Thursday, August 30, 2007

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.


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.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Oh Sydney, I'm so Disappointed in You

Since the beginning of time,I have been a complete fanatic about MTVs The Real World. I have obsessively watched, over and over, the comings and goings of seven strangers picked to live in a house. I've had major crushes on several of the guys (DavidJuddNeilRandyAce} and even some of the girls {Jo,honey, call me!}

But as I viewed the third episode of the Sydney installment yesterday, I knew it was going to be the last time I would waste one more second watching these assholes.

I'd rather stick a fork in my eye. Multiple times. I'd rather bang my head into a wall while someone feeds me worms. Yes, I said it,I'd rather eat worms than watch these freaks with their issues continue to act like retarded children on acid.

My first issue with this cast is that not a ONE of them is attractive. If I have to sit and watch their antics for 24 minutes, I want one of 'em to be hot. Slightly hot, easy on the eyes, even. The only one I'd consider having sex with is Cohutta, and that's only if he keeps his mouth tightly shut. And for God's sake, don't wear those fucking overalls!!!

It's the women of the house that I really can't stomach.

I know I know, you're all going "But there's two hot blonde chicks with boobs on the show". Yes yes, I guess there are. They both look exactly alike. I mean, down to the exact shade of bleach they use on their heads. Last night my head was spinning because one of them was talking and they immediately cut to the other one and I couldn't tell who the fuck was who. I think one of them has bigger boobs than the other, which is how I tell them apart...but even then, which is the one with the bigger boobs? Shivaun? Trisha? I really couldn't tell ya. In addition to not being able to tell either of them apart, they are both dumb as nails. I never know what either of them are talking about.

At first, I was feeling for parisa, the "person of color"on the show {I'm giggling as I type this, cuz that girl is whiter than me} , plus she was the only attractive girl in the house. But as I've gotten to know her, I realize that I was grasping at straws, I was so desperate to like someone. Not only is she just not good looking at all, she is delusional. She is in love with Dumb Bar, and writes him a letter telling him so. She tells everyone in the house that there is "chemistry" between them when he clearly can't stand her ugly ass. The look on his face is just classic as he's reading this letter. I mean, wtf, who writes letters anymore? And on paper no less?

In addition, parisa is a hypocrite. She spent all of SHow #1 telling everyone how dumb they were for drinking and getting wasted, yet she had 2 glasses of wine, made a fool of herself, and passed out, and Dumb Bar had to carry her fat ass home. Or was it Isaac?

Kelly Ann is some bimbo from Texas who thinks she is God's gift to Sydney. She is constantly trying to tempt Dumb Bar, who has a serious girlfriend back home, with her evil ways, and she is obsessed with herself. She thinks that everyone hates her because of her looks--I do believe in the first episode she commented that parisa didn't like her because she's "way cuter than her". In addition,last night, as the girls were getting ready to go out {and holy hell I was rolling on the floor in total fits of laughter as I watched them do their hair...I mean, one of them was TEASING her hair.Wha??} Kelly Ann made a comment that they were going to KICK ASS at the bar because they were SO MUCH prettier than the Aussie girls. Do you even know what people in Australia look like? They are generally pretty good looking. Bimbo.

Yea. I'm pretty much done with this season. I guess it was time. Good things only last so long, right?

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

These are a Few of My Favorite Things

As I sit here scarfing down my giant-ass bowl of Friendlys Mocha Silk {light} ice cream, completely submerged in Redi-Whip, I begin to reflect upon the assortment of foods I turn to in moments of need.

I am definitely a stress eater, and am fully aware that because of my love for all things sugar-laden, I still look like Mrs potato head with boobs, no matter how much I work out. Its the price I pay, but ultimately, I deal with it, because I refuse to give up my comfort foods!

I'm pretty picky about the crap I consume, I mean, if I'm going to put that shit in my body, I'd better be really into it. It can't just be any old crap, it's gotta be the GOOD crap.

