Goodbye, Little Friend.

So I went to the dermatologist the other day, because at 29 (ha, I typed 30 originally. I'm ready for it.) I decided to FINALLY do something about this goddamned acne. After waiting for over an hour, answering the nurse's questions and then re-answering them when the doctor quickly barked them at me as two assistants hovered around him, I was forced to reveal that I have a secret.

It must have been... I'd say 2003, because Boulos and I were living on the Upper East Side. I was in Chicago for some reason. I'd like to say it was when my brother graduated grade school and we (me and Boulos, not my 13-year-old brother) split a bottle of tequila and got in a loud fight on my parents' basement stairs at two o'clock in the morning and had to be yelled at by my mother. WE ARE CLASSY. But no, that was in 2002. I was visiting Chicago for some reason (Boulos, were you there for this? Somehow I feel like you were) and revealed to my mother the plague that had been... plaguing me for a few days: the giant cyst in the middle of my back.

My mom was concerned, but I like to ignore things like this. I mean, come on, eventually that giant, painful, I swear to god pulsating oval on my back will just GO AWAY, right? Like, what did people in the olden days do about cysts? Nothing. They just powered through. Or were stoned to death by other old timey people because the cyst was obviously the mark of the beast or something. Or, the cyst ruptured and they got infections due to unsanitary conditions (which were common in the olden days, you know) and then they died. WHATEVER. I don't have time to deal with cysts on vacation.

When the cyst reached its pinnacle, which was quite impressive -- bright red, the size of an egg, pretty firm except for this nice pokable little dime-sized area in the center (did you vomit yet? good.), my mom finally convinced me to go to the ER. This was the first of two ER visits I have made for really stupid reasons. I had a youngish, kind of good looking doctor who would not stop fretting about whether or not I was pregnant because of something he was intending to give me for the pain. We spent a LONG TIME discussing whether this was a possibility (no. I firmly stated. No, it is not). Then he'd leave. Then he'd come back, again concerned about my potential zygote. (No. There is no way I'm pregnant. Do you hear what I'm saying here doctor? NO WAY.) Sigh. I didn't have the heart to tell the cute doctor that I'd been celibate for years at this point. Eventually, after giving me a diabetes test that left me with a bloody finger, he made me take a stupid pregnancy test. I peed all over my bloody finger. Ah, well, at least that won't get infected.

I lay on my stomach while the doctor gave me shots to numb the area and then cut it open. Numb or not, it hurt like a bitch. I gritted my teeth while he... (don't vomit) squeezed all the pus out. YUM! I hope you're eating.

Then he packed it with gauze, told me he was sure he'd gotten "the sac" (this would be my first experience with that amazing term, which surprisingly is the only aspect of this whole thing that grosses me out), and revealed that he'd had a "giant man" in the other day who had cried like a baby through the exact same procedure. He assured me I'd do well in childbirth (?!) and sent me on my way. To this day, I am kind of worried about his level of interest in my offspring.

I went home to Boulos, who had to help me clean and redress the wound since it was on my back. She found the situation horrifying, but proved herself as a wife and lifelong friend by actually assisting me in this. I will be very, very lucky to ever find a man who would do the same. We nicknamed it my "back vagina," decided that "Chicago Style" referred to sex in the back vagina while both parties eat deep dish pizza, and eventually it healed, leaving only a small scar. Yay, no more cyst!

Yeah right. This thing comes back about yearly. During the first recurrence, I was again in Chicago (travel does something to the monster on my back) and visited my dad's dermatologist. He cut me back open, removed more pus, said he got the sac, but recommended I have them cut me open when it was normal again to make sure the entire sac was gone. Gross! This sac, like, divides and conquers? Ugh. I briefly discussed the surgery with my general practitioner in New York, but you know what? It's really hard to convince oneself that surgery is necessary when everything is fine. Hey, dude, my back is good. No vagina here! I'm sure that last guy got the sac.

After the threat of surgery, I started taking care of this thing myself. Oh god, that sounds so gross. No, what happened is that once I wasn't able to get to the doctor before the thing kind of de-pussed itself on its own. Exploded, kind of. This part of the story is where I venture into true TMI territory, I guess, and we all throw up together. Anyway, after I didn't die on that one, I decided to just buy some big bandages in preparation for any flare-ups, cover the thing when it became a monster, and wait it out. This method has been working pretty well for years. It's safe! I buy the large anti-bacterial band-aids.

So on Friday, my new dermatologist asked me whether I experience acne anywhere other than my face and I was like, "um, well. I kind of had this cyst on my back and it flares up sometimes." With no fanfare, he marched over, yanked the back of my shirt open, peered down for a millisecond, poked my back and said, "Oh, you'll have to have that removed; the sac is still in there." Trust me when I say that, even after years of talking about this cyst, the word "sac" still makes me dry heave a bit. As I left the office, the receptionist scheduled an appointment for sac removal.

And then I was a little sad! Mostly because I have never had surgery except for the removal of my wisdom teeth and I'm of the firm belief that the less surgery, the better. (In reality this is an outpatient procedure and I'm pretty sure it's only going to require another shot or two of local anesthesia, so I should just stop being a crybaby already.) But also... no more little harmless friend who becomes an angry red monster and then settles into back vagina before hibernating again :(

Goodbye, little sac (barf). I hardly knew ye.

I am hoping that Dr. Wilson finally closes my back vagina

(There are youtube videos of cyst removals but I cannot recommend them. The two I watched were really disgusting. I would stick to my story, which has the benefit of a first-person back cyst story, i.e. I didn't see anything.)

Mother's Day Update

You know how I mentioned that, on Mother's Day, my whole family made fun of me for folding my underwear? Here's a cute little follow-up.

On Sunday, we went to my parents' house. We do this most Sundays and we call it "Family Day" and we watch America's Funniest Videos and basically make you vomit with our ability to act like Leave it to Beaver, except if you know anything else about my family, you know we are no fucking Cleavers (what a fucked up last name! God that makes me laugh, and think of murder). I'll get into that another time, though. Suffice it to say our family gatherings are characterized by too many sex jokes, and sometimes too much substance abuse, for '50s prime time TV.

So back to Sunday. My dad grilled burgers and my mom bought cupcakes; how cute is that? My grandmother came over and we watched the Blackhawks game (um, they did. I did a crossword puzzle). Lest you find this too sweet and/or nauseating, let me step in and spoil it by telling you that when I drove my grandma home, we passed a number of Korean businesses a few blocks from her house and she said, apropos of nothing, "Boy, the Asians sure love to gamble." (Maybe we'd just passed an OTB? I honestly don't know.)

My sister owns our place and we have a washer/dryer in-unit, but the dryer has been broken recently so we've been doing some laundry at my parents' house. She put in a load and then I put that in the dryer and put in my load, and promptly forgot about it. I wanted to leave by 8:30 so I could go running when I got home, but at about 8:15 my mom reminded me about my laundry. I swore and got crabby. She then kindly offered to fold my stuff and send it home with my sister the next day if I didn't want to stick around.

My sister brought it home and I just unpacked it, and found that my mother had folded all of my panties! Adorable. Except this: she had asked how I fold them, and I told her that I fold them in half and then in half again. She said, "Oh, well I'd probably fold them in thirds," one-upping me on something she doesn't even do. Guess how she sent them back?

Of course, all arguments can be settled via the internet. According to this Youtube video, she's right. Or at least closer to right.

Mother's Day

I'm sure everyone has tales about how strange their family is. "Normal" doesn't really exist, does it? However, crazy family stories are fun. I thought I would describe Mother's Day at my parents' house in an effort to capture the particular strain of crazy that has infected my family.

My sister and I arrive late due to traffic and those unfeeling bastards (aka my paternal grandmother, my father, my brother and my mother) have of course begun eating without us, because they don't care. After distributing large bones to the dogs so that my dog can steal both of them and take them to the rug where she will shut up and let us eat in peace, my sister and I sit down at the table. Everyone teases Melissa (sister) because she is in the last week of training for a fitness competition and thus can only eat one dish on the table, kale. People do horrible things like loudly proclaim, "Oh, it's really too bad you cannot eat this beef, IT IS DELICIOUS. You can't have JUST ONE BITE?" (my father).

