Monday, April 30, 2007

poser with a hose

So, a couple weeks ago I took my bike out for a long ride in prospect park, and I realized that my front tire needed air.

I've only refilled my bike tires a few times in my life--the bike is only a few years old, and prior to this year, I wasn't riding it much...anytime I needed air I would take it to the store on Atlantic Avenue where I bought it, and bat my eyelashes in the hopes that the salespeople would take pity on a damsel in distress such as myself. Unfortunately, I'm not really all that irrisistable, and my appearance would never fail to annoy the poor guy who inevitably would have to fill my tires with air.

Thinking of the look on his face the last time I showed up on their doorstep, I chose to give the poor dude a break and attempt to fill my tire on my own. The last time I had done this, I had gone with Lesty to a gas station nearby that had an air machine for 25 cents. As I headed down to the gas station, I remembered the other Cheese had told me about a bike store on Vanderbilt Ave that had free air. Not that 25 cents is so steep, I mean, I know I'm a cheap cunt, but in actuallity I thought it was a good idea to check out the local bike store, maybe get familiar with the people that work there {for any of you who don't know me, I must tell you that I am SO not the type of person that wants to be recognized or known as a "regular"...I hate when store people know who I am and I hate drawing attention to what made me think I wanted to "get to know" the bike store people I have no idea. }

I pedalled down to Vanderbilt with the confidence of a seasoned cyclist, although I was nervous to do my air myself. I figured, if I just acted like I knew what I was doing, everything would just fall into place. When I arrived at the store, I noticed that the air pump was right out front, hassle-free. Awesome. I was on the way to juicy, plump, air-filled tires. Woohoo.

There were a bunch of people milling around, waiting to rent bikes, and a couple crackheads off to the side {I live in an "up and coming" neighborhood.} I sidled up to the pump, threw down my kickstand, and grabbed the hose that was dangling from the side of the store.

I heard a horrific pop and before I knew what was happeining, the spigot thingie had popped off into my hand, and the hose was bobbing and weaving like a drunk prize fighter. A big, black, hissing snake of a hose, it took on a mind of its own and I was left holding a broken spigot, feeling ashamed.

To make matters worse, one of the crackheads came over and tried to help me he tried to re-attach the spigot to the hose, which seemed to prove impossible. The fucking thing just wanted to be free. One of the salesguys came out and asked what was going on, and all the crackhead could say was "I DIDNT DO IT". While glaring at me.

Thanks for helping a snowflake out, man.

The salesguy took the spigot from me and tried to fix the hose. All the while, the crackhead chanting, "wasn't me. wasn't me". I wanted to flee...but I felt responsible, like I needed to stick around and make sure that the hose got fixed, and then go back to trying to use it (although, thinking back, the hose was faulty, and had that fucker flown off and swiped me in the eye or whatnot I'd be blind and sueing them right about now.} It became clear that it wasn't going to get long was I supposed to stand there like a moron?

Fully aware that the crackhead was going to call me out, I slunk away as inconspicuously as I could, and didn't look back. I sped thru the streets as if someone was going to be chasing me, most likely the crackhead, shaming me into going back to the bike store with my head hung down like a bad little girl. Thankfully, that didn't happen, and I got my 25 cent air, happily.

I have yet to go by that bike store, but I AM waiting for the crackhead to see me and recall, "IT WASNT ME"

Good times.

Friday, April 27, 2007

This Takes the Cake

There is nothing fun about trying to be social when one has decided to curb oneself of all unnecessary eating and drinking.

It's even less fun when the "one" is me!

Fuckin' scale…how I hate you. I ignore you for weeks and weeks on end, and when I finally decide to show you some love, you turn on me. How dare you tell me I gained six pounds? Couldn't you just let me down easy? Three would have been fine. Three would have been fixed after taking a big nasty dump. Six, on the other hand, is just plain awful. Don't you know how long that could take to lose?

So there you go. Between the loss of memory skills, and the additional six pounds on my already curvaceous bod, I've decided to have some good sense and chill out with the carbs and booze.

Last night, a friend of mine had a bunch of us over for dinner. I had thought to myself that it might be best if I don't go, for numerous reasons, but then realized that I needed some hang time with my friends.

Well, one thing that you notice right off the bat when you're swearing off the liquor is that, holy fuck, people sure do drink a lot.

I met up with Kiki and we traveled down to the Evil together, and as we sat on the L train from 7th Ave, Kiki recalled how she and AA drank WAY too much last Saturday, and how ill she was Sunday am, and how the malaise carried over to Monday and she really thought about even calling in sick.

