Little Punk Me

My Roommate Redeemed Herself

2009-08-23T11:14:00.000-07:00

In my own defense, I think that most people are open to having their opinion of someone's character changed on the basis of peace offerings, i.e., food.

No?

Right now I live with four other people. Two of them are definitely okay, even to the point of being nice to talk to. One of them I'm sort of ambivalent toward. The fourth carries a distinct and definite aura of "crazy."

I have to be honest with you. I do not like this woman. She's bossy, a nag, passive aggressive, weirdly friendly sometimes and acts like you maybe kicked her dog at other times. All for no apparent reason.

I avoid her as much as possible to avoid getting drawn into her batshit insane world of drama. It's not a place I like to visit.

Last night, however... she made some chocolate cake.

It was sitting on the counter, beckoning to me like an illicit lover.

I resisted at first, not knowing whether or not the cake was up for grabs. By "resisted," I mean that I took a small piece that she'd never notice was gone. About a third of the cake was already missing, and although my roommate is quite capable of putting a large chocolate cake out along with a knife and a few plates, with no attendant note, in a clear invitation for all to help themselves and then getting upset when they do because they didn't ask, I was fairly sure that this was for all of us.

I don't even like chocolate cake. I'm not one of those girls who gets all nutso over chocolate things. I'm not too much of a fan, frankly. But... kids... this was really amazing chocolate cake.

Because I had not, in fact, asked if the cake was available yet, I refrained from going back for seconds. But it was a tough thing.

Later on, I heard that she had indeed made it for all of us.

So I just had another piece.

Maybe she's not too bad after all.

Post Script: Someone in the house is smoking pot right now, and it's pissing me off. It's 11:30 am; who needs to toke up at this hour? Of course, I also happen to be allergic to pot and in addition to getting sneezy and itchy, it tends to give me a headache which brings to mind someone driving a nail through my eye.

Time to lie down for awhile.

When People Suck

2009-08-22T16:03:00.001-07:00

Most of the time, I enjoy my job in much the same way that you might enjoy a relationship with someone who enables you to live in a mansion and eat chocolate cake every day, gives you a puppy and books and sunshine, yet also hits you. Meaning: There are bad parts, but it keeps me off the highway holding a sign that says "Will work (or whatever) for food."

And most of the people are really nice.

Some of them are not nice.

Usually, I can keep these encounters in perspective. I actually find them kind of funny. Today, my encounter with two of the aforementioned not-nice people kind of made me want to grab a couple shotguns and some Duct tape, and take them both out to a quiet place in the woods where problems disappear.

A slight note so as not to compromise my complete and total objectivity, which I know I am known for: Both of these incidents occurred between five and six a.m. this morning. It doesn't excuse their behavior, but as I've noted before, that those hours of the morning can basically go fuck themselves as far as most of the world is concerned.

There are a few exceptions, mostly from the obviously-high-on-meth-and-have-been-very-very-alert-for-72-hours-straight truck drivers, but usually the exchanges go something like this early in the morning:

Me, perkily (I don't mind mornings): Hi! How are you today????

Grumpy: (grunt)

M,P: What can I get you this morning????

G: Yeah.

M,P: ....

G: Okay, two. Coffee. Yeah. Go byebye.

M,P; Sausage Egg McMuffin with coffee to go! You got it! What size coffee?

G: (indicates, using hands, a coffee cup about the size of a bucket)

M,P: Large coffee for you! Be right back with that!

Wow, I really am annoying. But anyway. That's beside the point.

The point would be that these exchanges are not usually happy rainbow kisses exchanged by leprechauns under golden fountains while angels play harps in the background to begin with. But these two-- despite my apparently annoyingly perky manner, if the above dialogue is any indication-- were out-and-out rude.

Not Nice Person #1: Was already being a douche. As deeply unattractive as his ass was, I was looking forward to seeing it when he turned around to go. As I was getting his change, he grabbed my wrist. Not gently. The way you might grab someone if you were a cop chasing a perp and you finally caught him.

He was trying to see my tattoo. My tattoo is small, simple, and unobtrusive enough that during the normal course of things, it is rarely noticed. At McD's, thanks to the fact that we wear short sleeves and I tend to hand back change with my left hand, it's noticed at least once every hour. It's a very unique tattoo, and people ask about it all the time. Normally, I do not mind and I usually even tell them what it means, unless they're being assholes.

Some people take my arm occasionally, and I don't even mind that. As long as they're gentle and respectful, I let them take a gander.

This guy pissed me off. I yanked my arm free and glared at him. Undaunted, he said, "Whazzat mean?"

Continuing to glare, I said, "It says McDonalds. I decided to get permanently branded." This is actually my stock answer for people who are being assholes when I don't want them to know what this special phrase I had embedded in my arm means. It says "I'm not going to tell you but I'm not going to act like a complete bitch about it either." (My stock answer, not my tattoo.)

Even assholes usually get a laugh out of that, and leave it alone. This one sneered, said, "Oh SURE," and turned around and left.

Not Nice Person #2: Came within fifteen minutes of NNP#1 and I was still feeling cranky over the first incident, wishing that I'd yanked my arm back a lot harder, preferably hard enough to inadvertently hit a pan of frying oil hard enough to accidentally splash him in the face.

Normally I'm pretty assertive, even at work, and I don't mind confrontation. Sometimes I embrace it, just for funsies. So I'm totally baffled at my own lack of verbal comeback in this situation. I guess it's a good thing, because I was at work, and had I given this guy the verbal dressing-down he deserved, I might well be not going to work ever again.

He came in and I took his order, nice and friendly as usual. As I was giving him his receipt, he leaned across the counter and said, in a normal conversational volume, "You should call corporate right away! This is the first McDonald's I've ever seen that doesn't have a bunch of Mexicans working in the back!"

Instead of replying, I fixed him with a really withering stare. He muttered something feeble like, "You know, they all do," and I just continued to glare at him. I really wanted to yell at him, tell him that not only was at least half of our staff Mexican, the guy who runs the entire store-- and very well at that-- was also Mexican. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, that he was a limp-dicked racist who didn't know shit from shit, and had no clue about anything relating to the real world. I wanted to tell him to pop the bubble of bullshit that surrounded him before someone else decided to pop it for him in a much more unpleasant way. I wanted to tell him to get out and never come back.

Instead, I just stared.

I had to hand him his food a few minutes later. I didn't say a word to him as I did. That is spectacularly unusual for even the surliest of McD's employees, especially me.

I didn't even wish him a good day, and I'm glad I didn't.

I Was Handy

2009-08-09T18:34:00.000-07:00

Fact: One of my little-known and, thus, unsung talents is a complete and total ability to act like I have a clue when I don't. I like to use Henry Ford's inspirational expression "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right" as more or less a hallucinatory mission statement and pretty much believe I can do anything if I want to badly enough, up to and including becoming a NASA pilot and queen of a small country. Simultaneously.

Today, this resulted in me giving people directions. Twice. I've written about this before-- if these lost souls actually listened to me, the one that I was trying to help avoid LA traffic en route to Northern California via a shortcut that I use myself is probably halfway to Ohio by now, and the one whom I attempted to direct to Wal*Mart (which is about three feet from my house) has probably driven himself into a lake.

I feel mildly bad about this, but I did try to give them fair warning by gently suggesting that they seek a second opinion. From, for example, the eight million truckers who crawl all over my establishment like so many ants. They might be a teensy bit more knowledgeable than me.

Anyway, I mention this purely to illustrate my unsung talent. I have no business giving anyone directions, or trying to draw little maps on paper-- in fact, I shouldn't really be allowed anywhere near a car without my TomTom, which you wouldn't know anything about if you happen to be one of those lucky souls that has some sort of sense of direction. If you're more like me, that little computer is basically a part of your brain (the one they handed out while you were out to lunch). God help me if I'm ever traveling to an unknown place, especially across state lines, and it dies an untimely death.

Yet these people listened to me as if I was privy to the location of the Holy Grail (which, incidentally, I am... the Grail-keepers knew that telling me would pose absolutely no threat). I was that confident as I cheerfully laid out my wrong-headed directions.

So after work, since I was already in my faking-proficiencies-I-do-not-actually-possess mode, I decided to pretend to be the fixer-upper that I am deeply, deeply not.

It's not that I've never built anything before. Some moron put me in charge of building sets for the school plays back in high school. Two story sets. That people had to walk on. Without falling through the floor. And nobody ever did!

However, even though I got the credit for this and that's exactly as it should be, I did very little of the actual building. I designed the sets and that's where my direct involvement ended. After that, I supervised, I kibitzed, I hammered the occasional non-union nail. But I relied on others for the actual no-falldowngoboom results.

So while I'm no stranger to the occasional hanging of a framed picture, my toolset is pink, and you must draw your own conclusions about that.

But I needed a doorknob, one that had the ability to lock and therefore keep my scary nutso roommates from going through my stuff when I'm not around. This may not be entirely fair as neither of them has ever shown an inclination to do any such thing, but at this point, I am sufficiently experienced in utterly batshit crazy roommates to know that it is better to be safe than sorry.

So I went to Home Depot, found a doorknob with confidence-inducing ease, and asked the knowledgeable question of a seasoned do-it-yourselfer at checkout.

"Will I need anything besides a screwdriver to put this in?"

Encouraged that he said no without even needing to consult the packaging, I headed for home. The bright shiny new doorknob doesn't even vaguely complement the poopy-colored door and it looks ridiculous, but I didn't get to where I am in life by fretting about such things. I set to dismantling the previous lock, and in no time at all I succeeded in getting doorknob lubricant all over my bed.

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, replacing a doorknob essentially involves unscrewing two longish screws with a Phillips, pulling the doorknob apart gently, setting the old pieces somewhere besides your bed, which I mention purely for giggles since I'm sure nobody would actually be that stupid, putting the new pieces in, and replacing the two longish screws with a Phillips.

It is, for a normal person, a ten-minute job. It took me almost an hour, and I will tell you why: Those screws didn't like me. They could probably tell I was not their equal; I've been on the bad end of many a mean screw in my day, but that was no excuse for their blatant refusal to bend to my will. They refused to sit still in their little screw-holder thingies, and the back half of the doorknob kept falling out and onto the floor with a defiant CLANG, and it would have looked ridiculous except that I took care to do this when no one else was around in anticipation of just such a complication.

However, let's focus on the positive side here: I replaced my own doorknob. And while it might be premature to say, I think-- dream with me here, folks-- that this might just rank higher on my home-improvement resume than hanging a curtain over the window using only pushpins! So on the whole, I think this one landed solidly in the success column.

Reflections On McDonald's

2009-08-08T15:52:00.001-07:00

For the last, eh, three and a half days, I have been an employee of the great McDonald's corporation. Personally, I think three days is plenty of time to judge every last aspect of their business and clientele, don't you?

1. People are cranky in the morning. I've always been a morning person and I guess I've mostly hung out with morning people, because somehow this basic fact of life has more or less escaped my notice until now. I think I will start putting something in the coffee, such as Prozac or amphetamines. This isn't really an "I think I'll write a letter to McDonald's and make a suggestion" kind of idea; it's more like an "I think I'll just DO this and make everyone's lives easier in the short run, never mind the long term consequences" kind of idea.

2. People are gluttons. Seriously. Help. I'm losing respect for my own species here. No one human being in the entire world needs to eat six McSkillet burritos, hot cakes with sausage, four Egg McMuffins, five hash browns, a bacon biscuit, a large Coke, a large iced coffee, and two ice cream cones in one sitting. Perhaps you think that I am exaggerating for comedic effect. Perhaps you are a fool.

3. Beef = yuck. Yes, I'm a vegetarian, and yes, I loved the shit out of cheeseburgers back before I drew my arbitrary line in the sand and stopped eating them. But even back then, I basically never ate at McDonald's. Now I see them being mass produced. Icky. They're all skinny and sad looking and, basically, sorry cuts of meat. Needless to say, this opinion does not stop me from piping up with a cheery, "Yes of course, our Angus burger is delightful!" at every opportunity. We get a pizza party if we sell the most Angus burgers.

4. The world of minimum wage is a sad, scary place. There be madness behind the McSmile every employee is required to wear at all times, stapled on if necessary. Beware. Also, standing up for eight hours straight is more painful to the feetsies than you might think.

5. I never ate fast food before I started working here. I still don't, really. But when you're in college, you're kind of programmed to accept free food. As we all know, the point of college is to make oneself both broke and pretentious, so one sort of gets the feeling that one is giving one's finger to half of everything that college stands for when one doesn't. Plus, after one too many "WHY can't I have my McDouble Cheeseburger RIGHT NOW??? I don't CARE if you don't start serving lunch until 10:30 and it is only 7:45 right now. I AM TOO SPECIAL AND IMPORTANT TO WAIT AROUND" suddenly a Cheesy Ketchup McFishy Surprise and nice, identifiable Coke is rather seductively appealing.

6. I am having fun. Really! I am! It's all I can do to keep from dancing a happy jig. This is both a pathetic reminder of the fact that I haven't been gainfully employed since February and a tribute to one of my biggest personality flaws: I have no slack-gene. None whatsoever. Believe me, there are times when I feel like doing nothing but vegging out in from of the TV-- and I can't do it. It really sucks, and as for being unemployed when you were made this way-- how bad? Sooo bad.

But yeah. It really is fun. There's something satisfying in the repetition, the routine, the changing customer faces, the dirty jokes flowing freely behind the counter, the somber looks on the faces of the Zombie Teens, the plaintive mooing of the cows (I installed a machine yesterday), the Seriously Unhappy Once The Kid Learns We Are Out Of THE ONE TOY HE NEEDS TO COMPLETE HIS COLLECTION Meals, the drama that I am officially old enough to enjoy and find amusing rather than get caught up in and upset over, and most of all, the amphetamine-laced coffee.

I Have A Cool Hat Also, Mr. Amish Man

2009-04-10T13:47:00.000-07:00

YouTube won't let people embed their videos anymore. Assholes.

Amish Paradise Quiz:

1. In the opening shot, why was he standing and staring at his shoes?
a) He was contemplating the way man came from dust
b) He was simulating a hanging
c) He was kicking himself for not harvesting enough grain this year
OR d) he had just wet himself.

Please explain your answer.

2. Which drugs was PlainWife on?
a) Prozac
b) Lithium
c) Acid
d) All of the above, plus heroin on bad days.

3. Who is the creepy lady Amish Guy is singing to?
a) His dead mother, taxidermied
b) His dead mother, taxidermied and mummified.
c) His dead mother, taxidermied, mummified, and made into a blowup doll.
d) Jezebel.

4. How much is Amish Guy enjoying churning that butter?
a) SO much.
b) WAY too much.
c) Not quite enough.
d) He should be shot.

5. How much of a discount would YOU require to buy one of those quilts?
a) 50%
b) 99.9%
c) Maybe if you threw in a cow, pre-milked.
d) I would rather live in Amish Paradise than buy one of those quilts.

Please Note: D is the correct answer.

6. What are your feelings toward the butt-kicking little boy?
a) He is going to hell.
b) He is awesome.
c) He is the living embodiment of every fantasy I've ever had.
d) All of the above.

7. What hand gesture was Amish Guy making to the tourists?
a) Peace
b) Thumbs-up.
c) A-okay.
d) Mimicking a gun firing.

8. What came out of the telephone?
a) Anthrax.
b) Cocaine.
c) Illicit donut powder (those Amish-- so secretive about their sugar fixes!)
d) Casper the Friendly Ghost

9. What was the barn made out of?
a) Wood from Noah's original ark.
b) Play-Doh.
c) Cowpie.
d) Rag dolls.

10. Who styled Amish Guy's hair?
a) A blind sadist.
b) Mary Poppins
c) Dr. Suess
d) Both (a) and (b)

The winner will receive an all-expenses-paid (even the Valium!), permanent vacation to Lancaster, PA! Step right up, don't be shy! You could spend all your time hanging with Amish Guy!

Adventures In Moving

2008-11-26T08:05:00.000-08:00

Pretty much everybody’s favorite activity in the whole wide world, and it’s pretty obvious why. When else do you get to:

-Finally address the problem of those cockroach carcasses that you, uh, just sort of swept to the side of the stove once they were dead, vowing never to look in that particular space again,

-Ask yourself why, exactly, you needed eight cans of spray freshener,

-Rope your significant other into helping you move from your apartment to his in exchange for a healthy 60% of your stuff, including furniture,

-Sit on the floor of the cab of a particularly bumpy U-Haul all the way to Manhattan with your head down so the NYPD doesn’t see you, which is so comfortable you would not believe it, I want to travel this way all the time,

-Practically lose it seven or eight times because despite the fact that you’re getting rid of tons and tons of your stuff and you didn’t have a lot to begin with, the piles of stuff you ARE taking are not getting any smaller, DAMMIT,

-And, of course, sit around for forty or fifty minutes of anxiety while your vindictive little worm of a superintendent (unless he's somehow reading this, in which case he is a very handsome sweetheart of a man, and I'm pretty sure he's been working out) inspects your apartment and arbitrarily decides whether or not to sign off on you getting your $2,000 deposit back.

However, I have a secret weapon at my disposal: I am a master mover/packer. Yes. It’s not quite as exciting as being able to fly or see through walls, but it is a superpower all the same judging by the awestruck looks I get from friends after I finish packing their 3 bedroom apartments into a single van.

An thus far, my plan seems to be working fairly well. About a month ago, my charming boy and I agreed that he would rent a truck on Sunday and, with the help of his roommate, help move my/their stuff from my Queens apartment to their Manhattan one.

This made sense on any number of levels; for one thing, I think we’d get some pretty funny looks trying to schlep a sofa on the subway. For another, I will be staying with them until my departure next Friday—just about ten days and six or seven mental breakdowns away at this point. I would leave only a few items at my apartment until Tuesday night, when he would come over and help me bring them to the apartment.

Give or take a couple of back spasms, that’s exactly how it all played out.

My apartment is now empty, desolate, emotionally spent at the idea that after one last short visit today, I will be gone for good.

I’m lying. It doesn’t care. Hello, it’s an apartment.

I care, though. Nearly two years, I’ve been in this apartment. That’s longer than I’ve lived anywhere absent my parental units. It was my fifth residence since leaving college, third apartment I was paying for, first apartment I lived in alone, and the place in which I finally got my shit together. It’s where I grew up, learned to operate as an independent agent, loved two incredible men, survived heartbreak and loneliness, resolved past missteps, made decisions that would shape my future for the better, and became happier than I have ever been in my life.

Most importantly, it is the place where I finally learned how to play strip poker. Do you know how embarrassing this knowledge gap has been at parties?!

(Just kidding, Mom.)

(I already knew how to play.)

In a very real sense, I am moving on to bigger and better things. I was recently honored with an actual writing contract, so I will be writing my first book for publication. I will be returning to school and finishing the degree I am so ready to earn now. I will be getting to know my extended family much better than ever before. I will be living in a quiet place, a welcome change after the frenetic pace of the city.

I’ve lived here before, but I am returning a different person. By the way, I’ll be going by Fred from now on.

It’s the last two years that have made this possible. No risk was spared in the creation of this life, and as a result I have become a person with whom I can be pleased and proud. Emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, fiscally, socially, I am more ready to take on these challenges than I have ever been in my life.

I am at peace. The decision I made this time was the right one.

And Then It Crashed Kaboom

2008-11-18T07:51:00.000-08:00

I used to live with a little kid. One day she was telling me a long, rambly story the way kids do and at one point she used the above phrase. I stopped her.

“Hey, what does that mean?”

“It means it went CRASH and made a KABOOM sound,” she replied in a patronizing, “you complete moron” kind of voice. The way kids do.

Well, that is sort of how I feel about this blog right now, in much the same way that McCain sort of didn’t win the election (woot!).

Here has been my month so far, in the summary form we all know and inappropriately lust over:

-Wrote. Wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. 25,000 words in 12 days is no mean feat, my friends.

-Finger began hurting somewhere around 13,000 words. Pain became fruitful and multiplied throughout my hand.

-Continued writing anyway, since I am such a “tough cookie.”

-Finger was amputated.

Okay, the last is a complete lie. Actually my finger is doing fine now, in the sense that I can use it to type without actively weeping.

Other than that I’d say the above list was fairly accurate. I also squished in a trip to Baltimore, another trip to Philly, and still haven’t packed a single box for my apartment.

I should really get on that soon.

Anyway, all of this is my rationalization for not writing more in this blog. And my backup plans didn’t exactly work out either. I did get two very good guest blogs submitted by two writers who are at least as funny as I am, but then something strange happened. I didn’t want to use them.

Not because they weren’t good, more like because I got weirdly jealous and possessive.