Between bites of his actual meal, my father stands up with a fork, reaches for the pineapple cake in the middle of the table, and shoves large forkfuls of it into his mouth. In my family, we generally don't do things like cut a cake into pieces and eat it off dessert plates. When he sits down, his dog jumps up on his chair and pushes her head through his free arm, panting and attempting to lick his plate. In response, he feeds her from his plate and everyone laughs. We discuss my former job at Chuck E. Cheese and I mention that a man once approached me when I was dressed as Chuckie and whispered "Are you a man or a woman? A man or a woman?" and how horrifying that was. I then determined that I'd met a furry before anyone knew what a furry was. Then I had to explain furries to my mom and grandma. They both greatly enjoyed this, and my mother later referred to them as "fluffies." I turned this particular aspect of the night into my Facebook status. My small dog eats a large piece of bone and requires assistance in order to not die. My mother helps her create a giant disgusting puddle of bone on the floor and proudly exclaims, "See, I just had to massage her throat! Now it's out!" We discuss dogs who eat things like underwear and socks and throw them up later. Probably half of us are still eating throughout this vomit portion of the evening.

After the dishes are cleared, my mother tries to redeem us from my father's lack of manners by actually cutting a different cake and distributing pieces. At my sister's request, I provide an in-depth description of the chocolate mousse cake; she cannot eat things like cake and thus gets off on looking at and hearing about food. We give my mother and grandmother their gifts. My grandmother received two books, and she expresses concern that she may not be able to read them. I ask if I should return them for large-print versions and my sister jokes, "Or should we get audio versions? Or exchange them for an aide to come and read them to you?" And my grandmother says, "I'm just sorry I won't be around to see YOU at 70, you little bitch."

My dad goes upstairs to take a nap. He takes about three a day now, I think (he is only 51). My grandmother needs someone to put an eyedrop into her eye, so I volunteer. She also needs someone to cut her bangs, which my mom does at the kitchen table while my grandma holds a newspaper ad under her face to catch the hair. My brother says, "Jesus! Eyedrops, haircuts... what the fuck do you think this is, Mother's Day?!" My mother remembers that there is cookies 'n' cream gelato in the freezer. My sister convinces me to try some, though I don't want any. I explain to her that it's not very good and they obviously used generic cookies, not oreos. She wants me to eat more and I refuse.

My sister and mother go to the Vitamin Store together (seriously. This is what they do together on Mother's Day). They say they will be gone for ten minutes and about fifteen minutes later, my grandmother proclaims that they lied and she needs to go home now and feed her dog. I drive her home. When I return, my family is watching America's Funniest Videos. I cannot lie, I fucking love that show. It's best to watch with my family, because my mother cackles loudly any time something remotely funny happens (and, um, most of the show is funny things happening) and my father only laughs audibly when someone gets injured. He is the man who appreciates all of the hits to the groin. However, he was still napping. My sister and brother like to pretend they are too cool for the show, but they always get sucked in as well.

Anytime my mother disagrees with a video -- i.e., does not think it's funny enough for the show -- she does so loudly. "That was not FUNNY. Ugh, that was just dumb. I liked the dogs who opened the gate." There is a video about a woman who continually locks her husband out of the house or car and makes him dance before she'll let him back in. My brother and I loved it and my mother rolls her eyes and says "This is so dumb. I mean, I wouldn't let her take my keys then! COME ON!"

Later on, my sister and I finish up our laundry (our dryer is currently on the fritz) and everyone laughs at me when it is revealed that I fold my underwear. Then my mother says, "You know what I'm gonna do?" And I say, "Oh, this is about wine, isn't it?" She ignores me. "Well, it's getting late and I don't work tomorrow, and the kitchen is clean, so..." And she pours herself a glass of white zinfandel and lights a cigarette.

Happy Mother's Day, mom! I don't think you read my blog, though.

Buying in Bulk

I should NEVER be allowed in a Costco or Sam's Club. NEVER. My sister bought a membership a few years ago and I went with her a few times and bought the dumbest shit. Keep in mind that my sister maintains a very healthy, strict diet at all times and I eat like a frat boy, with maybe every third meal a half-hearted stab at healthful eating. I do actually try to get in my fruits and veggies, though, because my parents never made me eat them and I hated vegetables until like five years ago, and I'm relatively sure I have undiagnosed scurvy or something as a result.

Anyway. Point being, my diet and my sister's do not overlap much and we don't share much food. When we last had a Costco membership, I bought a giant canister of cashews. Because nuts never go bad, right? No really, I thought that. We moved probably six months after I bought that bad boy and it was still 3/4 of the way full and I packed that bitch and brought it to our new place. (I brought a lot of food along using the logic "Hey, we're only moving three blocks away." Except I don't own a grocery cart so that food had to be moved just like everything else.) And here it sat, very rarely tended to, until Boulos visited last May and was like, "Um, those cashews expired TWO YEARS AGO." And I was like, bullshit, nuts don't go bad. But yeah, it had an expiration date. I rebelled and kept those cashews for a few months, every once in awhile making an "omg I'm gonna die" face and eating one. Just a couple months later, I threw out a half-full canister of cashews that probably cost $20 or some shit.

My issue with Costco is that I ALWAYS FORGET who is supposed to shop there. You know, little league teams and PTAs and people with actual families. Not little ole single me, who never even has people over because her roommate goes to bed at 9:00 p.m and her friends are loud. I do not need a two-pound tub of hummus, ever.

But buying in bulk is SMART, right? I'm getting bang for my buck here, correct? Of course, if you buy a big box of weird Kashi bars that you have never seen in the grocery store and only eat 10 of them and then, three years later, start looking at the remaining 20 with shifty eyes because they have nuts in them and you just recently learned that nuts do, in fact, go bad.... well, throwing out 2/3 of a product you bought at a slight discount is not smart.

My sister had similar, if less retarded, problems last time we had a Costco membership, so she let it lapse. But now she's on this really strict diet which involves eating the same things again and again, and buying in bulk is actually a good idea for her. And she convinced me to accompany her when she renewed her card. I didn't really need much in the way of groceries, but Costco was only open for maybe another hour and I'd just pick up some wine or something. Duh. I won't get pulled into this again, I'm no fool.

She waited in line to get her card and encouraged me to go browse. I swear to god she loves to watch me act like a dumbass. But it was boring up front, so I headed straight for the liquor section, where I picked up a bottle of whiskey -- I had NO IDEA if I was saving money on it, because I don't even buy whiskey other than Jameson or Jack Daniels, really. But hey, it MUST be a good deal, right? Then I chose a giant bottle of cabarnet sauvignon. Also not sure if I saved any money on it. At this point, I looked really classy.

My sister called me and I met her by the frozen food. Then we walked toward the produce. I picked out a giant bunch of bananas, which wasn't genius, but I make banana bread with overripe bananas and I have 1/2 a loaf sitting here on my counter right now to prove to you that no bananas were wasted. I also picked up a 12-pack of apples, which I've nearly finished. So BOO YA, produce.

But. The produce, where my sister spends a large amount of time, is right next to the cheese. Giant hunks of cheese all over the place. First I picked up this bag of snack-sized Cabot hunks. Unfortunately, I did not realize until I made it home that they are low-fat, and I have to be honest, cheese is the one food that I believe should always be full-fat. The unbelievable 0ccurred and I purchased a Cabot cheddar product that is simply mediocre. Sad.