My most oft-consumed comfort food would have to be cupcakes, hands down.

There is nothing more satisfying than a luscious cupcake, topped with the most perfect of buttercream {although sometimes mirangue rocks too} icing.

I like to whip up batches of my own, but the do or die cupcake for me definitely comes from the little cupcake bakeshop . These babies are to DIE for. TO DIE. The owners of this Heaven defected from Buttercup Bakery, which is owned by a former Magnolia owner. These little cakes have come SO FAR from the drek that they sell at Magnolia, trust me. I believe I've even incorporated one of the chocolate ones during a particularly amorous bout of foreplay, but I digress...this is NOT that kind of blog post!

Moving on, when I can't have access to my lovely cupcakes above, or am too lazy to bake, I go for my old stand-by, Little Debbies Oatmeal Creme pie.

I don't know what it is about this sexy little cookie, but I really dig that combo of fake chemically-enhanced cream sandwiched between two soft, chewy oatmeal cookies. You definitely can't eat just one { well, I definitely can't } and by the time the box of 12 is gone, you have completely forgotten all of your woes. No fretting allowed around THIS dessert.

{I've tried a lot of other Little Debbies snack cake thingies, but the Oatmeal Cream pies seem to have a special je ne sais quoi that I just don't try to mess with.}

As I salivate over the thought of that last item, let me tell you about my absolute favorite comfort food.

Drumroll please....

It's the infamous peanut butter and jelly sandwich. With a side of choccie milk {yea, I said choccie. If it's not choccie milk, it's not the real thing. Clearly}.

The peanut butter has got to be Skippy. It can't be crunchy. The jelly has to be purple. The bread has to be some sort of grainy thing, and it needs to be smeared about 3 inches deep with pb. The jelly should be sparse, but just enough to give the sandwich a kick. And the choccie milk needs to be very, very chocolatey. This combo does well after a really shitty day, but I also enjoy it after a really hot bout of fucking. But again, not that kind of post.

So there you have it. You now know what makes me tick, what keeps me sane, and what keeps me from being the playboy playmate we all know I should be.

So what are YOUR comfort foods? C'mon people. Dish!!

Monday, August 13, 2007

Sunday Celebrity Sightings

In preparation for the new season of "The Hills" which begins tonight, I thought it appropriate to report on my celebrity sighting from yesterday.
My sister and I, after having an almost delightful brunch with my parents at Bistrot Les Amis (it was kept from being delightful only due to the fact that my father was in one of his fiesty moods and created tension galore. Fun, fun) decided to wander around Soho and spend money that neither of us really had to spare.
Two adorable dresses later from Max Studio, we wandered down West Broadway in search of a cocktail (which we ended up having at Barolo, a really large, touristy restaurant on W Broadway and Spring, with a tremendous garden in the back and a lovely bar, and heavy handed bartender who bought us drinks after two rounds. Dude, I'm going back).  Suddenly, men with giant cameras were running backwards through the streets, snapping away at what I couldn't really tell.
This was seriously my first brush with any kind of paparazzi...NYC is rife with celebrity sightings, but never have I seen so many cameras fly.  This had to be good!
Next thing we knew, we saw a few blonde heads ("the Olsen twins?" my sister surmised) and realized that Nicole Richie and Joel Madden were making their way towards a large SUV.
How does this have anything to do with The Hills, you ask?
We never quite figured out who the other blonde chickies were, til I googled this, this morning:
Some Nicole Richie Fan Site
It was none other than Whitney and Lauren, skulking behind Nicole and Joel.

True, I didn't really KNOW it was them 'til I read it online...I was too engrossed in looking for Nicole's baby bump.

I KNOW what the priorities are, dammit!!

Friday, August 10, 2007

Hand Job In Aisle 3

I was on the Upper East Side this morning, making my way home from a morning swim, when, I passed a Rickys.

