Friday, March 30, 2007

The Liberation of the Cheese

Up until my late twenties, I lived a pretty sheltered life. I was perfectly content to do things as I always did, very vanilla and bland. Doggy style was “kinky”, and going to a strip club was just over the top for my puritanical mind.

As I entered my thirties, I experienced a sort of sexual awakening. I realized I’d been missing out on all sorts of shit, and damn if I was going to waste any more time. I wanted to do crazy naked stuff, and lots of it.

The first time I entered a strip club was probably when I was about 30 or so. It was my idea—I thought it would be really hot to be sitting there with my date, watching tit and ass flash by, close enough to touch. I imagined that it would the ultimate foreplay to foreplay, and was extremely turned on by the idea.

In reality, I admittedly freaked out when I was actually seated amidst all those breasts.
For some insane reason, I felt really violated by the mountains of boob that surrounded me. Instead of being turned on, it made me a little sick to my stomach, and if I remember correctly, I ran out of the joint in tears.

So much for the big turn-on.

Luckily, with years of practice, I have hardened myself to the idea of naked women in my face, and have enjoyed many a lap dance and burlesque show with fervor.

In fact, during one drunken trip to the Pussycat Lounge after someone’s birthday party, it was interesting to watch one of my friends have the same reaction that I had once had, a mix of horror and embarrassment, as another friend shoved some dollar bills into the thong of a dancer who had seen better days.

One night several years ago, I was on a first date. Seated at a bar in Chelsea, he mentioned that he noticed that there was a Scores around the corner from the the bar.
Although he was just making small talk, I made a mental note of this, and after my fifth or so vodka tonic, I slurred, “Letsh go see some boobies.”

He looked at me, not sure if I was kidding or not. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Fuck yea. Bring on the tit” I bellowed.

We grabbed our shit and hightailed it around the corner, standing on line in the freezing cold to be admitted into the highclass joint known as Scores West.

We walked into this mini-mall of a strip club, and looked around. It definitely did not have the cozy trappings of the Pussycat Lounge, and you definitely got the feeling that you were at a chain…sort of like the Applebees of the exotic dancing industry.

After paying about $20 for a cocktail, we settled in next to the stage and waited for the magic to happen.

Bored women with vapid expressions shimmied and shook on stage, tits barely moving due to all the silicone weighing them down. I tried to get into it. I looked at my date. He seemed amused, but not all that titillated.

“you need a lap dance,” I decided. I called a woman with dead eyes over to our table and handed her $30. “Go to town” I smiled.

I think that if I had been slapping my date around with a dead, rotting salmon, it would have been hotter than this woman. My 93 yr old grandmother could have done a better job.

After 5 minutes or so of this painful display, she was dismissed. I am pretty sure that my date never even popped wood. At least, not from her ;)

We got a good laugh out of it, and he eventually got a lap dance of sorts, so the night wasn’t a total waste.

I’ve decided that from here on in, I am going to be more selective with my booby watching. It is limited to locker room stalking, and divey burlesque venues. No more corporate boob for me!

I'm just not that kind of girl.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

Putting My Gym Membership to Very Good Use Indeed

In January, I quit smoking and started a pretty intense exercise routine to prepare for my NYC tri.

In addition to all the swimming, biking and running that I am doing, I take a weekly yoga class. I really enjoy yoga. Besides the fact that it quiets my mind, it makes me more flexible and I feel so much stronger after an hour of downward dogs and warrior poses. The best benefit of all this working out, especially the yoga, is that it makes sex WAY more interesting…being more flexible and all ;)

Today, she had us roll into a shoulder stand. I hadn’t done a shoulder stand in years, and was pretty impressed at how long I could stay in the pose, which isn’t the easiest to do.

As I was in my shoulder stand, I started to think about the other ways I could integrate the shoulder stand into my everyday life. One in particular stood out, and let me just say I am really excited to try it out later on tonight.

Namaste, and YEEHAW.

Being a Swinger Just Isn't Enough For Me

Standing over a co-workers desk after a long, loopy day at work. We’re looking at website after website, trying to find the perfect photographer to shoot the perfect portrait on a perfect California soundstage.

An image of rows and rows of garden gnomes popped up. I squealed.

“You like garden gnomes, I see,” my co-worker smirked.

“I’m a little obsessed with them right now,” I agreed.