My blog. Mine. MinemineMINEMINEMINE!!!, is how the thought process went. Also, I was sort of scared everyone would think they were funnier than me and stop reading my blog.

As for the CCS marathon, I would have been happy to continue with that (I still have plenty of backlogged favorites) but unfortunately the entry offended someone very close to me who regularly reads this blog. As a result, I do not feel entirely comfortable running a similar entry at this time. Perhaps after this person has had a chance to proofread the entry.

As a sidenote, I should point out that censorship is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. I heartily disagree with it and almost never employ it, but this particular situation is so delicate right now, and this person means so much to me, that I don’t feel okay about pushing the envelope just for laughs. Cost-benefit, my friends.

So both of my blog-fillers turned out to be epic failures. I guess I’ll resign myself to a light posting month, here. Hopefully when December hits, I’ll have a) more time to write and b) some good stories that don’t involve my occupational injuries.

December involves a cross country move, Vegas, friends, family, copious traveling, and proximity to death in the form of skydiving, so there’s a really excellent chance of that.

CCS, Edition One: Questionable Theology

2008-11-06T10:35:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned last week, due to my wretchedly busy schedule (which isn't really all that wretched at all; I am quite enjoying it) I will not be posting much this month, and since I wasn't exactly breaking records in this department to begin with, I figure that on the somewhat rare occasions this month that I do post, I should have something a lot funnier than my own drivel to entertain you. I am sure we're all thinking of the same obvious source of this hilarity: the church.

Now, I know what you're going to say: It's not very nice to make fun of a thousands-of-years-old institution that has brought us such fine figures as George W. Bush and Shirley Phelps-Roper, not to put too fine a point on it. And you are right, of course.

But I simply cannot resist when they make it this easy. And I am not alone in this. Thus, with all due credit to Crummy Church Signs, which has made my workdays so much more pleasant and abdominal-muscle-surgery-inducing than they would have otherwise been, I will now share with you some of my personal favorites from his website. I've got a bunch, so this will likely be the first of four or five installments.

Not wanting to make this a completely Lady-Snark-free post, let me assure you that all sarcastic comments on these signs are my own. Joel's original commentaries are plenty funny as well, and I highly recommend that you spend some quality time with his site.

Without further ado...

A Step By Step Tutorial:

Step One: Love God and live a really good life...

Fake it till you make it. Arr.

Normally, we worship Satan. But we like to mix it up a little.

Think awful thoughts however, and they will cast you into hell.

Tamie, I just thought you'd like to know that you've been leaving out a word. It's soooooo much more sincere this way.

After death, they sink into a deep depression.

Way to hedge your bets there, First Pentecostal Holiness Church.

THE FOLLOWING SIGNS HAD NO PICTURE:

"Live Drive-Thru Crucifixion. March 31-April 1, 7-9pm"

Yeah, I'll have the two-for-one nail-through-the-hand special with ketchup down my side and an extra large Chalice please.

"Salvation: Apply Within"

Please allow four to six weeks for your application to be processed. We regret that there are only six open slots at this time and encourage candidates who are not selected to reapply next year.

"After the darkest night, perhaps the brightest dawn."

But you never know. Perhaps the even darker morning.

"When you step out, God steps in."

And he turns your life around (no thanks to chickenshit you)... that's what it's all about.

Clap clap.

Annoyingly Happy

2008-10-31T06:13:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it’s the proximity to Christmas that’s making me feel this way. Perhaps it is the fact that I have been playing happy music. Perhaps it’s the fact that I have really fun things planned for the next few weekends, including this one. Perhaps it is the fact that I have never felt so deliriously excited about the prospect of my future, so secure in my choices, so certain of my path.

Whatever it is, it’s making me smile a lot.

This is sort of becoming a problem (not a big problem, I grant you... more like a problemet). It’s considered rude to be openly happy in New York City, since so many people are not. So I’ve been getting some Weird Stares, even some Grim Looks (as well as some returned knowing grins from people who are ALSO celebrating clandestine happiness for whatever reason).

I don’t blame them. I’d probably kick my own ass if I saw me acting this way.

But I can’t help it, you know? The smile, it is completely involuntary.

The happy, it is in me.

And I am not unhappy about that.

Epic Fail, Party Of One

2008-10-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

You know, I started this blog thinking that it would be a hoot, a source of laughter and merriment, a venue for getting wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, etc. I figured that it would be a casual thing, that I would have a bevy of devoted readers who would enjoy reading my babble just as often as I pleased to write it, and that it would of course be tons o’fun.

And this blog has certainly exceeded my expectations in those respects. If by “exceeded” I mean “completely destroyed,” which I do.

Oh, not that I haven’t come close enough to spit on some of these goals. Hey, I was even “I Love Your Blog”-d in what was possibly the proudest moment of my existence so far, mainly because the author of this blog is not only my own personal American Idol but also a much cooler representative of Alaska than, oh, I don’t know, anyone currently up for the VICE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.

But enough about that.

The thing is, in a giant stunning upset, people are suddenly wanting to pay me for writing stuff. Don’t get the wrong idea; there isn’t a Pulitzer involved or anything (except in the private dinner theater of my imagination, that is). But nevertheless, I’ve been writing a bunch of pieces for this online magazine. For the first time in my life, I’m a paid freelancer (as opposed to being unpaid and, um, not a freelancer at all). A positive development, to be sure.

However, a blog AND a weekly column AND a bi-weekly article AND two big, top secret writing projects that are also expected to yield me some money at some point in the future are suddenly adding up to a lot of work, especially since I still have a job. At least for the next five weeks.

Oh, didn’t I mention? I quit last week. Resigned, actually. I did this so I could move to Arizona in five weeks time.

Where am I going with this? What is my very subtle point here? Why is the person who handles your money referred to as a broker?

I AM BUSY.

Busy writing, busy packing (well, technically I haven’t packed anything yet but I’m definitely thinking seriously about starting), busy working, busy selling stuff like couches, busy traveling (I’m out of town the next two weekends and either coming or going for three out of December’s four weeks), busy hanging out with friends I probably won’t see again for a very long time, busy trying to keep the sweet guy who keeps bringing me flowers happy.

Considering that I spent a big chunk of the summer (something like 89% but I’m sure no one was keeping track) as a slothful wretch who basically did nothing, this is quite a change of activity pace for me. I’m not complaining, mind you. These are all good changes, if they do make me want to occasionally pound my head into something equally hard repeatedly.

But something has to give, and I think it’s going to have to be this blog. For the month of November, I will not be posting.

I KNOW. Please stop wailing and gnashing your teeth. You have such pretty teeth. I would not have them gnashed on my account.

All is not lost. As I am traveling so much in December (a trip to Vegas is involved, and I think we all know what that means… I may well come home a different gender), not to mention moving to a new city and getting a new job and getting to know my new family (well, technically they’re not new but living with them is), I am sure I will have plenty to write about when that time comes.

In the meantime, I will not leave this blog completely unattended. I have two or three people in mind whom I plan to ask to write guest posts on here. They are all extremely funny, wonderful people from whom I regularly draw inspiration, hope and blood (they don’t actually know about this; they think the bite marks on their neck are from their loved ones, and I am all about having other people take the blame for my nefarious activities for as long as possible). It’s quite possible that you won’t even want me back after having them in your blog-life. I will try to have one guest-post per week.

IN ADDITION, I have recently made the best discovery of my entire Internet life ever. It stimulates your funny bone to the point of orgasm, and reading it while at work is nothing if not an exercise in containing laughter the way you try to contain unwanted gas at a nice dinner party.

With (ir)reverence, I give you… Crummy Church Signs.

Because Joel Bezaire does not mind people reposting the signs he gets as long as credit is given (I hope he considers a modest shrine sufficient), I will post some of my favorite signs along with my own snarky comments. I will also try to aim for one of these per week.

So, there that is. Sorry for the horrifying news. Grief counselors are available in the lobby.

Must Be Nice To Have Those Crystal Balls

2008-10-21T09:51:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually it wasn’t. It was a bright and chilly afternoon. In autumn. This weekend. But I’m about to tell you what an encounter with pure evil looks like, so go with me here.

I was with a certain handsome, gregarious fellow that I like a little bit. We had just finished a picnic lunch in Central Park, which is not at all a cliché, so you can all stop humming annoying Chicago songs right this minute.

Being the perfect fall afternoon that it was, things inevitably grew a little chilly. So we decided it was a good time for hot chocolate (in this context, “good time” is loosely defined as “anytime between September and April”).

By and by, we found ourselves in the Trump Tower, a building that boasts an indoor waterfall, a hideously expensive (I assume; we decided that it was in our best interest not to know for sure) bar, and a lot of floors that common folk can’t visit.

There is a brightly lit café beneath the main floor. It offers tasty hot chocolate and decent tourist watching. Someone should try combining those. “Tasty Tourist” would be a good new coffee flavor, plus I bet a lot of them would have improved demeanors if they were to be submerged in a hot beverage.

We were a little sleepy. I was leaning against the boy, he was playing with my hair. (It is not at all advisable to do this to someone who needs to stay awake, such as someone who is actively participating in a surgery. By the way.) We were talking sporadically, but mainly just enjoying the bustle around us, enjoying each other’s company, and most importantly, minding our own business. Probably this is implied, but I really want that point to hit home.

We were about to make a very important discovery about life.

A woman came up to us. Now, I am not going to lie to you. This woman was old. Grandmother at a minimum, at least she could have been if anyone had ever wanted to have children with her. And she had obviously learned a thing or two in her day, like how to be a completely pessimistic bitch to total strangers. We were about to benefit from her sagacious charm.

Pollyanna walked up to us from behind, so we had no warning that her veritable tornado of cheer was about to descend upon us. She tapped my friend on the shoulder and said in a loud (smoker-coated, Brooklyn-bred, cranky) voice, while gesticulating wildly at the two of us, “THIS… RIGHT HERE… YOU TWO… THIS IS JUST TEMPORARY.”

Our reaction, predictably, was a rather dumbfounded and unoriginal “Um…” This did not stop Pollyanna from continuing to expound on her theory.

“THIS ISN’T GOING TO LAST. IT’S ONLY FOR NOW.”

The boy recovered first (he’s good like that) and thanked her politely for coming over to tell us about that. Her response?

“AHAHAHAHAHA—cough—HAHAHAHAHAHA.”

This wasn’t a normal laugh, the sound a person makes in response to an amusing statement or occurrence. This was what a nice cocktail of bitterness, old age, chortling at one’s own “jokes” (epic failures), and throat cancer sounds like in auditory form.

“I’M JUST MESSING WITH YOU, HONEY. I’M OLD.” (No kidding.) “YOU TWO LOOK VERY CUTE TOGETHER.”

At this point, my companion was laughing. He even wished her a nice evening as she walked away. Me, I was trying to remember where the good voodoo doll vendor stands were located. (This is New York—of course there are voodoo doll vendor stands. I think.)

OF COURSE, the good comebacks started coming to me well over an hour later:

Yes, this is temporary—fortunately for humanity, so is everything else, including your life!

Who, him? He’s actually my brother.

(sad look) Yes, the doctor pronounced it terminal yesterday. I have two months left. How did you know?

The Plague Of Gnats

2008-10-17T11:30:00.000-07:00

This is the one they don’t really say a lot about in Exodus. It just blitzes by, and the totally irresponsible lack of detail might cause a reader to think, “Gnats? Oh, gnats! Little tiny bugs that can be swatted! Gee, God, some ‘plague’! Surely you can do better than that.”

Then God (who is apparently listening) proceeds to slaughter all the firstborn, and the reader thinks, “Okay! Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about, God! Way better than gnats! Go Moses!”

Yes, in the wake of having one of your children murdered by an angel with an Uzi, gnats might seem relatively minor. But not all of us are lucky enough to have that historical perspective, and those of us will proceed now to whine heavily.

We have a gnat problem in our office. (No shit.)

What does this mean for you? Well, nothing. Unless you happen to work with me. If you do, that’s unfortunate. Not least because I do the food ordering in this office and no I will not order you some more cookies, you have to make them last a whole month and it’s not my fault we’re out already.

Here’s what the Bible doesn’t explain, selective-reporting gossip magazine that it is. Gnats, though tiny, are not so tiny that they do not cause annoyance when they fly around one’s head by the dozen. They are VERY hard to kill by swatting. They may look slow, but they have these little piston engines that they can turn on in the blink of an eye and then you, my friend, are screwed.

When you do manage to kill one, you feel good for a second. Almost like you really accomplished something, as opposed to most days in the office. But then, three more swarm around you, sort of a Hydra for the new millennium.

And God forbid you open your mouth at any point during the eight-hour day. Please don’t ask me to explain any further.

Gnats are small and nasty and I hate them. New scourge, please.

I’ll take Plague of Darkness for $300, Alex.

That sounds kind of nice actually. Like a long nap.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

2008-10-14T13:45:00.000-07:00

If there’s a better, more efficient way to go through life than the way I have been going through life for the past few days, I frankly cannot imagine it. Here are just a few little snippets:

-I hardly ever sleep at all anymore, so during those special times when the sky goes all darky dark and normal people engage in what I assume must be very pleasant REM cycles, I lie in the dark and stare at the wall. After awhile, I turn and stare at my desk. Then when that gets boring, I turn and stare at the wall some more. In the meantime, thoughts are volleying through my head at an absolutely unbelievable speed. It’s fucking Wimbledon in there, people. This goes on for hours and hours and hours and then suddenly it’s time to get up. My functionality decreases by about half every time this happens, and it’s been going on for something like a straight week.

-During the day—ah, yes, the day, right after the night during which ordinary people enjoyed a refreshing rest and not a bout with insomnia that would normally require a cause of not less than five consecutive Stephen King movies—my brain periodically shuts down. Really. I can hear it. Whirr. Silence. Dark. Blank. No brain activity. Usually this happens at a really great time, like when I’m in the middle of writing a column that’s due in an hour, or paying bills, or having a conversation with my boss.

-My frustration is becoming a physical being. I call him Tony. He’s big, strong, well able to overtake other, less endowed mental characteristics like “organized” and “pragmatic” and “not an alcoholic.” Tony is argumentative and selfish, constantly wanting all of my attention for himself. And he gets it, too, because he gave “emotional control” a sound beating last week and I haven’t seen it since.

-I just started dating a fantastic person who, like me, is in the process of losing his mind due to titanic levels of personal stress. I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re so happy. If becoming insane together isn’t romantic, then I would like to know what is.

-Running is the only way I can relax at all right now. That would be fine, except for two things. It is getting darker earlier, so even if I go running the second I arrive home, the sky grows dim around me in a matter of minutes, almost like God is screwing with the stage lights. I wouldn’t mind running in the dark, only I keep having this vision of myself getting a) shot in a drive-by, b) mugged… of my iPod (seriously, there must be better targets out there), or c) killed with a meat cleaver and hacked into thousands of bite-size pieces for the millions and millions of dogs I already have to accommodate during my run, inasmuch as they refuse to get out of my way even when I’m coming right at them and they can obviously see me. And God help me if I kick any of them. Not that I have. (More than once, that is. Look, it was an accident, lady. Let it go.) In other words, they are already in my way and messing up my momentum and I really don’t see why I should also have to be their dinner. All of this is more likely to happen after dark, when the people who might come to my aid are engaging in what I assume must be very pleasant REM cycles.

Oh yeah, the other thing: in my admirable quest to find “The Zone,” attainable only by running far and fast and past one’s dinnertime, I have torn blisters into my feet the size of potholes. Running is less enjoyable with bloody socks, for the record, but more fragrant.

I Have Discovered My Drug Of Choice

2008-10-12T13:17:00.000-07:00

I will now proceed to become an addict, and happy about it.

You see, not two hours ago I was sitting in this very seat, in this very room, writing on this very computer about this very day. It was not going well. I have since deleted the entry, but to summarize, it basically went, "I am lazy, I suck, I am not getting anything done, I might as well dig a hole and rot into it." Et cetera, with a few self deprecating, not-all-that-funny remarks thrown in.

Well, that's all changed now, and it's all because of this beautiful thing I discovered only a few weeks ago. Some like to call it ecstasy; some like to call it nirvana. I like to call it free, legal, and of course, something that leaves me sweaty and spent.

(That's what she said.)

That drug is, of course, running. I'll be frank with you, my friends. When I started this experiment of sorts just about a month ago, I wasn't really sure how well it would take. I haven't stuck closely to a fitness regimen in years, and while I had a fairly positive initial experience in the sense that I didn't actually die, I wasn't sure if I would find the motivation to stick with it.

Well, friends, that doubt is now banished to the land where unhappy thoughts go to die. The "runner's high" is a real thing-- granted you have to run for miles and miles and miles and wonder just what the hell you are doing with your life a few times in order to get it, but if you keep going, eventually it will find you.

Today, I ran for 1 hour, 1 minute, and 52 seconds. I ran 10 laps around my block. If you'll recall, I could only manage TWO my first time out, barely a month ago. And until tonight, the most I had managed was six.

I still don't know how far around my block is, but it's definitely between a third of a mile and half a mile. Heck, it might even be a mile. There's no real way to tell when you're as bad at judging distance as I am. But I think it's safe to say that I ran somewhere between three and five miles tonight.

Proud. Happy. Feeling much better about this whole universe-spinning-no-matter-what concept.

All is right with the world.

A For Effort?

2008-10-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

Note: This is a repost from a different blog which most of you would have no reason to read; therefore I feel no compunction about reposting it. If it's "new to you," it's new, right? Good rule of thumb for cars, jeans, boyfriends, and blog posts.

"Tolstoy wrote for the masses, the common man. It's completely untrue that you have to be some sort of genius to read his stuff."

-Rory Gilmore

Okay, so a couple of things here. First of all, have you ever noticed that the only people who make statements like that are, in fact, geniuses (or at least much smarter than you)? Because, you only have to watch 5 minutes of Gilmore Girls to be fully aware of the fact that Rory Gilmore is supposed to be a smart cookie. Definitely smarter than the average cookie (although the average cookie has chocolate chips in it, which are yummy, so it all evens out in the end).

And, I think she has read more books than the Library of Congress contains. A bold statement? Indeed it is, but consider the following. TV time is different from our time. TV time is kind of like Santa time... basically, an hour lasts just as long as it needs to last in order to get from Point A to Point B in the plot. And people are whatever age they feel like being for as long as they feel like being that age. Rory was 16 for two years, as an example. That's the kind of time this kid has to read all the books ever written by Tolstoy and Dickens and whoever else wrote really long, confusing novels. She has had A LOT of time to read and absorb aforementioned really long, confusing novels so that she could then go on to make moronic statements like that, not realizing that it's easy for her to say everyone should be able to understand this stuff when she already understands this stuff!

The point I'm trying to make here (yes, I do have one) is that when it comes to reading Dostoevsky (he's not exactly the same as Tolstoy I realize-- some nonsense about being a "different man" who lived a "different life" but for the purposes of this rant he's close enough-- I might even call them Tolstoevsky from now on), I am a complete hopeless idiot. I can't even spell his name, for God's sake. I had to look it up, and then use the copy paste function. Never mind actually slogging through an entire novel. I have been trying for around three years to read The Brothers Karamazov. Can. Not. Do. It. Where. Is. Stove? Must. Stick. Head. In!

So my dear, sweet, gentle, well-meaning sister who I'll stab to death one of these days, recommended I start with something easier (not in quite so many words, naturally, or the aforementioned stabbing would have already occurred... I don't take constructive criticism particularly well, especially when it comes in response to copious whining). She handed me a copy of Notes From Underground, which certainly is easier than The Brothers K, provided you define "easier" as "just as fiendishly difficult, but at least it's shorter."

It is shorter, almost to the point of being short-- just over 100 pages, which I actually think was kind of malicious of my little pal Fyodor, because it makes clueless morons like myself think that we actually have a shot at successfully slogging through the thing. I can just see him finishing this devilish little book, giggling to himself as he pictured all the people who would try to read it and then experience failure on such a massive scale that they gave up reading and writing altogether, thus eliminating his competition forevermore. I know what you're thinking-- yes, that is quite a journey he had to take there, but this is a guy who thinks nothing of fifteen-page sentences, so you can see how long journeys come somewhat naturally to him.

AND I TRIED!!! I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY, REALLY TRIED!! IT'S ONLY 130 PAGES LONG!! GOD, ANY IDIOT CAN GET THROUGH 130 PAGES!!! WHY AM I SUCH A HOPELESS MORON? WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING, LEARNING TO READ? TALK ABOUT SETTING MYSELF UP FOR EPIC FAILURE!

