Family Secrets

It's always fun to attend a family gathering during the holidays, and walk away afterwards with jaw-dropping information about various family members that you never needed or wanted to know. Such as-

-One of my cousins was pissed off that her boyfriend either cheated on her or was already married to someone else while they were dating...and so she hired a hit-man to kill him. Although the murder was never carried through, my cousin was indeed found out, and her father took the heat so that she wouldn't have to go to jail.

-Same cousin's grandparents had a suicide pact, but when it came time to execute it, the grandmother backed out, leaving the grandfather to die. Apparently, general belief throughout the family is that the grandmother was planning on watching her husband die all along.

-Another cousin, who mysteriously "moved to Atlanta" suddenly back in the 9O's, in actual fact had become pregnant out of wedlock and given birth in secret, giving the baby up for adoption.

{that one put me in near coronary failure, as I have been close to said cousin as adults and I never would have even guessed that that had taken place...}

-The most horrifying of all of my family secrets would be this--my mother is obsessed with dolls and stuffed animals, which is pretty obvious if you enter her living room on any given holiday, as she has a bunny that she dresses up in seasonal clothing, as well as bears, cats, and crazy dolls of all sorts of shapes and sizes. One of my biggest fears in life is one day I'm going to inherit these hideous creatures, every last bear, cat, doll, and the freakin' holiday bunny.

At any rate, I hang my head in shame while I disclose this last family secret...yesterday I found out that each of these creatures has a name, and my mother proceeded to introduce me to each and every last one by their "proper" name, even going as far as to point out that one of the bears has a giant ass, and therefore fits right into our family.

Oy vey.

So there you have it, a treasure trove of family jewels that I didn't even know existed. Anyone else got some gems they want to share?

Tis the Season to be an Asshole

I was wandering home from my company holiday party last night in search of a cab. Well, let's be honest, I was in search of munchies, and then a cab, but I certainly did not want to embark on the long ride home without some sort of sustenance. I mean I live in Brooklyn for God's sake. It's like traveling to a foreign, faraway land.

I was sort of hoping Tisserie on 17th Street was still open, but no such luck..as I just about gave up on both the food AND the cab, I found myself eyeing Maoz.

I've seen this place a bunch of times, but never gone in. From what I could tell, its a Felafel joint that is sort of like Quiznos, with a fixin's bar that rivals the salad bar at Outback Steakhouse..not that I have ever been in an Outback Steakhouse, but I imagine that is has a kickass salad bar. You know what I mean.

I waited on line, completely oblivious to who or what was around me. I had a gym bag and my usual giant work bag slung over my shoulder. I hummed to myself, drunk as can be, I might have even been swaying a little, who the hell knows. I felt my gym bag jiggle. Then again. And yet again.

It finally dawned on me that my gym bag was being punched. I followed the movement and found myself staring into the eyes of a very unattractive, probably lonely, angry woman, who looked about 5O due to her pinched up constipation face, but was probably closer to my age.

I asked her why she was punching my bag, and she told me it was because I kept banging her with it.

Now, mind you, I probably was being a little unaware of my surroundings, and I don't doubt that my bag hit her, but A} all she had to do was step back a foot and saved herself a lot of aggravation or B} tap me on the shoulder politely and ask me to please chill out.

So I told her that. Very nicely, probably slurring my words, maybe I swayed a little, maybe I didn't. Again, who the hell knows. She looked at me as if I were insane, and kept repeating over and over, that I was banging into her with my bag, and I needed to stop. I finally couldn't listen to her anymore, and I started yelling "shut the fuck up! shut the fuck up!" {I am the QUEEN of snappy comebacks, let me tell you}. She replied, "You NEED to control your BODY" and to that, I shrieked "YOU NEED TO CONTROL YOUR EMOTIONS. ASSHOLE!"

At this point, there was a line behind us, and people were starting to snicker. I turned to the front of the store and waited patiently for my felafel. I could hear the asshole muttering to herself. She just wouldn't let it go.

Seconds later, I got my food, twirled around on my heel, and managed to whack the bitch with my bag. Hard.

I ran like hell and didn't look back. This girl ain't stupid!

Just Another Night on the A Train

Riding the A train downtown, on the way to tennis class, I found myself standing next to a well-dressed, good looking businessman. We made eye contact, and he told me that I had beautiful eyes.

"They are the exact same color as my daughter's eyes," he said.

I smiled, thanked him, and started to turn away. Yet he continued to yammer on about my eyes, his daughter, his daughter's eyes. He yammered until he abruptly stopped himself mid-sentence.

"Oh my. I must go" he suddenly stammered and stumbled off the train, without so much as a goodbye.

I looked down and saw my coat half open, boobs straining against my usual cleavage bearing attire.

I'm guessing that he eventually creeped even himself out by comparing my eyes to his innocent daughter's, all the while never taking his eyes away from my chest.

Oh. Ew.

LOL TV

Best scene in a sitcom EVER.

"How I Met Your Mother". Marshall is being wooed by an evil, corporate law firm. He gets taken out for a swank dinner, gets super loaded, and has to spend the night on the couch of the lawyer doing the wooing.

Next morning, he's doing a walk of shame. All around him are women with messed up hair, runny eyeliner, and fancy clothes, slinking through the street. The lawyer yells out to Marshall, "I'll call you."

Cut to messy lady with ratty fucked up hair, black eyeliner caking her face, holding a pair of sandals in her hand.

"No, he won't", she says bitterly.

LOVE IT.

Clowning Around After Work

As I headed towards the west side last night to catch the train uptown, I took some time to stop along the way to enjoy the decorations that can be found all along 6th Avenue adorning the otherwise drab office buildings that pepper the avenue.





As I approached Fidelity on 5Oth and 6th, in the Time Life building, something didn't seem right.

For years, what one would see in this spot was a tangle of giant Christmas lights sitting atop the pool


This year, you will find the most heinous, evil of clowns rocking back and forth in a Jack in the Box.

I stood in front of this vision and couldn't help myself, I started to cackle like a madwoman in front of the Time Life building, staring in disbelief. I think the sight of this awful, leering clown gave me a fit of the nervous giggles. But I mean, just look at him! He's clearly mocking me. Fucking clown.

I hate clowns so much that I realized that, had I been an employee at the TIme Life building, I might have had to quit due to the fact that I would not be able to walk past that thing every day for a month without skeeving. This is serious stuff!

Time Life, do us all a favor. Bring back the Christmas lights!

Never Mind

Mind, we need to have a word.

I was overcome with exhaustion when I came home tonight, and readied myself for an early bedtime. I even washed my face and called my boyfriend to say goodnight at what seemed to be way too early in the evening.

I dragged myself to bed, kicked the cat out, read a page of "The Namesake" until my eyes felt heavy, and let myself fall asleep, the book falling from my hand to the pillow.

An hour later, I found myself jolted awake, by you, dear mind. You who are destined to drive me insane.

I tried to quiet you and will myself to fall back asleep, but you wouldn't shut the fuck up. For God's sake, why is it necessary to remind me of all the people who's lives are *probably* so much better than mine? Do you get off on when I start obsessing about my job and how I hate it so? At the anxiety I suffer from the mere thought of being there? I thought I heard you laughing at me under your breath about the fact that I ate that stupid cookie when I'm supposed to be trying to diet. You're taunting me with the fact that I haven't figured out my Christmas shopping yet, that I need to vacuum, that I'll never be as good of a writer as I want to be. That maybe no one loves me after all, and I'm all alone in my apartment, and its awfully quiet in here and why are my ears ringing?