Most of you who live in NYC know what Rickys is--purveyor of cosmetics, hair products, toiletries, Halloween costumes, and sex toys.

I generally don't set foot in RIckys unless I'm shopping for Halloween or am feeling the need to manicpanic my hair, which truth be told, I don't do all that often{um, ever}...but I WAS in the market for a new pocket rocket, as my sole BOB {battery operated boyfriend} resides with Beehive, which doesnt really do me much good when I'm home, so.

I made a beeline for the back of the store, where the "adult novelties" are sold. I love how this section is cordoned off by a curtain of some sort. In fact, this morning, I was truly pleased by it. I do not have a problem purchasing sex toys, and if I'm at a place such as Toys in Babeland, where the sole purpose of going there is because you're in need of an anal tickler or a whip, and there's no pretense as to why you're there, I'm perfectly comfortable with that. But for some reason, buying things for my vagina at Rickys felt sorta dirty, and not in a good way. But dammit, I couldn't go one more day without a new pocket rocket.

Once behind the curtain, I had a field day checking out the latest in vibrator technology--I finally settled on a new, silent version of the pocket rocket, which will "cum" in handy what with nosy neighbors and all...I also grabbed some other "supplies" that will hopefully be useful over the weekend.

I approached the register hesitantly, but there were no other customers and only one woman behind the counter, so I relaxed a little and tried to be as nonchalant as possible. It all seemed to go without a hitch...

...then a large southern woman, who appeared to be the manager, showed up at the counter and asked in a booming twang "DO YOU ALL NEED SOME BATTERIES FOR THAT?" This is when I noticed the GORGEOUS hunk of man meat standing to my right. "YOU CAN ALWAYS USE EXTRA BATTERIES" she winked.

I glanced over at the man meat and hoped he wasn't paying attention. Oh, he was.

"No batteries. I'm good" I stammered.

I brought my attention back to the register, where I noticed some additional commotion. The cashier did not appear to know what one of the items was, and yelled out "What IS THIS?" while holding it up for the entire store to see.

"Oh hon, that's a TICKLER" Large southern woman yelled across the counter. "It came from the SEX SECTION"

"What's it for?" the cashier demanded to know, still holding it like a torch.

Thankfully, the most annoying of women walked in at that moment and drew all attention away from me, my tickler, and the fact that everyone, including hunky man meat, was assuming that I was going home, alone, to my sad apartment full of cats, to wank off.

Sincerest of Apologies

To the Unsuspecting Women of the W. 73rd St New York Sports Club,

I do realize the terror you must have experienced around 73Opm on the evening of August 9th.

please know that my intention was NOT to parade through the women's locker room, wearing nothing but my birthday suit. I admit, I'd had a particularly frustrating run that evening, and was too preoccupied with checking my voicemail and obsessing about something or other in my highly pms state, to comprehend that I had left my towel in the locker. It was a purely innocent move on my part, as I gallivanted to the shower, all tits and pubes. I am fully aware of the trauma I may have caused some of you, having no choice but to stare unabashedly at my slightly unmanicured bush. It's times like these, dear women, that cause me to appreciate the need for regular waxings.

My faux pas was unnoticed by me until I reached the shower, looked down and said "fuck" to no one in particular. I did try to redeem myself by grabbing a towel on my way back to the locker, in order to not subject you to double the pleasure of my nubile self.

Dear Women of the W 73rd Street NYSC, I hope you can forgive me.


Cheese, who is on her way to get a Brazilian, some lipo, and a tit lift

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Things I Learned From The NYC Triathlon

I am not normally one to complain about noise coming from my neighbors. I live in NYC, and with that comes close quarters, and noisy neighbors. Generally, I can tune out most music, sex groans, dog barking, etc, but the night before my Tri was an exception to my rule.
My neighbors next door have about 50 teenagers in their family, and all 50 teenagers apparently decided to have a ginormous party in their backyard. The bass started pounding into my living around 7pm and continued through the night. I tried with all my might to tune it out, shutting all of my windows, shutting my bedroom door and blasting the a/c, but alas, I tossed and turned for a couple of hours, with no sign of sleep to come due to the vibrating walls.
I started to freak out because I needed to get up at 3:30am to get my shit together and catch my ride into the city, so I became the asshole that called 311 to complain.
What the fuck do they really do over at 311? Do they just laugh at us behind our backs because we are actually dumb enough to dial the number and state our complaint? Do they do ANYTHING?