I spent the last week sitting on the subway trying to gut this thing out. Now, for those of you out there who, for whatever reason, such as a will to live, do not live in this grand cosmopolitan snake pit I affectionately refer to as NYC, here is some advice for you should that will-to-live thing ever reverse itself without warning (perhaps after reading some Tolstoevsky!): always bring two books on the subway. This is sage advice, my friends. It's right up there with "Look both ways before crossing the street" and "Don't pick your nose in public." Trust me, you'll be glad you listened to me.

If you do not have two books, if you only bring one, and you finish that one before your ride is over or it gets boring or stupid or whatever, then you will have no alternative but to focus intently on the body odor of the large man sitting beside you. Or, it could be a woman. Or possibly a well-groomed Newfoundland. There's really no way to tell. Anyway, a good book isn't a complete guarantee against noticing the body odor, but it does help to stave off the nausea. Well, sometimes. Don't ask about the other side of sometimes-- some stories are better left untold (Notes From Underground, as a completely random example).

So, bring two books. I, silly little dear that I am, did NOT bring two books while I was reading NFU. Or trying to read it (kind of ironic that I was underground almost the whole time). I brought ONLY THAT BOOK, for exactly that reason-- I didn't want an alternative book, because I knew if I had one I would definitely not ever get around to reading Notes From Underground.

And God knows, that would be sad. Tragic like the Holocaust. So, I did read the whole thing, and I even understood what was going on during a whole solid eleven pages, and now here's my question: how much does reading comprehension count when one is reading a classic? I mean, do I get to claim that I read Notes From Underground by sheer wish-fulfillment? Does it matter that I couldn't understand the words, so long as I read the words? Also, do I get kicked out of the I Read Books For Fun Club because I am not Rory Gilmore and also not my sister, because they can understand these books and adore these books and I can't, because I am thicker than a concussed troll when it comes to classics, because I know I can't read them because they have words longer than two syllables, but I try sometimes, because I feel like I should for personal growth and attempting this has obviously strengthened my run-on sentence skills a little, and damn it, that should count for something, right?

What do you think, guys? A for effort? Please?? Help me out here, I'm just an average cookie!! I have yummy chocolate chips, though!!

What Not To Wear... Ever, Ever Again

2008-09-30T11:24:00.000-07:00

We all have things that we are not good at. Some people have trouble saying no. Some people have trouble keeping things closed (mouths, ovens, liquor bottles). Some people—who shall remain nameless—are not terrific at managing companies without losing millions of dollars in the process.

For example.

I myself am not exempt from this. Though I realize that I normally appear flawless—an image which is relentlessly encouraged by my PR agent—I, too, have things that I do not do well.

One of those things is shopping. Any kind of shopping, really—I experience the Christmas season the way a blind person experiences pinch hitting for the Mets. There’s lots of darkness and blunt trauma to the head. But it is shopping for clothes that really makes me want to mainline strychnine.

No, I am definitely not a “fashionista” in the same way that I am not blonde, age seven, a boy, et cetera. When I was in high school (an age where most girls need to be tied to a chair to keep from spending other people’s money), my mother used to bribe me so that I would go shopping with her. (I realized years later how nice it is to have other people pay for your clothes. Fortunately, my former viewpoint still stood, and I still had the same generous mother.)

It is much the same now, and as a result I own approximately four outfits:

-The Work Suit. As I have mentioned before, I wear this so often it’s basically my default setting. Black pants, ugly but sensible shoes, some sort of blousy thing, and a blazer. It is almost never a problem to go straight from work to a funeral.

-The Weekend Lounger. Jeans and a shirt. The shirt may change depending on whether I am going on a date, hanging out with a friend, vandalizing public property (in which case it would be a black shirt), et cetera.

-The Bedtime/Workout McComfy. Boxers, T-shirt, sweatpants and/or sweater, camisole, or any variation thereof depending on the weather and my mood.

-The Dressy Dress. Until this weekend, I had one. It is black, strapless, and inexplicably sexy even on me, hater of all things strapless. I bought it for ten pounds in London when I was sixteen, and it continues to fit me like a glove to this day. Allergic to wrinkles, machine washable, and very tiny (thus placing little demand on storage space), it is the perfect dress for me. Utterly low-maintenance. I have no accessories for this dress. No shoes, no shawl, no jewelry, no nylons. I wear it approximately once every two years.

That’s it.

You probably think I’m kidding.

Another thing: I don’t do dry cleaning. I have always washed my blazers with the rest of my clothes, which was fine at my first job when I wore a kiddie blazer that I’m pretty sure was made out of cotton. But with an actual blazer, that doesn’t really work. As a result, my solution to a blazer being dirty is generally to buy another one. Either that or wash it, which I can usually get away with once before the thing is completely shredded.

We’re talking 20+ years of this attitude, my friends. That is a long time to remain ignorant of fashion basics. I consider it something of an accomplishment, but it can also be a liability. I have literally never cared about clothes, and this extends to other people as well. An ex-boyfriend of mine once showed up for a date wearing an obscenely ugly pink-and-green horizontally striped shirt. It took me half the night to figure out why I was throwing up in my mouth a little when I looked at him—this was a handsome guy. I kept thinking something was wrong with me.

All of this is a roundabout way of saying that when I enthusiastically agreed to come to Washington DC—a city to which I had never been before and about which I had heard no end of good things—to hang out with some friends of mine, shopping was not on the agenda. It never crosses my mind that some people find that a fun way to spend an afternoon. To me, it's every bit as enjoyable as flying.

But here’s the thing about hanging out with four people who like to shop and complaining loudly about how badly you suck at shopping: You might just wind up shopping. Or “being shopped,” as I like to call it.

And I’ll be damned if being shopped wasn’t—I can’t believe I’m about to say this—fun! Before I knew it, we were in a store called Express.

Express sure has a lot of clothes.

I felt very vulnerable.

“I am totally in your hands,” I said to my friends. “I’m your Barbie doll.”

“What’s your budget?” one of my friends asked.

I laughed. Lately my fiscal management style has been a combination of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and Dumbo the Flying Elephant—out of control and completely out of touch with reality. Parenthetically, this is a really bad time to be experiencing a bout of financial immaturity. I’m hoping it passes soon.

“I need everything. Just have fun.”

Boy, did they take that seriously. It was like their own personal commandment.

Before I knew it, I was trying on dresses. Me. I think the last time I looked at dresses was, literally, five years ago when I was planning to get hitched.

Not just dresses, though. My friends drew on their deep, impressive reserves of fashion knowledge and picked out quite a lot of stuff that looked good on me. I definitely remember at least one pair of pants that didn’t make me want to immediately amputate my legs.

Other things too. But mainly I remember the dresses. Despite my friends’ patient and insistent proclamations that I looked good, judging from the pictures, I was quite obviously not of that opinion. Even I can tell that the pictures are hideously unflattering not because of the dresses, but because I radiated tension the way the sun radiates warmth. My slumped-over body language and pained expression do not an attractive fashion statement make.

Alas, getting out of that store without buying anything would have been harder than getting through an obstacle course on a land mine while being chased by ravenous wolves in an acid rainstorm. I ended up buying a blazer (remember how I needed a new one?), two nice work-friendly sweaters, one of which I am wearing right now (it’s cute and keeps me warm), and…

…a dress.

A cute dress.

Don’t ask me how it happened. I wasn’t involved in the selection process.

I wore this dress on a coffee date the following day, and I was absolutely stunned by the reception it received. I’ve never had so many cute guys checking me out before that I can remember. Leaving aside the obvious feminist implications, I must admit that this was flattering.

Okay, I kind of get why women dress like this more often than every two years.

On Thursday, I am going to a Broadway show. I will be wearing a dress. Yes, two times in one week! Stay tuned for updates on the Apocalypse.

In summary: Being shopped doesn't suck too much. There’s a lesson here, friends, and I think we all know what it is.

Lady Snark could really benefit from having a team of personal shoppers at the ready.

Tips For The Weary Job Hunter-Gatherer

2008-09-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

In this distressed economy, many of us will at some point or another be in search of gainful employment. Most of us would prefer that gainful employment to be, on a social acceptability scale, a little higher than bank robber.

Since I am an expert* at finding jobs, I have taken it upon myself to compile a handy list of tips for the weary job-hunter that are guaranteed** to have you back to work in no time.

*In the sense that I am not on welfare.
**Not a guarantee.

Resume Writing: How To Feint With Impunity

-A resume is a piece of paper that documents your greatness in order to get you within shouting distance of important people that would normally scowl at the sight of you so they will give you a job. The deeper the scowl, the better the prospective job and the less likely you are to get it.

-If you do not know how to write a resume, ask a friend to write one for you. This friend should have a few creative writing classes under their belt. A nice history of compulsive lying and getting away with it doesn’t hurt either.

-A resume generally includes things like your work history and educational background, plus really self-indulgent lists of your best qualities. However, you don’t have to include every little detail. When applying for work at a Fortune 500 company, you should skip the pole dancing and the drug peddling. If your resume is a little skint and you need to fill space, leave them in but describe them creatively. “Customer Satisfaction Expert” and “Marketing/Sales Director” are much more corporate-friendly ways to describe those occupations.

Getting People To Look At Your Resume: A Guide To Stalking

-I personally get resumes all the time. I throw them out, mainly because we’re not hiring. Don’t let that stop you! A good way to make sure that the person receiving your resume will actually pass it on is to include a nice crisp Benjamin Franklin with it, along with a thinly veiled bribe note indicating that there is “plenty more where that came from.” Of course, this may backfire if you are actually hired by this company and suddenly find yourself under pressure for more bribes from that person. Every job has its drawbacks.

-To circumvent the first tip, it helps to send your resume to places that are actually hiring for a real live position. However, doing so will place you in a nasty circle of capitalist competition—suddenly a lot of people are going for the same job opening you are (as opposed to the nonexistent job opening of the company that is not hiring), most of whom are probably better qualified than you! This is a problem, unless you have some background as a hitman (“Solutions Manager”). Do not lose heart. You have a tool at your disposal that most people have too much pride to utilize: stalking.

-Call early, call often, call incessantly. Believe me, you will make an impression. If you don’t end up with a job, you will at least end up in a place where people speak softly and feed you nice meals and even provide prescription drugs, thereby eliminating the need for a job altogether.

-If all else fails, include a naked photo of yourself with your resume. If you do not think that this tactic would work in your favor, choose a naked photo of someone of the appropriate gender that will. Most likely, the person receiving your resume will try very hard to score you an interview, just to see if you live up to the photo. Obviously you won’t if you borrowed the photo, but it will not matter. This is called “getting your foot in the door,” and it’s an accepted part of the job-hunting process.

Interviewing: The Fine Art of Making People Think They Like You

-Show up on time. It helps if you schedule the interview sometime between Oprah and House so that there are no conflicts.

-Don’t smell bad. If you are unsure of the process to ensure this, most bottles of shampoo and deodorant contain instructions on the back.

-Wear clothes, preferably clothes which contain ingredients like collars and buttons and unflattery. Not only is this corporate-friendly gear, it may fool the receptionist into thinking you might yet live up to the photo you sent, if only you were naked.

-Be prepared to explain the “gaps” in your resume, such as your three years in prison. It is a true fact that if you mention the words “Witness Protection,” all inquiries stop.

-You might meet one person during the interview, you might meet eight. Keep the names straight. The old “Post-It-On-The-Back” trick is always a winner.

-If the interview seems to be going south, don’t hesitate to mention your “special skills” and throw in a wink or two. You’ve got nothing to lose.

I personally do not see how you could fail to land a job, if you follow these tips to the letter. But if you do, don’t despair. There’s always a perfectly viable alternative to living on the street, and we all know what that is: A government bailout.

Best of luck!

My Day So Far, In Haiku

2008-09-23T10:01:00.000-07:00

Holy non-haiku word
What is the sun doing here?
Go away sun.

Stomach turning tricks
Perhaps fourth Monday drink
Was a bad idea.

Why would I mind
When your stinky dog licks my clean face
On the subway?

Where am I?
I really need to develop
A sense of direction.

Oh, okay.
Just took a different subway exit this time.
No problem.

Lots of work today.
I think I will procrastinate
First, then often.

I would rather not pay for
My plane tickets, Continental.
Plzthnx.

Why are people unreliable?
I rant
As I procrastinate.

I think that my friend would like
To pay for dinner tonight
Well, okay.

No Sleep Till Brooklyn*

2008-09-19T10:16:00.000-07:00

I can’t sleep!

*This is a song title, and not reflective of any sincere belief on my part that things would improve if I were to visit Brooklyn. If anything, the guns and drug lords would make it more difficult for me to sleep.

I have insomnia, and it’s been getting worse lately. Quite frequently I will bolt awake at four in the morning completely convinced that the house-size green elephants who were chasing me with pepper spray and handcuffs really caught me and now I am done for.

And some nights, I can’t get to sleep at all. I discover my blankets on the floor as often as not because I am an eggbeater with an attitude problem once I get horizontal, and this goes into hyperdrive when I am lying awake.

Possible Causes Of This Disorder That Is Making Me Feel Like A Character In A Scary Stephen King Novel:

-I have read too many scary Stephen King novels in my lifetime. Which is to say, two or three. I’m kind of a wuss like that.

-I am stressed out, something that could easily be remedied with a few pretty Italian boys to give me aromatherapy massages around the clock (in shifts, okay, I’m not a total despot—that’s why there are several of them).

-Too much meth abuse. I knew I should have been more wary of that cross-country truck driver and his “candy.”

-Estrogen. This is what I get for being a woman. Thanks a lot for not controlling my gender, Mom.

-Sleeping at odd hours. So falling asleep at work is a bad idea? That’s what you’re telling me?

-The government is testing a top-secret torture weapon on me that wakes people up as soon as they fall asleep for no discernible reason**

Possible Effects Of This Disorder:

-**Paranoia, but I’m sure I don’t have that.

-Hallucinations. Those damn green elephants. I thought that was a dream.

-Impaired functionality during daytime hours. “Oh hi… this is [Lady Snark]. Wait a sec… I didn’t mean to call you.”

-Eventual death. Well, we all have to go somehow.

This is, in a word, not fun.

Okay, so that’s two words.

Give me a break, I’m really sleepy.

Baby Got Published!

2008-09-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

Remember the self-congratulatory/egomaniac entry I mentioned? Here it is.

It’s true.

A person (who was no doubt drinking heavily at the time) actually read my stuff and thought to herself, “Hey, that’s pretty good! Lady Snark is one hell of a writer! I think I’ll publish this and pay her for it!”

And no, that person was not me. Of course, I do pay myself to write and praise myself copiously, because I have an ego the size of Montana. But somehow, it’s just different when someone else has these thoughts about you.

My friend Kelly and I have been writing together for months now. Our shared interests in personal finance and writing, plus the fact that we’re almost too cool to function, threw us into the following chain of events:

-I think to myself, “Hey, I like to write and balance a checkbook, mainly because I’m a freak of nature. Also, I am young. I should write about money for other young people!”

-I meet Kelly on a money message board devoted to personal finance, on which I have been posting for over a year. I decide that she is cool.

-I learn that she is my age, also likes to write, and has in fact published her writing in the past. I decide that she is cooler than me.

-The food processor of my mind takes this information, mashes it up, and produces the following thought: Kelly and I should write personal finance articles for young people together! A little butterfly flaps his wings…

-I share my idea with Kelly. She likes it and thinks we will work well together. I decide that her coolness, much like mine, cannot be measured.

-Kelly and I write a mess of articles about finance. Because we both have a work ethic and the ability to type really fast, we soon have more material than we know what to do with (100+ pages).

-We begin submitting our work to the editors of MSN.com, which is the website with which we’re most familiar and believe we have the best shot. Excitement and New York Times Bestseller fantasies ensue.

-Weeks go by. We do not hear back from MSN.com. Happiness does not ensue.

-Kelly is a rock star and gets herself published in a local paper. Then she gets a cover article. I am simultaneously pleased for her and concentrating on keeping my jealous rage under wraps.

-Kelly uses her considerable persuasive powers (I suspect hypnosis was involved) on a mutual friend of ours from the same message board, and convinces her what a good idea it would be to have us writing a mini-financial column for her website, SparkNotes.

-Said mutual friend agrees to take a look at our work.

-Said mutual friend likes our work! She is just amazingly cool. Shows it to her editor.

-Editor likes our work! Agrees to publish a weekly advice column and a bi-monthly mini-financial column! We are officially freelance writers!

-Kelly and I do a happy dance! With multiple exclamation points! Yes, of course a happy dance can have proper punctuation!

-We run around telling our friends and family that we have a column. Happiness ensues.

-And today, holiest of all holy days, our first column is published.

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the world premiere of…

SNARK BITE!

I Am Not Pregnant, And Other Great News

2008-09-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

“And I’m FREE! FREE FALLING!”

-Really annoying Tom Petty song from the 90’s that made my eardrums mutiny whenever I heard it

OR

-the Stock Market as of last night

Yes, I am sure this is probably one of the happiest days of Richard Fuld’s life, right up there with his eighth birthday (when his mom planned the amazing party with the clown that ended up murdering his three best friends) or his wedding day (when his bride-to-be ran off with the groomsman).

No, this is not a happy day for anyone with even a passing interest in the United States economy. The dollar might as well be an empty Snickers bar wrapper for all the value it holds at the moment, the federal government finally decided to put its foot down after the damage had basically been done, and AIG needs to somehow come up with a few more (40 billion) dollars which, oddly, no one is clamoring to give them.

Gotta love how this great big grizzly bear of an economy can be traced pretty much directly back to the housing crisis. As a nation, we have the money management skills of a drunk toddler in a toy store, which seems to be catching up with us at long last.

And me? I’m feeling a bit under the weather this morning. See title.

Beats the alternative though!

Some Heart Stopping Terror With Your Moonlight Swim?

2008-09-12T09:44:00.000-07:00

As firmly as I believe that the universe should always work in accordance with what is convenient and/or pleasant for me, alas, such is not the case.

I promised an entry Wednesday which would detail my recent accomplishment. And I had every intention of following through on that promise. I wrote the self-congratulatory entry and everything. All was set to go.

Then I found out that my brilliant achievement (I should probably quit talking it up as though I cured cancer) would be delayed for a week.

This is unfortunate, but at least it’s still happening.

As nothing else in my life is currently blog-worthy, I look to an anecdote from my recent road trip with BP, a very nice guy who apparently gets his jollies from scaring me half out of my wits.

We were driving from Massachusetts to Vermont, on our way to a campsite we were hoping to reach before dark and thus avoid putting up the tent by headlight as we did the first time. (Never do that.) It was mid-afternoon, a very warm and sunny day, and it felt good to be on the road with the windows down and some quality music playing. It was like if Bambi were a road trip.

Then we drove past a quarry. The nation’s oldest quarry, to be exact.

If you’ve never been to a quarry before, they can be really gorgeous swimming spots and there are a lot of different ways you can get killed. They are basically rocks with big man-made holes that are made to remove minerals or rock for building materials.

Over time, they often fill up with water, creating a sort of marble pool.

Of course, we had to get out of the car and check this out.

Of course, it was decided that we would need to go swimming.

In a rare (you have no idea) moment of sensibility, BP and I decided to find the campsite and put up the tent before our swimming shenanigans. This was smart, because our campsite had a lot of twisty turns in it, and we would never have found it if we’d waited until nightfall. Especially with no headlights.

Then we went to the grocery store to procure supplies for our picnic dinner by said quarry.

INGREDIENTS FOR A PICNIC DINNER BY A QUARRY:

-Bread. If you forget, manna will be provided, but it will not taste as good as fresh French bread.

-Cheese. Stinky and with spots is the way to go, according to BP. I picked out some sharp cheddar for myself. Much safer.

-Wine. We sort of skipped this one, but only because we happened to be in Vermont, which is apparently the Mecca of cheap liquor. Earlier in the day we had purchased at least $100 worth of booze, which was already in the trunk.

-Fruit. Grapes and apples are good, because they are not messy.

-Peanut butter and honey or jam.

-Hummus. The secret ingredient. Before this picnic, I had tasted hummus once or twice, and it simultaneously reminded me of mud (texture) and Kleenex (taste). Just to be sure, I added a bit of salt. Then it tasted like salty Kleenex mud. Hummus is made of mashed up garbanzo beans. Left to its own devices, it is some nasty, bland shit. If you mess with it enough, however, you get the radiant sandwich spread to which I have decided to consecrate my life.

The kind that BP picked out was “Tomato Basil Squish” (or somesuch). It looked revolting, but I agreed to try it (mainly to silence those pesky “you are the pickiest eater I’ve ever met” accusations).