On to the giant hunks of cheese. Obviously I could only purchase one -- I know that cheese goes bad. I was looking at cheddars, and had nearly settled on a manchego when this older woman turned to me and asked, in a gorgeous accent (French? Russian? Polish? seriously I can't identify these things) whether one could freeze cheese. I was like, I have no idea. But it probably wouldn't taste as good if you froze it and thawed it. She held up a giant wedge of gruyere and said sadly, "It's so much cheese. But they so rarely have gruyere." With the accent and the sadness over fancy cheese, I was convinced this woman was a former queen fallen upon hard times or something. There was a sense of faded glamour about her. I think she bought the cheese. I KNOW that this interaction prompted me to buy the gruyere.

This was dumb. Turns out, gruyere is not tasty when eaten in chunks, which I didn't know because I've only ever eaten it on sandwiches at restaurants. A good 1/4 of that wedge is still sitting in my fridge because I am sick of slicing cheese and eating cheese sandwiches and making cheese omelets. The one thing I know is that I, for one, will never be found standing at a discount store sadly contemplating a giant wedge of gruyere.

Other things purchased? A dried fruit and nut mix, which is convenient but maybe not the best idea because holy shit that stuff is high in calories. And a big package of corned beef, and another of sliced ham, which worked well with the gruyere for croque monsieur sandwiches, but which prompted conversations with my sister like, "NO I cannot eat turkey with you tonight, I have some ham to eat" and "I'd like to get tacos for dinner, but I still have some goddamned ham to eat."

All in all, I spent about $90 on a bunch of crap that kept me fed and liquored up for awhile, but which I did not actually, technically need. I'm probably going back this weekend.

I found this when I googled "gruyere." This little guy could really help me out with all the cheese I have right now.

I Have a 401k and Other Boring Revelations

As recently as yesterday, I realized that I am an adult. I realize this fairly often and am always surprised. But I think it was as I stared at a photo of Justin Bieber with a confused look on my face YET AGAIN last night that I "realized" this for the last time and, finally, completely accepted and embraced adulthood.

This is a good thing, since I'll be 30 in like 4 months or something. And I DO have a 401k! With less than $2,000 in it because I started it maybe a year before I got laid off, and I wasn't making enough money for 6% of my income to actually amount to that much. When I think about the amount that my sister has in her 401k, and how she is over two years younger than me, I get a little scared. Then I go to Youtube and watch a video of a dog pushing a ball around a room with a frisbee and I feel better.

So here are a few additional things that have led me to reluctantly admit that I am an adult.

1) Alluded to above, but bears repeating: I finally do not understand teenage pop stars at all. Now, lest you think I'm just a music snob: I attended a New Kids on the Block concert when I was 8. For whatever reason, I understood the popularity of boy bands like the Backstreet Boys and N'Sync, and I have danced to Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera while singing along. However, Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber are beyond me. I don't begrudge today's children, tweens and (young and/or awkward) teens their heartthrobs and Tiger Beat cover stars, but I can't lie. I kind of wish they would all board a rickety puddlejumper together and let nature take its course. Mostly because Miley's voice, both speaking and singing, grates horribly and her father's "contribution" to country music should have brought a curse upon his offspring if karma worked as it should. Taylor Swift is annoyingly sweet and wholesome, and has a horribly weak singing voice, and her songs are like bad lowfat vanilla ice cream. Justin Bieber is... well, here he is. I think a picture is enough.


I guess I should just be happy that his popularity is an obvious step in the right direction in terms of widespread acceptance of gays. If the public is embracing a little lesbian boy in this way, actual lesbians can't be far behind, right?

2) The soundtrack to my high school experience is now being referred to as "Classic Alternative." At least, that is the name of the Comcast music station that plays Bjork, Nirvana, Hole, Pearl Jam, etc. Also, rock music from the '80s is "Retro Rock." I simply cannot pretend to be a teenager anymore.

3) Sigh. This one is kind of hard to admit. I am currently watching The Breakfast Club yet again, but probably for the first time in years (it's not my favorite brat pack movie; those would be Pretty in Pink, About Last Night and St. Elmo's Fire). And John Bender is no longer sexxxxxxxxy. He is an annoying asshole. He thinks he's being provocative, but he's being mean. I do not like him at all and I no longer want to make him my loveslave. And I actually don't like any of these characters, except maybe Allie Sheedy. This is, for me, the saddest of these realizations.

Still good-looking, but too annoying and self-righteous to allow in my bed.

Guest Appearance

I think that the pic at the top of our blog seems to accurately represent the balance of the contribution to the blog. I suck, but what can I do. As you can see from the time stamp on this post, I am at home on a Friday night, lame. My recent unemployment status has really thrown me for a loop. I mean, when I am a normal commuter/employed person I'm often psyched to not have plans on a weekend, or at night, because I'm exhausted from the hustle and bustle of the week, however obviously this is not the case now. It really sucks when you finally have the time to do everything you would like to do, with none of the funds in which to do them.

Things I'd like to do right now if I could:
-Go to Chicago to see my wife, like I was originally planning to in June
-Head out on the cross-country road trip I've wanted to go on since High School, staying with people I know throughout the continental US, and heading up to Canada as well
-Basically anything but continuously staying at home in my apartment most of the time

Sorry to be such a downer, but both Andy and I getting laid off within one week of another really threw me for a loop! Like, are you f-ing kidding me, life? To make matters worse, our Landlord has decided to put the house on the market in July. So, basically, it's REALLY possible that I will be jobless and homeless soon (ok, not homeless, but in search of a new home, and since moving sucks just about as hard as losing your job, this does not seem appealing AT ALL). Although I'm psyched I'm approved for the highest unemployment amount per week, it's still less than half of what I was clearing before. All these other ridiculous things keep popping up as well, just making me think like I've suddenly become some sort of Biblical character being put through a series of tests. I know there are so many people all over the world going through much worse, but sometimes it's hard to think of that bigger picture. I am grateful for Andy, and my family and friends that have been helping through this shite, but I don't get to see a majority of my friends on a regular basis even when I am employed! A lot of them live in NYC, so for me to see them, I have to spend money.

Oh well, most of tonight was good times, we had our first spring time BBQ in the backyard, and I had a much needed martini. I even did some yoga today, but haven't dragged my lazy ass to the gym in like two months. It's awful, and since I can't cancel my membership, I suppose I should venture there during the day, with all of the Jersey housewives. Maybe I'll even become a Zumba freak. My gym offers tanning as well. Perhaps I should just turn myself into every Jersey stereotype now being made popular by shows like "The Real Housewives" and "Jerseylicious!" OMG, this is a fantastic idea! I can become everything that I hate about stereotypes from my home state, and then exploit it all to my advantage! Since my dream job currently lies in TV production, I really should work on making this happen.

Alright, I'm already feeling a bit more positive. At least I have a mission. Since I haven't been to the gym recently, I won't even have to spend money on acquiring a tighter wardrobe! There's the silver lining, people! Alright, it's on. Next time you'll see me, my hair will have grown larger, my skin will be a shade of orange not found in nature, and I will have developed an accent that currently only exists in movies and on TV.

Look out for me, my babies!! I'll be the one with French Tips and a HUGE Starbucks CAWFEE.

(Please blame any intense disjointed ramblings in this post on the boxed wine that has followed the martini, thanks)

Girls Girls Girls

Dear Kelis, My milkshake brings all the... girls to the yard. I prefer boys. Can you help me with this? I understand that you have to charge, and I'm willing to compensate appropriately.
Love, Amanda

It's not that I never attract boys. I do okay with this. My favorite of the dudes I have attracted recently is the one who kept telling me, "Girrrrl, you're dangerous." Haha. If I were a mature woman of nearly 30, this wouldn't appeal to me, but I'm not and it does. In fact, I'd had a bit to drink and after knowing him for about ten minutes, I was like, "Damn. I am dangerous." And for the rest of the night I felt like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, but with panties.

However, ladies hit on me. Like, a lot. Moreso than I'd expect the average girl gets. It's piqued my interest.

One possible reason is that I stay out late, go to bars that cater to staying out late and to acting a fool/acting a bisexual. Are those the same thing? I think not, but perhaps ladies being into ladies is, for certain ladies, a late-night/crazy type thing. I don't really know.

