Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Today is One of Those Fucking Days

Today is just one of those fucking days.

I can't say anything right. I'm way too emotional. I'm being paranoid. I'm being a girl. I'm being weepy.

All I want to do is have a good cry in the bathroom. But every time I go in there, there’s someone lurking around in the last stall, or applying their mascara over the sink. It’s worse than trying to take a poo, I tell you.

I have no excuse for this emotional outburst, other than I am a girl.

I’m letting myself get OCD about things that I have no control over.

I’m also being a big baby.

Sample conversation from earlier.

Me: “I spoke to so-and-so yesterday. She sounds well.
Her: “Oh, did she tell you that she and I went to the movies the other night?”
Me: “No, she didn’t mention it”
Her: “Yea, she and I and blah blah blah saw Babel.

I stopped hearing her after I realized that she, so-and-so, and blah blah blah all went out without me. And then I said, “Well, maybe next time you guys will invite me to go with you.”

Nothing like putting your friend on the spot like that. You wanna hear total silence on the other end of the phone? Be a paranoid freakshow like myself and you can hear a pin drop.

Ugh. I’m one of THOSE girls today.


Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Til Now, I Always Got By On My Own

I have never thought twice about the fact that I live alone. Mainly because I am hardly ever actually "alone", but the one or two nights that I am in my apartment sans boyfriend, friends, etc, I really do enjoy. Me and the cat, chillin' with the remote. There's nothing quite like it.

Last night, for the first time in the almost year that I've been in my apartment, I was afraid.

Sometime in between going to the gym at lunch, and getting ready for my dinner at Devi, I developed a headache. I feared this headache with every bone in my body, because I've had them before, and they are EVIL. No amount of Advil will quell them. They usually develop after a heavy night of drinking, or as a weird reaction to certain foods (which ones I haven't quite figured out yet), but they almost certainly end up with a violent bout of puking. Quel horreur.

Fruitless downing ibuprofen by the handful, I met some friends for our dinner at Restaurant Devi. Being the genius that I am, I decided that a Ginger Collins (Makers Mark and ginger) would be the antidote I needed to rid myself of the beast inside my skull. I don't think it quite worked, but let me tell you--as an aside--if you like ginger, you GOTTA have the Ginger Collins. You just gotta.

After a delicious meal of chick pea fritters, chicken curry and a cardamom ice cream, with plenty of fluffy naan on the side, I was sated, yet still in pain. Thankfully the night was still young and I was home at the tender hour of 8, and I promptly threw my ass on the couch, remote in hand, cat by my side, and willed the headache to disappear.

Since my powers of persuasion seemed to be off that night, I decided the only way to be at peace was to just go to bed. Gray's Anatomy on Tivo wasn't doing the trick, and I felt too ill to read. So off to bed I went, and I almost thought I was going to get off without a hitch, as my head started to calm itself down.

After a quick chat with Beehive, I drifted off, only to be jolted awake with the BIGGEST pain in my eye socket that I have ever experienced. In addition, I was freezing, to the point of shivering under the covers, and felt dizzy as hell. I got up to make myself some tea, and tried to shower in the attempt to warm myself up...but I knew it was a lost cause, because little by little, I could feel my innards fighting to escape via my esophagus.

*PUKE* oh look, there go the fritters.
*BARF* hmmm...that chicken curry tasted way better on the way down.
*WRETCH* what the hell did I have for lunch that was purple? oh yea. jamba juice.

I thought that this would be the end of it. Puking accomplished. But no. That was only the beginning.

What scared the bejesus out of me was that I was purely and utterly alone, and I felt like I was dying. Which escalated into "what if this is it. what if this is where i stroke out and the cat eats my face off? Who would know? Who would find me? Will Celeste come down in a couple days, looking for some peanut butter, and instead find my dead body, puke covering the floor, my brain exploded all over the bathroom wall?

Which I guess could explain why, after I finally fell asleep somewhere in the early morning, I woke up crying.