Kiki walked into AA's apartment last night and announced how she was going to take it easy, since last Saturday was so out of hand.

But I sat in awe as I watched the two of them share 3 bottles of wine between them in a span of an hour or so, and another friend downed six beers in the same amount of time.

THIS is taking it easy???

I don't pay attention to such things, as the norm. I mean, I certainly wouldn't want any of my friends to keep score of all the dirty martinis that the Big Cheese can ingest in one sitting. And besides, they're all too busy getting their own drink on to care.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not judging my friends, or anyone for that matter, who drinks, just because I've decided to curb my own. I'm just shocked, when really taking a look around me, at how much we all do throw back!

Cut to the end of dinner. AA brings out a delicious, juicy-looking chocolate cake, the likes of which I can NEVER say no to. I didn't have any. My red-faced, wine guzzling Kiki shrieked, "Whassa matta with you? You not eating CAKE?"

Believe me, I would love to have my cake, and eat it, too. But this time, I am sticking to my guns.

You all can drink to a happier, healthier, skinnier Cheese. And I'll sit back and watch. :)

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

I Don't Remember, I Don't Recall

I've always been kind of ditzy, in the sense that I have a touch of ADD and can't focus. It's got its charm, I suppose, giving me just enough of a quirk that I get by, and it's not entirely annoying.

Lately, however, it seems that my ADD has morphed into full blown dementia, and it's freakin' me out, man.

The other day, I left my sister a voicemail along the lines of "Hey, I haven't talked to you since you came back from your trip, gimme a call."

To which she replied, "Are you on fucking drugs? I talked to you for an hour and a half last Sunday, and told you all about my trip. So glad I'm that compelling that you don't REMEMBER???"

I seriously couldn't recall the conversation that we had, although after she mentioned it, I racked my brain and dug up the recollection from the dregs of my failing mind.

The other day, I couldn't remember if I'd put in a tampon. I mean, for fucks sake, how hard is that to remember? Either I did, or I didn't. But no...I went to pull one out so I could jam another one in, fished around for a string, and found none. panic ensued. Did I lose the string? Was I going to have to reach into my hooha and do a search and rescue mission?

I chose to believe that I never put one in to begin with. So hopefully it's not swimming around my uterus somewhere.

I woke up this morning feeling all sorts of shitty, and thought back to my night before.

Two dirty martinis, a Blue Bettie, and 2 glasses of Chardonnay.

Oh my God, the alcohol is eating my brain.

Monday, April 23, 2007

The Weekend-part I

I'm always astounded at how quickly the memory of a perfectly good weekend can be swept away by the shock of the alarm come Monday morning.   This particular Monday morning, I was having restless dreams about pushing my clothing on a cart up Flatbush Avenue, homeless person style. Thankfully, I awoke to Beehive staring at me from overhead, his usual, overly energetic smiley morning self.

"Mflkgjkkrphh" , I mumbled. 

Such a difference from the happy little flower that was me circa Friday night around 5:15 or so.

We started out on our second annual jaunt to the Orchid Show in Rockefeller Center.  The first time I had ever been was last April, and from what I remember, it was a pretty remarkable show.  This year, however, they got chintzy with the space, and made it a lot smaller.   Which meant, more crowded.  Which meant, more people taking crazy pictures of flowers, which I would be able to ruin. Oops. pardon me, did my big ass just make its way into your photo? Silly, silly me.

The walk-through didn't take very long, so we found ourselves in the vendor area, where we were accosted by a man in a park ranger uniform.   This man felt the need to educate us about the Asian Longhorned Beetle, something that I never really needed to know about, and now I know just a little too much…Beehive looked enthralled, which I thought came from the fact that he was big into gardening and wanted to be prepared for the next Asian Longhorned Beetle infestation to hit Bay Ridge…turns out he's damn good at faking it. Damn good.

"I thought that guy would never stop talking!" he muttered as we walked away.

Well, at least he got a refrigerator magnet out of it.

As we left the Orchid Show, a very rare opportunity presented itself to me. 

"Feed me", said my very hungry boyfriend.

As most of you don't know, this is always a touchy subject between us.  I like ethnic food. I like semi- crowded restaurants.   I don't mind waiting at the bar for a table. Beehive likes sushi, Mexican, and pizza, and is claustrophobic.  I'll never forget the time I brought him to Franks in the E. Village and he turned green.  

"What the hell is the matter with you?" I spat. 

"Did…you…not…know…I'm claustrophobic?"

