, and not 70).

After I bought the bras, I called the friend who gives me the most breast shit and told her "I just spent $423 on bras and I blame you". Then I said "I'm a D cup,bitches". As a special surprise for this friend, I wore a plunge bra (they dip down so you can wear low cut shirts) with a VERY low cut shirt when we went out to dinner. I pushed my boobs together. I felt like a whore (and I'm no prude, people). That night, I was awed and disgusted by the power of boobs. First, the owner of a restuarant I eat at at least twice a week but who treats me like crap was like "hell-O" and almost dumped a pitcher of water on me. Then, when I told the bouncer that I was leaving a bar because it was too crowded, he said "I wish I was going with you", with his eyes, on,um, the prize. Like I said, awed and disgusted.

Ocean State Job Lots

2009-11-23T07:36:00.000-05:00

Although outlet malls suck, job lots stores rule. I often go there with my very good friend, and discover items I never knew I needed. The experience is enhanced by drugs, although it also tends to be more expensive that way.

Last year, I bought dangly stars for my ceiling (holiday cheer - total necessity) and had to be restrained from buying a large (like, 3 foot circumcrence large) sparkly star and a fake candleabra. My friend simply said, "um, I'm gonna have to say no". I did buy a dog sweater that was about three sizes too small for my (humiliated) dog and made her look like a furry sausage busting out of its casing.

Since I was, um, medicated last night, I bought a lot. Some gifts (broke a glass in the process), fake light up christmas trees for my foyer (ignoring the fact that to plug them in, I will trip everytime I go in there), trays for the coffee table I convinced myself were neutral enough to work year round (sober realization: they are not), and, because I was inexplicably STARVING, a bag of cookies to eat in the store, and another simply because they fascinated me and had no english desription, so I HAD TO KNOW. Also, two jars of peanut butter, one with white chocolate in it. I don't even like white chocolate.

You might end up with a lot of random stuff, but job lots stores are an experience. Go with a patient (but firm and rational) friend, and medicate yoursef first.

Why I am doing this

2009-11-22T01:33:00.000-05:00

So, I admit that I only started this blog because a friend did and I figured I could do it too. Plus, it seems like I am never going to write a novel. I got the idea to write a novel after I quit all the addictive things that took up my spare time - smoking, drinking, shopping - but then I started doing all those things again, so I really didn't have time to write a novel. Not that I really could, anyway, since I lack a topic and actual literary talent. So a blog seemed easier. Also, everyone said I should do it.

I don't think I really have a unique prespective on anything, or any specific area of expertise like being a hilarously disgruntled mother or a sports junkie. People do seem to laugh at things I say, although this is not usually planned. My own mother thinks I should quit my job (I'm a psychologist) and be a stand up comedian. I mean, come on. Not only would I die of a panic attack, but there is a lot of money invested in my career (granted, not mine).

So, I guess I'll just talk about what I did today. I got up early (actually woke up on couch where I had passed out). I read some magazines (addicted) and then did some half-assed pilates to try to eliminate the weird lower abdominal bulge I have as a result of having surgery to remove some uterine fibroids about 6 weeks ago. Nice, huh? I'll tell that thrilling story some other time. Then I went to have breakfast with friends. One friend is VERY pregnant and I made fun of her for not being able to fit between the table and the banquette. I went on a diatribe against sweet breakfast foods (I hate them) and had to be talked out of ordering salmon cakes with salad. I got the Huevos Rancheros (I ordered this in a spanish accent and said "por favor" to show my worldliness). I had to explain to my friends that, like George Bluth in the first season of Arrested Development, who said he might be gulity of some"light treason", I was guilty of some "light smoking", because I had quit before, but, as mentioned, am back on.

Then I went to an outlet mall. Let me tell you my outlet mall philosophy: they suck. They are just a way to get you to buy stuff you would have been able to get cheaper on sale in the actual store. That said, I did buy a christmas gift for a friend. I called my sister to see if she tought it was a good choice and we were discussing the fact that the person the gift is for has cancer. So my sister was like, "so you think she'll be dead by then? No need for a gift?". NO. I was thinking a more cancer-centric gift, like, um, slippers, or 20 jars of Nutella because you need to keep your strength up. I also bought a sweater I'm pretty sure I already have about 4 different versions of. This was mainly because my friend said my boobs looked good in it. My boobs are discussed frequently, usually with me looking down at them, touching them, and mushing them together and railing against the "I have another butt on my chest look" that I hate but the world seems to want me to have. More on that later, there's a lot of material.

I hope lots of people read this and I get advertisers and get rich, although I have no plan for that, other than wishing. I don't want people to know who I am though, that would be fairly mortifying, especially because I plan to discuss: my psych meds, my failed relationshps, and my bizaare fantasies about getting rich from blogging.