“They’re kinda creepy,” he glanced sideways at me.

“No…they’re great. My boyfriend thinks they’re creepy too, but I keep trying to change his mind.”

“That sounds kind of kinky,” he laughed.

“Yea, I’ve been told that under no uncertain terms will I be bringing a garden gnome into bed with us.” I quipped, without thinking.

“I see,” my coworker looked afraid.

“I MEANT, he has a garden, and I think a gnome would look good in it,” I stammered.

He just raised his eyebrows and changed the subject.

Too late. My co-worker now thinks I have some weird garden gnome sex fetish. Awesome.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

I Still Need an In Case of Emergency Contact, Dammit!!!

I’ve been sitting at my computer all day, sadly.

I have just become aware of the fact that I am hunched over like an old lady with scoliosis, and my eyes are bleary and tight.

I banged my elbow on my desk, and got that weird funnybone, tingly thing. Except, it went all the way to the tips of my fingers, and I felt like I was becoming paralyzed.

Now. I would imagine that a few things could be happening.

1) I’m having a stroke
2) I hit a weird nerve in my elbow

I’m hoping it’s the latter, but if you don’t hear from me for a while, be worried.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

I Appreciate the Finer Things

After a 3 mile run at the gym during lunch, I headed back to the locker room for a much needed shower.

While undressing my sweaty self, I surveyed the room. Women of all shapes and sizes were strewn around the lockers, in various stages of undress. No one of note.

And then my eyes settled on a woman sitting on the bench next to me. This girl had a really pretty body, and I was definitely impressed.
My eyes lingered a little too long, when I realized that she noticed my gaze, locked eyes with me, and smiled.

Caught yet again!

Of course I was horrified and looked away, quickly. But I snuck a few peeks here and there when she wasn’t paying attention.

I have started to become mesmerized by good boobs in my old age. I’m like a 12 yr old boy…or any male, for that matter. I really appreciate a good rack, and am open to admiring them. Maybe it’s because I sprouted a set of my own, FINALLY, a nice, perky pair, by the time I’d turned 30.

And then I see women in the locker room, and I’m always amazed at how far low so many of the tits I see hang down. I totally forget that most women get a lot of lift from their bras, and that in actual fact, their boobs hang down to their waists.

So when I see a good set, I’m fixated.

But don’t get me wrong. Cock is still my dessert of choice. Boobs are just a side interest. ;)

I'm Ok, You're Ok.

I used to be one of those annoying, body dysmorphic, eating-disordered girls. You know the ones I speak of. The girls who are way too skinny, who go from starving themselves one day to bingeing on an entire Entenmann’s cake the next. I was obsessed with the way I looked, and would say things to people such as “I’m soooooo fat” knowing full well that I was nowhere near fat, and just needing to hear all of my enablers tell me so.

Today, I am far from too skinny. I am quite zaftig, actually, but proud of my curves. Through years of intense therapy, I have, for the most part, ridden myself of the body issues that have plagued me for years.

And then, I come across one of “those” girls. And I want to punch someone in the face.

I have a friend who is very, very tall. And very, very skinny. She is someone who can eat pretty much whatever she wants, and is naturally athletic and fit. It’s not a secret. We can see, with our own eyes, how good she looks. People tell her all the time how they wish they looked like her. Yet, somehow, this is not good enough.

I will see her after a weekend, in her skinny jeans, and hear about how she engorged herself for the last three days. Too much beer, too many chicken wings. How FAT she must be from such a bacchanal. She points out her non-existent muffin top. “Oh ____, you look great,” we say, in unison, on cue.

One time, during a shopping spree (stupid, stupid me, allowing myself to accompany her. I should have known better. Cheese gets a spanking for that.) she kept picking things out for me that she thought would look good. I know she meant well, but it was horrifying for me to have to admit that the sizes she was picking up, as well as the styles she was throwing my way, were never going to fit me. Maybe I’M the one that’s body dysmorphic, but I just couldn’t help feeling that she was trying to make herself feel better by hearing me admit the bigger size that I actually wear. Hi, paranoid much? ;)

The last conversation we had, she regaled me with tales of a wedding that she attended over the weekend. She spent all of her time stuffing her face, it seems (the usual). But this time, it was ok. Because at the wedding, someone told her that she looked like she could use a cheeseburger. What fun! Someone thought she was so skinny, that she needed to eat! Isn’t that hysterical? So, in response to this, my friend went out and gorged herself all weekend, since some stranger at a wedding told her that she could!