It’s hard to talk about this without getting emotional. Just trust me. Once I put it on my bread, my life was never the same again. You can find it in your local grocery store—check the “Odd Things That Look Nasty But Aren’t” aisle.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself, as we didn’t eat until after we swam. We arrived at the quarry around twilight. The heat of the day was basically gone, and though it wasn’t cold by any means, the prospect of being submerged in icy water was, shall we say, a little less inviting than it had been four hours prior.

But BP and I didn’t get to where we are in life by fretting about these things, so we set up our picnic nearby, took off our outer clothing, and stood at the quarry’s edge, contemplating deep concepts like God and Frostbite.

BP may be the more fearless eater of the two of us (similar to the way a Great Dane may be a little bigger than a Chihuahua), but in terms of sheer nerve, I am way ahead of him, as the following sequence of events clearly demonstrates.

-(Speaking of dogs), there is a little tiny white dog whose owner is standing on the bank of the quarry, fully dressed, with a smirky expression on her face that clearly connotes that she does not intend to get in the water and is completely ready to mock anyone that does. She keeps throwing a Frisbee onto the water, which her dog is supposed to chase down and retrieve (you dog owners are familiar with this game; I think they call it “catch”). Of course the dog is happy as a clam—dogs have no temperature control, so they don’t know any better. Anyway, we stand there watching this little hound make the jump-in-and-swim process look soooo easy for a few minutes.

-I decide that I am not going to be outdone by a freaking dog.

-I jump into the water.

-OMG THAT WAS SUCH A BAD IDEA!!!

-Cold. Cold. Coldcoldfuckcoldcoldcoldcoldcoldicycold.

-I scream for awhile.

-BP laughs. Mistake.

-I climb out of the water. Merciful heaven. The air is warm. I am not a dog. I am a person. I do not have fur. What in. God’s name. Was I thinking. People are not meant to swim. No fur. No swim. I do not have fur.

-I go right up behind BP.

-I strategically place my hands in front of me and push.

-BP falls into the water. It may or may not have been a direct result of what I did.

-BP comes up screaming. I laugh. Karma’s a bitch.

-I get back in the water. It is not quite so bad this time. We swim.

-Eventually hypothermia sets in and the temperature is very pleasant. We swim some more.

-There is a waterfall. There are big rocks. We jump off them. Again, I go first.

So as I said, I think this conclusively proves who’s got the bigger garbanzo beans, so to speak.

Anyway, while we were swimming around, BP told me about quarries. How they were made, and so forth.

Then he added, probably as revenge, the following interesting tidbit:

People die in quarries fairly regularly during construction and their bodies are left there.

Gulp.

“Uh, haha, so does that mean there might be some dead bodies in this quarry where we’re swimming right now?”

“No.”

Whew. Thank God.

“It means there are definitely dead bodies in this quarry where we’re swimming right now.”

Some of you may remember that I don’t handle the idea of buried bodies particularly well. Plus, whether you admit it or not, you’ve read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and you remember the scene with the lake and the Inferi as well as I do.

Suddenly I felt something brush my leg.

“Uh, I think I’m going to get out now. I’m uh, getting cold. Yeah. And hungry.”

“Don’t you want to swim over to the island?” BP asked.

Malicious male. There’s a reason the first three letters of those words are the same.

Kids, this is peer pressure at its finest.

“Um, well, okay. But then I’m getting out.”

We swam. Island was pretty. All I could think about were dead bodies floating beneath me. One of the rocks had a bump covered in moss, and I thought it was a decaying finger. I nearly lost my marbles.

Did I mention that by this time it was dark?

I managed to escape from the Quarry of Death without becoming one of Them.

I brought with me a brand new shiny resolution not to do mean things to people who carry disturbing information in their heads.

Run, Forrest, Run!

2008-09-09T09:36:00.000-07:00

I went running yesterday.

No, not from the cops and not on a dare.

I did it voluntarily. For real.

Why is this? Well, a few days ago I was on Facebook (fantastic invention, that—allows you to easily keep track of just how far behind your peers you really are), and I began chatting with an old friend of mine from high school.

Me: So what’s going on in your life?

OFOMFHS: Oh, not too much… just working and training for my marathon!

Me: …

OFOMFHS: Yeah, it’s in a couple months! I am having a lot of fun. I ran 19 miles this morning.

Me: …

OFOMFHS: You still there?

Me: Just dying a little bit inside, OFOMFHS.

OFOMFHS: Haha, why?

Me: Well, the last time I ran was a few weeks ago when I was drunk and thought I was being chased. You are much cooler than me. I am very impressed.

OFOMFHS: Aw, thanks. Well, I’m very impressed at your [RECENT ACCOMPLISHMENT OF WHICH I AM ACTUALLY PROUD AND WHICH I WILL WRITE ABOUT TOMORROW ASSUMING ALL GOES ACCORDING TO PLAN].

Me: I guess that is okay. If we’re both impressed with each other, the Circle of Life is complete.

Now, I know what some of you may be thinking as you read this little exchange. “Wow, Lady Snark is so insecure that she needs to compare herself to her OFsFHS?”

The answer is, yes. Also jealous. Don’t forget jealous.

This is the ugly side of only-child syndrome (I say that like there’s an attractive side). I like to be number one, the star, the center of attention, the winner. If someone beats me at something, I feel small inside.

And my friend being capable of running twenty six miles in a span of time shorter than, oh, fifteen years—while I am an unequivocal couch potato who used to be semi-active in various sports and now consider intense physical activity to be taking the stairs instead of the elevator to my fifth-floor apartment—definitely qualifies as beating me. Like a cheap piñata.

Don’t get me wrong: I am happy for my friend, as well as deeply impressed. I could not run that far on a death march. It’s very cool that she can run a marathon.

But the very natural, predictable result of this discovery was as follows: Hey, I want to run a marathon!

I crack myself up. Literally. By the time I was done laughing at that one, I’d broken a rib. Me running a marathon? Maybe if they don’t consider driving to be cheating.

However, the basic idea of running for fun wasn’t so crazy. The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like a capital idea. This shows how delusional I can be in the throes of jealousy.

But nonetheless, I decided to give it a shot.

So when I got home from work yesterday, I got right down to business. I knew that if I sat down at my computer or started fixing a snack, it would be all over. The Lazy would set in again, laughing with childlike glee, and by tomorrow I’d have given up on the whole idea.

The timeline of the next half hour was as follows:

6:10 pm: Change out of suit and pull back hair. Gel causes hair to stick straight up behind headband. Looks stupid. Pause long enough to lay out work clothes neatly on couch. Don iPod, the running-girl’s best friend.

6:13 pm: Leave apartment. Wait for elevator.

6:13 pm: Elevator is taking too long. Grow impatient. Remember that I am supposed to be working out. Take stairs.

6:14 pm: Arrive in front of apartment. Contemplate how to run in an unfamiliar neighborhood (yes, I’ve lived here for two years and yes, it’s an unfamiliar neighborhood) without getting hopelessly lost. Decide to run around the block until I get tired.

6:15 pm: Begin run. Yay! This is fun! I like this downward-sloping part!

6:14 pm: Turn corner. Road begins slanting uphill. Oh.

6:18 pm: Still going strong. If by “strong” I mean “I am such a wuss, but it’s been three minutes and I have not yet given up, damn it.”

6:20 pm: Merciful heaven. The road is slanting downhill again. My, this is a big block. I wonder how far it is. Am I going to get lost?

6:21 pm: There’s my apartment! I am not lost! I decide to go around a second time.

6:21 pm: Oh dear, is that a cramp? I continue. No pain, no gain.

6:23 pm: I reach the end of the block. I am in agony. Cramp. Crampcrampcrampcramp. I contemplate walking, then tell myself I am here to RUN and to stop being such a wuss.

6:23 pm: Still running. Upward. Cramp is getting worse. Begin to ponder idea of self-flagellation.

6:23 pm: I begin walking.

6:25 pm: I have reached the corner where the downhill slope starts again. Yippee. I begin running again. My good friend Crampy is still along for the ride, but I have already decided that twice around this long, long block is more than enough for my first day out.

6:27 pm: I turn the last corner… home stretch… I am a MARATHON RUNNER… except not.

6:28 pm: Reach apartment. Hey, that was fun! Check stopwatch (another handy iPod feature). I was running for… wow… okay… a whole 12 minutes! Go me!

6:28 pm: Get in elevator. Sweat bullets. Discover that I do not enjoy sweating.

6:30 pm: Shower time!

So the whole procedure took less than twenty minutes. That was pretty painless. Except for the agonizing cramp. Those will go away once I start doing this more regularly, right?

Oh yes, my friends, I am going again tonight. And the next night. And the night after that. Why? Because, to quote someone who once sang this, it hurt so good! I felt fantastic afterward! My legs hurt and everything! My breathing took an hour to return to normal! Like I had really accomplished something! And darn it, if I only have to work out for twelve minutes a day to get that feeling, then I will part with twelve minutes a day. Imagine how I’d feel after twenty minutes.

I refuse to speculate past that point because I think thirty would more than likely kill me.

Shoo Fly, Or There Will Be Serious Consequences

2008-09-04T07:50:00.000-07:00

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Nice sound, right? Kind of like if a chain saw was a musical instrument that only played one note. Now add the weird light smacking noise that comes from an insect flopping back and forth between blinds like a Pong ball, and you’ve got yourself a regular orchestra my friend.

I don’t know what this insect was. A mosquito, possibly, or a really oddly-shaped praying mantis. A flying cockroach—look, it was big and it was loud and it was in my room last night. That is all you need to know.

I keep my apartment meticulously neat. Not on the order of Monk or anything, but I like things generally orderly and pleasing to the eye and un-smelly. I find it incredibly unfair that I still get bugs even with all my preventive measures, which do include exorcism.

But alas, bugs are a part of city life (if I recall correctly, they are also a part of suburban life, even in my mother’s surgically clean kitchen, so there’s basically no cure for this atrocious aspect of sentience). I do the traps (ick). I do the sprays. I even specially request that the person who fumigates our building come and do my room separately twice a month. I never leave food out and I put everything that could be remotely considered food inside my fridge, unless they are unopened and basically impenetrable, like soup cans.

And still I cannot escape them. So be it.

The cacophony started around 2:30 am this morning. I was awake, which is unusual even for me, but I was having a conversation with someone via text message. Before I knew it, the lovely symphony described above was all I could focus on. It started in low, then it started to grow, as Mr. Grinch would say.

I did not have my contacts in, and I was half asleep. I knew that my chances of hitting this tiny mutant were slim to none, and I was “too tired to care.” So I decided to ignore it.

Which I did, for about 30 seconds. Then I could stand no more.

How did I rectify my vision/alertness problem?

I didn’t even try to aim.

I pulled the blinds up.

Reallyreallyfast.

Let’s just say there was a crunch and then a thud and now the problem is no more.

Satan Wears A T-Shirt

2008-08-29T06:53:00.001-07:00

How evil? So evil. It’s gotten to the point where I—and I think I speak for every New Yorker here—throw up in my mouth a little when I see this hideous image on the street.

And since this image is more ubiquitous than teenage girls at a Backstreet Boys concert (yes, I know that reference is a little dated but cut me a break here—I try to stay as far removed from that world as I possibly can without being on another physical planet, and I know the Backstreet Boys only because I was a teenage girl when they were hip, and thus absorbed a little of the auditory cruelty by purely involuntary osmosis), you can no doubt deduce that I spend a lot of time popping antacid tablets like M&Ms.

By the way, it’s not just on T-shirts. Oh no. The makers of this brilliant little icon (does anyone know who they are, by the way? I’d like to have them dragged into the street and shot, then burned in a pile of I “Heart” NY T-shirts. Or would that be overkill?) have somehow managed to work that image into every conceivable tourist item, including:

-Stationary (“Oh yeah honey, we got your letter, but Daddy accidentally left it too close to the lighter fluid while he was barbequing. Ha ha! Isn’t Daddy silly?”)

-Cattle brands (“A Taste Of New York”)

-Condoms (pretty much guarantees you’ll never get laid by a New Yorker)

-Kleenex

-Cell phones (ringtone: the “I Love You, You Love Me” song by Barney)

-“Business cards”

-M&Ms (it’s really, really small, but it’s on there)

-Spray tattoos (I have also seen it on real ones, God help us all)

-Window stickers (bring the tourism home to Kentucky!)

-Fake nail polish for little girls (the stick-on kind)

-Keyboards (hopefully you’re a good typist, because every character was replaced by the icon)

-The Statue of Liberty (you have to get up close to see it, but it’s there, millions of times. Kind of a Magic Eye sort of thing)

-Magic Eye posters

Okay, maybe that last one was just a feverish part of a particularly gruesome nightmare. But I’m pretty sure about the others existing.

Some initial thoughts:

1. I don’t know who said, “A fool and his money are soon parted,” but I would guess that it was one of the creators of this icon on the day of its conception, and he was probably rubbing his hands together and laughing so hard tears were running down his face as he said it.

2. Since no one who lives here would ever be caught dead in one of these monstrosities, it makes it really easy to spot the tourists. However, that hasn’t done us much good since New York outlawed that sweet "as long as they’re being REALLY annoying and taking WAY too many pictures of tall buildings and you run away REALLY fast” exception to the murder rule.

3. However, think about this, New York Tourists. That heart is designed to sit right on top of your actual anatomical heart. Do you want to wear such a wanton target right on your body? No, of course you don’t.

4. Question—what happens to these shirts after you go home? I assume they go where all the other embarrassing, “I Got The Crabs At Big Dick’s” vacation T-shirts go to die, the back of your closet. When you see it there, does it assault you with warm fuzzy vacation memories the way a bookie assaults your knees with a baseball bat? Or does it inspire you to take a moment and really examine your drinking habits?

5. Since I’m totally convinced that Satan wears one of these things even on days when he goes to court (to the Prince of Darkness, what's not to "heart"?), doesn’t that mean that we should immediately arrest everyone wearing one and take them in for questioning until we find the right fallen angel? Please?

Just a little tip, people: If you want to go around New York dressed appropriately (in the sense of not making everyone around you want to accidentally shove you into oncoming traffic), there’s one simple rule you need to follow: Wear black. Lots of it. Even in July. That’s how New Yorkers dress. That’s how decent people who visit our fair city SHOULD dress. You should blend in so that we don't know you're here. No one needs to know you're here. Let's just keep it an appalling secret.

And if you’re wearing this T-shirt underneath your black sweater, I don’t want to know about it.

Who's The Punk?

2008-08-28T07:34:00.000-07:00

So who’s the ‘little punk’? You? Ha ha!
-A friend, upon being told about my blog.

Thanks, buddy. First of all, air quotes make you look "gay." Everyone knows this. Secondly, the next time I hear you talking about your “jump shot,” I am going to use air quotes. Being a girl, this won’t make me look gay (it’ll just make me look like a bitch, and I can live with that).

But seriously. You don’t know everything about me. Just because you’ve only ever seen the establishment side of me doesn’t mean that I don’t have another one. For example, you have never seen my homicidal psychopath side, and believe me, that could change.

Broken down for your convenience below so that we never have to have this conversation again are the explanations of the two main sides of my personality.

Little Establishment Me:

-I go to work. Consistently. I like it. ‘Nuff said.

-I am somewhat of a financial freak show. Money is one of my favorite topics. Not in a “Let’s compare paychecks” sort of way (that really would make me exceptionally boring). More like in a “let’s get together and talk about retirement plans” kind of way. That’s a fun evening for me! Sometimes other people give me their budgets to look over. That’s just about on par with handing a double-chocolate ice cream cone to a five year old. It makes me that happy.

-I’m totally comfy in a suit. Sometimes I wear one when I don’t have to. Today, as an example.

-I’m very at ease with the idea of authority. Part of that may stem from the fact that I’m in charge a lot.

-I'm annoyingly punctual. Like, to the point where it annoys me. I've tried so many times to be late for work, and the best I've ever managed is 8:50 am.

-My politics tend to lean toward conservative, which is mainly due to my near-fanatical belief in personal responsibility. Live however you see fit; just be prepared to deal with the consequences.

-I like things to be quiet and orderly and clean. Concerts and crowds make me crazy.

-I’ve never done drugs.

-I do give a damn about my reputation.

-Tradition is good, and standard paths are so because they tend to work.

-I can be a total sellout. This is mainly because money is a cool way to make other goals happen.

Okay, Mr. Hyde, what have you got?

Little Punk Me:

-Let’s start with music, the backbone of punk. Some of my favorite bands include: AFI, New York Dolls, Dropkick Murphys, The Descendents, Rancid, Alkaline Trio, Social Distortion, Street Dogs, The Clash, Stiff Little Fingers, Bad Religion, The Cramps, Funeral Dress, Goldfinger, Green Day, Misfits, and The Ramones. I have my former roommate to thank for a good 70% of this list.

-I don't like school. Generally speaking.

-I have one tattoo and one non-ear piercing so far. When my life circumstances allow it (i.e., the establishment environment has gone bye-bye for awhile), I would quite like to get another of each, and buzz my hair. I also think eyeliner on (certain) guys is very sexy.

-Ripped jeans, wifebeaters, army boots, etc-- also preferred attire.

-Sometimes I feel the need to shake things up and change my entire life at the drop of a hat. Then I do it.

-I’m a rebel, and there are times when I refuse to take the standard path. I definitely don’t mind being a troublemaker when there’s good reason.

-That whole personal responsibility thing happens to work in both the establishment and the punk world. Since I admit I can be a sellout, it means I’m not a poseur.

-I’m a minimalist. I like being able to fit all of my belongings into a car and I hate lots of stuff. The idea of wandering around the country with no particular destination and crashing on random couches for a year or so holds a very bohemian appeal for me.

-I’m a newly minted vegetarian. Something else that fits handily into both worlds. Many punks are vegetarian. Little known fact.

I’m mainly sticking with the superficial/obvious stuff here. There’s a lot more to both aspects of my personality, but I think you get the idea. I have a foot in both worlds, I can relate just about equally to both worlds, both worlds appeal to me for different reasons.

In other words, dude, your “jump shot” has nothing on my “punk side.”

The Greatest Nanny In The World

2008-08-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a repost, and yes, I'm being lazy. I wrote this a couple of years ago. At the moment I'm still adjusting to a people-free apartment (it's so quiet-- I live like this all the time, really?) and missing the wonderful people that stayed with me last week (though they left so much of their stuff behind, I'm questioning whether they really left, or just pretended to). So hopefully I'll be able to start blogging much more regularly, as that was my last major vacation-type week for awhile.

People seemed to like my Little Mermaid analysis, so without further ado, I give you my interpretation of...

The Greatest Nanny In The World!

I'm watching Mary Poppins right now. (This is how one spends one's Saturday night when one has no life.) It came up randomly in my Netflix queue. I haven't seen this movie in years. It's incredibly funny, although I'm pretty sure that everyone involved was on acid.

I think my favorite scene so far is the one where the top-tier bankers in the (to be specific) Dawes, Tomes, Mousley, Grubbs Fidelity Fiduciary Bank-- who apparently have nothing better to do all day-- try to convince a six year old how much money he can make by investing tuppence in the bank.

Or maybe the one where Bert pulls the crotch of his pants so low he bears a startling resemblance to a modern-day rapper. (He did this so he could blend in better while dancing with penguins. I'm sure that made a lot of sense at the time, but I don't think this look is ever going to catch on, do you?)

Of course there was the scene where the openly gay man (were men allowed to be gay in 1910?) with a lisp couldn't stop laughing, resulting in levitation. I've had a giggle fit or two in my day but they have never ended in me having a tea party next to the chandelier. That is only because I am not as cool as Mary Poppins, though.

Speaking of the lady herself, she may have been the "dream nanny" and all that, but I think she had rather questionable morals. First she uses her godlike power to send a special wind to blow her competition away. The old biddies waiting outside the door of the Banks mansion were probably living on steps of St. Paul's Cathedral trying to scrape a living by feeding the birds, just wanting to make a life for themselves, and you notice that the movie is never real clear on where, exactly, they're blown away to?

Next she uses her snake-charming hypnosis talent to convince Mr. Banks that no one else would have been suitable anyway (the bump on the head probably didn't help matters). Then she takes these highly impressionable, apparently retarded youngsters and makes them witness her nauseating flirtation with a guy that she met on the street one time. Then she sets up the aforementioned Mr. Banks to lose his job so that the children would hate him and end up on the street in the end anyway. (No worries for her, she lives in clouds with any furniture or possessions she might require in a carpetbag.) Bitch.