Mind, you got me to get out of bed and turn on the tv to drown out the sound of you until, hopefully, I can make my way back to slumber again, to the dulcet tones of Everybody Loves Raymond.

And I was SO looking forward to a good's night sleep tonight!!!!

Le Weekend

.....I'm such an activity nerd.....

Now that triathlon season is over, I have had to come up with a suitable replacement for the 5-day a week, sometimes twice a day training that I endured. It's friggin cold outside, and even I am not crazy enough to hop on my bike for an icy mid-winter gallivant around prospect park.

Therefore, on Friday nights I am now taking tennis lessons at the Midtown Tennis Club. Not that this is exactly strenuous, being that I am a serious beginner, with little to none tennis skills whatsoever. But it's a good way to start my Friday night, and it gives me, and others, the impression that I'm not a completely uncoordinated freak of nature.

My new favorite Friday night activity has become tennis, then a stopover at Zaytoons, where I pick up my dinner, head home, and stuff my face, to be chased with a bottle of wine.

I know how to live, man!

Saturday morning, I continue with the activity nerdiness by heading over to NYSC for a 1O45 Spin class. I need to get my fill of vag discomfort due to over-cycling SOMEWHERE! It's only 45 minutes to boot, and indoors. The instructor makes me want to kill myself, she of the six pack abs after having a child--although she is rather motivating as well. So I kick ass in my Spin class. But then...



.....I like brunch.....

Spin class is also good for getting myself ready for big, giant, carby brunch. This Saturday's was no exception. I met my sister and friend UK at Cafe Henri for some Tartine


and Oeufs.


While sipping my mimosa I noticed a black clad, very preggo Juliana Margulies walk in and sit across from us. I was suave as can be..I very inconspicuously snuck a peek from behind my stealthy sunglasses...oh who am I kidding, I practically SHOUTED for the entire restaurant to hear "JULIANA MARGULIES JUST WALKED IN" and then we proceeded to discuss her as if she wasn't just sitting literally 2 feet from my fat ass. She was accompanied by her hipster, homo-y husband {just the type of guy that Roopa and I would go for, as we discussed earlier today} and looked pretty fuckin awesome for a preggo chick in the middle of winter. Great skin.

2 mimosas later, I was stuffed and ready to move on with my day, until UK said "Let's get more drinks."

I was appalled. More drinks? In the middle of the afternoon? Well fuck me and call me Mabel, I am so there!

We swooped down on a bar down the street, and continued to imbibe our weight in wine, which was as delicious as it sounds, and just as much fun..until I realized I was supposed to be back in Brooklyn, visiting my friends and their new baby.

Oops. Ha, well, the baby wouldn't know the difference.



.....And then I molested a Beehive.....

When I finally had enough booze to sedate a medium sized elephant, I decided to make my way back to my place, where I met up with my boyfriend. Where we once again performed unspeakable acts for the neighbors, who may or may not have been spectating from across the way. Yea, I still haven't gotten blinds...oh well.



.....But the neighbors got revenge.....

After all the moaning and boning that took place, and then a hefty amount of Mexican takeout, Beehive and I fell into a deep, satisfied slumber. Only to be awakened at 43O am by some very, very loud music coming from across the way. We both sat up with a start and looked at each other. "WTF?" He bolted out of bed, with me not far behind, and peeked out the window to find a party going on across the way, still in full swing at the ungodly hour of 43O am. Music blasting, someone was doing cartwheels, and was that a BLOW up doll???

We lay back down--I was kinda hoping for a nice middle of the night bang session, but no such luck {What can I say, I'm a woman in my prime. Deal with it}-but instead we talked about what douches I live across from, and what we thought they were going to do with that blow up doll when the guests went home. IF they ever friggin went home. Grrr.



.....But paybacks a bitch.....

Somewhere down the road, we were able to fall asleep again, and I guess the party dissipated eventually. Around 9am or so, Beehive checked out my CD collection, and decided that The Used would be the most obnoxious thing we could play, very loudly, to wake up the neighbors {yea, I just admitted that I have The Used in my CD collection. Whatevs. Kill me then, why don't you!} so that we did, and lo and behold, I saw a sleepy and confused looking fratty dude walking past the window. Take THAT, you cartwheel turning douche meister! You think you're gonna get away with waking ME up at the crack of dawn with your shenanigans and your Marlboro Reds wafting into my open window? Guess again Mister!

.....And then I got my morning sex.....

and a Happy Sunday morning it became.

Another Lovely Monday Night

Dear MTA,
 
I'm not sure what the hell is going on over there at MTA Headquarters, but you sure are pissing me off, misters.
 
The last couple of days has been a commuter's nightmare. Take the D for Dis Train Ain't Goin' Nowhere train.  The other morning, it was moving at the speed of a pregnant snail.  When it actually deigned to move.  It was packed to the gills with unsavory people, all of whom I had to stand very close to, and witness their unsavory behaviors. Such as the very fat woman with bright red hair and clown colored clothes with clown-like makeup.  Or the horrid Chloe Sevigny wannabe wearing blue patent leather boat shoes (oh how I wish I had taken the time to snap a cameraphone picture, so you can see how distressing this truly, truly was).
 
The B for Be prepared to Never Get Home train, as well was quite the conundrum the other night.  I spent 25 precious minutes pinned up against a doorway, as the train stood still on the Manhattan Bridge due to "a sick passenger at Dekalb", then "signal problems", then "police activity at Dekalb".  I'm willing to bet that the actual issue at hand was "train operator takes Heroin and keeps nodding off at the wheel", because every 10 feet or so, the train would jump into motion, and then suddenly slam to a complete stop, for no reason at all.  This was especially enjoyable when I was repeatedly molested by my fellow passengers messenger bag. I'm sure he didn't mind when I stuck my knitting needle in his eye to get him to stop his bag from feeling up my spandexed ass. 
 
MTA, you owe me $10 for the cab ride I ended up taking when I finally arrived at Dekalb avenue, which is a mere 2 stops from my house-and refused to stay on the train one moment longer, for fear of sitting underground for another hour, to go 10 blocks. I would also like to seek damages for the psychological distress I experienced as I stood on the corner of Dekalb and Flatbush, in the cold, and watched cab after cab pass me by, without the slightest bit of empathy, because they were anxious to get back to civilization-aka Manhattan-and for the one lone man, with no teeth, who yelled out "How much to fuck you in the ass?" from his 1979 Chevy Nova.

You'll be hearing from my lawyer.

Signed, sincerely,

Cheese

They Don't Call Me Cheese for Nothin'

I'm sitting on my couch, furiously knitting away at a hat that I have been obsessing about for weeks. It's after midnite, and I've just gotten home after a long day of work and a not so long night of booze n yarn {by the way people, knitting and booze do NOT mix. Another blog for another time. I know I know, you're counting the minutes...}

When I got home, I pulled off my boots and many layers of tights, sweaters, etc. Threw on a tshirt and little else and flopped down on my couch, as previously mentioned, to knit til I can't see straight.

I notice a very unsavory smell wafting up from my lap. Jesus Christ, I need to shower.

I guess all that knitting and fretting over the knitting, plus the layers of clothing that have been worn since 7am are taking their toll on my sweat glands. By God do I smell like sour milk.

I found it very curious, however, as I have never quite smelt like that before. I've smelt myself sans shower, post sex, post workout, post swimming in the Hudson even, and never in my life have I given off the odor of sour milk. Damn, I'm getting nasty in my old age I guess...