I know, I know, I’m a jealous, issued bitch. At least I own it.

Monday, March 26, 2007

I'm Moving to the Country, Gonna Eat A Lot of Peaches

I’m one of those annoying people who gets all panicky when someone mentions leaving NYC to live somewhere else.

My boyfriend, from time to time, will just throw out names of small towns and suburbs as possible places to reside. Sometimes I think he does it just to see the look of sheer horror on my face.

“Poughkeepsie” he said the other day.

“BLAAAEAGHHHH” was what came out of my mouth.

I did try to relocate once, going as far as interviewing for some jobs on the West Coast. I was pretty sure I was leaving. Yet somehow, here I am. Still here.

I will admit, every once in a while, I am struck by how much I am starting to dislike it here. While I am waiting on a long-ass line to run on a treadmill like a freaking hamster, I realize how insane it is to go the gym to get a workout, only to have to stand around for half an hour staring at OTHER people working out. Or when I am riding in on the train from Brooklyn, and it still takes me over an hour to get to work because the subway system is ALWAYS a mess, it seems.

I feel that, come weekends, I rarely if ever even leave the fair borough of Brooklyn. I’m too afraid to venture out into the wilds of Manhattan anymore. Who can take advantage of all it has to offer, when everything is too crowded and too expensive? In addition, anything that is authentic and cool eventually gets replaced by a mini-mall or a hi-rise apartment building…and that depresses me.

The other night, Beehive and I made a very rare appearance in the East Village Sat. night, to go to a movie. Miraculously, we were able to get tickets and seats without arriving 3 hrs ahead of time (they weren’t available online) which to me was a good sign.

The movie let out around 9:00 and I was excited to grab a bite and a dirty martini somewhere before heading back to Prospect Heights.

Our first stop was to Cedar Tavern, a place that I have been frequenting forever, and had been around for 100+ years. I loved that fucking place and, sadly, hadn’t been in a while. Imagine my horror and disgust when we walked up to a boarded up Cedar Tavern…apparently it is now closed and in its place will be…you guessed it…condos.

Ok. So I’m pretty distressed about this, but determined to get that dirty martini and a burger anyway, and definitely need it more than ever. So we walk. And walk. And walk. Everywhere that we could think of to go was packed to the gills. Places that I never would have even looked at, much less dined at, were crowded to the rafters.

Beehive, always the calm and gentle one, kept a smile on his face while starving on the inside. Me, I was a bitch on wheels, cursing every single restaurant like they were purposely keeping me from nourishing my poor, weak self (ok, stop snickering. I hadn’t eaten all day, had worked out for two hours and was PMS, dude!)

We found ourselves in the West Village, having peeked into places off of 7th Avenue South that we would have never DARED enter under normal circumstances (all, what do you think…PACKED) and I suggested we just hop on the train and get off in Brooklyn Heights. I figured, it’s now 10pm. Brooklyn Heights—how happening can it be?

Little did I know. Brooklyn Heights was TRES happening at 10pm on a Saturday night.

Every single place that I had in mind was inconceivably stuffed with people, stuffing their faces tauntingly as I peeked into windows of joints I hadn’t been to in years.

Holy mother of fuck, when did this happen? When did it become absolutely impossible to get a fucking bite to eat after a movie?

Right when I was about to give up and suggested eating PB&J and drinking boxed wine, I thought of ONE last place to go. My one last beacon of hope in a sea of disappointment and famine. The Heights Café on Montague and Hicks. Another mainstay of mine for years when I lived in the ‘hood—good service, good food, and cheap wine. We sat. We stuffed our faces. I owe you one, Heights Café.

New York City, on the other hand, I have nothing to say to you. You have disappointed me yet again, yet sadly I have come to expect this from you.

Poughkeepsie has a nice ring to it, doncha think?

Friday, March 23, 2007

Nothing is Better Than a Hot Rocker Boy

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a lover of all things music. Ok, I take that back. I was a lover of all things HOT male musicians with floppy hair. Always.

At the age of six, I wanted to pounce on Donny Osmond. Davy Jones from The Monkees was my imaginary friend. Shaun Cassidy and David Cassidy, I wanted to have a threesome with, before I knew that sex was fun. I read Teenbeat and Tigerbeat with fervor every week, and cut out pics of all my faves and hid them under my pillow, kissing them goodnight before I fell asleep.