Perhaps it is time to get one of those medi-alert bracelets that my 92 yr old grandma used to wear. Am now taking applications for my emergency contact.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Happy Endings

Sunday morning. I’ve got a long day ahead of me. 2 hrs in a car with Beehive, his mom, AND his Grandma (who I finally met for the first time, and apparently thinks I am the greatest thing since sliced bread) and a day of schmoozing with various family members during 5 yr old Christopher’s birthday party. All seemed to be moving along smoothly, and then BAM, I go and get my period.

Not wanting to announce to my boyfriend that I am riding the crimson wave, but wanting to allude to the fact that I’m not exactly in top form, I discreetly say to him, “I’ve got cramps.” Shortly thereafter, I let on that I need to pop out for some Advil. I’m thinking I’m being pretty darn obvious, without actually shouting to the world “I JUST GOT MY FUCKING PERIOD.” I don’t know when I became such a delicate flower, since we all know I’m about as subtle as an alcoholic on truth serum…I guess I'll just chalk it up to PMS and move on…

Cut to 12 hours later, during a rather amorous moment. Making out like teenagers on the living room couch, my Beehive takes my hand and leads me back to the bedroom, where more sucking face ensues. It's pretty apparent that he is gonna go for it, and I’m pretty impressed that he is not letting Aunt Flo get in his way—and this makes for a VERY pleasant Sunday night indeed.

I feel a hand make its way into my pants. I feel a hand roaming around, then yank itself OUT of my pants, and I hear a yelp.

“What? What’s wrong?” I panicked.

“I didn’t know what I was touching. It didn't feel right," he had a confused, yet concerned look on his face.

“Whatsa matter? You never touched a tampon string before?” I laughed.

"I just wasn't expecting it, is all," he replied.

Nothing like ruining perfectly good sex with a secret tampon string.

But I'm happy to report that, the story had a happy ending after all.


Monday, January 22, 2007


A couple weeks ago, the boyfriend and I were trolling the internet for weird and random things. Somehow, I ended up signing up for one of those “adult finders” websites, in the quest for pictures of scary swingers looking for love.

I myself am not a scary swinger looking for love...but I guess out of sheer boredom I thought it would be a good idea to check out others who were in the market for a little menage a trois action and laugh at the freaky deaky photos that they post of themselves.

I gave a fake name and set up a fake profile—in fact, my profile doesn’t really have much on it, nor do I even have a picture…yet I get email notifications all the time telling me I have mail in my adultfinder inbox. Which says a lot about the people who are on this website to begin with--nice to know that they are so selective that they will email a nameless, faceless Brooklyn gal not knowing a thing about me--I could weigh 500 pounds and have a mule's face for a head, for all they know.

Just the other day I got a notification that I had received mail from "CocoFreak 27", who was nice enough to attach a photo of her large cleavage, clad in a leather bra.

But I digress.

Today my IT guy was sitting at my computer, fixing whatever was wrong with it, and my gmail was nice enough to send me an alert, that pops up right in the corner of my screen, showing me when I get new emails. “ADULTFINDERS—tittyfucker has sent you an email.” Yea. There was no hiding that.

Well. I guess there are worse things than your coworkers thinking that you’re a swinger…right? Maybe it'll earn me some clout in the office.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Dear Inconsiderate Assholes That Live Across the Way

For the love of all things holy, dear neighbors of mine, please get yourselves some blinds. Or a shade for your lamp. Or at the very least, stop shining your God forsaken lightbulb right into my freaking apartment.

I’m not sure why, exactly, you feel the need to blind me with your 500 megawatt bulb. Is it so that you can see into my apartment better? Dear Neighbors, I think we have already established that I am an exhibitionist, and I don’t care what you see.

If you do need to get a better look at my fabulous tits, ass, and get a closeup of the minutae of my boring everyday life, would it be too much to ask to turn the fucking light OFF when you go to bed at night?

Is it really necexsary to have it blaring at 3am when I can clearly see into your apartment and know that you are not even up anymore? Is it really necessary that I am going to have to start wearing sunglasses to bed in order to stave off your stupid incessant glaring lamp?

Perhaps when I post up a giant poster-sized note to you in the window tonight, you will get the hint.