I noticed a small stain on the ultrasuede sofa, it had just appeared out of nowhere. I wiped it up with one of the many blankets that are strewn about the couch {cuz I'm classy like that} and realized it had a very familiar stench.

Sour milk.

The culprit, it seemed, was a tupperware bowl I brought home from work and stuffed into a backpack, which also happened to contain my knitting. The bowl still had droplets of milk from my cereal several days prior, and it was becoming rancid and leaking.

Thank the fucking Lord! I may be Old Cheese, but damn if I want to smell like it!

Vanderbilt Avenue is Singing a New Toon

For the last 2 years that I have lived in this neighborhood, it has been seriously lacking in Middle Eastern restaurants.

As it is, the dining out experience leaves us with slim pickins on this side of Flatbush Avenue, with a scant few good places to chow down at {my late night drunken munchies hangout used to be Crown Fried Chicken, if that gives you any indication. But it's closed now. Boo.}

The popular Zaytoons, which already existed in BoCoCa and Fort Greene/Clinton Hill, opened in prospect heights a few months ago.

Let me begin by saying that I am half Lebanese, and spent 1/4 of my life in the Middle East, and eating my Grandma's cooking, and I KNOW good Middle Eastern food when I see it. And this, my lovely blogger friends, is DANG good.

I've been ordering in from the restaurant a good twice a week now, and
Brooklyn Gal and I ventured over to the actual restaurant a few weeks back.

Very importantly, the space is quite big, with tons of room between tables. None of that cramming in bullshit. perfect for all you claustrophobics. More importantly, they serve alcohol {which I don't think they do at the other locations}, and it is cheaper than a hooker outside the Holland Tunnel on a Sunday morning. We're talking $4.25 for a glass of wine or beer--ok it's not Chateau Margot but hey, it's not about the wine now, is it?

Now, most importantly, the food. It is divine. If you are into Middle Eastern Mezze, this is the place to get it. I always order the combo plate-you get a choice of five salads, including felafel. I usually get the labneh,

which is just thick enough and peppered with dill and mint.
Fattoush salad,


with just the right amount of baked pita crumpled over it. The felafel is crunchy and bite sized, the hummus and babaganoush creamy and delicious.

I've also had their mujaderra {lentils rice and fried onions} which is extremely flavorful and filling.



The appetizers all come with a couple of warm, homemade pitas, which are soft, and perfect for dipping, but I like to order a side of zatar bread.


It's served like a pizza, and tastes delish dipped in a mound of labneh. YUM.

My new favorite thing to do is get off the Q train after work, pick up a cheap bottle of white from Fermented Grapes, grab my grub and head on home for a feast. Such as tonight. Good times.

For the Guy Who Has Everything

You're in a great relationship. You love your man oh so much. He deserves only the best, but he has absolutely everything.

What's a girl to do?

Well, today is Black Friday. I guess you could pop on over to Target/Walmart/Kohls at 5am and be the first to pick up a flat screen tv because it's on sale.

OR

You could head on over to this site and pick up some wooly treats for your honey.


Specifically, the Willywarmer.



What better way to say "I love you" than with this unique gift, created by the most nimble of German elves, working through the nights to make sure your husbands and boyfriends keep their naughty bits warm and snuggly.

For the man with an active social life, there's the Nightlife willywarmer.



This little fashion statement will have all the girls wishing they could get their hands on your man's jewels. Just look at that fancy handiwork, and the little sparklies just make you want to get out your dancing shoes, yes?

Next, we have the Fuzzy Willywarmer.







If you've ever had a fantasy of fucking a muppet, this is the Willywarmer for you. Comes in Oscar Green, Elmo Red, and the Cookie Monster Blue you see here.



Lastly, we have the Willywarmer Sock.


This is for the guy who likes to dress like an old dude. Or, maybe you're a sicko, and you like to see your dad parading around in Willywarmers. Well, this would be for you, too. Old man slippers sold separately.



So there you have it. The perfect gift for the man who has it all. Don't ever say I don't care.

Much Ado About Nothing?

So this morning I was running around doing all sorts of errands and decided to pop into my neighborhood bakery for a fat iced decaf.



I know I know, so many things wrong with the above sentence, starting with iced and ending with decaf. For the record, I do not like warm drinks, unless it is hot chocolate, and it better be DAMN cold outside for me to be seeking out hot chocolate. And the hot chocolate needs to have marshmallows in it. The big ones. No queer little baby marshmallows for me! As for the decaf...I can't drink caffeine. It gives me palpitations and sweats. I am not a pretty gal after drinking a big 'ole cup of caffeine, I promise you that.

At any rate, I stepped into this bakery, which I really never go to because it's WAY overpriced. Their cup cakes are tiny and cost $3.OO a pop. Even I, who covet all cupcakes that cross my path, would not spend that kind of money on those tiny little fake wannabe cupcakes.



Ok ok, I'm getting to my story.

So I ordered my small iced decaf coffee, in a large cup. I like it in a large cup, cuz then I can smother it with milk and half n half. Yes, I am one of those people. I'll bet you are wondering why I even bother with the coffee.. I think the woman behind the counter thought the same thing, because she went ahead and poured me a regular coffee, warm, and caffeinated.

"Oh sorry," I called. "I actually wanted it iced, and decaf." Now I know I said it very clearly and precisely, because I am always afraid that they are going to give me caffeine. so I enunciate when I order. She just chose to mishear me. Which is fine.

Until I saw her take the coffee that she had already poured into a cup, and then pour it back into the coffee machine.

Now, I know the water that they make the coffee with is scalding hot, and probably kills any germs that the coffee may have met up with while sitting in the open air for those 1O seconds or so...but isn't putting that coffee back into the coffee maker akin to taking uneaten bread baskets and reusing them?

Or am I overreacting?

keep your pants on!

As I got dressed yesterday morning, I started to have second thoughts about the leggings I was pulling onto my body.

The elastic at the waistband seemed a little droopy, although I had worn them over the weekend and had no problems.

I should probably add that said leggings also have a giant hole in the crotch, that extends halfway down the left thigh, and probably should have been discarded many wearings ago.

But, true to my slovenly nature of wearing things until they literally fall off my body, I slid the leggings over my shapley thighs and continued to get dressed.

Cut to 3 hours later, as I get off the 6 train on the upper east side for a doctor's appointment. My leggings are feeling kinda slippery. I suddenly feel slight terror as the waistband starts to slither down my hips and make it's way down. Oh God I am about to lose my pants right on 68th and Lex.

I wasn't panicking yet, as I gave them a good hike and figured that would do it the four long blocks to York Avenue.

Not so much. I got as far as 2nd, and realized that my ass was full on uncovered, leggings dangerously close to peeking out from underneath my very short sweater dress. Fuckkk!

I saw a Walgreens and ducked in, diving into an aisle and yanking my waistband as best I could without flashing the entire store. Fucking Walgreens I thought would at least have some cheapo black tights--all I saw was this type of shit-



I didn't even know that women still wore this shit. Is that even possible??

At any rate, no luck at Walgreens, so I stumbled out, holding my waistband up through my dress like a crazy-ish person, pawing at myself in near tears. I reeked of desperation and shame for not being grownup enough to have clothing that wasn't in tatters.

Aha. Ann Taylor Loft across the street. They shall have tights.

By the time I found the tights, got on line behine *one* person who decided to take forever, with a salesperson who was the most painstakingly slow mover I've ever seen in my lifetime, my leggings were dangerously close to hovering somewhere around my ankles.