Also, she leads a cult. All of the imaginary characters (they seem to disappear after the scene in question is over) worship her. Don't know about you, but I've never had 100 people (and animals) sing the following to me with quite this level of feeling:

"When the day is gray and ordinary, Mary makes the sun shine bright! When Mary holds your hand, you feel so grand, your heart starts beating like a big brass band! It's a jolly holiday with Mary, no wonder that it's Mary that we love!"

Actually, none of the women in this movie seem too keen on actually looking out for the children's best interests. I don't have children myself, so I can't say for sure, but it seems to me that if you are a normal mother, living in a city with two children, and those children are supposed to be with their father, when they instead show up at the door with a strange man covered in soot who never stops singing, you are going to have some questions. You are going to be curious, maybe a little upset. You are probably NOT going to say, "I have to go to my little meeting. Why don't you look after the children, sir [I don't even know your name, and it doesn't really matter]? You've been so kind in bringing them home." Bert-- for of course, the soot-covered man is he-- appears to move in after this.

Mind you, this particular mother is about as empty-headed and Stepford-parrotlike as they come, accepting it without question when she comes back home a couple of hours later to find at least 50 men also covered in soot singing, dancing, and generally gallivanting through her living room.

On the whole, I'd say this movie dampened my enthusiasm about one day living in London. Granted, it might be fun to hang out with a bunch of West Side Story rejects who tap dance on roofs while singing "Flap like a birdie! Step in time!" but the ever-dependable chorus of "Chim chiminee, chim chiminee, chim chim cheroo!" would drive me to drink in a matter of hours. It's worse than "It's A Small World."

But I suppose anything makes sense when most problems in the world can be solved with unemployment and a talking umbrella. When your supercalifragilisticexpialidocious nanny is Practically Perfect In Every Way. (Oh, speaking of her self-ascribed attribute, I almost forgot-- MP is narcissistic as well. What, her special measuring tape just happens to point out everyone else's flaws, but her height shows that she has none of her own, plus her full name in prettier script? Where do you think she got that special measuring tape?)

Lessons In Camping

2008-08-18T11:50:00.001-07:00

1. Blankets that you use on your bed at home are not going to be warm enough while you are camping.

2. Wet firewood tends not to catch fire.

3. There will be spiders. They will stay in your tent, with you. Sometimes they will get cute and try to snuggle with you. Keep the hysteria to a minimum; it annoys fellow campers. These are not folks you want to piss off. They know how to wrestle with bears—successfully.

4. Remember when you were a kid and you didn’t mind being dirty and/or smelly and/or going for days without food more sustaining than trail mix and juice boxes? Those were good days, weren’t they? Well, they are over now. You are a grown up and it’s okay to admit that you’ve grown used to bathing. Everyone else has grown used to you bathing as well.

5. Never underestimate the power of a good meal, warm bed, or crisp $20 bribe to dispel many an unpleasant situation.

6. The best garlic knots you will ever eat in your entire life are located in a pizzeria in Hadley, Massachusetts. Not technically a camping tip but more of a public service announcement. Hey, you’re welcome. My pleasure.

7. Bringing flashlights is a good plan. Something that also works is reaching and setting up your campsite before dark. However, some of us like the challenge of building a really huge tent for the first time in the dark by headlight. Speaking of which…

8. You do not need a three-room tent which is big enough for ten people if you’ve only got two. Especially if one of those two is a really big scaredy-cat and could not sleep by herself in the woods if there was a SWAT team stationed around her.

9. No, you cannot get a Wi-Fi signal in the woods.

10. If you’re going to get insect repellant all over your hands, and then you’re going to rub those hands in your eyes like an utter fool, and if you are also going to have a secret allergy to said insect repellant, and if that allergy is going to cause your eyeball (not the skin around your eye; your actual eyeball) to swell and actually start oozing out of its socket a little bit, alarming the hell out of your traveling companion and causing you yourself to worry that maybe you’re going to go blind, then for God’s sake at least make sure that this happens somewhere that a) a hospital or b) a kindly pastor is likely to be located. In my case, we had (b) and it was a damn good thing, because the nearest hospital was a half hour away and we never would have found it without divine intervention.

More details to come, and I am sure you are all on the edge of your seat.

Too Fat To Die

2008-08-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

First, a bit of business. As you’ve probably gathered, this isn’t going to be a daily blog. I am crazy busy at the moment, yes, but no matter how busy I am, I make it a point to write something every single day (and have done for more than a decade). Writing is as much a piece of my nature as sleeping, and I do it more or less constantly. It just can’t always be this blog. For one thing, as everyone who writes humorously knows, the funny juice doesn’t flow every day. For another, I’m usually (and currently) in the middle of several different writing projects, one of which I’m trying like hell to get published.

I just wanted to make that clear in case it comes up later. I started this blog for a very specific purpose: to write snarky. I don’t often have the chance or the inclination to write funny stuff, and as such, those particular mental muscles are a bit stiff, and I would like to see them strengthened. That’s it, that’s all, hopefully I’ll never be this serious again, now on to the subject of capital punishment. After all, what’s funnier than a lethal injection?

What can I say about this great nation of ours that hasn’t already been said? We’re the greatest superpower in the world! (Kind of.) We rush to the aid of nations in trouble! (Except when we don’t.) We have term limits (thank God for those, huh?).

Not to mention, we are the only nation to have such freedom of ideas, expression, enterprise. Just for fun sometime, try drawing a cartoon of Hamid Karzai looking like Alfred E. Neuman and distribute it all over Kabul. Let me know how that works out for you.

The point is, we have a lot of freedom and a lot of say over how our lives should proceed, and we should be very grateful for that. I know I am, and I’ll bet Richard Cooey is as well. At least, he should be. Everything he’s received for this insane supplication is an example of the best and most absurd points of our justice system.

Here’s what he did not receive: a response of, “Okay, let me go find those, whaddayacallem, ropes we used to use and we’ll, whaddayacallit, hang you instead! Bet you’re not too fat for that!” (which was barely audible over the raucous laughter).

That is what my response would have been. But no, instead Cooey got to chat with the US Supreme Court over his inalienable right to bite the dust with the very least possible amount of discomfort.

Let me start with the obvious. No wonder the nation is such a frigging mess if the US Supreme Court has nothing better to do with their time than split hairs over the amount of pain a rapist and murderer endures as they die. There is a really, really easy solution to this (besides not caring, of course)—give the guy six months to lose weight. I’m sure he’ll be throwing in random appeals until the very last possible second anyway, so a six-month extension is nothing he wouldn’t get as it is. If he hasn’t lost weight by then, he gets to contemplate a little concept called personal responsibility on his way to the afterlife.

Oh, but wait! That’s not the only reason the execution will be “excruciating.” He doesn’t have good veins to begin with. Even if he does lose weight, they still might not be able to find a vein. After all, a prolonged execution of this sort for that reason is not without precedent.

Gee golly gosh, Mr. Cooey, is that so? That would suck. Perhaps you would prefer another method of execution that has a little bit better chance of killing you nice and dead the first time? I hear that electric chair is pretty reliable. Or maybe we can borrow a garrote from Spain. Just because they don’t use it anymore doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.

In fact, why don’t we just let you (and your fellow death-row inmates) choose your own method of execution outright? Let’s see how long it takes an inmate to request the “natural death” option. And while we’re at it, in addition to choosing a last meal, why don’t we let you out for a few days before your execution, so you can enjoy your final week of life in peace with your family in the sunshine? (If your execution is scheduled for winter, why then, we’ll just have to reschedule it.)

Hmm. That does sound very humane. Yet there’s still an annoying little detail tugging at my brain… can’t quite get at it… oh yes, there it is. Didn’t you, like, rape and murder a couple of college coeds or something?

Right, right, that detail.

Let me clue you in, buddy. It’s only in the last half-century or so that anyone gave a shit about routinely anesthetizing people prior to killing them. In most countries, most of the time, not only does anyone not care how much pain a prisoner is in pre-death, a whole bunch of people get their jollies from watching a condemned person struggle in agony. What’s more, I would bet my rent money that you are one of those people yourself. Let’s remember why you’re in this position to begin with.

I happen to be against the death penalty. But considering the historical alternatives to state-mandated death, I’d say you’re getting off pretty damn lightly even if it takes them two hours to find your vein through that blubbery mess. Would you rather be beaten to death? Drowned? Skinned alive? Stoned? Burned at the stake? Broken on the wheel? Drawn and quartered? Or hey, killed the way your victims were? You get the idea. I hope.

Be grateful that you have a chance to be heard, however pathetic and transparent the attempt to skate on your penalty. Remember as well that you brought this on yourself, every step of the way, from the extra poundage on the body to the body’s current location. I’m against the death penalty, not personal responsibility.

Hmm, now that I’ve written this, I’m wondering just how funny the whole thing really is after all. Perhaps we should consider this my token serious entry.

In the interest of authenticity, I’ll leave it in. But I’ll try to keep these to a bare minimum.

Ashes, Ashes, All Fall Down

2008-08-04T13:50:00.000-07:00

On the way to Nevada, my mother and I had a rather morbid conversation concerning instructions for our bodies after the big car crash or the heart attack or the way I'm going, the liver failure, in the event that one of us goes first (and historically speaking, one of us probably will).

I have to admit that I brought this up. It’s something I think about a lot. This is because I desperately want to be cremated when I die. Every other option available makes me freak out and cringe and yes, I know I’ll be dead when these things happen to me, Smarty-Pants, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a right and wrong way to do this.

So I make it a habit to bring this up in polite conversation with the people in my life who will be deciding through Which Door I enter the afterlife—namely, my family. As in, “Grandpa! It’s so nice to see you! Happy birthday! I would like to be cremated when I die!”

Things like this really stick in your family’s memory. Granted, over time you might be invited to fewer functions, but that’s the price you pay for not having maggots eat your skin.

Oh, what’s that? You haven’t decided what you want done with your remains? Or maybe a loved one just died and you haven’t called the undertaker yet because no one’s sure what the old boy wanted and it’s been over a week and the color’s really gruesome and the children are getting sick from the smell of decay? Never mind, I’ve compiled a handy list to help you make your decision.

Things To Do With A Body When It Has Ceased Function

Acceptable:

-Cremate it. As noted, this is the only way to go. Normally, having your flesh burned to this extent would hurt an awful lot. But the lovely part is that you are dead when you go into that big fire. Unless you’ve been working with Hermione on some really cool new spells and “certain people” have found out about it. In which case you are screwed because this must be a really, really painful way to die. But if you are dead, this is a great way to have your remains handled. It leaves only your “essence” around in the form of ashes, which your family can put on the mantle and use to pretend that their cherished child is still around in some form (not too many cherished children are deaf, mute, small enough fit in a bottle, and silver in hue, so this one requires some pretty committed self-delusion). Or they could scatter your ashes over a location that had meaning to you, like the tree house your Daddy built you or the local bar.

-Bury it. Here be nightmares. Burial, seriously? Do you not realize that the earth is a finite resource and that people have been around and dying for quite some time and there just isn’t tons of extra space for new people to be buried? Think about that for a second. Let’s forget about the fact that you are in a coffin and it’s really, really quiet and dark. Forget all those zombie and vampire and undead movies which seem to imply that people don’t do too well stuffed in a tiny box and shoved under the ground. Let’s not even consider the fact that you’re going to start rotting right away and you’re never going to stop, and there are all kinds of maggots and worms and horrible small creatures that will be more than happy to aid this process.

Forget all that (I find a heavy-duty tranquilizer helps). You’re going to be underground with legions of dead people. People didn’t always mark graves, you know. Way back when, they just kind of threw people into a haphazard hole and let nature do what it would. You’re more than likely to be buried right on top of someone (or many someones) that are none too pleased to have you, Mr. Modern with his coffin and his gravestone and his grieving family, infringing on their moribund territory. They are going to resent you. They are going to be pissed off. They are going to eventually open your coffin and help themselves to the Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card that you just had to be buried with instead of giving it to your son like a nice dead father.

Not Acceptable:

-Weigh it down and throw it in the ocean. Um, sure, if you had more of a factor in the dude’s death than you’d be willing to admit to in a court of law. Because if that’s the case, you are in for some serious haunting/bad karma anyway. If not though? I’d stay well away from this one. Not only does it seriously suck for the drownee (it’s just one teensy, tiny step above burial), but what kind of service can you have here? Are you all going to be on a yacht as the body is thrown overboard? Will you put the grave marker on a buoy? Exactly. It’s disrespectful to be partying when a loved one is sinking into the calm, black waters. And don’t think they’re going to forget it either.

-Cut it up and hang the body parts from bridges as a warning to other wrongdoers. Come on. This is so 1305. I mean, yeah, of course it makes a bold statement, but it’s also really gross. Who’s going to pry the head off the spike in eleven months? You? I don’t think so.

-Stuff it. Why, so you can put it in your living room and talk to it and pretend the person in question didn’t really die? Yeah, that’s not sick at all.

-Eat it. Are you Aztec? Because I can appreciate taking your religion really, really seriously (I would too, if beating hearts of law-abiding citizens were required as a routine sacrifice and not some kind of penalty—what did this dude do to people he didn’t like?), but I cannot think of a single other legitimate reason to do this. Period. If you are the progeny of Jeffrey Dahmer, for example, that doesn’t excuse anything. Didn’t you see what happened to your daddy? NO EATING DEAD BODIES.

So in summary, we see that cremation is really the only way to go. As I’ve said for years. Family members reading this? I want to be cremated. You can consider this my final word on the subject, and once I am confident that you'll do it, I'll quit bringing it up all the time.

Cap'n Crunch Thinks You're Too Cheery

2008-07-30T11:17:00.000-07:00

So even though I’m not even close to finished whining about it and I don’t have a really good alternative subject all mapped out, I’ve decided that stories about my recent vacation must come to a timely end. This is partly because I’ve been scanning my brain for another interesting story that was also not too embarrassing given that I am very vulnerable to parent/work exposure on this blog, and it just wasn’t working out.

I still have plenty of non work/parent friendly stories, mind you, but alas, they do me no good given the above. I also realized that seven of my thirteen posts so far have been about that trip. Mind you, I started my blog on July 8th, so there hasn’t been a lot of time to talk about the other things going on in my life, but still, I’m beginning to feel a little bit like that weirdo cousin you’ve got who insists on showing you ALL of his pictures from his trip to Prague, which feature nearly forty shots of the airplane wing alone!

So here I am, about to Change The Subject. Not to anything very interesting, you understand, but here comes a Change Of Subject nonetheless, like it or not, it’s my blog not yours, neener neener.

I am not a fan of waking up.

Being awake, sure, I’m all for that. It’s very difficult to have any fun if you’re asleep. It’s really a major bummer that we have to piss away a third of our lives in such a fashion. I could see an eighth or so. That would be fair. Maybe a full night every once in awhile, like if you’ve been going through a fraternity hazing for the past week. But a third on a regular basis? That’s a pretty massive slice of our time that could be used for much more productive activity. Imagine all we could do if we didn't need so much sleep. At the very least we could have a lot more sex.

Anyway, being awake = good thing. Usually. But the whole waking-up process kind of sucks. I’m not a fan (most insomniacs aren’t), even when I’m waking up in order to do something fun.

Ways To Make My Waking Up Process More Fun, Should You Be So Inclined:

-Announce to me in a loud but not oppressive voice that I have 1) won the lottery, 2) a totally spontaneous date with Johnny Depp tonight, 3) an unscheduled day off from work, 4) a bucket of roses outside my door along with a very mysterious card, 5) suddenly become blessed with perfect pitch overnight, 6) a publisher on the phone who’s very interested in my book, or 7) had a flask of Harry Potter’s Felix Felicis potion delivered overnight, good for 24 hours only. All of these would be good, one a day might be nice. Don’t be afraid to add your own! Variation and creativity are important in the relationship I assume we have if you’re concerned about making my mornings a happier place to be.

-Configure some kind of contraption that enables me to shower in bed. Nothing like a nice hot shower to wake up. This one would be good on weekends only, particularly in combo with rainy weather. During the week, I shower at night. It’s a good rule. It’s been working.

-Place a cute puppy on my chest. It will have to be a toy puppy (the breed, not the stuffed animal), or else I will get very sick and allergic and I’ll stay like that all day and then I’ll want to murder you. Also, you have to take the puppy away at some point. I don’t want to keep it. And make sure it doesn’t pee on me. You know what, maybe it should be a stuffed animal after all.

-Give me an elaborate breakfast in bed. I’m a vegetarian who loves sausage. See if you can go ahead and reconcile those two. In the event of success, I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always.

-Tickle me. There is definitely a right and wrong way to do this, and the wrong way will leave you counting in base nine. It should not be attempted by amateurs.

-Do something funny, like dance a jig, or put on something funny. A comedy show, a favorite silly song, a strategically placed smiley face, etc. Anything that encourages audience participation, i.e. me getting up, is a good way to go.

So there you have it. LS-specific tips of the trade. If you are not a fan of the disturbingly regular occurrence we like to call dawn either, well, then I guess we’re both up the creek, because I sure as hell would never be alert enough in the morning to attempt any of this.

How My Cynicism Took A Hit

2008-07-28T11:55:00.000-07:00

There are moments in life that you just wish you could take back. The moment when you were at a party and said, “Sure, I’d love to try heroin,” for example. Or the time you decided it would be cool to play with fire on the living room floor. Or the one where you so unwisely decided to be honest on the subject of pants, specifically, the effect a certain pair had on a loved one’s bum. Seemingly simple moments like these can really rock your world when they take a turn for the worse. Sometimes they can impact your whole life, and they can always be traced back to that one moment when you were an idiot.

“If I could turn back time,” you think to yourself. “If I could find a way… I’d take back those words that hurt you. You’d stay.”

Well, I had one of those moments on Saturday. The day I was scheduled to leave. At this point, all of my major limbs were still present and I did not appear to have sustained brain damage so I basically considered myself off the nasty-vacation-consequences hook.

Obviously, I spoke far, far too soon.

I was in San Francisco, kipping at my business partner’s apartment. His lady friend, aka my sister, was there as well. (We all slept in one bed, like a pile of puppies. We thought this would be fun. It was just as cute and innuendo-laden as you’re imagining. And yes, there was a tickle fight.)

All three of us woke up at an hour in the morning which is undesirable if one was awake until the wee hours of the same morning. (I got zero sleep last week. Zilch. None.) BP’s roommate and his girlfriend were still sleeping, like normal people. So even though we had all planned to go out together, we elected to leave without them. My plane left at 3:30; we couldn’t risk them sleeping until 2:40. Hungry, we were.

So off we jaunted to a nearby breakfast place. Because it was a Saturday and this was a place that did not feature rats sitting openly on the register counting change, it was jam packed. We put our name down and went for a little stroll in the park nearby. Well, “park” in the sense that it had a few trees and also some sand. That’s basically it. There were also some big cement blocks. Benches for various sized arses? Modern art? No way to tell. We used them to play the lava game.

If you didn’t play this when you were a child, you obviously turned into a vicious killer and I didn’t realize that incarcerated criminals had Internet access, what a use of our tax dollars, good grief, etc, but I’ll explain anyway—it’s a game where you leapfrog across various playground equipment and do not touch the sand, which has magically turned into lava and will boil you up. (If you are getting the idea that the three of us have the collective maturity of a six year old, you are wrong. We have the collective maturity of a four year old.)

Anyway, this was big fun until I realized that it was not easy to jump a four foot gap while heaving a heavy purse (actually it wasn’t advisable for persons of our advanced ages to begin with; we’re lucky we didn’t break our necks!) and I…

…drumroll…

…set down my purse.

Okay. So at first glance, this doesn’t seem like that big a deal. People set down purses all the time, and if they have their wits about them to the extent that they pick them up again at some point, everything is fine. I did not. We set off to breakfast, I was conspicuously missing a purse, and I was nary the wiser until about twenty minutes later, halfway through a plate of delicious French toast.

“Oh no,” I said, dropping my fork as I realized my grave error (only, I might add, because I was looking for a pen). “Oh no. Ohhhhh nooooo.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I left my purse at the park,” I murmured, face in hands as I had a painful flashback to the moment at which I gently set the poor purse on the ground, defenseless against attack.

“Gotta run,” I said, and I did. I ran back to the park as fast as my busted knee would allow. It hadn’t been that long. I held out hope that no bum had noticed my purse yet. After all, this is the same purse I’ve left in a couple of locations in New York City, retrieving it a few minutes later with no harm done. I wanted to believe that somehow, this purse had secured itself against my stupidity with some kind of Unscrupulous-Taker Invincibility.

But it was gone.

I didn’t panic. It’s not like I had anything important in that purse. Just my wallet (containing two major credit cards, some cash, all of my identification, some photos, and a few checks), two of my nicest necklaces, my apartment keys (main set and spare), two of my favorite books, my brand new iPod (that I had listened to for all of thirty minutes), an umbrella, a thin airline-issued blanket, my glasses, a few of my business cards, and my flight itinerary.