A Sleep Deprived Cheese

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Funny Little People

Something that most people I know find really bizarre is that my boyfriend and my parents live three blocks away from each other, and, until yesterday, had never met. In fact, they have never been within 100 feet of each other, as far as I am aware.

This was due to a number of things, mainly, that, according to one of my friends, I am a "funny little person". In addition to this, my parents and I are not the closest of families, and we are not ones to just "get together" in a casual way. Thus making any meeting between them and the boyfriend the most awkward of situations, as any meeting between the two parties would most clearly be a big to-do, almost like a Beehive Coming Out party. And I really didn't want that kind of pressure.

In all the times that I have stayed at the boyfriend's place, I have never bumped into my parents. In the entire year and change that we have been dating, I have seen my parents once, from afar. And I hid, if I recall, behind a tree.

Now, I'm not a TOTAL psycho. They know I'm dating a boy named Beehive. They know he lives nearby, and that I spend a lot of time there.

Lately, they have been asking a LOT of questions. And these are not question-asking people.

OK. So I know the time is coming that I have to marry the two camps of Beehive and Mr and Mrs Cheese.

I've been racking my brain, trying to figure out how to go about it without making a big huge deal. Do I invite them all over to my house for wine and cheese? Do we all just meet for brunch in the neighborhood? Do I bring him to a family function to deflect all attention from him?

Yesterday, I was coming back to the Beehive Nest from the gym, and stopped at my usual Starbucks for a post-workout Mocha.

I heard someone call my name, looked up, and there before me was my dad. This, as I have mentioned, has never, ever happened. How is this possible? My luck had been so good up until now!

It turned out he was waiting for my mother to show up-oh joy!- and they were going to grab some lunch.

Both seemed to be in good spirits, excited to see me, going as far as seeing a friend of theirs on the street and pulling him into the Starbucks--my mother practically getting run down in the street while flagging the guy down--so he could see their daughter. Look, she exists! Look, she does tricks!

So I took the bull by the horns, and invited Beehive to meet us for lunch.

I know I know, what a cruel thing to do, catching him off guard like that. Fuck it. It was now or never! The parents were in rare form, and I was going to take advantage of it!

My freshly shaved, contact-lens wearing boyfriend showed up, and the questions began.

“So, how do you like the neighborhood?”

Translation: How many times have you banged my daughter today?

“Where do you work?”

Translation: Do you fuck her in the bedroom, or do you sometimes spice it up a bit?

“Have you ever eaten here before?”

Tramslation: “Are you planning on impregnating my daughter and giving us grandchildren anytime soon?”

Ok, I’m exaggerating just a tad.

The non-question asking people stayed true to form and didn't bombard him with annoying queries, instead they politely continued their conversation and snuck peeks at him when he thought they weren't looking. Probably trying to figure out if he was indeed as young as he looked, and had their daughter been trolling the local high schools again?

I will say that my father was as giddy as a schoolgirl during cheerleading tryouts...and was quite friendly and open. The only time I ever see him behave in this fashion is when he is around extremely cute people.

So I guess my father thinks my boyfriend is a hottie. Go me!

Friday, January 12, 2007

A Visit To My Therapist

This morning, while sitting in the rapist's office, I regaled her with tales of my youth. Somehow we got onto the subject of losing my virginity.

"I wasn't having sex in high school," I insisted.

"But you were doing SOMETHING with your high school boyfriend?" she prodded. "Making out at least?"

"Oh sure," I thought back to innocent me, 20 years ago. "I mean, by the end of senior year I was definitely touching his weiner."

The rapist doubled over in such a way I thought I was going to have to perform CPR on her. I realized, after a moment, that the woman was laughing uncontrollably.

"Weiner? Is that what you call it?"

I nodded.

"I guess you have bigger problems than referring to male genitals as weiners." She surmised.

Worth every penny of the $150 an hour I pay her, I tell ya.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Godamn, I Miss Drinking!

Every year, as I've mentioned in one of my 500 blogs, I partake in what is known as "detox January." This has been going on for quite some time now, and I'm not even really sure what this has done for me in days of yore, since come February I go right back into that swinging, alcoholic lifestyle everyone loves me for.

I guess it's more of a mindfuck thing...if I don't drink, then everything else in my life will become healthy by association.