I believe the answer would be no, because I had to go upstairs and sleep in Lesty's bed due to the fact that the music NEVER CEASED and was, in fact, still going on when I left my apartment at 4am. In addition to the drunk teenagers hanging around the front stoop, checking me out with confusion as I left my house at such an odd hour.

Fuck it, I was almost ready to join them at that point.


As I was making the 1 mile trek from the transition area to the swim start, a woman decided to latch onto me. Not because I seemed like a friendly sort, or because I looked like I needed a friend. No, it would be because I was holding toilet paper. Toilet paper at a race is like having twinkies in your lunchbox on the playground. It makes you much more desirable to hang around.

We got to talking, and it was mostly about bodily functions--since after all, it WAS the tp that brought us together.

I learned that she had gotten her period that day, and that she would be swimming with a giant maxi pad stuffed in her bathing suit.


My new friend and I, we decided to visit the porto potties together, since I was the holder of the toilet paper--however, I had less time before my wave start than she did, and started to panic that I would be late. As we stood on line, waiting for all of the other athletes to deposit their bodily waste into the most disgusting toilets that ever existed {and believe me, I've run 5 marathons, I've SEEN nasty porto potties}, I grew more and more anxious...while she just chattered away.

FInally, it was our turn to use the facilities. I threw her my roll of tp and took my chances...because I had already made my decision.

I was going to ditch her.

I was running out of time, my wave was about to start, I just needed to get my pee on and get the fuck out of there, and that I did. WIthout nary a goodbye nor a look back, I ran off the the swim start. New friend still chattering away in the porto pottie next to mine.


During all of our coaching sessions, we would be given little hints about race day. Such as, don't forget to take your helmet off when you do your run. Don't forget to put your helmet on before you get on your bike.

One of my favorite ones was, make sure to wipe your face after you get out of the Hudson. You will have a black goatee of oil slick if you don't.


I jumped into the water and held onto the flimsy rope that was going to save me from being carried off into the wild blue yonder, and looked around at the other red capped women surrounding me. They all looked equally petrified as we held onto that rope for dear life. They were taking their sweet ass time shooting the gun off, and we just bobbed up and down in the water, cursing {2 minute penalty} and trying not to piss our wetsuits out of fear {no penalty, but gross}.

Once I started swimming, I eased up on my anxiety a bit. There were no dead bodies that I could see, and nothing weird touched me. The current was fast, and a normal 1 hr swim took me 35 minutes. Sweet!

Even getting out of the water was a cinch, as there were some nice men at the end who helped pull us all out. And being that I was probably dead last, I didn't have to fight with the other girls to get out. I had all the men to myself!

And, I remembered to wipe my face. No black goatee for me!


I had sadly managed to pick up a small case of SARS, or perhaps just a head cold, mere days before the event. I discovered that Afrin 12 hr spray worked wonders for my runny nose, and during all of my training leading up to Sunday morning, I was snot free. Yay.

Yea, until I got on my bike during the actual race, and had to ride 25 miles to the Bronx and back. Suddenly, my nose was running like Niagra Falls.

So, I blew it on my shirt. Yea, I'm classy like that.


The run, which is the latter part of the event , was more torturous than having one's fingernails torn out by the roots. I would imagine. I mean, you've swam a mile, you've biked 25 miles {and some of us only had 2 hrs sleep and a head cold} and now you have to get your legs to stop feeling like jelly, and run SIX MORE MILES.

I got to mile 2, and had to step off to the side and cry a little.