What I don't understand is why I didn't just explain my predicament to the salesperson so she could allow me to change in the dressing room right then and there.

But no, I like to make things difficult for myself. So I yoinked on my waistband one last time, and hightailed it to the Doctor's office, where I would change in the bathroom and rid myself of the evil leggings for once and for all.

Once in the elevator, I lifted my dress up, and pulled the leggings back over my behind, where they belonged. Sweet relief at last!

And yes, I am fully aware that whoever was manning the security camera got a mighty nice free show, might I add.

I Ain't No Hoho "Ho"

I was sifting through my work email this morning,and I saw this in my inbox--

ho ho heel

What in God's name am I going to do with one of these???



Other than parade around in those and some pasties, of course.

Honestly, do people really buy these {at $2O-$3O a pop, mind you}? Is there really someone out there who is right now saying to themselves, "I think it would be a real hoot to hang some sexy lookin' shoes from my fireplace mantel and call them stockings. How quaint. How risque."

This is the sort of thing I would imagine that Anna Nicole Smith might have had hanging in her home. Nuff said.

Can You Spare Some Asparagus?

Saturday night my sister and I went to see Bill Maher at the Beacon Theatre.

I myself am not a big fan of Bill Maher, and would not normally have sat through two hours of his ire and sarcasm, but I got my sister the tix for her bday and she asked if I would accompany her to the show.

The need for alcohol was felt all around when the show was over, and we were kinda hungry too, but being on the Upper West Side, I wasn't really sure where to get some grub and a nice, cold beer. As many times as I have been to the UWS in my lifetime, everything always sort of melds together in my mind, and I can never seem to remember where anything is.

The one place that I always seem to end up at is Josies , on 75th and Amsterdam.

When Josie's first opened, probably about 1O years ago or so, we were all very excited about it. It was all organic, quasi-healthy, but the food was actually delicious.

Over the years, the place has gotten way too crowded, and the novelty of organic, quasi-healthy food has worn off, plus it's all so damn expensive--I mean, I'm paying $2O bucks on a turkey burger for god's sake--but somehow, when I'm in the neighborhood, I always end up there, because honestly, I don't know where the fuck else to go!

So, there we went, to Josies. The wait was only a few minutes, so we parked ourselves at the bar, and ordered $7 beers {yes, $7. And those were the cheap ones}. Soon after we got our beers, we were shown to our seats. We happened to get placed next to a large table filled with WAY too happy couples. You know the ones I mean...they were all adorable, one of the couples were the "ones with a baby" and the baby was well-behaved, and the parents still seemed to actually be attracted to each other, and all the friends around them were happy and girls were sitting on their guys' laps and feeding each other. VOM.

We chose to ignore them, and checked out the menus.

Just as I predicted, everything was way overpriced. Until I saw that there was a prix-fixe menu.

I did not know of this prix-fixe menu, and was very excited to note that you could get an app, dinner, dessert, AND a glass of wine for $33.95!

Yea, so it might make me a little early-bird special-esque, ordering from the prix-fixe menu, but whatevs! Girlfriend is poor!

So, my sister and I decided to order the exact same entree--grilled salmon over mashed sweet potatoes and a side of asparagus. How delish does that sound, right?

Our dinners arrived, and we took a good look at our plates.

Grilled Salmon-check.
Mashed sweet potatoes-check.
SIde of asparagus. Nope.

I mean, there was asparagus. Two spears,to be exact. But would one call that a "side"? One would think not.

My sister, never the shy one, called out to our waiter, "Do ya think I could get some more asparagus on my plate?" she demanded.

He assumed an appropriate, empathetic expression and said that actually, she couldn't, because asparagus at this time of year is really expensive, and it was really only a garnish.

Garnish? Garnish is a sprig of parsley, carelessly tossed onto a plate. Garnish is a lemon wedge. Garnish is not yummy, delicious, crisp spears of asparagus!

We shrugged, laughed it off, and continued eating {which was all yummy, garnish or not}.

It was decided that had we not been the cheap bastards that we are, and had we ordered from the regular, non pre-fixe menu, we would have gotten a proper serving of asparagus, with an actual garnish of parsley on the side.

You live, and you learn.

Wake up Cat

For all my fellow cat lovers, you will all be able to relate to this! Happy Monday!

paul mccartney's new girlfriend, and other stuff

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

And All This TIme I Thought I Was a Chick

I always have to wonder what it is about me that screams "I'm a guy" when I walk into a Starbucks or other such establishments.

On more than one ocassion {why can't I spell this word? I have spelled it 3 different ways now, all of them look wrong}, I have been called "Sir" as I approached the counter to place my order. There is really nothing worse than bouncing into a place, excited for that tall, skim, iced decaf mocha, finally getting up to the server after waiting on that line that would drive anyone to insanity, and having the girl behind the counter smile and say "what can I get for you, Sir?"

What is it about me that screams guy? Is it my long, flowing golden locks? My ample cleavage? My high-pitched, feminine voice?

Do they think I'm this dude?



I dunno. I think Beehive might not be so thrilled upon finding out that he's been boning Michael Bolton all this time.

Veggie Tales

Yesterday I was really craving a salad from the place around the corner from my office. You know, the one with all the really fancy mix-ins. It even has turkey bacon. Mmm. I had made up my mind early on that I was going to splurge on the 9 buck tub of lettuce and such, and it was gonna be GREAT.

I got to the place, and I was greeted by a nice young man behind the counter who took my order. I got my usual mix of arugula and romaine, and as he expertly stuffed it into the plastic container, I noticed something wasn't right.

He had a large mass hanging from his left earlobe.

It was spongy and sort of crumpled, like a very large wad of gum.

AAAUGH.

It was way worse than this case of cauliflower ear



and nowhere near as bad as this ear tumor on a 19th century Chinese man



But nevertheless, it was difficult to watch a guy with a cauliflower-ish tumor dangling from his fleshy earlobe about to prepare my lunch!

I mean, I like cauliflower in my salad and all.

But cauliflower in my salad guy's ear? Wrong. Wrong wrong all sorts of wrong.

And now I begin my long descent into Hell.

Tiny Little Shiny Ones

I was awakened this morning by the sound of my phone, alerting me to a new text message coming in.

I was feeling quite shellshocked, sadly, after a beer and two martinis. I had myself in bed at a decent hour, I drank bunches of water throughout the night, yet I still awoke in a state of total confusion, feeling as if I was wearing socks on my teeth.

Ow, my aching head.

I read the text message that was sent circa 63O am - "Tiny little shiny ones."

For some insane reason, I imagined that my boyfriend had just taken a poo, and he was announcing the state of his bowel movement that morning. I wasn't sure why he was announcing this to me at 63Oam, but hey, we've had stranger text conversations, for sure.

I took myself back to bed and tried to fall asleep. My mind wandered back to the night before. Drinks with my good friend S&M. S&M and I don't go out nearly as much as we used to, but when the two of us get together, it's always a good time. He is the instigator of thought provoking conversations, and we almost always end up talking about porn and sex. No matter how hard we try not to.

He had just finished describing the pin-up girl underwear that one of his ex's used to wear for him.

I recalled him going to the bathroom, and I pulled out my phone, to drunkenly punch out the message to my BF, "If you could dress me up in any kind of underwear you wanted, what would it be?"

It seems, the answer would be "Little tiny shiny ones."

D'oh!

Such a Girl

I am a total cliche of a girl when it comes to watching sports, ie, I am completely clueless.