Oh, did I mention my plane was scheduled to leave in three hours?

Of course, I called to cancel my credit cards immediately. The lady on the other end of the line who had an uncomfortable amount of control over my financial well-being (do you ever pause to think about the fact that these people have the ability to just cancel your major credit cards whenever the whim strikes?) told me kindly that there was no fraudulent activity since the night before, when I had last used the card.

Good sign, for sure. A bum would probably have bought a hot meal, at the very least, right away. I canceled the cards and the checks and hung up. By that time, my sister and BP had rejoined me in the park, and the three of us kicked around the possibilities for a few minutes. We began to postulate about the possibility of a Kind Soul finding my purse, and what this Kind Soul would have done. Go to the police? Try to contact me? To the best of my knowledge, my cell phone number was not written on anything in my purse. At most, a Kind Soul could call my work line (which is listed on my business card) and I would be able to sort this out on Monday.

“I guess I better go file a police report,” I said. BP offered to drive me to the police station. I called my mother on the way, and she came to my aid as quickly as you would expect a mother who’s watched her kid get into all kinds of dumbass situations over the years to do. Because I no longer possessed photo ID, we weren’t sure I’d be able to get on the plane. So in addition to bringing me about $200 to tide me over until my new cards arrived, she also brought my birth certificate.

What would we do without mommies?

I called the airline and spoke to a woman who sounded delightfully unfazed by my plight. She told that if I came with a copy of the police report and was prepared to be strip searched, I could board the plane. So I filled out the police report and told my mom to meet us at the airport. We briefly returned to BP’s apartment to grab the rest of my stuff (which I stapled to my forearms in an effort to not lose anything else) and then set out for the airport.

Except for taking about an hour longer than normal, the security process wasn’t so bad. This is probably because I was doing my utmost to look cute, innocent, and safe (my guns were in plain view the entire time, and I think that helped everyone felt secure). Apparently lack of photo ID for a variety of reasons happens a lot, so they have ways to get you on the plane regardless.

My mother waited while this was happening in the event that something went wrong and we had to go home and figure out how long it would take for me to return to New York via camel. She wasn’t allowed in with me, but the guards were very nice and talked to her while I was walking through an obstacle course of security. On occasion, I caught her eye and she smiled encouragingly. If she was busy regaling the guards with tales of my past idiocy, she didn’t let on. Thanks, Mom!

I managed to arrive at the gate about an hour before my flight left, in total defiance of the laws of physics, so I set myself the task of figuring out where I would stay that night. My keys had been in the purse, and I thought—crazy I know—that my superintendent might not take kindly to me buzzing him in the middle of the night to let me in with no prior warning. So I called him and explained the situation via voicemail so he would not be without said warning. I didn’t think it would be a problem—an inconvenience, sure, but who’s going to let a 22 year old girl wander the streets of New York alone at night when she’s just returning from a long trip and has a lot of luggage with her? I wouldn’t. Especially if all I had to do to prevent this was wake up long enough to buzz her in and hand her a set of keys.

However, some tiny little wise part of me was screaming “Backup plan! Backup plan!” and since this was the tiny little wise part of me I so foolishly ignored earlier when it told me not to put my purse down, I’d really regret it, I decided to go ahead with this round of advice. I called three of my friends in New York, all of whom are the kind of people that you can call up and say, “Hey, I’m in a jam, can I crash with you tonight?” The first two didn’t answer. On the third, I struck gold. My ex, who lives in Long Island, agreed to help me out if I needed a place to stay. I got on the plane and tried to forget about the entire ordeal. The in-flight movie was Horton Hears A Who.

I turned my phone back on as we taxied to the gate, and found a wonderful surprise on my voicemail. My mother, practically giddy, excitedly proclaimed that my Kind Soul had materialized in the form of not one, but two men who found my purse in the park completely intact and had been trying desperately to find me ever since! I understand that their pooch did the actual finding via the Puppy Nose, so I hereby rescind all the bad things I’ve ever said about dogs.

I still can’t bring myself to joke about this part. It’s one thing to find a purse and turn it into the police, or make a halfhearted dig through it for a cell phone. That’s what a normal Kind Soul would do. But these two? They went way beyond that. Because of the area of town our lava park was in, they were extremely worried when they found my purse with nothing missing. They figured that discovery would be followed by another—my body. With that happy thought in mind, they went through the park looking for any sign of me (given how quickly I realized my purse was missing, we probably missed each other by moments only), and when they didn’t find any, they went through my purse looking for a way to find me.

They spotted my business card right away, and left a message on my work line, which as you recall was the very outer limit of what I would have expected of a Kind Soul. But when that didn’t work, they continued combing the purse and discovered a check I hadn’t yet cashed. They called the check-writer, a friend of mine from an online message board, and asked if she knew how to contact me. Frantic, my friend (who unfortunately had only my email, not my cell phone number) posted a message on the board asking if anyone else had my cell phone number or knew how to reach my family. A massive group effort was mobilizing to find me even as I was on my way back to New York. I did not find any of this out until later.

I can’t joke about this properly because I’m still too touched by the number of people that went so far out of their way to find and help me (in the case of my two purse-finding heroes and a number of my message board friends, they did this for a virtual stranger). My mom, my sister, and my BP did everything they could to assist me—helped me look for the purse, drove me to the police station and then the airport, spotted me money, and most importantly, helped me stay calm and maintain a sense of humor. BP, especially, was keen on reminding me that nothing irreplaceable had been taken. I still had my cell phone, for example.

And I’d be remiss not to mention my ex, who picked me up from my neighborhood at close to two in the morning because my super flat-out refused to let me in after 12:30, a deadline I had no chance of meeting given that my plane touched down at 11:30 and the distance from the airport to my apartment at that time of night takes two hours to travel, minimum. At first, I was a little mad about this. When I called him, I hadn't yet reached my ex (or anyone else). It was late, I was exhausted and, despite the happy ending in California, unbelievably stressed out. I was approaching frantic when I told him that I had nowhere else to go that night if he didn't let me in. His response? "That's really not my problem. I'm not a round the clock super."

Way to have some compassion for a girl in a tough fix, Mr. McLazy.

But it worked out fine regardless. My ex picked me up and brought my back to his house, where we fell into bed in an daze of utter exhaustion. It had been a long, long night. We woke up five hours later so he could take me home and I could grab my keys from Mr. McLazy. (I have to say, though my ex and I have obviously had our differences in the past, he is one of the few people in New York I can count on to be there for me when I need him, and the other night he was the only one.)

I am no longer angry at Mr. McLazy (although I will never forget the fact that he wouldn’t help me, just as I’ll never forget the people who went out of their way to do so). After all, I have karma to rebuild, as I’m sure this little event has completely depleted my supply. Besides, with so many things going my way, I don’t want to get greedy.

I’m very grateful to everyone who was there for me, and particularly to my Kind Souls. I know it was just a purse, but despite that, they searched for me until they found me, a complete stranger. No one can ask for more than that. I am also proud of myself. A year ago, a situation like this would have totally destroyed me (at the very least there would have been a lot of tears and panicking). As it was, I stayed calm, canceled my cards as fast as possible, and was able to gain some immediate perspective (nothing irreplaceable had been taken, it was just stuff, I still had my phone thank God, etc). There's a mantra I employ when these things happen-- "Stress occurs when the mind resists what is." A year ago I would have been crippled by emotion and basically unable to just deal.

Yay for personal growth.

Maybe my purse really IS covered by an Unscrupulous-Taker Invincibility. Maybe it's like the Sorcerer's Stone, and you can only take it if you don't intend to use it.

Or maybe I am just really, really lucky.

How We Nearly Died

2008-07-28T09:47:00.000-07:00

While driving to Nevada, my mother and I stopped at a Starbucks. (I was happy to see those good franchise people haven’t lost their sense of purpose—believe me when I say we could not have been in a much more remote location without actually taking leave of the planet, and yet there it was, the big green and white sign we’ve all come to love, shining like a beacon of hope over the lonely highway of Lots and Lots of Miles to Go Before I Can Get A Freaking Nap.) Once ordered, we adjourned to the car to enjoy our overpriced sugar surges. As we were chatting amiably, I happened to glance at the windshield (it being right there and all). And I noticed something a teensy bit out of the ordinary.

“Hey, Mom, what’s wrong with your windshield?”

“What do you mean? OH MY GOD!”

The crack—well, it wasn’t a crack, that’s a misnomer. Perhaps “canyon made out of sparkly glass” would do better to capture the spirit of the thing. It was about two feet long, horizontal, right about eye level, looked distinctly like the work of a flying rock with a major vendetta, and had certainly not been there before.

“Wow, do you think the windshield will shatter?” I asked conversationally.

“If another rock hits us, it will,” my mom said, staring worriedly at the glass. “We shouldn’t drive with it like this, but we’re eight billion miles away from anywhere right now.” (I’m paraphrasing a little; my mother doesn’t employ hyperbole with the same fondness and regularity that I do.)

“Well, we’ll just have to keep going then. Unless you want to call road service?” I recall posing this question with a certain degree of unwarranted perkiness. Apparently I have a finely honed appreciation for proximity to danger and death.

My mom hesitated. “I guess so. We’ll have to get it replaced as soon as we’re in Nevada.”

“So we just have to get through another couple hundred miles of interstate highways full of big, perilous trucks and we’ll be home free! Good luck with that.”

My mother chose not to dignify my smart-ass remarks. In any case, I would have happily driven the car myself. I happen to be a wonderful driver, and I miss greatly being out on the open road (plus, cars do much to minimize one’s proximity to smelly, creepy people, unlike subways).

But she never lets me drive her car. Something about me not being on the insurance anymore. Like that matters.

Anyway, we hit the open road with a modicum of trepidation (“[Lady Snark], if the window shatters it’s going to be really loud and scary, so try not to panic.”). Sunglasses were donned. Phone calls were made. Fortunately, getting people to agree to things over the phone by way of pretending to be someone else (in this case, my mom) is a specialty of mine. In a short time I had arranged for our windshield to be repaired upon arrival.

Meanwhile, my mom was driving. Quite well, I might add. Kept us very clear of vicious rocks. She only made one tiny mistake that nearly got us both killed. Focused as she was on the state of the windshield (we could actually see the crack growing as we drove), she was attempting to stay away from big rigs at all costs—good decision, for sure, under the circumstances. However, it led to a situation where centering her attention on attempting to pass a big rig caused her to not notice that the lane was ending, and rather rapidly at that.

Not being the driver, I had no excuse for not noticing that our little stretch of road was ending as suddenly as a cliff. The copilot is there to be that extra set of eyes, that auxiliary pair of observatory senses. I feel really bad about this and all, but when you get right down to it, I’ve never had great observatory skills (you could easily stalk and kill me if such was your evil wont; I wouldn’t necessarily notice anything amiss until the machete was hovering over my head, and even then, I might assume you were a friend of mine playing a funny joke). Plus I was reading at the time.

However, she managed to swerve in time to avoid certain death. We were practically thrust up against the big rig, so if we were ever to get hit by Vicious Rock #2, that would have been the time. This did not happen. We made it to our final destination without actually meeting our Final Destination. The windshield was replaced the following morning, though naturally not anywhere near the time frame we were promised, which caused me to miss a party back in San Francisco.

I considered this a great loss, though my liver probably didn’t mind.

I Haz Returned.

2008-07-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

Cue scary music. Granted, not that scary. Except when I attempt to sing, I am a threat to no one.

I returned to New York late Saturday night. I returned to my apartment on Sunday morning. And believe you me, those two events did not like each other. They did everything they could do to stay as far apart as possible. They acted like bitter divorced parents, the kind whose split involved cheating (stone cold sober and with multiple genders), lying (about the parentage of the children involved) and violence (the house is still cordoned off with police tape, neighbors refuse to speak with the police, etc). Thus, they never want to share a continent again. And I, the product of their questionable sexual morals, was trying to get them back together again. I succeeded in the end, but at my peril and long before I was finished questioning whether it was worth it. Other people live in Penn Station, after all, and I do have a reasonably healthy immune system.

This trip will definitely be going down in the annals of travel history. It had everything: drama, narrow escapes, Silly String. It also lasted a really long time. Most vacations are too short, yes? This one entered some sort of wormhole. I was in California and/or traveling for at least a month (the kind of month where you have mono and all events play like a fever dream) and now I’m back “in the groove,” enjoying the cold familiarity of the pre-9 AM hour (two temperatures in this office: “Ice Ice Baby” and “Pleased To Meet You, Lucifer”).

The definitive lack of activity in my upcoming life (for approximately eleven days, at which time the whole crazy train starts all over again) is something I’m looking forward to with enthusiasm bordering on obscenity. Sure, I have to work and all, but on my beat, this month and the one after it are technically referred to as “a really, really slow time.” Anyway, as has been noted, I enjoy my work. So what I’m facing here is kind of like a vacation for the mind.

Don’t misunderstand me. I had, in the main, a very good time in California. Fresh air, good people, not a subway in sight, a distinct lack of sobriety, sometimes for days at a time—what’s not to love? It’s just that it was insane. And the traveling? Not fun. I remember when getting on a plane was an exciting adventure. Now it is, shall we say, not that.

Anyway, besides being a lot of fun and leaving me with fewer functioning knees than I started with, this vacation was very blog-worthy. It kind of makes me sad that I wasn’t writing as I went along, while the events were still fresh* in my mind.

*Even when they were, you probably wouldn’t have gotten an account with an accuracy worthy of the New York Times or anything, so really, you’re not missing a lot.

Had I been a bit more “on top of things” and possibly consumed fewer margaritas, I might have had the stamina to relate some of the more exciting events sooner, i.e., within shouting distance of when they actually happened. As it is, you will be getting a random hodgepodge of memories, probably one per entry until I get bored.

Something to look forward to!

Party, Pain, Party, Pain, Agony, Party, Pain

2008-07-21T20:48:00.001-07:00

In summary, that's been my vacation so far.

I arrived in California ahead of schedule, which naturally would never have happened at a time when I could arrange a slightly earlier pickup. My 400 pound bag and I enjoyed a nice evening stroll around the airport while waiting for my friend to pick us up.

Eventually we made our way to a club, which we entered for free since we "knew a guy." The atmosphere was like a petri dish of swarming humanity which would normally have sent me straight into panic-attack hell but was okay this particular time, mainly because I was tipsy. I was dancing and having a great time, and at one point I was dancing with a boy. So far, no cause for alarm (unless one is Amish, which I am not). This boy decided he wanted to show off how manly and strong he was, so he lifted me over his head and started to bounce me up and down.

I'm not morbidly obese or anything, but I'm no pixie either, so I was a little bit concerned that maybe I would falldowngoboom at some point during the proceedings. However, my fears seemed to be unfounded. The boy had me hovering over the swarm for well over a minute, everyone was cheering him on, I was the center of attention, etc. All was well.

Then he started to lower me to the (cement) floor of the club, which was covered by a blue carpet about the same thickness as a Wheat Thin. This was when bad things started to happen. His hand slipped, I fell, and landed knee-first on the club floor, ending the pain-free portion of the evening.

At first, the noise of the club and the adrenaline in my system prevented the pain from reaching my central nervous system. The boy helped me up, and I was actually starting to dance again when it hit me like an express train and I crumbled like a Jenga tower. (Don't mix these metaphors at home.)

My friends helped me over to a couch, where my knee rapidly swelled to the size of a softball. We left soon after, agreeing that it was not our night, in the sense that it had involved injuries. I normally have a pretty high pain tolerance (comes from years and years of being a clumsy oaf) but this one was particularly difficult (and by difficult I mean "whine-worthy"), inasmuch as the pressure of a blanket or a blue jean leg was enough to make me shriek in agony.

I also managed to get myself badly sunburnt (in a really cute patchwork pattern) and bash the knee again, this time with no one but myself to blame. We were at something like the fourteenth party since arrival, I hadn't been sober since I stepped off the plane, and I decided it would be a good idea to do a handstand against a wall. In a skirt. In a (futile) effort to regain my dignity, I immediately pulled out of the handstand. Only, I was sort of drunk, and I didn't do it right. I fell sideways and in the process, bashed my bad knee into an outdoor air conditioning vent. The screaming that ensued was more in keeping with the spirit of a knifepoint mugging at 3 am.

So my left knee, which wasn't in great shape to begin with and hasn't been for years, owing to an old gymnastics injury, is currently a particularly egregious mixture of black, brown, red, purple, and yellow. At this point my leg thinks it did something to anger me and is tiptoeing around in an effort to not upset me further. Another little tap and I'm pretty sure it will shatter like an Easter egg.

Pack Heavy

2008-07-18T09:22:00.000-07:00

Actually, that phrase doesn’t really come close to describing what I am about to inflict on my back and shoulders via The Overloaded Duffel Bag. The journey from my Queens apartment to my Manhattan office this morning was a warning. The kind of warning that brings to mind the scene in a horror movie when the heroine hears a really spooky thud and crunch coming from the attic. And of course, instead of getting away from the noise and out of the house like a normal person, the heroine beats a path to the attic stairs like an Olympic sprinter. And all the while you’re rolling your eyes at the heroine and thinking, “Well, sure, go right on up there, you dumbshit. That’s a brilliant idea! Obviously whatever’s up there wants to make friends! You’re so screwed.”

Am I going to heed that well-phrased warning? Of course not. Not only am I not going to remove anything from my bag, I am going to carry my bag on the plane if I can. Since my bag's weight class is somewhere between “kangaroo” and “Smartcar,” they may not allow this. I have to be prepared to accept this distressing possibility, which will naturally mean that I might as well have left my bag home to begin with and spared my lumbar system; now I’ll never see it again.

This is the dilemma in which airlines leave us in regards to bags.

Rock: They tack on some ridiculous surcharge ($420, isn’t it?) to check a bag that they won’t let us carry on even if it is a perfectly acceptable size and checking it means that it’s just as likely to end up in Egypt as not. This is great if Egypt is your destination, but it isn't mine tonight.

Hard Place: You can carry it on if you like, but if you’ve stuffed all your earthly possessions in there, good luck shoving it into the overhead compartment in a timely manner. (“Timely manner,” in this case, refers to the golden period of time before the people behind you in the aisle grow exasperated and resort to violence. Usually girls can count on about six seconds of golden time, but because I carry bribe money, I have on occasion been known to score ten.)

Harder Place: Oh, you might think you’re being clever by not packing anything, just setting out for a nice month-long sojourn in Disneyworld, expecting that you’ll buy a Mickey Mouse T-shirt when you arrive and everything will be fine. However, you are wrong. Upon arrival you will be presented with a bag that you did not check. It contains clothing. A charge of $2,300 will automatically be applied to your credit card, but hey, you’ve got threads! Really ugly ones! That you’d never wear under any other circumstances! Should’ve just packed your own bag in the first place! That is the message here from your friendly neighborhood airline! This is their idea of a “public service.” Little known fact.

So what is in this lovely bag of mine that’s causing it to bear a distinct resemblance to bricks both in weight and in effect of being dashed against my back over and over? Um, not that much. Enough to cause me sorrow, though.

-Some clothing. Not that much; it’s only a bloody week.

-Little Book of Everything (record of my life which I keep in a black journal and update daily). Last time, I was smart and left this monstrosity at home, electing to write the entries on a few sheets of paper and transcribe them later. This time, I forgot.

-External hard drive, iPod, phone charger, and two laptops. Obviously, the weight distribution favors the last item on that list the way a seesaw favors a chubby child. Why do I need both of my laptops? Because I am a technological idiot. I need my dad to help me sort out the mysteries of Transferring Old Laptop Stuff Onto New Laptop. Woe unto me if I do not get this finished while I’m in California.

-Gifts for my mother and sister, both of whom are celebrating another year of me in their lives. Or, you know, their birthday.

-Flight pillow. Only as necessary as cabin pressurization.

Speaking of that, I am exhausted. I deliberately stayed up late last night so as to make myself sleepy. The idea was that I would board the plane, pass out, and wake up five hours later on the opposite coast completely refreshed and ready to party like a rock star.

What was I thinking? First of all, I never sleep on planes. Second of all, I managed to catch an earlier flight which, assuming I make it, will contain large numbers of people who are not at all sleepy, since it’s the middle of the afternoon and all. Third of all, only if you were blind, deaf, and had never heard the term "rock star" could you mistake me for being one.

I am stupid, and I’m cranky, and I’m virtually guaranteed to wake up tomorrow in agony. On the plus side, I’m almost on vacation! The magic words that wash away all hurts and pains.