Another thing is that this happens frequently when I'm out with my male friends. I do not have a lot of (straight) guy friends. Mostly, if you are male and heterosexual and I like you, I am not thinking of you in a "friendly" way. But sometimes, I get to that point with dudes, that point where we can hang out and be platonic.

The other night I was out with my friend Roy. Dana was talking to him when I returned from the bathroom, and I assumed she was hitting on him. Blah blah, I was looking the other way to allow him room to, you know, get her. I'm an excellent wingwoman. Or so I like to think.

Then she's introduced to me and, by no prompting of my own, it's all about me. How my hair matches my dress; did I plan that? No I did not, because my hair is red and my dress is a raspberry pinkish-purplish color. Maybe she's color blind? Then Dana told us about belly dancing and made us both feel her belly as she rolled it, telling us about her muscle control. And staring at me most of the time. And I knew it'd happened again: a chick was totally into me. Roy briefly tried to accuse me of cockblockery, but agreed that my only weapons in this regard had been my existence and my ability to listen.

I'd like to say this was an anomaly, but it wasn't. Chicks dig me, man. One other time, Roy and I were out with Ryan, another friend. This chick sat down with us and Ryan was really into her. She had giant boobs. At first I hated her (due entirely to jealousy; she was thin with giant tits and I am not-so-thin with middling tits), but all of a sudden she's talking about how much she loves me. "Blah blah, I love this girl! Blah blah blah, I really love Amanda!" God, I wish I were a lesbian. I do NOT hear this shit from men.

Let's be honest. There is probably an explanation for these particular chicks. The first option I have is that they liked the guys I was with and did not entirely understand my relationship to them. Thus, they needed to make nice while sleuthing, and attempted to in a very ridiculously overt way.

The other option, obviously, is that they were fishing for a threesome. I'd imagine that if you, a single lady, approach a heterosexual couple (assuming these ladies mistook me for half a couple in these scenarios), the woman is the one you have to convince. I mean, the popular conception of heterosexuality tells us that a woman loves attention and a man loves a chase.

However, I've been hit on by ladies a fair amount otherwise. Perhaps I'm just that awesome and sexy and blah blah blah. Or maybe they can just tell that people in high school suspected I was a lesbian because I attended Lillith Fair and listened to Tori Amos and foolishly bought a pair of gym shoes with a rainbow on them. These things + small Lutheran school = total lesbo.

Below, you will find the creepiest lesbian photo a quick google search could supply.

Goodness, Gracious

Here's a ditty about another film that shaped my young self, one that I probably should not have seen as a child. And that film would be Great Balls of Fire, starring Dennis Quaid as Jerry Lee Lewis and Winona Ryder as his incestuous child bride, Myra. I loooooooved this movie as a child -- I was nine when it came out and we had cable with free pay-per-view so I was watching every recent release about 5 times a day at that point. Like Goodfellas, which was my favorite movie when I was ten. Boulos has been aware of this for some time, but what she recently found out is that my absolute favorite scene in that movie is the montage in which we discover all of the bodies of the dudes that Jimmy has killed in his paranoia over the heist. I was watching it with Boulos and I mentioned that it's always been my favorite part of the movie, and she was totally horrified. In retrospect, it's pretty upsetting. I'd like to say that it's because the epic "Layla" is played over this montage, but I also really enjoy discovering the clever ways in which Jimmy had the guys killed and disposed of. I've greatly enjoyed that for nearly 20 years now, and I'm just going to accept that I am a sick fuck.

Anyway, back to Great Balls of Fire. I loved the music, I was hot for Dennis/Jerry, Winona Ryder was in it and she got a house that she was allowed to completely furnish in the manner one might expect a 13-year-old would, and it was fantastic. I re-watched the movie last fall and I still loved it (I was drunk, too, though). Then, a few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend and he said that he hates all musician biopics. I was like, "Um, what about Great Balls of Fire?" And he said, very sarcastically, "Oh, the movie in which Jerry Lee Lewis marries his 13-year-old cousin?"And I was like, "Yes. She was his cousin twice removed, by the way." (I still do not know what the hell that means.) During this conversation, I was still totally behind this movie. I was like, when the hell did Roy become such a moralist? What the fuck? THEY WERE IN LOVE.

Upon reflection, the movie is totally fucked up. Sure, it's based on truth, but the relationship (which, finally, I do recognize as utterly disgusting) is represented in an almost comical, and certainly an inevitable, manner. Like, of COURSE he wants to fuck his 13 year old cousin, of COURSE she wants it, and of COURSE they should be married. And no, her father should not kill him. And when they first have sex and she is kind of terrified and she cries? Don't worry about it, because in like 5 minutes she will be a total nympho.

Normally I don't really believe in too harshly censoring the movies kids watch. I saw Pretty Woman as a child and I did not want to be a hooker, though I did have a crush on Richard Gere (duh). I saw Beaches, which a friend's mom wouldn't let us watch at her fourth grade sleepover (prude, there's like two tasteful sex scenes) and sure I became a redhead and maybe sometimes a loudmouth, but I didn't marry my dad's lawyer and wind up a single mother. I saw Dirty Dancing, but I didn't understand the abortion plotline and now that I consider it, I think it's awesome that when I finally understood it, I knew innately that the illegality of abortion at that time was bullshit, and also how cool is it that the girls who have sex in that movie are all nice girls, with that exception of that married hussy who wants Johnny and settles for Robbie?

This isn't to say that I became a child bride, thank god, but it's kind of fucked up that it took me 21 years to finally decide that, when they go to London and the Brits hate them and boo them offstage, it's not because the Brits are a bunch of uptight prudes. It's because Jerry Lee Lewis was a pervert. I still have a crush on Dennis Quaid, though.

These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things

This dumb Nebraska law restricting abortion due to "fetal pain." ZOMG. Seriously? Seriously? How did you find out about this fetal pain? Have your fetus call my fetus to discuss. Wait. What? Our fetuses don't have cell phones? They can't even TALK? Then who the fuck told you about this? Oh right. You made it up to further rule women's bodies with an iron fist, because you're the patriarchy. Thanks, we needed that reminder that our vaginas and other lady equipment are really YOUR vaginas and lady equipment.

Do you guys have Crazy Bread?

People who have cell phone conversations -- especially MULTIPLE cell phone conversations -- in inappropriate places, including but certainly not limited to dressing rooms, airport bathrooms, and any other large communal space in which my jeans are likely around my ankles. For an example, I will just copy and paste my Facebook status for today: Things I learned in the dressing room from a woman who had at least three cell phone conversations while I tried on jeans: 1) She tested positive for hepatitis and plans to re-test tomorrow 2) She is no longer a size 16; she is now a size 14 and a Large on top 3) She coddles her boyfriend, who sounds like a total asswipe. He will be dumping her, either if she gets fat, or if she has hepatitis. Unsure about that one.

iPhone commercials. "Oh, looky, my iPhone told me that song was She and Him, and when they are coming to town, because I'm an idiot yupster tech junkie who is too dumb/2010 to remember lyrics/carry paper to write them on and then google them when I get home like poor folk, such as Amanda. Also I have soooo much disposable income and/or I'm a total poseur/dilettante, so I just buy tickets for bands from whom I've heard one song. Teehee!" Also -- you do NOT need the ability to use the internet while talking on the phone. This is a lie.

Reggae. It's possible that reggae is too closely associated with sun and sand and surf, all of which turn me off. It's more likely that old commercials for Jamaica and jukeboxes in bars have made me hate Bob Marley's music with a passion. Since all reggae seems to have essentially the same beat, it's all ruined for me. Plus, the whole stoner association feels so junior year of high school. It's the musical equivalent of the dead horse, in my mind.

People who do not use turn signals. What the fuck? It isn't hard, it's not even a real flick of the wrist. And I am not a mind reader, so when you are slowing down in front of me to turn or park but have not turned on your turn signal, I might assume you are running out of gas, having an epileptic fit, fucking with me, or a million other random things. They need to start giving tickets for this again, it's so anger-inducing and dumb.