Years and years of watching football with boyfriends, man friends, and other women who "get it" has gotten me nowhere.
To this day, I am still the asshole who's not quite sure what "first and 1O" means, and I couldn't tell you the difference between a field goal and a kickoff.

I can appreciate going to see a live game, however, for what it is. I enjoy sitting outside, being amongst the crowd, people-watching and being part of the ruckus. It's fun, man. Watching it on tv, not so much. Unless it's at a bar. And there's beer. Yea, I can do that.

All this talk about the World Series, and Joe Torre's resignation, and A-Rod's departure, makes me think of a baseball game I attended over the summer.

As I said, I do really like going to live games--and baseball is something I understand for the most part, so I can follow and get into it.

I'm not really familiar with most of the players on the Mets, having always hung out with Yankees fans, so I tried to familiarize myself with who was who, and thought I had done pretty well. I always sort of start with who I think is cute, followed by the ones who seem the most popular.

It seemed really strange to me that, everytime #18 went up to bat, people appeared to be booing him. He was a Met, and we were sitting at Shea Stadium, so why in the world did everyone hate him so much?

I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to ask a stupid question. Yet the booing continued. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Why do people keep booing whenever that guy goes up to bat?" I asked innocently. Cringing at my stupidity.

I was looked at with curiosity, and asked why I thought they were booing him.

"Well," I said, "Everytime he steps up to the plate, people yell out BOO! BOO!"

Yea. Not so much. #18, aka Moises Alou, had a lot of fans who liked to yell out "Alouuuuuuuuuuu".

See? I have a lot to learn!

ps - Baltimore By Way of Brooklyn , you can stop laughing at me now!!!

Time to Start Wearing Breathe Right Strips to Bed. Hot.

Lately, it seems that I have been waking up around 4am, for one reason or another, and then never getting myself back to sleep. I try counting sheep, watching bad infomercials, reading, diddling myself. Nothin'.

Over the weekend, it happened a few times, due to Beehive falling asleep on the couch and then making his way back to bed...or Beehive getting up to go to the bathroom.

Monday am, I found myself awake, yet again, at 4am. Strangely, there was nothing going on to have woken me up, but true to form, I was unable to get myself back to sleep. Never fun, but on Monday it sucks even more.

On the subway going in to work, I mentioned that I had a hard time sleeping.

"So weird," I said confused. "I woke up at 4am, expecting to hear you in the john. But it was quiet as can be."

There was a pause, and then my boyfriend, always honest, confessed, "I actually had gotten up to pee, but you never moved. When I came back, you were snoring really loudly, so I shoved you, and you stopped snoring."

"You shoved me?"

"Yea. I had to. You were snoring."


Dude! You so could have saved yourself! All you had to do was play dumb and shrug!

{but of course, being honest is always best} {so thank you for that}

Baby Fever

So, two good friends of mine had a kid over the weekend.

Well, the wife had the kid. The husband, he just stood around and smiled a lot.

It wasn't a surprise, this kid, I mean, I knew she was on her way. It's just weird to realize that nothing in the world can prepare you for the fact that these two people made a little person and then let the little person come out to play.

I was never that fond of little people.

Not that I hate babies or anything, but I just never really got along with them. They sort of just sit there and stare, and make smelly poops, and cry, and sort of disrupt all sense of life as you know it.

Over the last several years, just from the fact that friends my age are starting to have kids, paired with the fact that my boyfriend has a niece and five nephews {all who I adore}, I have gotten used to the idea that babies are a fact of life, and by golly, I might even like to have one someday.

I digress.

So I got the call today that these friends had this kid. And I was very happy for them. And figured that, when they got home from the hospital, and got settled in their home, like, in a week or two, I'd go over and visit and welcome the little monster to their family, along with a bunch of our other friends.

Except that, these people love me SO much, that they insisted that I stop by the hospital. Tonight.

I panicked. I hate hospitals. And the kid, she was only a day old. What was I going to say to her? She barely speaks English, for God's sake!

But I knew that the right thing to do was to pay a visit to the litttle newbie, and that I did.

I got to the hospital, and the first thing that struck me--after I got over the fact that the new mommy, freshly c-sectioned, was walking around, and even answered the door when I got there--was that the baby was so incredibly tiny, sitting in her daddy's arms. She didn't even look like an alien, like I imagined she would, but was cute as a button.

Once I stopped worrying that I was going to trip and fall and squish the little tyke, I started to relax. Another friend showed up, and it almost began to feel like a party.

Except for the fact that, I guess once a woman has a baby, her body is not her own anymore. You know--suddenly your boobs are not just for sexy time, they actually have a function. And it's ok to pull them out at a moment's notice, cuz the kid needs to eat.

So you're trying to just have a normal conversation and not pay attention to the fact that your friend is sitting there, with a tiny mouth attached to her tit. And you try to continue the normal conversation, and to not think it's inappropriate that your friend wants to talk about her nipple chafing, or her uteral contractions that she is still having. I mean, she's sitting there, literally half naked, chatting away like nothing...I don't know if I'm going to get used to this.

Me, when the time comes, am preserving these fun bags of mine. Yes indeed, I'm going the bottle route.

Today I Came Across Ralph on the Subway

Coming home from work tonight, I squeezed myself onto a packed 4 train.

The a/c wasn't working, unbeknownst to me. I thought I was just having my usual I-have-too-much-hair, I-sweat-a-lot moments.

As I stood there, sweating, cursing, and wishing I had a private chauffeur to get me home, there seemed to be a lot of commotion coming from the back right corner of my car. There were a bunch of rowdy teenagers, jumping around, yelling, and generally intimidating others. I did my best to ignore them as I dove into my people magazine to read about Brit Brit and her sad, sad life.

Suddenly, the commotion seemed to pick up pace. With said commotion, a strange sound seemed to permeate the train. It was almost like a spray of water was gushing out of a fountain.

Oh motherfucker.

One of the little bastards was puking, all over the 4 train.

Never fun, even less so on a rush hour, jam packed subway car.

We were in between stops, and true to form, the fucking train operator was driving slow as molasses, taking his sweet ass time getting us from Brooklyn Bridge to Fulton Street.

In the meantime, commuters were running for the hills, making gagging sounds, covering their mouths with Kleenex, not exactly knowing where to go. Me, being the 12 year old boy I sometimes can be, had to check out the puke.

Why, God, why?

I quickly regretted my decision, having been met with the sight of what looked to be something that had been ingested at the Olive Garden, paired with some red fruity drink. A slushie perhaps? Or maybe a wine cooler?

EIther way, the red fruity drink was coming my way, dripping across the car faster than I could say "projectile."

"WATCH YOUR FEET" one of the teens screamed out.

At this point, and not a moment too soon, the doors opened, and the majority of the car scampered out and ran to the next car over. An air conditioned, half empty car. Ah, the relief.

I'm skipping dinner tonight. And maybe forever. Blech.

The World is Shrinking

The other day, I was in my company kitchen, heating up my new obsession


when I hear someone calling my name from the hallway.

I looked up and saw one of my co-workers who I don't really know that well, other than to chit chat about food when we're heating up our respective lunches. I don't honestly know if I would recognize her outside of the office.

"Were you driving on the NY State Thruway on Sunday?" she asked me.

I was indeed.

"And were you driving in a Zipcar?"

Why the 2O questions, man?

"I totally saw you on the highway! I drove past you, realized it was you, and then hoped you'd catch up to me so I could wave!

But, you're a SLOW driver!"

I will have you all know I was doing 7O consistently the entire way. Not exactly crawling!