I will say, it's been 11 days and I am quite enjoying the mornings of waking up without a hangover, and not smelling like American Spirits Lights mixed with bar sweat. I have more energy, and, since I am not smoking, I can breathe again.

However, I picked up my latest copy of Time Out NY--that rag of all things hip and trendy--(insert facetious tone here) and I was salivating at the description of all of the new bars and drinking holes that were listed.

I started getting that anxious feeling, you know the when you step into semi-annual shoe sale at Bergdorf and you want to buy everything? And your heart starts beating madly and you sweat a little? Yea, that was me on the northbound B train while going over the Manhattan Bridge this morning. I read about a new wine bar on Atlantic Avenue, and another place in Dumbo, and places with fireplaces and places that serve drinks with paper umbrellas and places with longass happy hours and places that would be perfect to molest my boyfriend in...

Fucking detox January. Who are we fooling, really? I mean, the minute the clock strikes midnight on February 1st, I'm going to bathe myself in 10 gallons of Bluberri Stoli and rub lemon twists all over my naked ass self.

Or maybe, just maybe, I can learn to sit in a bar and sip seltzer. That would be something new and different, eh?

Monday, January 08, 2007

I'm not pregnant, either.

For quite some time now, I've had various issues with my "down there".

Some of the issues have since been resolved, but there were a few that were lingering, that I was afraid to, I know. I mean, why stop the possible cancer that could be growing in the depths of my loins, when instead I could just drop dead from it one day without ever knowing I had it?

I never said I was a RATIONAL woman.

I finally grew some balls and got myself to 83rd Street Radiology to get a sonogram. I figured it was pretty harmless--how hard could it be? I get undressed, they rub a thingie over my stomach, look at some pictures, and they give me a week to live it up before they deliver the a) bad news: I'm completely barren; and b) good news: it doesn't matter, because I've only got 4 weeks to live!

Piece of cake!

A lesbianic looking woman named Jean took me up to the radiology area, and showed me the dressing room. Waiting for me was a paper gown, and some blue shower caps. "What do I do with the shower caps?" I asked, novice that I am.

"Oh, those are for your feet. Keep your socks on."

Sexy, eh?

So I made my way to the radiology room in my paper gown and my sexy new slippers, and Jean informed me that not only was I getting a pelvic sonogram, but they were gonna do a vaginal one as well, to "get a better look."

Huh? I never signed up for that! What did they need a better look for? Couldn't they just tell me I was dying from a good look at the pelvic?

Jean pulled out the hoochie-reading apparatus, and I relaxed a looked like a slightly larger vibrator. I can handle this. Until it actually goes in...and I realize that I am being totally felt up and fondled by a lesbianic woman named Jean. Was she SUPPOSED to be moving it around like that? And, wait, why is she rubbing my clit with the damn giant vibrator? Is this really supposed to take this long? Methinks Jean was getting WAY to into it.

Just when I am about to tell her that she could have at least bought me dinner first...she announces that it's time to call the doctor in so he can take a look as well, and give me my prognosis.

So, I don't even get a week to live it up. I'm going to find out, right here, right now, that I'm dying. And I'm not even wearing fucking underwear.

This is when I started to get really nervous.

Dr. Mr Man walked in and smiled warmly at me, as I lay there, feet in stirrups, cooch exposed to the world. Jesus Christ why didn't I use VEET this morning?

The bigger than normal vibrator remained in my hoo ha, and he jiggled it around and around as he examined the monitor. In, out, around, no one was talking. I wanted to scream at the both of them, "Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?" I bit my tongue to keep quiet...and just when I decided I didn't want to keep quiet anymore, Dr. Mr Man smiled again and said, "You look Mahvelous."

I do?

I'm not dying?

"You're perfect. There's nothing wrong with you."


Tears came to my eyes and, oblvious to my naked nether regions, I sat up and shook his hand. "Thank you, Dr Mr Man!"

"My pleasure," he replied.

Yea, I'll BET!

