Yea, I'm Talking About My Boobs Again

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

Ok, whatever, I have good boobs.

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


I shit you not.

Three Little Words That Mean So Much

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

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

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

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

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

Chubby?

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

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

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

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

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

Can I get that tattooed on my ass?

An Evening Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Camera Never Lies

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

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

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

Except for amusement park rides!

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

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

Yea. That is me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOT ME NOT ME.

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

FUCK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I AM the cool girl after all!!!

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


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

Next year. If it's still there.

The Staten Island Zoo

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

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

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

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

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

This one greeted us at the entrance.



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



We encountered a red panda




and some otters





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

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


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

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




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



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


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

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

I think I was Slimed

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

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

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

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

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

Oh God. I got slimed by a slug.

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

"No. Did you want it?"

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

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