Either way, how the hell did she pick me out, on a highway of a zillion people? It's not like she knew I was going to be driving upstate in a big, conspicuous silver Outback with the name ZIPCAR emblazoned across the side of it.

Weird, right?

Overeater's Anonymous, I Need Your Help

So, today I was feeling a bit on the melancholy side, it being Monday and all, and I decided that I needed a "food is love" moment.
 
It happens (once a day) sometimes that I just need a sugary snack to quell my anxieties.  I'm a chick with a sweet tooth, and a derriere to prove it.
 
Today I couldn't pass up the most giantest of cupcakes--I knew it wasn't going to even compare to
these little balls of heaven, but hell, it was the next best thing.  So I bought it, and sheepishly snuck it into my office.
 
I knew it was a stupid thing to do, because I knew I was going to get "caught".  Not that I am a closet eater or anything like that, but the last thing someone who looks like me (read, not skinny) wants to do is be seen with a cupcake the size of my right tit (read, big) so that all the anorexic women in my office can look at me and sneer.
 
I took a bite of the cupcake and pushed it aside, almost hiding it behind a folder rack.  Maybe I wouldn't even eat the rest of it.  One bite was all I needed...
 
...and then, one of the aforementioned anorexic women decided to pay me a visit.
 
I could feel my palms get sweaty. I lost my train of thought. I tried to position myself in front of the cupcake so that she wouldn't be able to see it, sitting there, big bite taken out of it.  I felt confident that the cupcake was hidden from sight, until...
 
"What the hell is that?" she giggled and pointed.  Maybe she's talking about my parrot tiki mug?
 
No such luck.  I followed her gaze. She was giving my cupcake the evil eye.
 
"Jesus.  That thing is huge.  Look at that pile of frosting!" she shrieked.  Oh I didn't need to look.  I knew how big the pile was.  It was the size of a giant's fist.
 
I stammered, "I...uh...sometimes I just gotta....you know.....stress eat....going to gym...later..." as if this could make up for the deadly sin I was commiting, eating more than 1500 calories, in one sitting.
 
She continued on an on, discussing the sugar, the fat, the jitters I would get, the diabetic coma I was going to go into. She pulled another co-worker aside and said "Look how stressed out she is, she needs to eat such a thing."
 
I snapped back to my senses and finally started to get annoyed.  "The only thing I'm stressed out about is the fact that you are insisting on analyzing my food."
 
She finally got the message, and she and her bony ass left my cube.
 
I then proceeded to finish off the entire fucking cupcake, paper and all.  When that was gone, I ate my desk, my phone, and my cubemates.
 
The only thing that is left is this laptop, but rest assured, once I finish typing, it's going down the hatch, mateys.

How I Almost Died Doing Good

Some of you may not be aware that I spend one night a week volunteering for a cat rescue organization.

It all began about 6 years ago when circumstances out of my control forbade me from having a cat of my own. I happened to walk into the giant pet store where this organization is housed, and found myself surrounded by cages and cages of abandoned cats. The sight saddened me so much that I decided to begin volunteering right then and there, and I've been there ever since.

This atmosphere, as you can imagine, is rife with "crazy cat ladies". I'm sure many of you have experienced walking into this very store, innocently looking for the dog treat aisle, and were accosted by an old lady wearing cat ears, waving a donation jar in your face, chanting, "a little food for the kitties. pennies, nickels, dimes..."

They mean well, the crazy cat ladies.

The other night, I and two other volunteers were struggling to care for all of the cats and kittens that were in the store that night. We basically have to feed the cats, change their litter, and clean their cages, which could mean anything from a quick wipe down to scraping poo and vomit off of the walls and ceiling. While standing on a wobbly ladder. While people, mostly who are NOT interested in adopting a cat, are swarming around, sticking their hands in the cages while we clean, unknowingly spreading kitty germs from cage to cage, or sneaking peeks up my skirt if I've forgotten to change into jeans prior to my shift.

The crazy cat lady that night, with the ubiquitous cat ears, was insisting that every single person that walked by come in and browse. Everyone. Whether they wanted to or not. I kept shooting her dirty looks as it was getting crowded, and I was pretty sure that my cooch was going to end up all over the internets via spycam, as I was wearing a skirt that night, standing up on my ladder, and I just wanted to get the kitties taken care of and get the hell out of there.

A dude walked in while I was scooping food into a bowl, and from the minute I made eye contact with him I was sure we were all going to die.

He had a crazy look in his eye, looked disheveled, moved in a jerky, nervous manner, but the biggest tip off that he was a nutter was that he was topless. Well, topless save for a vest of some sort. I did not think this was just a fashion faux pas. I was sure he was a mad killer.

Crazy cat lady, true to form, invited him in. "Come on inside and look at the kitties," she said warmly.

I shot her a look that I was hoping said, "STOp FUCKING TALKING TO WHACKOS OR YOU"RE GOING TO GET US ALL KILLED."

Apparently my look was not working, because she kept talking to Topless Vest Man, as if he were the Queen of England.

He walked closer and nervously stuck his hand in his pocket, while his eyes darted around crazily. "Let me see if I have some change."

Holy Hell he was looking for a gun! I don't know what the hell he had against innocent cats? perhaps he was a disgruntled ex-volunteer? Or maybe we turned down his application for adoption?

Any which way, I was frozen. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to yell, in case he decided to turn the gun on me...

He pulled his hand out of his pocket, threw a giant bag on the counter, and ran like a bat out of hell out of the store.

Ok. So he didn't have a gun. So maybe he left a bomb on the counter? What the hell? I closed my eyes shut tight and prayed.

The adoption rep ran over and looked at the abandoned bag. "What the hell is that?" he pointed. All of a sudden he tore out of the store after the crazed Topless Vest Killer. I was confused.

I opened my eyes and carefully walked over to the bag that carried the bomb. I looked inside.

Kittens. 5 teeniest of the tiniest of kittens. Abandoned. Left for us to care for.

This is a nightmare for any animal shelter who is full to capacity with abandoned little beasts, so although he did not try to kill me, he is still a bad, bad man. With very bad fashion sense.

And that is how I cheated death while doing good.

Douchebag

The other morning I'd left myself as little time as possible to get to work, which is a pretty normal occurence.

These days, however, I'm trying to eat better/save money by bringing my day's worth of food to work. Which is great, except for when I decide to make a batch of guacamole to go with my frozen Amy's Burrito. And it's already 915 and I still need to put my gym crap in a bag and get my ass on a train.

I peeled the avocado quite easily. So easily that it slipped out of my little paw and started to tumble down the front of my dress. I caught it in the nick of time but a piece of avocado stuck to my black sundress. Fuck. I flicked it off and didn't think twice about it as I proceeded to mash up the rest of the green yummy goodness.

I finally got myself out of the house, and onto the subway. I was feeling pretty accomplished. I'd managed to remember my lunch, my gym stuff, I got some makeup on and my hair wasnt half bad. Not such a horrible morning. Til I looked down and saw the green goo.


Yes yes. Green, nasty, boogery looking goo, all down the front of my flouncy cute dress. Motherfucker.

I held my large bag in front of my body so no one would think I'd been slimed a la Ghostbusters. As much as I knew there was nothing I could do about it, being that I was on the train, I just couldn't stop obsessing about it. What if the shit didn't come out? I was so not going to walk around my office with avocado jizz smeared all over me. The horror.

Thankfully, I am insane about vag freshness, and therefore had a package of Summer's Eve pussy wipes in my purse. You bet your ass I whipped that shit out, yanked a fresh wipey from the pack, and rubbed myself with it.