I feel like this will probably become an ongoing blog feature. Exciting, isn't it?

Further Musings on Ye Olden Days

First, put this song on.

I just went for a run and listened to this on the way back, and it made me feel all earth mothery in a sexy way. I used to listen to Sarah Mclachlan CONSTANTLY in high school, mainly Fumbling Towards Ecstasy but also this remix (the song is off her first album, Touch), which is my favorite song maybe ever. I also read a lot of Tom Robbins; my favorite novel of his was Another Roadside Attraction because the protagonist is named Amanda. Second favorite: Still Life With Woodpecker. The protagonist has red hair and smokes Camels. p.s. guess why I smoked Camels? Guess why I'm a redhead?

His books, as well as Sarah McLachlan's music, which always sounded all mystical and British Columbia-ish to me (which is to say full of magical, lush forests, not unlike Washington State, where Another Roadside Attraction is set), appealed to the hippie in me -- I think, unless you were like a goth or an emo kid, you were probably kind of a hippie in high school. Or at least, like me, thought you were. A hippie who frequented shopping malls and wore deodorant. But hey, I had a lot of incense and these cotton summertime frocks that just screamed Haight Ashbury.

If I remember correctly, Amanda of Another Roadside Attraction was this kind of earthy goddess type, with intuition that bordered on psychic abilities and a kind of calm, unruffled demeanor. She was enigmatic and rolled with the punches. This was, obviously, the kind of woman I would become. Someone people loved but did not tend to understand. A magical, wondrous lady, really. Most likely, many men would love me and I'd break many hearts. They'd remember me fondly, though, and I'd be that old paramour they met for drinks years later, when they had kids and I was running around Europe or something, and they'd secretly still want me.

This did not happen. I am not this person and doubt I ever will be. But really this post is a shout-out to Samantha and Rachel (actually began as a Facebook message to them), because we spend a lot of time bitching about certain things (men) but I swear, when I listen to this song, I feel like I am at least a little bit the Amanda of Another Roadside Attraction. And I know she met her true love in that book, but I can't remember a goddamn thing about him.

Father Figure

I was singing the song "Father Figure" in the shower the other day -- which I do a lot -- and I realized that I find the song exceptionally sexy (which makes it sound as though this is going to be a shower self-satisfaction story, but sorry, it's not). Not just sexy in a way that newer songs strike me as sexy, like the current Norah Jones single (yes, adult contemporary) or all of the Beach House album. Sexy in some kind of special way. Which raised a big question mark over my head as I rinsed my hair. What is so specially sexy about the song "Father Figure"?

After some consideration, I realized that the George Michael album Faith, on which "Father Figure" appears, had a couple of songs that became all tangled up with, let's call it my "burgeoning sexuality" at the age of seven or eight (which seems young to me because I was a perpetual late bloomer, but I just checked the dates on wikipedia). The song reminds me of that period of time during which you knew that sex was penis in vagina but you didn't know there was anything beyond that and didn't understand the big deal. The thought of kissing a cute boy, however, seemed illicit and appealing, if somewhat nausea-inducing.

The song "Father Figure" brings a distinct mental image of a woman in the backseat of a cab but not much else, so I just reviewed the video on youtube. Holy shit. I'm not really sure exactly what is going on here besides some vaguely outlined creepy stalker-controlling boyfriend crap, but this video is pretty hot. (Also, please note that George Michael smokes roughly 25 cigarettes in five and a half minutes. I feel like I'm watching a movie from the '40s.) I think this video really piqued my interest in sex when it came out; apparently I was eight at the time. Even the song alone probably gave me vague "why does Jesus have to hate sex?!" thoughts.

Alternately, the video that made me feel total shame about sex was "I Want Your Sex." See, when I was... seven, it seems, according to when the video was in heavy rotation, I was riding my bike outside when the neighborhood bad boy (whom my closest friend from childhood eventually married, and has now divorced) approached me. He kept standing in front of me to block my way, fucking with my bike riding. He wanted me to go to my backyard with him. I can't recall now if he revealed his plan at this time, or waited until we were alone. Finally, annoyed, I agreed to go with him. His little brother wanted to come along, but Ricky said we were "telling dirty jokes" and Mikey was too little to hear them. Genius alibi.

We went into my backyard and Ricky ordered me to stand at the top of the stairs that led to my basement. He stood at the bottom, pulled down his pants, and ordered me to pull up my shirt and pull down my pants. God only knows why I complied with this; I really don't remember feeling much curiosity about what lay under his clothing. We stood there for a minute or so before his mother popped in to check on our dirty jokes and literally caught us with our pants down. Boo.

My mother wasn't home at the time, but Ricky's mom made it clear she would be telling her. So I went inside, where my father was watching television. I almost feel like this next part might be some kind of made-up memory amalgam, but I swear it's true. While I sat there hating myself and dreading having to speak with my mom about my vagina and Ricky's penis, the video for "I Want Your Sex" came on. And I wanted to throw up. Here was George Michael, trying to convince me to have sex with him. COME ON. What was it with boys that day? Now God and my mother would hate me forever, all because water splashing on feet, stockings and garter belts, and lipstick messages written on white skin were so fucking tempting. Plus, ew, my dad was in the room, George Michael. Stop vaguely arousing me/confusing me/making me feel ashamed.

Luckily, my mother knew that Ricky was bad news and believed my side of the story, so I received a very minor punishment for pulling down my pants. Lesson learned, keep your pants on in public. Okay. George Michael did not learn that lesson, let me point that out. And how confusing is it that one of the men who inspired my first real thoughts of sex turned out to be gay?

Now for the very last item in Amanda's "what shaped my sexuality" list. I shared this with Samantha Irby last evening and we agreed that everyone should know about it, even though it pretty much makes me a total creep. What was your first sexual fantasy? Was it marrying the dude from "Father of the Bride" and then offering him your virginity on the honeymoon? Was it about some little hottie in your 5th grade class? Or, like me, was it about... basically a zombie?

Here is the first sexual fantasy I had, which recurred for many years: Beetlejuice climbs into my bedroom window at night and joins me in my bed. I think at the beginning, that was the extent of the fantasy, but it grew more explicit over the years.

Yes, Beetlejuice. The rude dead guy with mold on his head. I loved him and wanted to have his little undead babies. I am really pretty strange.

Hello, lover.

Donka Do Balls

Thanks to "The Soup", I've made excellent discovery #1 of unemployment, the show "Over the Limit" on TruTV. Seriously, I think at this point, my dream job would be to work on this show, because it is HILARIOUS. It takes the best parts of "Cops", drunken crazos, and only features them at their absolute most hilarious and ridiculous. Weirdly, this one dude they stopped turned out to be sober, but was the originator of my new favorite phrase, "I'm sober as a whistle!". Hahaha.

I had dvred two episodes of this show after seeing this clip on "The Soup" last week, and luckily I ended up recording her whole appearance. Since today was my last day of work, I needed a good laugh, and man, did this deliver.

Random Things That Pleased Me on April Fool's Day

1) Worrying that I was being an asshole by filling out a parking permit while waiting for a red light to change, I looked over at the car next to me and found a middle-aged man reading a newspaper at the red light. I hope "multitasking" is featured prominently on the Skills section of his resume.

2) Later, I was pushing J. in his swing on the front porch when a Chinese delivery car drove by with its windows open. "Sometimes When We Touch" was BLASTING. Yeah, that's the song I turn up all the way, too. Usual result: you get laid by some hottie rollerblading by.

Livin' on a Prayer

So, we meet again. Unfortunately, in looking through the last five or six posts, you will get a very sad snapshot of the state of the American economy. You see the fear my wife exhibited regarding possible unemployment, followed by the eventual downsizing. Well, since I have not been blogging, you did not hear my same anguish for the past 8 or 9 months, ever since ABC announced they were moving "All My Children" to the west coast, but it happened. Oh, and guess what? After the painstaking angst of helping to move an entire soap opera across the country, and subsequent sad goodbyes to all the crew members I'd grown to know and love, I can now relate to how they were feeling.