Um. No. Would I have brought you to a joint the size of a postage stamp and make you squeeze into a table built for an infant if I did?   Duh.

So, the rare opportunity that I speak of is that, Beehive entrusted me to take him somewhere to eat.   "You pick a place."


Wow. I did not prepare for this moment.  I knew it might come, but since I gave up trying to diverge from the usual sushi, Mexican, and pizza establishments that we are known for frequenting, I haven't really been keeping up with my restaurant knowledge. Dammit! Where was Zagat when I needed him??


I decided, since we were on the F train, to get off on Smith Street, since I'm pretty familiar with what's there, and figured we couldn't go wrong…if worse came to worse, there was pizza…I was sure about that.


Thankfully, Beehive decided somewhere along the way that he really wanted Italian food, and a good chicken parm would be right up his alley.   So we ended up at Caserta Vecchio, and it did not disappoint.


But forget about the food. I was excited to realize that we were a couple blocks away from one of my favorite bars, Zombie Hut, which is all things tiki.   Not only do they serve blue drinks, but they are all $5, AND they have a fireplace. Quel romantic. 


We got ourselves situated right next to the fireplace, and I ordered my usual blue Hawaiian, while Beehive had a Gilligan.   The Gilligan has about 3 times the amount of alcohol as the other drinks, so I looked even more lushy than usual, drinking my 3 drinks to Beehive's one.

At some point, I decided that I needed a change.  I've been drinking Blue Hawaiians for way too long, and man I need a breather.   "Gimme a Bahama Mama" I slur to the waiter.  He brings me my drink, and I take a big swig.  "Aaah…I needed a change of scenery," I announced.

"Um. You know it's the same thing as a Blue Hawaiian, except it's red, right?" he tried not to laugh in my face.

So much for a change of scenery.  Hey, I never said I was a smart drunk!

Then things got cozy by the fireplace.  It was everything I could have ever wanted and more.   A warm fire, plush leather seats, my Beehive, and JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?  Yup. Beehive and his famous gas.   There's nothing like some Public Displays of Affection followed by a rank fart.  Good times.

  (I neglected to discuss the foul odors that were coming from our corner of the table during our lovely dinner at Caserta Vecchio, and the looks being exchanged from said odors by the women at the next table over…but I digress).

Since we had fouled up the entire bar at this point, and Beehive's Gilligan was empty, and I was on my third Blue Hawaiian/Bahama Mama, it was time to disappear.   But not before I convinced Beehive that he needed me to "assist" him with his gardening duties over the weekend.  Ah. The power of Cheese mixed with a good strong Gilligan.   I need to get him to Zombie Hut more often!

A strange cab ride back to my place ensued, with a faux Cheech Marin driving the car.  Beehive seemed to fear  for his life a little, being creeped out that the dude locked all the doors when we piled into the car. I took no notice, choosing only to engage in drunken conversation with Cheech, that consisted of me confessing how many drinks I had, and what I was planning on doing to Beehive upon arrival to my lair...Cheech got all philosophical on our asses and, as we passed Underhill Ave he asked "Isn't that an oxymoron? Under and hill? Get it? get it?" To which we started coming up with our own oxymorons, until WE all sounded like a bunch of morons.

Thankfully, we arrived Chez Cheese unscathed. And survived yet another Friday night, Brooklyn style.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Yoga Pose of the Week

Hey Kiddies. It's Thursday, and you know what that means.

Yoga pose of the week.

Today's yoga pose is The Bridge.

The Bridge is a great pose to strengthen your lower back as well as your thighs, and it gets all of the blood flowing to your core and pubic area.

But you know what ELSE it's good for?

It's GREAT for making you look really, really skinny.

I snuck a peek at myself in the mirror while in this pose, and not only was everything perfectly aligned in a very slimming fashion, my tits looked fan-fuckin-tastic. Not like the tits of the woman in the picture. Oh no. Her tits look like pancakes. In this pose, my tits looked voluptuous and ripe.

In addition to looking fabulous while doing The Bridge, I imagine that, with a lot of practice, it would be a really great way to receive oral sex. Think of all the places a tongue could go while one's body was held in that position. And the mind-blowing orgasm that would occur in said position.

I'll cross that bridge when I come to it; later tonight, if I'm lucky. :)

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

The Cat Came Back, She Just Couldn't Stay Away

So, I took a little hiatus from blogland but, for the two of you who actually gave a crap…I'm baaaack ;)


Let's just say that I was "discovered" at work a couple weeks ago, viaGawker , and in fine Cheese form, became overly paranoid, and shut that fucker off so fast, nobody knew what had hit them.