Once I got over my fear that I was going to collapse, I was able to talk myself out of quitting, and continue on like a brave little soldier. However, the pain and discomfort showed on my face every step of the way.

I knew my friends and family were going to be waiting for me near the finish line, and as I approached that area I started to pick up my stride and put on a happy face.

Later on, Beehive told me that I was running like a turtle when he saw me go by.

So much for faking it.


I was perplexed at the somewhat icy reception that I felt I was receiving from Beehive after finishing the race.
I realize that I was sweaty, wet, and probably stunk, but dude, suck it up and give me a hug for fucks sake!
I noticed throughout the course of the afternoon, however, that my normally affectionate boyfriend wasn't so much as even holding my hand as we walked down the street to get food from a nearby diner. I almost felt him flinch if I tried to touch him.

It did not dawn on me until we finally got back to my place, and I was about to get into the shower.

"Oh my God! You're not touching me because I was in the Hudson River!" I shrieked. "You're afraid you're going to catch something from me!!"

He shrugged, smiled, and nervously nodded.


Yea. Once I cleaned up, that is.


Saturday, August 04, 2007

She's Fresh, Exciting

Before leaving for my long trek to midtown on a sleepy Friday morning, I reached up to kiss my Beehive goodbye.
"Are you wearing Carefree Panty Liners with Baby Powder?" he asked.
I am pretty darn sure that out of all the guys I have dated in my life, not one of them had ever asked me about my feminine hygiene preferences, or been concerned about the types of things l like to store between my legs.
But none of those guys were Beehive...
I replied that indeed, I was NOT wearing Carefree Baby Powder Panty Liners.
"You smelled like them before when I was hugging you," he explained.  "I love that smell."
Thanks, I think.
I allowed myself to become slightly freaked out at this panty liner fetish that I was just now learning about, wondering if it was a smell that he associated with his very first girlfriend in 7th grade, or if he was a creepy panty sniffing dude that I needed to watch out for.
And then I remembered that my boyfriend used to work in a discount drug store.  Where he first encountered the scented panty liner. And somehow, this made total sense to me, and I went about my day.
Bottom line, apparently I have been walking around my whole life smelling like freshly powdered vagina.  For this, I shall be thankful.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

About Last Night

So I woke up this morning with the most enormous feeling of dread--not uncommon as we all know--but today's dread felt different than the norm.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but it felt like something really awful had happened the night before. What the hell had I done the night before? My night was pretty damn uneventful, having come straight home from my volunteer gig at the cat shelter, made Egg Beaters for dinner due to my fridge being empty, and sat in front of my computer trying to write, coming up with nothing which escalated into yet another "what am I doing with my life" panic attack. You know, the usual.

Slowly, it all started to come back to me. I saw a bar...I think it was pianos on Ludlow...and a microphone...and singing..., I didn't go to Karaoke and get really drunk last night...although I miss my Monday night Karaoke, oh yes.

However, I did have a dream that I was doing a show, I guess at pianos. I had a whole set that I had to do, and I knew that everyone I knew was going to be there, so I panicked, and I sang the entire set in a made up language, and tried to pass it off as French! And I think I did a couple of songs in faux Chinese as well! I remember writing down my set list on a piece of looseleaf notebook paper, in what language I have no idea...and then getting up on stage and belting my little heart out. I believe one of the songs went like this, "Mooshu hala looolooomalika grrrrr." I'm not sure if that was the French or the Chinese version, but I recall feeling all sorts of proud that I had gotten away with such a feat.

Then I got off stage and realized that I may not have fooled everyone. That some people were going to realize that I was a big, fat faker. And then I freaked out. How was I going to backtrack and fix this? Could anyone really prove I was singing in fake languages? I tried to remember who was in the audience...fuck!

As I write this, I realize that this dream is a metaphor for the way I feel about my life most of the time--walking around feeling like a fat ole faker.

Oooh. Deep.