Last Thursday, I was called into the VP's office, and albeit a scary situation, wasn't the first time. I mean, last time I was called in, it was to measure for a space so I could order him a new mini-fridge, but I walked in, and was immediately thrust into a scene straight out of "Up In The Air". Seriously, the only thing missing was Clooney. I was there, the HR lady was there, the "package" in the folder was there. So, I mean, although I wasn't surprised in the general sense. Yes, we lost a large show, yes, it has impacted workload (slightly, although I still had more than enough to keep me busy), yes, I was being closely monitored regarding spending company dollars, but still. It's one thing to be theoretically aware of the economy, and the decline of soap operas in general, but it's another be told "your position has been eliminated." I was gobsmacked. I literally felt completely blind sided. They were very nice about it, I just was in SHOCK. I don't remember a time I was literally agape, but there I was, jaw hanging open, and tears stinging my eyes, ugh.

Now, as another victim of the declining TV industry, I have been trying to get myself together. I have to say, that I'm not usually one to toot my own horn, and I certainly wouldn't say I'm a model employee, but the response I've gotten from co-workers, vendors, and even the security guards I've been working with for the past five years has been EXTRAORDINARY. Apparently, if you are looking for the most efficient, nice, and funny chick ever to work with, that chick is me. I have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, and the sheer magnitude of the network I've formed in the past five years is really phenomenal. I have makeup vendors, stagehands, makeup artists, and even cleaning supply sales reps trying to hook me up with job leads, and offering recommendation letters.

What's funny is that I always feel pretty consistently amazed by the response people have to my ability to get the job done, wherever I've worked. I have always been able to maintain a gchat conversation, while accomplishing all the work, and then some. Perhaps I just haven't been challenged enough, or something, who knows? So, I feel as though with the last day of my employment being this Good Friday, I will hopefully experience my own resurrection of sorts. I have a lot to look forward to, and now maybe I can figure out what I really want to do! I've got a VERY promising lead on a few weeks of P.A. work on "The Marriage Ref." So, I guess I'm going to be thrown into a world of celebrities and production mayhem! So, let's hope that Jerry Seinfeld (the creator and executive producer of the show) loves me, and wants to hire me forever!

Oh, and you know what else is AMAZING? When I got home, I was thanking Andy for all the work he's done around our apartment, in preparation for my Mom's arrival tonight, he then proceeded to tell me something else. He lost his job too. Now here is the thing, he lost his long standing job of nearly 20 years, nearly a year ago, for a ridiculous reason that I can't get into now. In October he got a great job, and although part time, was paying him really well, and it made him insanely happy. Today, because he was working for a town in NJ, and the budgets all over our state are being cut like crazy, his job was also cut. So, here we are, in Jersey, and co-unemployed. WOW. Not quite sure what we're going to do yet, but I know we're going to be ok. I realized that he and I could TOTALLY be staring in a Bon Jovi song, which awesome enough to keep me going for a while. Although I only have three weeks of work lined up, further down the line, it's alright.

So, for now, we're gonna hold on to what we got, and you know, I'll get back to blogging. Here's to an f-ing brand new life of excellence and opportunity. Cheers!

The Exception Proves the Rule

Hello, I have decided to blog again! My friend Samantha has an amazing blog, Bitches Gotta Eat, which my crap entries won't come near, but which inspires me. And two of my college friends are beginning or re-starting their blogging efforts. Plus I've been writing a lot lately for the Sunday Night Sex Show, but would like to occasionally write about something other than sex. So I'm gonna try blogging yet again.

Currently, I'm nannying. My friends have an adorable almost-19-month-old son and I hang out with him all day. We have a pretty good time, and jobs that involve trips to the park and occasional naps are hard to come by.

One of the best things about being a nanny, though, is that you can constantly indulge your inner moron. You know how sometimes you are walking down the street and you see a cute dog and get really excited and have to stop yourself from idiotically pointing at it and yelling "DOGGIE!" Well guess what? When you have a toddler with you, pointing and saying, "Look at the doggie!" is totally normal behavior, provided you at least appear as though you are saying it to the kid.

In private, it's even better. Kids love ridiculous songs and silly dances, so if you feel like singing "Hey Jude," belt it out. I've sung that one a few times and he usually likes it. And any time the mood strikes -- which it does, because children's programming contains a lot of really cute, catchy little songs -- you can just start flailing around, or "dancing," and you've started a dance party. Amazing.

A fair number of people I know or have known (aka, have dated) hate children, because they're assholes and can't even fathom taking care of a dog, opting for cats instead. I now hate these people. Sure, the kid I watch is a very happy child, luckily. But I spend a fair amount of time at baby music class, baby gym, the playground, etc. And kids are, generally, really pretty likable in addition to being cute. There's the boy who is twice as old as J. (my charge, as Babysitter's Club would have called him) and sweetly offered to share his snack when we met him. There's the incredibly excited little girl in music class who is always asking, with wide eyes, "MAYBE THE DRUM?" There are children all over the playground who, when they don't immediately see their parents, look up at you in a completely trusting way, sure that as an adult you will help them.

The adult world is composed of such a large variety of assholes, and then those assholes have the audacity to "hate kids" based on what? Some screaming fit they witnessed once? Kids' bad behavior is by and large instinctual, when adults fuck with you all the time despite knowing better. Basically, I hate that dude I dated 2 summers ago, who hated children. Ha.

Anyway. Today is the first TRULY beautiful day of spring. It's like 70 degrees, sunny, breezy, all that good shit. And so we took a walk to the park, where everyone and their mother/nanny was gathered to run around without jackets, finally! On my way there, I passed several men -- most of them sexy sweating running men -- and again noticed what I notice every time I have the kid with me: they might smile at him, but they don't give me a glance. It's likely that they think the kid is mine. I mean, there's a hot dad in toddler music class and I don't even know that he's a "hot dad" at all, I just assume so and totally discard the notion that he might be a nanny. Plus J. and I are both white and blue-eyed. And unlike the hot, lithe 24-year-old Polish nannies, I'm 29 and have a body that could certainly be post-baby.

So on the way home from the park, I'm pushing the stroller and considering how the hot guy at CVS gave me a kindly "lovely child, mother lady" smile rather than an "are you wearing panties" smile, and how I'm going to restart writing here and I'm going to make it a post about using a child to deflect unwanted male attention, when some middle-aged guy drives by in an SUV, leans out the window, leers at me and shouts, "HOW ARE YOU DOING?!?"

See the title of this post, please.

We're blogging elsewhere right now

Not that we have been blogging anywhere for awhile -- but Boulos, our friend Alice and I have decided to try this Couch to 5K thingy, and Boulos created a blog where we can share our feelings, both physical and emotional, concerning it:

C25K: LET'S DO THIS!!

Pull Your Little Arrows Out

I am currently totally obsessed with this song. I don't love Emily Haines and actually find her voice kind of grating at times, but I Can't. Stop. Listening. I would suggest you check it out. The lyrics are rather phenomenal, imo.

Um, maybe I'll post something more soon. Going to Jersey/New York for Labor Day/My birthday, so I'm sure stories will arise ;)

Back and better than ever

Well, not really. I'm briefly returning to break the news that I was laid off two weeks ago (with every intention of returning more frequently). While leaving my office of nearly 3 years with about 5 plastic grocery bags of crap (having left 1 or 2 bags behind with a co-worker who lives nearby), I decided that the worst part about getting laid off is not the uncertainty, the terror of losing medical coverage, any feeling of betrayal you may have, etc. etc.

It's the fucking walk of shame.

Of course I'm not going to spring for a cab when I've just lost my job. But seriously, I felt like every single person I encountered was wondering, "fired or laid off"? Luckily I had my mp3 player and my bitchface, which I gave to anyone who dared to look at me.