In fact, someone left a comment on Gawker regarding my post about Blueberri Stoli being the bomb: " Too seriously delicious for public consumption, apparently. You can keep people from reading your blog now? I must be missing the point of becoming famous." Because I had made my blog private within minutes of it being posted on Gawker.


What's so hilarious is that, being found by Gawker was, of course, one of the coolest things about having this blog.   Isn't it every bloggers dream? To be put on display, for anyone and everyone to peruse, and comment? I mean, it's ALL about the comments, right?


But then, I got a comment from someone, asking me if I knew anyone who would have sex with them while bleeding. And that was kinda gross. And then, my co-workers figured me out, and I started thinking about all the weirdness that I post about, and yea, it's not dangerous or going to get me fired, but it IS going to make them think I'm a freak, and quite frankly, I'm already pretty high on their freak radar as it is.   And then I started worrying that my boss would think that all I do all day is sit at my desk and write blogs, and I got paranoid that I was going to get fired for that.


At first, I missed my daily entries.  But then, it felt a bit freeing. I didn't have the pressure on myself to be witty, or worry about who was reading or why no one was reading.   But at the end of the day, I really like my blog. I like when other people like my blog, and I like seeing what others have to say about my crazy musings. So I decided to come back, and give it another shot.


And next time I get featured on Gawker, I promise I will not run through the office screaming "I got Gawkered. I got Gawkered."   Turns out, that's a surefire way to get your coworkers to sit up and take notice.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Important Lessons From the Weekend

I still love Blueberri Stoli.

I discovered this heaven last summer when it first came out, and have been obsessed with it since. Everyone I know that I drink with has become attached to this liquid loveliness, and for good reason. It tastes like candy—you won’t want to drink it with a chaser because it’s so delicious. Friday night I had quite a few while out at a party and I was feeling no pain. A drunk Cheese is a happy Cheese.

I still have a thing for 20 year old boys.

Coming back from the Bloc Party show on the A train with a friend of mine, we were surrounded by “children” who had also attended the show. The train was jam packed and just chock-filled with little cuties who were BEGGING for a Mrs. Robinson like myself to show them the wonders of the world. I giggled and flirted like the best of ‘em, and when I realized that a bevy of them were exiting the train around Spring Street I grabbed my friend’s arm and said “Let’s go with them.” She looked at me with disgust, said “they’re 20. And you have a boyfriend.” She never let’s me have any fun. ;)

I have some serious separation anxiety issues when it comes to my cat.

I hadn’t been home since Thursday morning, and it was now Saturday around 7pm.
I had asked Lesty to check in on Igby in my absence, but was still feeling strangely anxious that I hadn’t been home in so long. Not really aware that I was actually feeling this way, I felt a giant panic attack come on while relaxing on my boyfriend’s couch, which prompted me to get up and start cleaning his kitchen. Quel surprise when I got myself home later that night and felt suddenly fine. Who has separation anxiety? Oh, I do!

My boyfriend’s nose bleeds a lot.

6am Saturday morning, I awoke to find him sitting in the Tony Bennett room with a tissue held up to his nose. Once the bleeding subsided, I took myself back to bed. 6pm Saturday night, I came back to his place after shopping for food for dinner. Bleeding yet again. 3:00 pm Sunday afternoon…

Having sex in the shower can precipitate a serious nosebleed, one that will land you in the ER.

We had finally hauled our stinky, sweaty selves into the shower late Sunday, with full intention of cleaning off only to get dirty again. The frolicking began in the shower itself, and next thing I knew, I was bent over, having great fucking shower sex and excited for more. I suggested we take it to the bedroom, and as I got out to dry off realized that there was blood EVERYWHERE. All over Beehive’s face, his chest, my shower. I believe I screamed. It was NOT a pretty sight, not to mention, we never got to the fucking.

The ER at NY Methodist in Park Slope is rife with hotties.

Ok, maybe it wasn’t RIFE…but there was Hipster doctor, with shaggy hair and a scruffy face, and mod outfit. Then there was hot Indian doctor, with lovely British accent. The doctor that tended to Beehive was quite swoonworthy, in that “Wow, that GQ model is really hot” kind of way. Girls, next time you break a nail, get thee to this place. It’s better than Speed Dating!

I have a hidden maternal instinct.

Cheese: You have blood on your chin. Let me get that for you.

(soaks tissue in water and starts rubbing chin furiously)

Beehive: umm

Cheese: No wait, it’s almost all gone.

Beehive: Can you stop that now?