Not only am I classy, but I am also resourceful.

Those Wild and Crazy Kids

Sitting in the backyard of my favorite bar, the Zombie Hut.

I'm having my usual Blue Hawaiians, Beehive his Gilligan.

Suddenly, the talk went from safe to sexy, and we were making out in full view of the entire bar. His hand went underneath my skirt, brushed against my crotch. I wanted to fuck him right then and there.

We continued to maul each other like teenagers at the prom. I wanted to throw him into a cab and do unspeakable things to him all the way home.

I happened to glance at the time.


It was barely 7.15.

Rock stars, we ain't!

Yea, I'm Talking About My Boobs Again

Yesterday I happened to be wearing a very low cut top, and a very flattering bra.

Ok, whatever, I have good boobs.

I already know I have good boobs, but the deal was sealed when, bouncing down the street yesterday on the way back from the rapist, a guy on a bicycle was so enthralled with my breastage, that he crashed his bike into a building.


I shit you not.

Three Little Words That Mean So Much

Last week I spent 3-days out of the office at a photo shoot for work. Never a bad thing, to be sure. I get to be out of the office for most of the week, eat catered food to my hearts content, and hang out with cool people all day and feel like my job actually isn't that bad after all.

The shots involved 25 girls/women aged 26-4O. They were chosen for their "real people" look, as we wanted it to appear that we pulled them right off the street.

These "real" people were all a size 2 or smaller. There were always 4 or 5 of them in the studio at any given time, and we had to stare at them for hours on end.

Even my super skinny co-workers felt inadequate after three days of that!!

I found myself in a conversation with the mother of one of the 19 year olds, who accompanied her to the shoot. I asked her if her daughter did a lot of print, to which she replied, "She's too chubby for print. We're trying to get into acting now."

Chubby?

"Yes, we got her down to 115 lbs, but the agencies keep telling us it's not enough. She couldn't lose that last 5 pounds. Such a shame."

I snuck a peek at her beautiful daughter, who was probably 5'7" or so, and "too chubby" at 115 pounds, and I wanted to punch her mother's lights out. Mind you, her mother was obese, by the way...

After 3-days of this, my self esteem has taken a beating {not to mention, I'm now on a much needed diet}. However, in a co-worker's office yesterday, I was trying to describe to him the scene. "Flat chested women with the bodies of a 12 year old boy," is how I think I described it.

"I have three words for you," he said. "Men. Like. Boobs."

As he stared directly at my not-so-flat chest.

Can I get that tattooed on my ass?

An Evening Run

Tonight I went for a much needed run in prospect park.

I was a little sore from my bike ride on Saturday--so I was going kinda slow. I felt myself dragging a little bit and needed something to pick me up.

As I rounded the bend around mile 3, I ran into a twenty-something couple, also going for a run. They maintained their pace a little bit in front of me--the guy asked the girl what time it was.

"I'm not telling," she teased. "You have to guess."

"71O?" "Nope" "655?" "Nope"

"645?" 'Nuh uh" "723?" "Guess again." Giggling ensued.

This went on for a couple of minutes--mind you, they were talking in those pseudo baby voices that couples use when they think they're being cute--and I couldn't stand it for one second longer.

I put my legs into high gear and left those losers in the dust. I could still hear them behind me. The bitch just refused to tell him what time it was.

"It's 718," I yelled over my shoulder, as I sprinted up the hell, I mean hill.

I'm going to hire them for all of my runs for now on. If they annoy me enough, I might just shave 1O minutes off my time!

The Camera Never Lies

Ever since I can remember, I have NEVER, EVER been a fan of amusement park rides.

I was a natural-born chicken-shit, right out of the womb, to be honest. I was the child who couldn't stand in a foot of water without pseudo drowning. I couldn't ride the see saw because it was "too high" and I was afraid that the asshole kid on the other end would jump off of it, letting it slam down and throwing me off in the process. I was afraid of heights, things that went fast, and, well, I was afraid of pretty much damn everything.

I have gotten over most of my fears as an adult. I ski, I swim, I ride my bike real fast. Although you'll never see me jumping out of a plane, nor will I get on the back of a motorcycle, for the most part I have overcome most of my issues with all things fast and scary.

Except for amusement park rides!

The one and only time I went on a rollercoaster was in college, at Rye playland. I am quite certain I was on one of the kiddy ones. I am also quite certain that I may have soiled myself midway. I got off that thing in complete shock, and knew that I was never, ever going to do that again.

I am the girl that went to Great Adventure on a work retreat, sat in one of the virtual reality booths, and almost vomited just from watching a 3d screen, my chair rocking back and forth. One of my coworkers leaned over and whispered, "Cheese, what the fuck?" and all I could do was moan.

Yea. That is me.

I didn't think anything of these things when I suggested to Beehive that we head over to Coney Island for one last fling before summer ended {and, well, before Thor Equities gets rid of everything}. To me, Coney Island is so much more than rides. It's greasy food, and freaks, and people watching, and drinking beer on the boardwalk, and smelling the ocean, and winning cheesy prizes via shooting water into a clown's mouth, and taking pictures in the photo booth.

I don't do the Cyclone, or the Wonder Wheel. I'm a total voyeur, taking it all in as if I were peeking at two people fucking behind closed doors...feeling totally thrilled by it, knowing I can't join in but kind of wishing I could.

We passed the giant Wonder Wheel, and Beehive mentioned that he had been on it a few years ago. He asked if I'd like to try it. I wanted to. I wanted to be the kind of girl that was like "fuck yea, I'm so on that Wonder Wheel." I wanted to be cooler than the person that he took on the Wonder Wheel a few years back. I kept looking up at it, assessing it, trying to determine if I could handle the height and the swinging cars that slid back and forth. My pounding heart told me to keep walking. I said I'd think about it.

I agreed to go in one of the haunted houses, which barely passes as a ride, but I figured it would warm me up and get me in the mood to perhaps try something bigger and scarier. As predicted, I was more afraid of the fact that I couldn't see anything in the pitch black dark tunnel that we traveled through, than of the ride itself.

We walked around some more, I beat Beehive in Steeplechase and won a stuffed devil, and then we walked by the Thunderbolt.

Last summer we went to the Dutchess County Fair, and somehow Beehive talked me into getting on the Thunderbolt, which up there was called "Flying Bob's". I hated that motherfucking ride. It doesn't go high, but it goes fast, and dips and bobs, turming side to side. If you close your eyes, as I did when I rode it, you can imagine that you're experiencing a high speed car crash, sound effects and all. I remember feeling really shaky and horrid after getting off of Flying Bobs, but at least I'd been on it once and I knew what to expect.

I was NOT going to be the annoying, un-fun girlfriend. I was going to be the cool fun ride-going girlfriend. I was going to get on the Thunderbolt.

We got in the car and were barricaded in, my stuffed devil at my feet. We started to move and I immediately shut my eyes.
Everytime I tried to open them, I would scream.

I seem to remember feeling vomity and laughing hysterically, yet crying, all at once. I recall repeating over and over again "you're so mean. You're so mean." to no one in particular. Sometimes I replaced it with "Evil. EVIL." Beehive, his arm casually draped around me, laughed and laughed.

I remember thinking that this was the most awful feeling I've ever felt in all of my life, and if I could stop feeling it for just five minutes, I'd be happy forever.

After shifting into backward gear, it started to slow down, teasing me into thinking it was over. The ride "dj" shrieked out "Who wants more?"