Recession/Depression Update

So my update is not about people being laid off at my office -- though four have been since the New Year (well, three positions were eliminated, and one person had run their course in a position in which one is liable to totally run their course by no fault of their own). Obviously this is pretty upsetting.

That happened. But then this happened: the office building obviously cut back on the bathroom supplies budget. And now the paper towels are just... almost unusably terrible. If I didn't feel compelled on many levels to wash my hands each time I use the bathroom, I would quit doing so. They are so HARSH and PAPERY! I honestly think paper cuts are a new and horrible threat.

And it's winter! My hands already feel rough, bordering on scaly, and are liable to crack open and begin bleeding upon contact. Seriously, will I be shedding this outer layer of skin soon? Am I half reptile, somehow? Am I the Lizard Queen?

I'm being somewhat facetious, obviously, but it is pretty gross.


p.s. Seemingly out of nowhere -- why is it that boys (men?) still have the potential to make me feel about 15? Like, exactly how I felt about romance at 15 (which is to say, overwhelmingly nauseous). To be honest, it's something I both resent and relish. But sometimes I swear to god it's 1996.

Oh, Happy Day.

Boulos would love that title (Sister Act II). Anyway... YAY!!!!!!!!!!



Btw, you can find the whole of Obama's speech here. I know that I, for one, need to re-read, as I have ADD or something.

Our friend is FAMOUS!

So, as some of you may know, our dear friend Archana is a PHENOMENAL pastry chef, and makes some of the most gorgeous cakes you've ever seen. Well, if you'd like to see some of her work, you can check it out in the Winter 2009 issues of In Style Weddings! She's made cakes for magazines before, but never before have her name and direct quotes appeared along with them! This is a huge accomplishment, and we are so proud!!!

So, go to page 266, to check out her gorgeous cakes! 2 out of the 4 seasonal featured cakes are hers, and they are beautiful to look at, and sound delicious! Even if you don't get to buy a copy, stop in your local newstand to check them out, you won't be disappointed. She's in the process of starting her own venture, so if any of you need some cakes or cookies baked, let us know, and we can put you in contact with her. Bon Apetite!

Oh, THAT Ox!

So, as is tradition in our new high tech world, over the holidays, I composed a Christmas text and New Year's text that I sent out to the majority of the people in my phone. This usually spawns mass replies from everyone in rapid succession. This year, on Christmas, I happened to receive a pretty standard, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" text on Christmas morning. It was from a 646 number I didn't recognize, but since it orginated in NYC, I figured perhaps someone I knew changed their number or something. I responded with a "Who is this?", and forgot about it. I never received a response, yet the story does not end there (and if it did, you could all beat me for writing the most boring story ever).

A week later, I was drunkenly sending and receiving my Happy New Year texts, and the number appeared again. Some things (like the location of my digital camera) escaped me, until late on New Year's Day, while sitting on my couch, I remembered the reappearnce of the mysterious number! I immediately responded to their bizarre, and not quite cheery text reading, Happy new year, hope this year is better than the last". So, again, I wrote back, "Who is this?", and thankfully I did, because it ended in one of the most hilarious discoveries ever, and you can't make these names or situations up. I will write it as it occurred...

Me: "Who is this?"

Response: "Ox from Magic Photo at Jersey Gardens mall"

Me: " I have no idea who you are... not sure why you've sent me all these holiday texts..."

Response: "LOL! The Photagrapher who gives you free pictures"

Me: "Who do you think I am? It sounds like you have the wrong number."

Response: "Gusty"

Me: "I am not Gusty... hahaha sorry dude."

Response: "My bad"

Um, WHO NAMED THESE PEOPLE??? Also, the fact that I was like hung over and semi-delerious made this whole situation even funnier. Is it wrong that I have a STRONG desire to head over to Jersey Gardens sometime soon, and scope out who this Ox guy is, because WTF?

I wish all of you a happy new year, btw!!! I hope your holidays were great!!!

"I've Been to Vidal Sassoon!"

I decided to finally watch Rosemary's Baby on Saturday night, having never seen it. When the movie began I felt cheated because I thought this was the movie in which Mia Farrow had a pixie cut. Well, not to worry, she cut her hair off about halfway through the movie, at which point everyone -- especially her husband -- begins making fun of her hair.

What an appropriate movie to watch, as on Sunday, I cut off all my hair!

Here's Mia, post-Vidal Sassoon:



Here's me, post-Ruby Room:



Different cuts and I'm no Mia, but I'm liking the short hair. I was really tempted to proclaim, "I've been to Vidal Sassoon!" upon entering the apartment, but my sister's never seen the movie and she knew I had not, in fact, been there.

Fire Crotch!

I have to say, I'd never really looked at a box of Lotrimin jock itch cream before, because I had no reason to. While at Walgreen's last night, to buy a pitchfork, and some other drug store items, I noticed the image on the Lotrimin package, which is quite possibly, the most hilarious thing I'd ever seen. You be the judge.
In case you're not sure where your crotch is, they helpfully point to it from every direction, and circle it. Thanks, Lotrimin!

'Till Death Do They Part!

A couple nights ago, while hanging at home, I got a call from Chazz, my friend Bridget's new husband. He told me that he and his new bride had a wonderful time on their honeymoon, and exhanged a few pleasantires. He then asked me why I decided to ruin his car! I asked him what he was talking about. True, as a bridal party, we headed out to the parking lot, mid reception to decorate his hulking SUV in traditional fare. Streamers, condoms, and with some writing. Someone handed me a bottle with a spongey top, and I assumed it was the soap like compound used to write on cars all the time. I had used it myself, after highschool graduation to decorate my own car. So, I joined in on the fun! During our walk down the strip the day before, we'd overheard a drunk girl at a bachelorette party exclaim, "Marriage is the best thing that's ever happened!", so that's what I decided to write on the hood of the car. Little did I know, that the tube I was holding was actually WHITE SHOE POLISH. Another thing I did not know... SHOE POLISH TAKES PAINT OFF OF CARS!!!

When Chazz informed me of this, I couldn't help but laugh, and profusely appologize all at the same time. At least I was not the one who wrote "horny" on one of the doors, that was the groom's brother, I believe. Still, Chazz said that he couldn't be mad because he knew it all came out of a place of love. Thank God for his understanding. Also, Andy found out that it might be possible to buff the polish out w/ a machine, so hopefully that works! I have learned two things from this, 1) at my wedding someday, I will be sure to leave all of our cars at home, 2) NEVER drunkenly accept any automobile writing utensils, it can't end well. Now please enjoy some pictures of the car, and learn from our mistakes...

Who you callin' a loose slot?

So, my Vegas trip went WAY too fast, yet awesome. My friend Bridget made a BEAUTIFUL bride, and I know that she and her new hubs will be very happy together!

I ate at Spago for the first time, and it was phenonmenal. I lost $30 on penny slots, but DEFINITELY drank more than that in free drinks! Andy won and then promptly lost $114 but had a good time doing it. I met a great dane named Sarge, and got my hair done in a Mormon's laundry room. Overall it was a randomly excellent time. One of the highlights was at the Wynn, where I saw this:

Unfortch, it was not good to me money wise, but if I'm gonna lose money, then I will gladly lose it to a Unicorn. The "loosest slots in town " were not so good to me, but I had fun!

Oh, and BTW- the sign by the elevator in my hotel read, "Fire alarm sounds like: WHOOP!"

My bed is a very, very bad place

I love my bed. I’ve always loved every bed I’ve had because two of my favorite activities are sleeping and reading, and the bed is a wonderful place for both. However, this bed in particular is amazing. I’ve had it for years and I refused to get rid of it when it was pissed in (NOT me) and later when I moved from New York to Chicago. It’s kind of the best bed ever so I was willing to overlook a little urine and a hefty moving fee.