(God I am old. Do half of you people even know who Davy Jones IS? Hahaha).

As an adult, I am still very much a worshiper of men with guitars. Or behind drums. Or just wearing very tight, bulgy pants, whipping a microphone around, hair flopping to and fro.

I would make a terrible groupie though.

When I was young and naïve (read, up until around the time I turned 30), I used to think that if you just showed up at a gig, stood in the front and smiled a lot at the lead singer and looked cute, you’d get “hand-picked” to be pulled backstage and away from mediocrity forever.

Now, I know that this can and does happen to a very select few girls (and it’s usually by the roadies or band manager), I would certainly never have been one of them. I mean, I’m cute and all, and my rack is pretty spectacular, but I do not have that je ne sais quois (read sluttiness) that would get me noticed by anyone of worth. Let’s put it this way, Taylor from the Foo Fighters ain’t jumping over his drumset into the crowd to make me his love slave.

I went through a phase where I was REALLY into seeing live shows, one band in particular. I’m not going to bother mentioning which band , not to protect the innocent, but more because, they’re sort of a hacky band, and a lot of people think they broke up like, back in the mid-90’s…so I need to protect my cool factor…at any rate, I saw these people perform probably 25 times in my life, sometimes 3 nights in one week. I knew people who “knew” them, who would hang with them backstage, some who even fucked them. I CRINGED at the thought of getting to be backstage with these people. The mere thought of having an actual conversation with them put me into a complete state of panic.

What a loser!

One night, at a club in San Diego, some friends and I were contemplating what to do after the show…somehow, a friend of one of our friends managed to get a backstage pass (I have no idea how as she CERTAINLY did not have that aforementioned je ne sais quois. I mean, not even one hint of cleavage. Jeez!) so she took full advantage of it…the rest of us losers came up with a plan.

“Let’s crawl underneath that there fence and sneak into the backstage area,” someone suggested.

So that is how I found myself on the floor, in my mini skirt, tank top, and high heeled sandals, slithering underneath a chain link fence, to meet the man of my dreams (lead singer of hacky band that I wanted so badly to fuck). This was my chance. It was now or never!

Drunk and laughing hysterically, we all made it safely to the other side, wiped off the dirt and muck we accumulated in our travels, and giggled our way to the back of the club, where we found various band members and their friends partying.

So what does any self-respecting groupie wannabe do when faced with a situation like this?

She hides in the bathroom of course!

In addition to this, we also found that friend of our friend—Backstage Pass Girl—nearly passed out, by herself, on the floor. With people sort of walking over and around her.

So much for partying with the band.

Long story short, we ended up having to inconspicuously get this girl back to our hotel (not so easy when she’d pissed and shit her pants and was vomiting uncontrollably)
And guess what. I never got to fuck the lead singer of the hacky ‘90’s band.

Yea. Groupiedom is not for me.

Recently, I got an email from a friend—someone who has absolutely nothing to do with this band or this era of my life—and she happened to mention that a friend of hers is “dating” the drummer of the hacky ‘90’s band.

Once upon a time, I would have been jealous as all hell. And berated myself for not being more aggressive in my groupieness.

Now, I just wish her luck. I hope she likes butt sex.

Why I'm Not Trendy

Europe has always been the fashion epicenter of the universe as far as I know. All of my garmento friends are always traveling to Milan, or Paris, for the next hot trend in all things related to clothes, shoes, and accessories.

This morning on my way to work, I spotted two European tourists walking down Madison Avenue in tank tops underneath overalls. Both of them were attired in this ensemble.

Are overalls the new hot thing?

Or were these girls mildly retarded?

I am PRAYING for the latter.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

In Stink.

Last night, I cuddled up with my boy on the couch-the very same couch where we ravaged each other about an hour before--and watched a post-coital viewing of Parenthood, the movie.

Martha Plimpton's character was whining to her mother that she LURVED her boyfriend, Todd (Keanu Reeves). Not the "going steady" kind of love, but real, true love, where he made her quiver.

Thinking back to the hot banging that took place earlier, I looked over at Beehive and gave him a big gushy smile.

A big gushy smile was returned right back to me.

"Aw..." I thought to myself, "We're so in sync. Look at how he totally loves me."