Posting might be a bit light for the week; I’ll try to write as much as possible, but I will be busy (see previous entry). According to some blogging websites I’ve read, when you have a blog and you miss even one day it is the worst sin you can ever commit out of all the sins in the world, especially if your blog is new. And to my four regular readers, three of whom I’ll be seeing this week, I do deeply apologize.

It's Normal To Want A Post-Vacay Stiff Drink, Right?

2008-07-17T06:06:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s only one more sleep until I embark on the most batshit crazy week I’ve enjoyed in many years. Not that my previous vacations have broken rejuvenation ground or anything. One of the many problems with living thousands of miles (not at all within desirable walking distance) from one’s family is that “vacation time” is a bit of a misnomer. Rarely does one actually go on what could accurately be termed a vacation. It’s more like, hey, I am a fairly ordinary person and as such, I have a family that doesn’t suck too much and sometimes it is nice to hang out with them as though I were still an everyday member of said family, but unfortunately I only get two or three chances a year to do this.

So there’s often a lot going on during my trips home. A lot of driving, flying, more driving, more flying, drinking and then flying (don’t judge; you’ve got your coping mechanisms, I’ve got mine). And as insane as it all is, generally speaking I do enjoy it. Because one of the upsides of living thousands of miles from one’s family and not going home that often is that they actually get a chance to miss you, and when you come home a lot of attention is often foisted on you. Especially if you moved away to the “big city” and have somehow not been killed yet. That’s impressive to small-town folk.

But this week I am pushing myself to the very outer limits of what I can take, whirling dervish-wise. My schedule for next week breaks down something like this:

Friday Night: Arrive in San Francisco somewhere between 9 and 11:30 pm, depending on whether or not I can get a standby flight (please, God, please). Get picked up by a new friend who is driving all the way from Sacramento to come get me. She is a very cool chick that so far I have only corresponded with (somewhat obsessively) through email, phone, and instant messenger. At this point, I’m reasonably sure she’s not a serial killer but you never can tell. Just adds to the excitement.

Friday Night, Part Two: We meet my sister and a few hundred of her most intimate friends at some sort of club in downtown SF. Depending on how sleepy said new friend and I are, we might join in the dancing and merriment that is sure to be going on, or we might fall asleep over our gin and tonics. At some point, at least eight of us retire to my sister’s two-bedroom apartment in Berkeley and subsequently fall down go boom, so deeply slumbering we might actually be comatose.

Saturday: To celebrate my sister’s twenty-third birthday (yikes-we’re-getting-old!) and the birthdays of some of her fellow July-baby friends, there is some sort of all-day party going on. I’m not sure what form it will take but it will no doubt involve the beach, a ton of people I don’t know, and a lot of social lubricant (alcohol). Good times shall be had by all. Or else.

Sunday: Aforementioned new friend and I will head to Sacramento to hang out at her place and party with a mutual friend. ANF and I are also writing partners and we’re trying to get some of our articles published at present, so we’ll no doubt be working on that as well.

Monday Afternoon/Evening: At some point, my mom will swing by and pick me up from ANF’s place in Sacramento en route to Nevada. That’s where her family lives, and the two of us plan to make a brief visit because I hardly ever see these people and I’m not very sure at all that I’ll make it back for Christmas. This is kind of where the party stops. Temporarily; don’t get scared.

Tuesday Afternoon/Evening: We drive back to California, most likely picking up my sister in Berkeley on the way. Return to parent’s condo in Pleasanton. Pet the parrot. Fall asleep.

Wednesday: My sister and I are hanging out all day causing trouble, as is our wont. We hardly ever see each other and have all kinds of nefarious activities planned. We have to make up for lost time!

Thursday: Hanging out with parental units, who I also hardly ever see. Shall have a break in nefarious activities. My parents are law-abiding citizens. Wouldn’t be right to corrupt them.

Friday Morning: At some point, I’ll return to San Francisco or Berkeley. Hang out with my sister while we wait for her boyfriend to get off work. Her boyfriend also happens to be my business partner, and we’ve got tons of skirmishy details to work out regarding our mutual enterprise that have been on hold for awhile now. We plan to work more or less until I leave the following day.

Saturday: My flight leaves at three, so I’ll be hanging out with Business Partner in SF until it’s time to go.

Saturday afternoon/evening: I fly home and French-kiss my welcome mat.

Sunday: I wager I’ll be asleep most of the day.

That’s the simplistic, couldn’t-possibly-go-wrong plan! So let it be written, so let it be done! For awhile I was trying to figure out how to factor in a side trip to Las Vegas to see another good buddy who moved away from New York about half a year ago (jerk). I figured I’d be in Nevada already, what’s a little 400+ mile side trip? That’s when my mom stepped in, from whom I inherited basically nothing of use except my dazzling smile (thanks, Mom!) and who therefore has a much, much better (read: more realistic) sense of direction than I do. She explained to me, very kindly (my mother received at least 8 more helpings of kind than the average person, which most definitely includes me) that a side trip to Las Vegas was not a good plan unless I managed to get the time traveling machine in working order before tomorrow.

So I let that idea go.

I think my sanity is going to take a severe enough beating as it is.

I’m really looking forward to this whole thing, though. Really! Ha ha!

It Was Reading Material. I Hope.

2008-07-16T05:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I found a romance novel in the bathroom stall at work.

About this, I had questions.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve seen some strange things in bathroom stalls in my day. Jewelry, cell phones, wallets (I could have really cleaned up if I had less severe moral scruples), underwear on one memorable and disgusting occasion (it’s polite to throw your underwear away when you’re done using it, not leave it for someone else to clean up. Everyone knows that). Even the occasional newspaper or magazine.

But a book? In particular, that book? I am befuddled.

It was a run-of-the-mill romance novel, perhaps a bit tamer than most (and I am only judging by the cover here; that particular genre has never been my shot of vodka, not that you’re going to know about anyway). It was just a guy and girl, hand drawn and not particularly well, dancing what might have been a waltz or the hokey pokey. Impossible to tell (who does the cover art for these things? First graders?).

Of course, being a curious sort, I quickly fanned through the book searching for $5 bill bookmarks or pressed roses or handwritten notes in the margins. I found nothing, not even an incriminating name scribbled into the jacket. So, I read the back flap.

It was so unmemorable that I cannot remember the title (I think it was something like “Marriage: Is Love Necessary?”) and obviously I don’t remember the names, but the plot went more or less like this. A woman we’ll call Marguerite wanted to have a baby but couldn’t because her main squeeze didn’t want any so when her boss (we’ll call him Darren Stormholder) proposed marriage and promised her a kid (I’m sure a money-back guarantee was involved, though it didn’t explicitly state this), Marguerite went along with it even though she didn’t love Darren Stormholder.

Wow. That’s high drama there. Or at least it would be if it wasn’t every other woman’s story for the century preceding this one.

I’m sure we can all guess what happens from there. The “loveless” marriage turns passionate in a hurry because everyone involved is so outstanding in bed that their respective minds blow up like atom bombs. Then there’s A Complication. Maybe in the form of the old boyfriend coming back in a fit of jealous rage. Maybe Marguerite is infertile (bummer). Or maybe they decide they don’t want kids after all, because it would interfere with their sexual marathons. Or maybe she finds out that Darren was married to someone else all along! There’s just no end to the possibility for intrigue here.

But in the end, of course, they’ll fall desperately into one another’s arms again and go off to cuddle their newborn, or learn to dance the jitterbug. Those are the only two possible endings.

So what I’m wondering is, why and how did this book come by its unfortunate fate in the loo? Who brought it in? Was it someone I know? Can I tease them? Were they reading it over their lunch break, perched on the toilet with a PB&J in their lap, reliving their misfit high school days? Because we’ve got perfectly nice weather outside, Ms. or Mrs. Reading-Romance-In-The-Bathroom. In fact, the weather’s been a shockingly good sport this summer—not too hot, and not too cold, which can’t possibly last much longer. You don’t need to be reading in the impersonal, uncomfortable bathroom.

Perhaps it was something to read while she was, well, uh, you know—doing what you do. Which I sort of thought was the point of graffiti, but what do I know? The more pressing question is, how did she manage to leave it behind? Surely it caught her eye when she was doing the once-over to make sure she didn’t leave anything behind in the stall, like her sunglasses or keys or false teeth? (Everyone does this, right?) Besides, wasn't she reading it?

I can see why they wouldn’t have wanted to read it, say, in the company break room. That’s just not the kind of impression you want to give the president and the CEO of the company (who naturally would choose that day to eat with the minions in a show of unity and team spirit). But still, you didn’t have to choose the bathroom. Yuck, first of all. Second, have you never heard of the old “bring a copy of War and Peace and hold it up with the romance novel behind it so everyone thinks you’re reading a classic and concentrating very hard because you do not ever appear to turn any pages”?

Third, did I just imagine this or is bringing reading material into the bathroom kind of a “guy thing”? I’m not talking about at home, behind closed doors. That’s your business (seriously, stop talking—I don’t want to know). I mean at work. As I said, I’ve seen the occasional magazine or newspaper, but that’s usually been at airports where you could imagine it falling out of someone’s bag, or possibly they were just really absorbed in their pre-torture reading in an attempt to distract themselves from their upcoming walk-on role in Hostel. Which is legitimate. But a book? That implies a commitment. Quite apart from the subject matter, what were you doing in the bathroom that took so long?

You know what, I’d rather you didn’t answer that. A new and horribly disturbing possibility has dawned on me that I would much prefer not to ever think about again. I'll just stay the hell out of that stall from now on.

Come Fly With Me

2008-07-15T06:34:00.000-07:00

Or don’t, if you know what’s good for you.

Not because of me, naturally. I happen to be a wonderful traveling companion, full of lively stories and, I’m not one to brag, but a pretty extreme willingness to sing every role in whole Broadway soundtracks. A few hours on a plane, train, boat, or futuristic flying car with me and you will be wondering why it’s taken you so long to quit your job and kidnap me so we can spend the rest of our lives on a road trip together. Either that, or you’ll be crying out for heavy prescription drugs.

No, the reason you’d want to avoid accompanying me on my fabulous vacation to California which commences on Friday has more to do with the fact that I live in (I might have mentioned this) New York. So in order to get to California, I have to take a plane. Yes, I’m aware that I could have walked—I’d be a few thousand bucks richer right now (airline prices are crazy!), and the exercise would do me good.

The minor downside is that I would never reach California. More likely, I’d end up in New Orleans (I hear they’re throwing a pretty decent block party in February, which is about when I’d arrive, so this wouldn’t be a total waste). I have a horrible sense of direction. Really bad. As in, if you ever want to kill me and make it look like an accident, all you have to do is drop me off with a ten-mile supply of water in a desert which has a town ten miles away, and a town a hundred miles away. I guarantee, I’ll find a way to head toward the town a hundred miles away (even if there are signs, runway lights, a yellow brick road, and a host of angels pointing in the direction of the ten-mile town), and consequently die of thirst.

So a plane to California is definitely the way to go. You may not know this, but New York is world-famous for making air travel an experience in pleasure second only to having a root canal performed without anesthetic, by Satan, as bamboo shoots are stuck under your toenails and a screen above your head is playing reruns of Full House at a volume loud enough to drown out your screams.

Half the time the planes don’t even take off. This might not seem fair, seeing as how you cashed out your 401k to pay for your ticket, but just bear in mind that it’s highly inadvisable to walk up to an airline employee and ask for an explanation, even if you are flying home to give your brother a kidney and there’s not too much time left, according to the guy holding the shiny sharp thing. The airline employees get very testy when you ask them picky questions like “Excuse me, but how much longer until our plane arrives, please?” They don’t know. What’s more, they don’t give a shit. It is certainly not their problem, the plane will show up whenever it damn well pleases and that might not be for a week but that is okay because it is—got this?—not their problem.

Yes, patience is a virtue when you’re waiting at one of NYC’s finest airports. In my particular case, that airport is Newark. Granted, that’s not quite in NYC—it’s not even in New York—but it’s considered one of the Big Three nonetheless, and in this situation, it was the only one that I could leave from without actually parting with an appendage to pay for my ticket.

But just because Newark is in New Jersey, that does not make it any less fun! No sir. As a matter of fact, I hold few memories in such warm regard as last New Year’s Eve, when I arrived in New Jersey about seven minutes before midnight. Now, I realize that New Year’s Eve is a BIG DEAL. I have never quite figured out why—the world has a birthday just like you and me and Jesus and it doesn’t really seem like such a shocking occurrence to me but every single time it happens there’s the exact same amount of pageantry and wide-eyed wonder. But I ask you, did every single person exiting that plane need to stop walking—in that little accordion thing you enter and exit the plane on, for which the correct term escapes me at the moment—to count down the seconds until the new year? I couldn’t possibly have been the only person with claustrophobia in that environment, right?

I swear, I even heard a champagne cork pop. Great idea—let’s add alcohol to the situation.

And it only got worse when we managed to burst into the terminal as one.

Personally, I think the best way to celebrate New Year’s Eve—or the Fourth of July, or Arbor Day—is by staying home, preferably with a good buddy or two, and drinking heavily. That way, nobody gets hurt, nobody has to drive, and nobody gets into a really unwise disagreement with the fat guy smooshing them at the bar who forgot to put on deodorant.

But I seem to be in the minority here. Apparently airports are where the party is AT, because at least a tenth of New York’s colorful population was there to greet the homecomers at Newark. I was one of the few solitary souls littered sadly across the landscape of happy couples, bulging suitcases, and about six thousand crying kids whose bedtimes were so far in the past that their current state of alertness could only have been achieved with amphetamines.

Here’s the best part. JFK is only about a ten-minute train ride from my apartment. For that reason, I find it the most pleasurable to have dealings with, out of the Big Three. Of course, that judgment is roughly equal to saying I’d rather watch my puppy die than lose my job right after having my first kid or experience the plague of locusts, so take it with a grain of salt. But insofar as it is closer to my apartment (by far) than La Guardia or Newark, the torture sessions do tend to be shorter.

So needless to say, I can almost never get flights in or out of JFK. When the stars align and my karma is all built up and I can get a flight from there, it’s like a big, shiny, unexpected Christmas present. It’s actually such an effective one that I beg my family to take back any actual Christmas presents they might have bought for me and give them to poor children instead, that I might experience this wonderful gift again in my lifetime.

Newark is, by contrast, the furthest airport from my apartment. I don’t mind this so much on Friday, because I’ll be leaving from work, and my office is so close to Grand Central that I could practically leap out a window and land on it (if I had any sense of direction whatsoever, which I don’t, we’ve discussed this—more likely, I’d land in Maryland). But next Saturday, when I come back, I am once again going to be arriving at midnight. Which means I won’t see my lovely apartment until the wee hours of the morning. This might not be such a bad thing, since said apartment will no doubt have been completely overtaken by roaches in my weeklong absence.

The great thing is, I never consider any of this when booking my flights. I always say to myself, “Well, it’s $838 cheaper to do it this way, I’ll find a way to make it work.” All I ever think about is money. Never do I pause to consider the plight of my poor, jet-lagged self arriving alone in New Jersey on a rainy night (well, I don’t know if it’ll be raining but it makes it sound sadder) faced with the prospect of returning home with bags in which a couple of dwarves have stowed away, judging by their weight.

And in the end, I always pay the price.

A Bigger Punk Than I

2008-07-14T10:46:00.000-07:00

Me: Hello, Writer’s Block! Good morning! I’d like to shake your hand and tell you how good it is that you’re here on this fine Monday morning not even a week after I started my brand-new blog!

Writer’s Block: Well, thanks. I’m happy to be here.

Me: Now, this blog is, let me just go ahead and say it again, brand new and I am really, really happy to have you here upstaging me before I’ve even had a chance to get my bid in, so I just wanted to thank you heartily for coming here and now I have so let’s move the hell on. Since it’s new, I don’t think my readers are very familiar with you yet. Why don’t you tell them a little about yourself?

WB: Certainly. Well, I hail from Death (of Creativity) Valley and I still have some family there. I think you know my brother Badjoke and my sister Cliché?

Me: We’ve met.

WB: Did you just twitch? Might want to see someone about that. Anyway, I don’t make it back there to see them too often. I’m all over the place these days. I was recently fired from my job and since I’m broke and unemployed and have nothing better to do, I decided to trail along after you for awhile. You haven’t been making that easy for me.

Me: No.

WB: I liked the police tape and the chalk outline in your last apartment. Along with the really, really overdone blood message on the wall. Nice touch. If a bit amateurish.

Me: Well, thanks. I am new at this dodging-the-forces-of-evil thing, you know.

WB: Right. So anyway, I don’t have a job—

Me: What were you doing before?

WB: (sighing heavily) If you must know, I was hired by the producers of Gilmore Girls to hang out with their writers near the end of Season Six.

Me: Why?

WB: (rolling eyes) Because everyone was sick of the Lorelai-Luke drama. Actually, sick of Lorelai in general. Plus they weren’t getting in enough time with their families, or their personal trainers for that matter. Spare tires everywhere, you wouldn’t believe how disgusting a tube top can look on—

Me: I get it, thanks.

WB: So they really wanted the show to end, but they couldn’t just end with everyone breaking up and unhappy because omigod, so they had to end it another way.

Me: Let me just get this straight. You agreed to cause a really long and horribly protracted seventh season that was not even a tenth as good as the previous six so that ratings would go down and they’d be forced to take the show off the air?

WB: Correct.

Me: Nice, Writer’s Block. What, did you kick the dog too?

WB: What dog?

Me: Never mind. So your job ended…

WB: Right. And like I said, I was broke. Bastards stiffed me. Something about the ending being “too happy,” which, as you remember, is the complete opposite what they were trying to avoid. I swear, you can’t win with these people.

Me: Let’s move on to the part about me. Shall we?

WB: So anyway, that’s when I started trailing you.

Me: So that would have been around May 15, 2007?

WB: You know an awful lot about the show.

Me: I have Google. Also, bite me. May 15, 2007? That was right around the time I was finishing up my Great American Novel and then I had to stop, burn it in a bonfire, and gnash my teeth until they were half gone. See? (Bares teeth) I haven’t been able to sink my teeth into anything since. Your work?

WB: (blushes) Don’t thank me. I was glad to do it.

Me: Why don’t you come here and say that to my face?!

WB: Well, if I did, you wouldn’t be able to describe it anyway.

Something happened after that little exchange but I currently find myself without the words to depict it.

Leave me your own personal, tried-and-true methods of {verb}ing this evil {adjective}ing {noun}, and I’ll see what I can do about implementing them.

Who Wants To Marry A Mermaid?

2008-07-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

Initial Thoughts on The Little Mermaid:

-Parents should be given a medal. Just think about how many times you forced them to endure this tripe as a little kid. If you're a girl, that is. I don't know too many boys who were obsessed with little mermaids. (Not that there would be anything wrong with that.)

-That being said, Disney music flat-out owns. I was surprised and pleased to find that "Under the Sea" has the same affect on me at least 15 years later that it did back then-- namely, it makes me want to quit my job and go live under the sea (of course I had a job at age 7, didn't you?). Yes, the lack of breathable oxygen would be an issue, but I feel that could be overcome if I had my own hot crustacean band to conduct.

-If it's really she who holds her tongue that gets her man, I am well and truly screwed.

Character Analysis:

Ursula-- So here's my theory: Ursula is Triton's bitter ex-wife who he left because he wanted someone who was less evil and also not purple and tentacled (which: he doesn't really have a leg to stand on there, given that he is half fish himself). Now she's living off alimony and growing more bitter by the day under the influence of her pet eels. And like all bitter ex-wives, she uses custody of the kids as a weapon against Daddy. Well, I can't fault her. It's a very effective strategy, provided you are not one of those poor unfortunate souls plagued with pesky ethics.

Eric-- Gay. No question. Bisexual at a minimum. How could he not be? Until he met Ariel he'd clearly spent his formative youth entirely in the company of horny sailors (specifically an older dude named Grimsby who obviously has the hots for him. Oh sure, he says he wants Eric to be happily married to the right girl but it cannot be denied that he was crazy enough about Eric to procure a larger-than-life statue of him. While he was on a ship in the middle of the ocean. Now me, I'm kind of wondering how Grimbsy managed the feat. Was it delivered by Fedex?) Eric is definitely a nice guy though. Real humanitarian. Not every guy who finds a beautiful, nearly nude girl on the beach would stop to help her. And it was pretty cool the way he fought and killed Ursula when she blew up to nearly 500 times his size. Most guys would have decided that the girl was too high-maintenance at that point and bailed out. (Especially if they were gay.)