Lately, however, I’ve come to suspect that the bed is cursed. I’m not even really referring to sex, lest you think that in light of my last post. I mean, certainly, my bed is not the place of tender or thrilling lovefests at the moment, and is sometimes a little lonely, except when my dog is sleeping with me (which is about half the time). However, I would be okay if it was just me and my bed existing in peaceful, sleepy harmony. Not to say that the emptiness of the bed is not at all related to the curse, just that it’s the very least of it.

Last Wednesday night/Thursday morn, as I was getting ready for bed, my dog appeared to let me know we’d be roommates for the night. We have an open door policy on this, which goes as follows: “I will leave the door open as I get ready for bed. You, Molly, know the routine. When I turn off the lights in the apartment and go into my room, you are free to follow me, walk halfway across the room and stare at me with that look that says, ‘Bitch, I am sleepy as fuck. Put me on that bed posthaste.’”

So I put her on my bed and read a bit and turned out the light around 1:45. After about 5 minutes, she sat up and wouldn’t lie back down. When I eventually noticed that she was licking her lips a lot, I knew what was coming so I turned on the light and tried to grab her… right as she puked on my bed.

Ew. Puke on the bed. She proceeded to vomit twice more on the living room rug and I was up until about 3 doing laundry and cleaning up after her. With my quilt in the washer, I had to sleep under a blanket that smelled like her dirty butt because she drags it all over the living room and places her dirty butt on it. If you’re wondering about her, my sister took her to the vet and she is now a-ok.

So this had to be the worst thing to ever happen in my bed, right? Or at the very least, the worst thing involving me and a creature of some sort, right?

WRONG.

Last night, I came into my room and put my purse on the bed. I was about to leave the room to iron my dress when I saw a movement: THERE WAS A COCKROACH IN MY BED. My sheets were pulled back a bit and he was in my sheets. GROSS.

I was luckily able to catch him with a Kleenex and kill him within the Kleenex rather than squishing him into my bed. I refuse to wash bedding twice in 4 days.

I am pretty much not squeamish about bugs, but I checked that bed about 50 times before getting in. I really don’t care if there is a cockroach on the ground in the living room or bathroom. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me that much. But in my bed????? Oh, gross.

God I hope this is the end of the curse. If it is escalating, however, I foresee a Godfather moment in my near future.

Bright Light City Gonna Set My Soul On Fire!

In the spirit of trying to be a better blogger and following my wife's candid expression of emotion, I have decided to write a lil' something as well. I am gearing up for a whirlwind weekend trip to Vegas tomorrow. Although I do love me some Vegas, it's not QUITE a voluntary trek, as I am going to participate and attend yet ANOTHER wedding. That makes about 8 or 10 weddings in the past year and a half. I am a HUGE fan of the open bar/drunken dancing that a wedding provides, however being a girl in a long term relationship with an older guy, it can be a little stressful as well.

For example, yesterday I had a bit of a freak out because the boyf and I celebrated our four year anniversary, which I am psyched about, don't get me wrong. However, the excitement also comes with the pre-requisite questions. Shouldn't I be engaged already? Why am I starting to feel like the old adage, "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride"? Then, after wondering why I would have an incredibly anti-climactic day, I got home and Andy was making dinner for us, which luckily for me, is a regular occurrence, and not just confined to anniversaries. We had a nice dinner, and drank some wine, listened to a sweet mix made by my wife a few years back, called "Sexy #3". It was low-key, but really awesome. I am REALLY going to try not to compare my relationship to others, and REALLY try not to have a timeline forever running in my head. If all these damned celebrities have their kids when they are all old, why can't I? I'm not ready for kids anyway, and I'm not really in a financial situation to be paying for a wedding at the moment either.

So, even though I am on the other end of the spectrum, in a way, than my wife is, struggles still exist. I'm happy that Andy and I are in a place to discuss the future, and just take life as it comes. The wife and I discussed yesterday that we think the big problem with a lot of our ridiculous expectations comes from unrealistic romantic comedies, that make us hold these secret hopes for incredibly grand gestures, and are disappointed when they don't happen. I have to say though, that I plan to get drunk w/ my boyf, Alice, and her hubs this weekend in Vegas, and just have a blast. It should be fun, and hopefully I will have some excellent, blogable stories upon my return!

An explanation intended to elicit your sympathy/make you forget I'm a horrid blogger

To quote my wife, “Oy.”

We have been absent for awhile. It has actually, in part, been (for me) recovering from my birthday, but that’s a long and drawn-out story. I will begin it with an anecdote.

My sister returned from the gym recently and indicated she had a gross story. She said she was working out on a machine and realized that the guy using the machine next to her smelled like ass. So I said, “Well, perhaps he’d just been working out for a long time and was really sweaty?” She said that, no, that was impossible. He smelled like dirty butt in a way that can only be achieved by not washing one’s ass for at least a week or so. She said that she tried breathing through her mouth but then felt like she was eating his dirty ass smell and, all in all, it was a horrible experience. She ended the story by mentioning that he finished before her and walked over to his girlfriend…

To which I replied, “Wait a minute. GIRLFRIEND? THE MAN WITH THE STINKY DIRTY ASS HAS A GIRLFRIEND???”

Yup. She confirmed that, while she and I are both clean assed but single, the dirty smelly man who cannot bother to clean his butt has a girlfriend – who presumably embraces him, as it was obvious to my sister that she was in fact his girlfriend.

I found this horrifying and have been obsessed with it ever since. The reason for my obsession, and for the bender I embarked upon after my birthday, which subsequently caused me to catch a nasty cold I’m still kind of recovering from, is that I was unceremoniously… dumped? I’m not sure you can say “dumped” but whatever it was, it occurred a couple of days after my birthday.

I hinted on this blog that I was, like, kind of dating someone. I hinted and then removed that part of the post when I realized this blog comes up if you google my very unique name, which I kind of accidentally revealed to him (yes, I was dating someone who did not have my full name for a few months) and I got paranoid (sign #1 you are not meant for someone: it terrifies you that they might find out you actually think about them enough to blog about them). It was bumpy and at times infrequent, allegedly due to his ongoing personal and work dramas. But we got along well, I thought. There aren’t many people I really want to hang out with in a nearly empty bar for hours and hours, but he was one of them. And he liked Daria. Big selling point for me.

It must be understood that I am socially awkward, kind of a drunk, and really bad at male/female crap. So I went back and forth over inviting him out for my birthday celebration, because I’m a wuss, my friends would be there, I didn’t know if they’d like him and vice versa, my palms would be sweaty, blah blah blah. But I did, and he said he’d come… and never showed up. And never contacted me, ever again! Which resulted in me getting wasted as hell, that night and many subsequent nights. And too little sleep. And as a result, my body freaked out at me because I was treating it very badly.

And I’m posting this because I no longer give a fuck if he sees it (not that I’m flattering myself, believing that he’s checking up on me via the interwebs or anything). I’m kind of tired of pretending to be blasé about things like this, and I'm sick of wondering whether it was "serious" enough to get upset over, wondering constantly whether I'm overreacting. Fuck that. I was hurt, and angry, and I’m still kind of both, and who cares if the internets know?! And why would I want to date someone if I’m scared to reveal any kind of emotion in front of them? Oh yeah, I’m a masochist and kind of emotionally repressed. Well, I’m trying to work through that.

So anyway, there is my last month or so in a nutshell! But also I’ve had a good deal of fun. The drinking may have been a sad response to a stupid, pathetic situation but it was also good times, and not too much of it was done alone. Plus there’s pumpkin beer and red wine to be had, scary movies to watch, pumpkins to carve, and Halloween outings to plan. I fucking love fall, so I guess it’s the perfect time to get over the end of a summer fling.

And also – I’m going to be a lion for Halloween! It’s exciting. The outfit is kind of slutty (can you, as a woman, find one that isn’t?) but I’m adding leggings. Which makes it still kind of slutty, I think. Oh well!

Still – I cannot make something work with a misanthropic divorcee with a long arrest record (yes. yes.), but that smelly-assed motherfucker has a girlfriend? Oh. My. God.