"Heh," he looked at me sheepishly. "I have the worst gas right now. Sorry."

In sync, we are not. Old married couple, perhaps.


Tuesday, March 20, 2007

A Mother's Guilt

As most of you know, Igby the Wonder Cat is my pride and joy. As well as being the biggest pain in the ass that ever lived. He's needy. He's codependent. He demands attention 24-7 and he has this annoying desire to lick your entire epidermis off when you aren't looking.

He is awfully cute, though.

At any rate, the little beast is a picky eater, and generally only eats Fancy Feast. The new, fancy kind. That cost a dollar a can and smell like someone vomited crabmeat into a tuna's mouth. I have to feed it to him, or I risk having cat tongue attached to my cheek all night. So stinky Fancy Feast he gets.

The other day, I got the brilliant idea to change things up a bit. I bought some Nutro Classic Gourmet in the pouch. Fishy and in gravy, just like he likes it.

I fed this to him Friday morning, and then skibbled off to work, and then later, to Beehive's house.

After getting Beehive off to bed, I watched the 11 o'clock news and saw the recall. Which included Nutro products. Ack! Leave it to me to switch up my cat's food right when a massive nationwide recall occurs. Only the Cheese...

So the next day, I get home, scared to find my cat on death's door, or worse, already dead, stiff as a board lying in front of his food bowl, eyes open and staring at me with a look that says "Look what you did to me, you evil fuck,"

Thankfully, this was not the case, and Igby the wonder cat was fine.

Mainly due to the fact that of couse, he hated the fucking food, and ate three bites before calling it quits.

Of couse, the guilt has overtaken me, and I am now spoiling the little shit rotten. because "mommy almost killed him"

The other night. Lesty was over to watch The Hills. Igby was perched on top of the couch, humping his favorite fleece blanket.

"What the hell is he doing?" Lesty screamed. He's grinding against the blanket right behind my head! Make it stop!"

But of course, I can't, because Mommy almost killed him.

It's 3am and you're hungry? Mommy will feed you. You want to lick my face until you fall asleep? Go to town. You want to hump my butterscotch bear because you're too lazy to go into the other room and hump the blankie? Go for it.

He is awfully cute though!

Apparently, the Summers Eve Isn't Working

After a huge binge purchase of bulk Easter candy at Eckards in Union Square--Robins Eggs, peppermint patties, and Cadbury Creme Eggs, if you MUST know--I bolted for the 4 train so I could get to my swim class in park slope. As always, Union Square was bustling with activity and people yelling, which I always seem to avoid without incident.

Not tonight, apparently.

A guy standing outside the subway stop was yelling out "Do you like rap? Do you like reggae?"

My answer to that would be no, and no. But I don't talk to strangers. And I was in a hurry.

Instead of targeting the next innocent bystander, he decided to go all apeshit on my ass.

"Racism will come back and get you" he pointed a finger at me {he was a black man}

{I guess ignoring strange men on the street who are yelling in my face means that I hate people of color?}

"Your life must be hell," he continued.

{Yes, I'm a miserable bitch. Thanks for noticing.}

"Your pussy must smell like..."

Whoa whoa whoa now. Why you gotta bring up the pussy? I mean, seriously dude, what did my pussy ever do to you?

I'm not really sure what he was going to say it smelled like, as I was halfway down the stairs at that point. And honestly, he was probably right. It had been a long day. I'd been to the gym. I needed a fucking shower. My vaginal area wasn't at its finest, I imagine.

Kudos to the misogynist for being so observant.

I guess I'll take my racist, rancid cunt to bed now.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Random Friday Regurgitations

It’s Friday, and I’m feeling like someone put a hammer to my head.
I guess that’s what happens when you have three martinis for dinner, and then ¾ of a pint of Ben and Jerrys for your second dinner (don’t you love the way I didn’t eat the ENTIRE container? I figured I was being “good” by leaving some behind. What a conscientious dieter I am!)

They’re serving “St Paddys Day” breakfast in the open space this morning. I can’t decide if I want to venture in there or not. My stomach is saying “no,mother fucker, don’t you put another thing inside me.” But my intellect is telling me that I should eat something to rid myself of this hangover-ish thing I’ve got going on.

In addition to being hungover, I’m horny as hell. I would very much like to have some long, dirty, loud, raucous sex. Oh yes, I would.