NOT ME NOT ME.

All the other bastards, my boyfriend included, shouted out "YEAAAAAAA."

FUCK.

So we went around backwards a few more times, and surprisingly by then, I was almost used to the weird, abnormal jerking movements. I couldn't very well admit that though, so I continued to scream and curse throughout the remainder of the ride.

FInally, it was over. Beehive helped me out, and I wobbled to the exit and found my way to solid ground.

"That sucked! That sucked that sucked!" I no longer cared about being the cool girlfriend.

Beehive smiled, took out his camera, and showed me what he'd been doing for the past five minutes.

Not only did he have several pictures of me smiling BIG and laughing, he had VIDEO.

I wasn't scared! I was having an amazing time! Holy shit, who was that laughing, giggling girl in that video? It looked like me, it sounded like me, how the hell was that me?

I AM the cool girl after all!!!

We found ourselves in front of the Wonder Wheel once again, and I stood for a long time, staring up at it, thinking to myself that I could do anything now.


And then I saw one of the cars slide across a skinny cable 5O stories in the air, and I thought better of it.

Next year. If it's still there.

The Staten Island Zoo

The big hit of my Labor Day weekend was not my stay at a luxe beach house in Westhampton. It wasn't my trip to the beach where I had a delectable Chipwich. It wasn't even my post-bang pukefest . No, my favorite part of my long weekend was most definitely a jaunt to the Staten Island Zoo .

I'll bet you didn't even know there WAS a zoo on SI, did ya? You and I were of the same camp, my friends. However, those in the know are well aware that not only is there a zoo on SI, but there is a handy dandy bus that takes you right to the front of it, for a mere metrocard fare.

I'm a huge geek at heart and get strangely giddy at knowing these kinds of things--just as a sidenote.

Any which way, I woke up Monday am in my usual cranky fashion, freaking out that the summer was over and I had 9 months to wait until it was to return. Instead of letting me wallow in my self-pity, Beehive got me off my ass, onto the S-53 bus, and to the island of Staten faster than you can say "meerkat".

The first thing that struck me is that there are peacocks that wander around the grounds, unassuming as can be.

This one greeted us at the entrance.



Once inside, we watched a family of prairie dogs chowing down



We encountered a red panda




and some otters





The zoo is internationally renowned for its reptile collection, and as we walked through the building that housed all 32 types of rattlesnakes, I was pretty impressed. Unfortunately, there seemed to be quite a few of them who had tummy aches, as they hadn't indulged in lunch, which to my chagrin, was left in their tank--dead rats and mice. Yuck.

Out of all of the deadly snakes and lizards that we passed by, the one animal that caused me to actually start hyperventilating was this motherfucking green moray eel.


The 3 feet of glass in between us was not enough to convince me that this beast was not going to somehow find its way into the great wide open and wrap itself around my neck and suffocate me.

I'm happy to report that the zoo also has a children's area, and that Beehive and I were without a doubt the only adults there that were not escorted by rugrats. Like I could care--I got to feed a llama with severely buck teeth




And we now know what the term "hung like a donkey" really means.



My absolute new animal obsession, hands down, is this little guy


the fossa is sort of like a cross between a cat and a monkey. In one instance, it was rolling around on its back like a kitty, but it has a long-ass tail like a monkey, and maneuvers like one as well.

A good couple of hours were spent roaming around the zoo, and after posing for a picture with a giant turtle, it was time to get back on the S-53 bus and head back to the land of Bay Ridge. A chicken roll from Casa Calamari for him, a giant sandwich from the Italian Deli for me, and the day was complete.

I think I was Slimed

Walking to the subway station this morning, I happened to look down at my leg for some reason or another, and was struck with a vision of disgusting proportions.

It appeared that I stepped in some dog doo doo, and it splashed up onto my calf.

"Arrllllghghekkkraackkkkeegooooo" I started to make wretching, vomity sounds.

Beehive took one look at where I was pointing, laughed hysterically, and said "We'd better get you home." He steered me back to his apartment, where I ran in shame and disgust, and cleaned myself up.

What appeared to be dog poop initially was nothing of the sort. In fact, I'm really not even sure what the hell it was. It was sort of mucus-like, almost like slug slime. In fact, I'm kind of thinking it was slug slime. Especially since I had no trace of dog shit anywhere on my flip flops or anywhere else on myself.

Oh God. I got slimed by a slug.

Cut to later this afternoon. My blogging boyfriend asked, "So, did you write about what happened this morning yet?"

"No. Did you want it?"

"Hell yea. If you don't want it, I'll take it!" he seemed to think this event was completely and utterly blogworthy.

I love the fact that we are now negotiating who gets to write what in our blogs.

My Day, Thus Far

I woke up in my usual state of panic this morning, knowing that today was just not going to be all that amazing.

My first clue was the stupid dream that woke me up. The dream where my boyfriend was hording pictures of his ugly, stupid exgirlfriend all over his house. They were all framed, and one of them was in a heart shaped locket.

When I asked, in the dream, why on earth he would have these things out and on display, he replied, "Oh, to piss her off."

So that's the beginning of my day.

I finally managed to shake off the doom and gloom that was created in my slumber, and got my ass to the pool for a morning swim.

The swim itself was going just fine, until my lane was taken over by a very, very large woman who insisted on doing some sort of weird water calisthenics wherein her legs needed to straddle both sides of the lane. I was wondering if she thought I was supposed to be swimming through her legs, decided I didn't want to go down that road, and got out of the pool, 10 minutes earlier than planned.

Once showered and blow-dried, I made my way to the Pax Deli on 49th and Broadway for some breakfast. I generally stop there for breakfast after my swims, as my gym is a block away. I generally only order bagels. Today I was in the mood for eggs. Big mistake. Turns out this was a confusing and perplexing move on my part, for which I will never be forgiven.

"I'd like 2 eggs, sunnyside up, and a toasted bagel. Buttered." Easy enough, right?

"A sandwich?" Counter boy asked.

"No. 2 eggs. Bagel on side."

"Let me give you a #1" he pointed to the sign above the counter. A #1 came with toast, home fries, and bacon.

"I don't want a #1. I want two fried eggs and a bagel. That's all."

He could not for the life of him understand what the hell I was going to do with two fried eggs and a bagel. Maybe I should shove them up his ass. Maybe then he'll get the message.

So somehow, I got my order (after being asked two more times if I wanted it as a sandwich) and then brought it up to the front to pay. Woman at the cash register starts to unwrap my bagel, which is tightly stuffed into tin foil.

"It's a bagel. With butter." I growled.

"Hold on, hold on, lemme check" she puts up her hand in protest. Her dirty hand. With her other dirty hand, she continues to unwrap my bagel.

WHY IN GODS NAME ARE YOU GOING TO UNWRAP FOOD THAT HAS BEEN PACKAGED VERY SANITARILY? WHY DO YOU NEED TO TOUCH MY FOOD WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS THAT LOOK LIKE YOU WIPED YOUR ASS WITH THEM?

She saw the steam coming out of my ears and offered to get me another bagel.

No thanks. I'll eat the dirty one that is now raging with Legionnaires Disease. It's ok.

I am now feeling really faint and dizzy--not sure if it's from the Legionnaires Disease, or because I was probably given caffeinated coffee-which I can't drink-when I clearly asked for decaf.

Since it is only now noon, and I am about to leave for a lunch with someone who I absolutely do not want to be sitting with for the next two hours, I can safely say that this day is definitely not on its way to getting any better.