PS Dear Beehive, I apologize for having yet ANOTHER almost girl-on-girl moment without you.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Congratulations are in Order

This weekend will mark the one year anniversary of when the boyfriend and I met at "Maxfish", fucked each others' brains out most of the night, and proceeded to keep fucking each others' brains out until he had the nerve to say the L-word 5 months later, and we finally started referring to each other as b-friend and g-friend.

Can't wait to tell THAT story to my grandchildren one day.

Happy Anniversary of the first time we had sex, baby!


Thursday, January 04, 2007

I'm Ready For My Close Up Now

So, for the first time probably ever in my adult life, I followed through on something I vowed I was going to do.   I don't know why such things are so difficult for me…I get these ideas that seem BRILLIANT at the time, and then I let them fall by the wayside.

Thankfully, this particular idea involved a second party, who was really game to assist me make it come true, and she sort of cornered me into it one day.

"So," she said in her voicemail.  "Let's take nudie pictures of you. Tomorrow."

I consented, knowing that if I said tomorrow wasn't good, I just wasn't ever going to do it.  And she was willing and able. And I didn't have any plans tomorrow other than watching DVR and picking lint out of my ass.  So what the fuck.

The day of, I was nauseous as all get out.  I looked in the mirror and saw a circus freak looking back at me.   I felt like I must have gained fifty pounds since the day before.  How in hell was I going to let someone shoot me naked? Was I nuts? The answer is most definitely yes, I am nuts, but there are so many other reasons for my being nuts besides posing in the nude! :)

Livvy showed up with her photo gear, and we turned my apartment into a makeshift studio.  I had gone out and purchased some taffeta curtains to throw over my couch to give it some drama (more on those later) and we moved the couch up against my exposed brick for the perfect groovy backdrop.

We started out with me in my underwear.  It was weird, at first, and I could feel my face clench up with each click of the shutter.   "not so scared!" she would yell at me, and I would stretch my face like silly putty, willing it to be more happy. 

"So. You gonna take off your top?" she hinted.

My top?  My top was a Victoria Secret push up bra that was the only protection between my boobies and the open air.   The only protection from my boobies possibly being circulated around the internet by perverts who might hack into Livvy's computer and find pictures of said boobies.

"Uh. Ok." I stammered.  Bra came off.

And then we made out.

Ok, ok, we didn't make out, but for a second there I thought how interesting it would be if we did, and what a great story it would make.   But in the meantime, this is all I've got.

I became slightly less self-conscious with each take, until I felt like an old pro. The bottoms came off, and I just pretended like it was just a regular old day, and regular old me was just sitting around my regular old apartment, doing regular old things, and not lying slightly spread eagle on my couch, with just a tuft of bush covering up my female bits.

Except for when my Livvy would yell out, "Nice boobies! Nice ASS"

And then I would snap back to reality…

I was almost sad when I was told "I think we've got enough".  I was beginning to enjoy the freedom I was expriencing, flashing tit and ass at all sorts of angles, feeling like I didn't have a care in the world, and that I was a goddess, and my body was to be worshipped by all.

The next day, I folded up the taffeta curtains, remembering the good times that were had on them...and then returned them to the store I bought them from.
Yea...those curtains that I was rolling around on, naked, were taken back to the store, and most likely put back on the shelf. Sorry!

So, the moral of the story is, don't buy curtains from a certain discount store on Atlantic and Flatbush. Oh yea, and definitely go out and be naked. It rocks.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Too Close For Comfort? Never! Just Roll With It.

One of my bestest friends in the whole world lives upstairs from me, which is absolutely positively my favorite thing about where I live, hands down.

We share food, clothes (well, the ones that we can...she's 5'11 and a size 4...I'm 5'3 and, well,not a size 4)booze, computers, you name it. On any given day, I will get a text from her asking if I have yet again "stolen" her laundry room keys, because I can never seem to find mine. Sometimes I go into my cupboard, knowing that I have just bought a jar of peanut butter...not seeing said jar, and unable to figure out what the hell I did with it. Was I drunk and ate the whole thing? Did I dream that I bought a jar? Uh, no. Lesty snuck in one night and took the jar, along with your only roll of toilet paper. Good times!

We joke that I am the Resident Advisor of our dorm, since I am older, and try to be the responsible one.