Funnily enough, I look kind of cute today. I even straightened my hair and wore makeup. I don’t know what the occasion is, but I caught a married fucker checking me out on the subway. So I guess the effort wasn’t totally for naught. Ha.

What’s everyone doing this weekend? Are you going to venture into the wild for St Patrick’s Day? Or, like me, will you be hiding out, waiting for the throngs of bridge and tunnels to leave their trail of puke through the streets of the East Village and then get the hell out to go back to the burbs? ;)

Off to find me some aspirin.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Never Underestimate the Power of the Cheese

How is it that one minute, I am in the bathroom, flossing and brushing my teeth, with a towel wrapped around my head.

And then the next minute, my jeans are down around my ankles, and I'm sitting on the sink getting banged out of my mind?

Yea. I'm awesome.

Hell Froze Over

I know this is supposed to be a very male trait, and I am the furthest thing from male that there is, but I really, truly hate asking for help.

I would rather wander around aimlessly for hours, getting more and more lost with every step, then ask someone for directions.

I remember being in nursery school and pissing my pants in the playground rather than ask the teacher if I could go inside and use the bathroom.

This morning, I got to midtown way earlier than anyone should ever find oneself in midtown, and decided to get my ass to Barnes and Noble to pick up a new book to read. I've been obsessing about "Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood" by Koren Zailcas for a few days now, ever since my friend reminded me of its existence.

I walked into the store, and of course, got sucked into the new book smell. I don't know if it's because my mother is a librarian, or if everyone loves that smell of printed word on paper, but to me, it's intoxicating. For a moment I forgot about Koren Zailcas and ran around, touching, stroking and fondling all of the new fiction.

I definitely lost sight for a moment, but then I snapped back to reality after finding myself absent-mindedly picking up a Nicholas Spark novel. I flung it back to the table and set out on my mission...Smashed. Must find Smashed. Must read book about girl who's life is a mess, so mine won't seem so much of one.

I started out in the paperbacks section, thinking it'd be out and about on display. I circled each table and shelf like a vulture, but no Smashed to be found.

Now, this is where I could so easily have gone to the Customer Service counter, a mere inches away from where I stood. But no. No fucking way. I mean, if I tell them the book I am looking for, won't they come to all sorts of conclusions about me as a person in the 5 seconds that I am standing before them? I can feel them asking themselves, "why is this chick wanting to read this book? is she also a drunken floozy? doesn't she have better things to do with her time? like read wh auden and memorize each word?" No. I would not be going to the Customer Service counter. Forget it.

I searched high and low for this damn book. I went directly to the Biography section. No such luck. I tried non-fiction. I tried essays. No, and no.

After 20 or so minutes, it became apparent that I was not going to find this book. And it was the only book I wanted. So guess what. I had to ask for help. Hell, indeed, froze over this morning.

Had I gotten over my fear of asking for help 20 minutes earlier, I would have found out that the book is out of stock, not only at the Barnes and Noble on 46th and 5th, but at all the Barnes and Nobles in Manhattan.

Funny what one can learn when one reaches out.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Hell is a broken computer

I'm wondering exactly what it is that I've done to piss off the laptop gods in the last couple of days. Is it my terrible taste in blog posts? Or maybe my lack of respect for unsecure websites? Or the fact that I DARED think about cancelling my myspace account?

At any rate, I'm having THE WORST luck with all of my computers, and I'm starting to get a complex.

The other night, I was kicking back with my ibook, surfing the web during The Hills and enjoying a glass of Argentinian red wine that Lesty brought me back from a trip.
The wine was quite tasty, and quite effective at mellowing me out from a crazy day at work.

Too effective. I seemed to have lost the feeling in my right hand as I went to pick up the glass, only to lose my grip and watch a very large amount of red wine swirl into the air and land squarely on top of my beautiful ibook that just celebrated its first birthday. :-(

Thankfully I acted fast, and turned my poor baby upside down immediately. How I wanted to weep at the sight of my prized laptop dripping red wine like blood. I thought about how corroded my hard drive was gonna be. I started to freak out about all the music I was gonna have to redownload. Pictures I was going to lose.

I'm happy to report that, 3 days later, the hard drive seems to be intact, but the keyboard is fucked. I can type, but my backspace doesn't work, and neither does shift. Some of the letters seem to be sticking as well. I typed an email this morning, it looked like it was typed in secret code.