King Triton-- It's kind of hard not to like the old softy, even if he is a rather shortsighted sea king and the best that can be said of his parenting skills is that he named his daughters well. You can't blame him for being clueless; he's a single father of a mess of teenage girls, and a lot of people in his place would commit suicide, myself included, so he deserves props for sticking it out. I have a harder time forgiving his blatant missteps as king. Doesn't he understand that by letting Ariel marry a land prince, he's extending his power and influence beyond the sea? That's about the best you could expect of a baby daughter who is so severely lacking in common sense.

Sebastian-- I blame his crustacean parents. With a name like Horatio Felonious Ignacious Crustaceous Sebastian!, you couldn't help but be incredibly pretentious. Classic whiny has-been, though he clearly cares about Ariel at least as much as keeping his job, which is nice. Methinks Triton asked Sebastian to keep an eye on Ariel so he would stop burrowing in his flowing white beard. Yuck.

Ariel-- This is why minors aren't legally held to contracts they sign-- because they never read them. Ariel, honey, here's a hint-- if you need to close your eyes while you're signing something, probably not the best idea to be signing it. Also, if you have to pass a "garden" that looks like a scene from Dante on the way into someone's house, maybe that's someone you don't need to be visiting. I have no patience for the best of teenagers, but princesses are an especially irritating breed. Her character drastically improved when she lost her voice. By the way, why didn't she just write a note to the prince explaining what happened? Seems like that would have been the obvious move. Also, she could have done with a few more details about this bargain with Ursula... whether she'd have her voice back after the three days in the event of success, for example.

First Line of Defense

2008-07-12T07:47:00.000-07:00

A bit of background regarding my apartment, about which I plan to whine a lot in this entry:

When I returned to New York after my three month respite, my life was, in the main, not going too well. I was broke, I had just lost one of my best friends in a warlike fallout (hence the move), I was far away from home, sick of being nomadic and directionless, and I had lost my copy of Charlie & The Chocolate Factory.

Never did find that.

I really feel like Johnny Depp could have helped me through that difficult time.

Oh well.

I had, however, just started dating someone who lived in New York. (Side note: if you ever want to go through a really emotionally confusing experience, fall life-changingly in love with someone while your life is crashing down around your ears; it’s lots of fun trying to reconcile the happy-puppy feelings of a new relationship and the deep desire to kill everyone around you.)

Because I left Pennsylvania in rather a hurry (battle, retreat, surrender), I did not have the time or the funds to secure living arrangements in the city. To the general dismay of everyone involved, I moved in with my boyfriend. Only temporarily, for a couple of weeks until I got on my feet. And I certainly did stay a couple of weeks, provided you define “a couple” as “seven.”

I was not at all happy about this, except in the sense that I would have otherwise been on the street. The idea was that I would find a job and an apartment, hopefully in that order, and get quickly settled in the city. The apartment… not so much. The job part, however, went beautifully. For reasons surpassing understanding, a couple of days after my arrival, I managed to get interviewed—and hired—by the same company I work for today. It’s a fantastic job; I love it, I have zero major complaints about it, and I’m not just saying that because I’m writing this at work.

That job was a bright spot and a blessing to a degree I really can’t convey through words (I can convey it through interpretive dance, but you wouldn't be able to see that since this is a blog) and I was profoundly grateful to have it, because the subsequent Epic Apartment Hunt of 2007 was so deliriously stressful (both for me and the boyfriend) that had it been accompanied by an equally difficult job search, I wouldn’t have necessarily made it through with both of my original eyeballs.

To make a long (you have no idea) story short, the boyfriend and I did eventually find an apartment for me, after weeks of work and dozens of disappointments. It’s a nice place; reasonably quiet and free of obvious bloodstains, which was really all I wanted at that point. I still live there, and until now it has been a near-problem-free place to live. Sure, it’s not as close to Manhattan as it could be, and sure, the guy above me answered the door with no pants one time (and he wasn't one you'd want to see pantsless under any circumstances), and sure, I have to spray the cockroach poison (to which building up a tolerance is apparently possible) a little more often than I’d like, but believe me, compared to some of the crack houses and brothels I passed on before I found it, it’s Three Ponds. Welcome to New York City real estate.

Anyway, as you may know, it is summer. In summer the weather can be a bit warmer than is desirable by anyone who did not grow up in the Middle East. This wouldn’t be a problem, except that practically no one who lives in the outer boroughs of New York owns an air conditioner despite the fact that temperatures regularly hit the triple digits. Why? Lots of reasons. We care a lot about the environment around here, for one. Don’t want to contribute to pollution. Heh. Also, they make electric bills shoot up like a desperate junkie. Perhaps “torpedo” would do better to capture the spirit of the process.

This is my third summer in NYC. During the first one, I did not get an air conditioner. Food came in higher on the priority list, for some reason. When the second came around, I could technically afford it but my near-total monetary focus at the time was on eradicating my student loan debt. I was only a couple of months away from that happy day of freedom and unwilling to postpone it just to keep myself temperature-controlled. I tried to be all “tough girl” about my lack of cold airy goodness (I don’t NEED an air conditioner! I already got through one summer without it!) but it should be noted that I spent an inordinate amount of time at work that summer.

Now I definitely could, if I were so inclined, easily pick up a unit and run it to my little heart’s content with no noticeable financial impact. But I have not yet done so. Why? I don't think it's been that hot so far. Some people disagree with me. But here it is, July, and so far it's been much more “steam bath” than “Hell’s waiting room.” Which is okay with me. And since I’ll be out of town for three out of the next five weeks, it doesn’t make sense to me to buy one now. By the time I return in mid-August, the summer will be practically over and there’ll be a full year standing between me and this debate yet again.

In the meantime, though it has been pleasantly warm during the day, the only way I can comfortable sleep at night without resorting to filling a sleeping bag with ice is by keeping my window open.

Here comes The Issue.

There’s a fire escape outside my window. And it has occurred to me once or twice that if, say, a serial killer or a rapist felt inclined to visit, leaving that window open is just about equal to leaving a love note for the fella. I feel much more secure when the window is shut and locked, and my blinds drawn such that they cannot see me lying there like a defenseless kitten.

I used to sleep right next to the window, however, and that was okay. I think it had something to do with a picture I had in my mind of hearing “something funny” and leaping up just in time to startle the serial killer/rapist enough that he would stumble backwards and fall off my fire escape.

I’m five stories up, so this would probably mean the end of him bothering me.

However, a few weeks ago, my bed decided that it didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. In fact, it decided it hated me. Not sure what I did to offend it, but it must have been bad because I woke up one morning with the following cheerful greeting to the day on my lips:

“OW. OwowowowowowOWOWOWOWFUCKOWWW.”

My back can no longer tolerate the bed on which I formerly slept. It makes me wake up feeling like someone spent the night beating my back with golf drivers while I, inexplicably, slept. To some extent, this is understandable. My “bed” is actually a sofa bed, and it was never really meant to be slept on every night. I got it for aesthetic reasons, not because I thought it looked particularly comfy. This was a very stupid decision, but it did take more than a year to catch up to me. Which completely justifies it, in my mind.

So no more couch/bed for me. Fortunately, I have an alternative: my extremely comfortable leather couch. So for the past week or so, that’s where I’ve been sleeping.

This is good for my back, but problematic in all other ways. Because of the placement of the couch, I am no longer in a position to observe someone coming in through my window before they are actually in the apartment, which was unlikely to begin with given that I have slept through earthquakes, shootings, and cats getting it on. Sound sleeper, me. So it was always dubious that I’d notice someone entering my apartment through the fire escape even if I were sleeping on the fire escape, but now that I’m clear across the room, there's no chance. By the time I notice there’s someone in here with me, I’ll probably have been cut up into little pieces.

Thinking about all this has caused me to have a tiny bit of trouble sleeping. My panicked mind has been nudging me awake every few minutes to squint at the window through my non-contact-covered pupils to make sure there’s no one there yet. This has not made for what you might call “good sleep.”

It might occur to you, if you are one of those “sensible” types, that I could just switch the positioning to the couch and the bed. Well, actually, it occurred to me too. And I did. But my apartment is pretty small, and switching those two pieces of furniture made it look unacceptably cluttered in here. So I changed it back and decided to learn to live with it. Or not, as the case may be.

If you’re getting the idea that my apartment looking nice is more important to me than staying alive, well, yeah. And don't give me that concerned expression. If you are really that afraid for my safety, you could always hire me a bodyguard.

Ode to New York

2008-07-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

Did you ever have a really important date come along that you just completely forgot about? Mom’s birthday, perhaps, or her seven-year-sober celebration? Well, don’t feel bad. We all do it. Those of us with memories that make an Alzheimer’s patient look like a spelling bee finalist, that is. I, in fact, did it last Friday. You would think that the fact that this particular date-stamp in my life happens to fall on a national holiday would aid me in my quest for memorial. You would be wrong, though, and I’ll forgive you this time because unless you know me personally, you are not yet familiar with the charming Swiss-cheese nature of my memory, as well as my many other quirks.

So what date did I completely forget about? Fortunately, it’s not important to anyone but me. No one got upset because I didn’t buy a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake like I was supposed to that time when I did forget my mom’s birthday (sorry about that again, Mom… I subsequently had your ejection-from-the-womb date tattooed into my arm so that would never happen again… both because I love you and because Dad’s anger at his dimwit daughter was terrible to behold).

On July 4, 2006, I moved to New York City.

Wow, all that buildup and that’s it? That’s the date you forgot after assigning it completely arbitrary importance? Could you, Lady Snark, possibly get any more pretentious and self-involved? Yes, yes, and, probably, yes. Human arrogance, particularly my own, knows no bounds.

It’s even less impressive than it sounds, because I only stayed until November. Then I left, ostensibly for good. I returned the following February. And I’ve been here ever since, tossing aside my nomadic existence for a life of stability, structure, and approximately eight million subway rides. So it wasn’t even an unbroken two years. Still, when you reunite with your extremely volatile lover who you hate at least half the time and who can’t even seem to remember your name but who you can’t seem to live without anyway, you don’t count those icky three months when you were apart.

I don’t, at least. And neither should you.

So yes: NYC and me, 2 year anniversary. That could almost be the start of a really annoying pop song.

In that time, I have learned to appreciate some of the finer things in life: the merits of the Subway Rat versus the Apartment Mouse; the positive energy that only comes from giving all of one’s cash to a homeless person lest they hurl what you have to hope are masticated bits of a Ho-Ho at you; the haunting, beautiful sound of an approaching train and the attendant high or low that determines the course of your remaining day, which is based on whether or not it’s the train you need; the pleasure of knowing that your apartment costs more, per square foot, than the Taj Mahal. I have also learned some important bits of “street wisdom: how to tell if a sidewalk-vendor gyro contains the special ingredients that are going to make you desperately ill; how to go home drunker than any human should ever be without getting mugged or shot; why it’s a good idea to avoid getting in the middle of drug altercations; the complete and utter recklessness of getting on the subway without a distracting form of entertainment, such as a book, an iPod, or a recreational substance.

But the most important thing I have learned is that people here are just like people everywhere else: mostly nice, some mental problems. Yes, perhaps we New Yorkers have a few extra degrees of spice in our saucy, but that’s just the outer shell; that’s what we want you to see. Underneath, we’re just as vulnerable, afraid, and anxious as anyone else. More, actually, seeing as there is a very severe “lack of personal space” issue in this city, which tends to make certain people rather cranky. Mainly the ones that carry guns.

Getting back to the whole New-York-as-lover thing, seriously, you’ve never met such a player in your life. Sexless, ageless, faceless (unless you consider the face of Lady Liberty to be the face of New York, which, personally, I don’t—she needs to work on her “haughty face” a bit more, and being a statue, her progress on this front is prohibitively slow), you might think New York wouldn’t get much play. You’d be wrong again, however. It turns out that having no discernible body (being, as it is, a city) gives one an air of mystery, of power, of allure that regular human players can only aspire to.

I know what I’m talking about here. I fell for New York when I was just a wee lass, more of a Little Snark than a Lady Snark. I had never even been here. I lived in California (a place to which, strangely, many New Yorkers aspire to move). I had no family connections nor any apparent link to this place that has managed to tie me down for more than a year now. All I knew was that I wanted to live here. I wanted to be one of the impossibly cool people strolling down Fifth Avenue in the morning, looking beautiful and important.

As it was conceived, so it was done. Sort of. My fantasies of living here, shockingly, did not turn out to exactly be on speaking terms with reality. New York’s draw lies mainly in its possibilities. Everyone wants to come here, and mostly everyone wants that because they have an idea in their mind about instantly becoming famous one way or another—writing, singing, politics, stripping. The problem is that a good 99% of the people who entertain these delusions are not in any way equipped to, I don’t know, make them happen.

Thus: New York is tough. It might be bustling, important, in demand, and, for lack of a better term, “glittery” but it is not what you might call a grandmotherly, welcoming place. It’s more of a “Lead, follow, or get out of the way” place. It is also very often a boring place, unless you happen to have scads of money. You may have been lusting after New York since you were eligible for recess and smiley face stickers, but that does not mean that New York was lusting for you in return. New York doesn’t have a clue who you are, even if you live here. It seems insulting, but if you had 8.2 million lovers to keep track of, you’d struggle a bit on the name-recall thing too.

I imagine God has this problem, on a somewhat larger scale.

So over time, a healthy relationship with New York City runs something like this:

Phase One: Lust. Undying, devotional lust. I’d do anything to have you kind of lust. This is what gets you to the city in the first place. As discussed, New York does not return this sentiment in any way, shape, or form. It’s entire response to your adolescent dedication is, and I quote, “OK.”

Phase Two: Greed. Upon arrival, everything seems possible. Exciting. New. The average infatuated new city-dweller suddenly envisions all of his or her dreams coming true, and begins to visualize the ensuing power, money, and attractive naked friends of the opposite sex. If you ever get a chance to actually watch this happen, it’s well worth a few minutes of your time. It’s especially entertaining to see the pupils of their eyes contract into tiny dollar signs. You can’t blame them, though. There’s something about this city that makes you want to gobble it up, which in fact brings us to…

Phase Three: Gluttony. Here’s what you need to know about this city. It has a lot of food. And a lot of it is very good. Just as much of it is very bad. During Phase Three, the newly minted New Yorker is probably dead broke and trying to scrape a bohemian living “to support his art” working as a waiter in a high class Manhattan restaurant. What does this mean? It means that he is constantly around very good food, and all he can afford is very bad food. Thank God the owner gets a tax deduction for those staff meals, huh?

Phase Four: Envy. Suddenly, everyone seems to have a better deal than you. All your friends start succeeding. Your roommate brings home a gorgeous new boyfriend, and you can’t help but be incredibly jealous even if you are a straight male. This is the definite stage of disillusionment, for most New Yorkers. If you happen to come across someone who is clearly in this stage, be nice to them. For your own sake as well as theirs. Something about having all your dreams smash into little pieces around your head has a tendency to make a person edgy.

Phase Five: Sloth. This is the inevitable, and necessary, step to recovery. This is the part where you tell New York to fuck off, you don’t care about any of it anymore. New York’s response to this is, and I quote, “OK.” There’s a lot of misery in this phase. Lots of drinking beer and eating chips and staring at the TV and contemplating how you could have been so colossally, criminally stupid and wondering if you have yet hit the perfect storm of sufficient cash and lack of pride that will allow you to get your sorry butt on a Greyhound and go crying home to Mom and Dad, who did warn you against this great adventure to begin with. “You’ll end up a broke, sad bum” was their exact warning and damn, it sucks when our parents are right.

Phase Six: Wrath. Lots of people don’t make it to this stage. The Sloth Phase is very powerful. Live with it long enough, though, and it begins to crystallize into a powerful rage. “I’m better than this! I didn’t leave my family, friends, and everything I knew just to be a bum on the couch! I could have done that back home!” is the common phrase. “Damn it, New York, I’ll show you yet! I’ll be more successful than you could’ve ever imagined! I’ll make you remember my name!” See if you can guess New York’s response to this.

Phase Seven: Pride. Ah, pride. Assuming the anger described in phase six spurs you to action instead of just hanging out in your apartment like an impotent bully, you can usually look forward to a carefully measured dollop of success. This happens only after you adjust your expectations of what your life here should consist of. When you trade in the gorgeous Soho loft fantasy for your plain, no-frills, apathetic-landlord digs. When you let go of the idea that triumph should come without any sort of work on your part and also be accompanied by trumpets and front-page articles featuring your face.

When you do this, there’ll be a night when you see New York’s essence pass by you on the street (usually in the form of white, toxic smoke billowing prettily up from a subway grating). And you will smile shyly, wave at this ethereal lover/place for which you have turned your entire life upside down and gotten no love in return. And an amazing thing will happen. New York will look at you, give you the cool head-nod… and smile back.

It seems like a small reward for your months of toil. But that cool head-nod means that you’re in. You’ve made it, for whatever it’s worth. It might not be much, but it’s enough, against all reason, to make you content.

After all, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

And it might even smell better.

Agony, Ecstasy, Peanuts

2008-07-09T18:05:00.001-07:00

Some people think that writing a blog is, like, easy.

Some people are wrong. And stupid. Some are also bald and smelly.

Writing a blog is hard work; hard, oft-unpleasant, usually unpaid work that people only do in an attempt to stave off the realization that they are attention whores of the first degree. So needless to say, half the time it's an exercise in enduring failure on a massive scale (well, not massive exactly; if you're "not much of a writer," only three or four people will ever read your blog, and they'll drop out in short order if you can't come up with a more interesting topic than the color and consistency of Baby's First Poop). It tends to involve much glaring at a (blank) "Create Post" page and muttering to oneself about the futility of the process and, by extension, life itself. (No one ever even READS THIS SHIT! I might as well die. Et cetera.) Very frustrating.

And my past attempts at a blog have been kind of like that. Actually, they've been that. Minus the copious mentioning of Baby's First Poop. I try to avoid topics that are obviously boring and/or nasty (and if you're wondering how it is that anyone can mention the color of that particular nascent bodily function more than once, well, lucky you... believe me when I tell you that it's possible). Plus I don't have a baby.

However, I believe I have discovered my problem. My "weak link." My kryptonite. My undoing. My downfall. My pretty boy after a year of celibacy. As it were.

I've been far, FAR too serious.

In general, I mean, not just in Blogland. Really, this is a big problem. In my daily life, I have often been told that I tend to look and act VERY solemn. Grave. Scare children, and so forth. And frankly, I have no idea where this comes from because underneath my funeral-director exterior I am one bubbly, happy, well-adjusted, cheerful member of the human race. In point of fact, I am actually one of the most merry people you could ever hope to have the pleasure of meeting.

(Pause for laughter.)

Okay! Okay! It was JUST A JOKE!

(Laughter continues, raucous.)

That's enough laughing, now.

(Geez, is it that bad?)

Anyway, I've thought long and hard about this (and a very emotional and soul-probing sixteen minutes that was, let me tell you) and I have definitely decided that the time has come to (sigh) Lighten Up. Loosen my Relentless Maturity belt a few notches. Really, just because life is not a box of chocolates and bad things always happen in threes and the wettest day of the year always comes when you've forgotten your umbrella and cliches are an unfortunate and common fixture of daily life much like the chickenpox was somewhat of a fad in second grade, that does NOT mean that we should dwell on negativity every waking moment. We have our sleeping moments, after all.

So here it is, My Point: I want to begin a journey today, right here, right now (July 9th, 2008 at 9:26 pm, Eastern Standard Time, in case you were curious) toward a jollier me. Less Rabbit, more Tigger, that's what I need in my life. I wish to write a lighthearted blog in which I attempt to be funny, probably aided by heavy plagiarism of the blog which inspired this ambitious project and an online thesaurus (what, you thought I came up with a word like nascent all by my lonesome? Aw, you flatter me).

And I don't work well under pressure. Well, sometimes I work well under pressure. A lot of times. Actually, I do my best work under pressure. Look, here's where I'm going with this: I'm not going to share this blog with anyone until I'm convinced that it has hit acceptably funny levels of snark. Then I will share it with everyone I know, starting with my loved ones and ending with the adoring public/devoted following which should rapidly develop.

Hence: If you are reading this, I've decided (and really, I'm the best possible judge of this, being not in any way biased) that it's funny! Isn't that great? Why are you shaking your heads in a manner that clearly denotes your opinion of my pathetic assessment of my own wit?! Throw me a bone here! You're a loved one of mine! Or a member of my adoring public/devoted following! Either way, hadn't you better be a little nicer to me?

Anyway, I would like to be the author of a Funny Blog. Wish me luck. Wishing me failure is very mean.

Lady Snark, at your service. Yes, I accept tax-deductible donations.