Lesty was hosting a New Years Day brunch, and needed somewhere to house two giant gallons of Edys ice cream. Her freezer wasn't working, so we put the ice cream in mine earlier in the day.

The brunch started at 3, which in my mind means, show up at 4. Never mind that I live downstairs and don't even have to put on shoes to get to her place. I am a big fan of the late entrance, shared living space or no.

In addition, I became a bit distracted, truth be told, while showering with the boyfriend. Funny how that happens.

Somehow, before I knew it, I was kneeling over the Beehive, my face firmly planted in that perfect bubblebutt you all know I can't resist...and then the doorbell rings.

The ice cream! Fuck!

I know I have to answer it, the poor girl is trying to hold a brunch for God's sake, and I'm ruining it with my unstoppable sex drive. I removed my face from Beehive's ass, threw a towel around me, and ripped open the door.

"Oh're having sex" she stammered. "Oh God Oh God"

"No worries" I said. "Just take what you need and I'll see you later. Oh yea, and if you need to come back down, gimme about half an hour" I winked.

I thought she was going to puke as she exited the was almost akin to walking in on your PARENTS. Poor thing.

After falling asleep, waking up and realizing it was well past four, we threw on our clothes and hightailed it to the brunch.

"We were wondering where you were!" people greeted me, with knowing looks.

"We fell asleep" I explained.

"I'll BET you did!" one drunk fuck replied.

Hey! At least the Resident Advisor is getting laid!

Parents are so *cute*

My parents live in a large co-op complex in Brooklyn, and have had not much luck with the neighbors upstairs.

Unfortunately, the apartments are not very soundproofed, and even with carpeting on the floor, they can hear all of the comings and goings of the family above them.
The husband, a doctor, is a resident at a hospital in Virginia, and only comes home on weekends, apparently.

Christmas Day, I was asking about the neighbors.

"Oh, he comes home every Friday night from his residency" my father says.

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"Because every Friday, we hear them making love until the wee hours of the morning!" my father states proudly. "They have a very squeaky bed!"

I'm still processing the fact that my father says things like "Make Love", when my mother decides to put her two cents in.

"The guy next door, he used to have this girlfriend, and we would hear them going at it all the time," she giggles.

I don't want to ask, but I have to. I just have to. "And you know this because...?"

"Well," she said while doling out whipped cream for our tiramisu, "his girlfriend used to scream SO LOUD, it would keep us up at night. I thought that only happened in the MOVIES."

Yea Ma. Only in the movies. *wink*

I wonder if they think I'm still a virgin?

Monday, January 01, 2007

We'd Better Get a Drink in You

New Years1998.My boyfriend at the time (let's call him John) was REALLY into Bed and Breakfasts. I myself never got into the concept of such things, as I prefer my privacy, and am not all that big on eating breakfast at a big table with strangers. But for the sake of love, I gave in, and we spent the weekend at an inn in the Berkshires. It was large enough that I felt I could be anonymous, but it had that small Inn feeling that made the boyfriend happy. One big New Years compromise for all.

Sadly for me, the Innkeeper, a bearded fellow named Steve, was all about the "small town" feeling of a Bed and Breakfast. He greeted us upon arrival, and made sure that we knew where to find him at all times.

Thanks, Steve.

We were in the honeymoon phase of our relationship, this particular boyfriend and I, and we spent a lot of time, er, in the boudoir. We only came up for air for food, and maybe a good bottle of wine here and there.

In the bedroom, there was a working fireplace, and we were hellbent on getting the fire going, so to speak, and spending New Years Eve alone, in bed and thereabouts.

I found myself on the floor in front of the fire, my boyfriend's head between my legs, when there was a knock on the door.

"John! John! Would you like some champagne?"

Bearded Steve was on the other side of the door, apparently with some bubbly for my lover and I, because you know, we were just sitting there, WAITING for him to arrive.

"John" looked up from my crotch, and said calmly "No thanks, Steve. I think we're good."

"Ok then. Happy New Year." Steve yelled jovially from the hallway.

And that was the end of the obsession with Bed and Breakfasts.

Happy 2007 Y'all!