In addition to my home computer trauma, I am currently working (ie; blogging) at my bosses desk while she is on a photo shoot in LA. Apparently, my office PC has picked up a nasty little virus that seems to be rivaling an outbreak of herpes and bird flu combined. IT services is perplexed. I am feeling lost. My first instinct is to go home, since I'm pretty much rendered useless without internet acccess during work hours.

Except,then I remember, my computer at home is a mess, too.

So, blessed computer gods, if you are listening to me at all, please, for the love of all things holy and good, and for the sake of my sanity, please let my computers be fixed so that I can go back to being the 24/7 internet slacker chick that I am known and loved for. Thanks.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Girls Are Silly, Take 2

A couple weeks ago, I was over at the Beehive's, and feeling the need for something along the lines of a baby wipe...don't ask, cuz I'm not telling. At any rate, these items are kept in the bottom right drawer in the bathroom. I've gone in this drawer a thousand times, and never noticed anything remiss.

This particular moment, while foraging around for a non-dried out baby wipe, I happened to notice a handful of OB tampons flung into the drawer. OB tampons that were absolutely not mine. I can't use those bastards. How does any woman use those fucking things? The applicator, in my humble opinion, is a MUST. I'm not against sticking my own finger up there, but for some reason I can never get the thing to stay put. I don't even know how OB stays in business, really. But that's beside the point. My main concern was...WHO's tampons are these?

I presumed they belonged to an ex. But which one? I tried to imagine. Was it her? Was SHE the type to use OB tampons? Or the other one? Or was it some random one-night stand skank that got her period mid-hook up and left her nasty tampons at the apartment? Either way, I was quite disturbed by the sudden presence of the little beasts and left the bathroom with a weird taste in my mouth.

But score for me, I never brought up the tampons.

Cut to 2 weeks later. I'm on the way to Bay Ridge, all the while during the drive there I'm talking to the 'Hive. I suddenly burst out, "You know those tampons in your bathroom. You should probably throw them out."

I heard confusion on the other end of the phone. And then, conveniently, the phone started to cut out. ""
I heard.

"You're breaking up. I'll be there in five minutes" I hung up the phone, feeling a bit weird. I didn't know if I wanted to know the story behind the tampons. And really, why did it matter?

I got to his place and greeted him with my usual hug and kiss. And said, "So, did you throw away the tampons?"

Laughter ensued, and then a smug look, and then an explanation.

"Those are MY tampons."

I scrunched up my nose in confusion. "Youre tampons? What do you mean, when you broke your nose and needed to stick tampons up your nose to stop the bleeding?"

Uh, yea.

Apparently, to put the icing on the cake, I was asked several months ago if I would like to keep said tampons around, and of course, knowing my disdain for OB, I refused. In my jealous little freak out, I managed to forget an entire tampon conversation that was had.

I've said it before, I'm saying it again. Girls are silly. Really silly.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Reason #459958848 Why I'm An Irrational Person

Last night I had a dream that I found quite disturbing.
I’m pretty sure that it stemmed from the fact that I have been under a lot of stress at work, and feeling rather inadequate.

Basically, in this dream, I arrived to my office to find that my sister had been hired…which seemed sort of cool until I realized that she had been hired to replace ME.

During my Friday morning rendezvous with the rapist, I mentioned the dream. Well ok, I flew into her office like a bat out of hell and barked, “I had this fucking dream last night.”

The Rapist: So tell me about this dream

Cheese: My sister was working at my office and little by little I started
to realize that she had been hired to replace me. The big boss man
in a suit told me off in front of everyone and I started screaming
and yelling in front of the whole office. And then I met up with a
friend of mine at a greenmarket and I picked up some pomegranates
and dropped them on the floor.

TR: What do pomegranates symbolize to you?

Cheese: Sex

TR: Why are you dropping your sex on the floor? What does this mean?

Cheese: It means I am a bad, bad girl, and I need a spanking. *wink*

TR: (unamused) Why was the big boss man in a suit yelling at you?

Cheese: I hate men in suits.

TR: Why? You know all the men in suits to hate them?

Cheese: Yes. No. I don’t know. I just hate them. They’re mean, and shady, and fake.

TR: Why do you think this? What made you think this?

Cheese: It’s just what I think. And that’s that.

Cut. End. Scene.