Thursday, December 27, 2007

my good night's sleep's keeping me up nights

Mere weeks ago, my life changed for the better. Napoleon & Pedro moved out. That's right, the man & I somehow managed to outlive the uber-loud hipsters. I even helped hold doors open for them, 'cause that's just who I am.

The following week, NYC's Access-A-Ride drivers went on strike. What could that possibly mean for me? Well, as some of you know, across the street from our apartment is an adult day-care center, which I lovingly refer to as "the tard farm." (Letters of hate may be sent directly to me. I don't care. I'm not censoring myself & you know I'm not a hatah. It just sounds funny.) Every weekday morning, beginning as early as 6-ish, buses line up to drop people off for the day. Now, apparently, none of the bus companies, including the Access-A-Ride people, have ever heard of walkie-talkies or cell phones. So every morning when the buses pull up across the street, they announce their arrival by laying on their horns, repeating as many times as necessary. They just don't stop. Ever.

All of a sudden, I found myself without nighttime/early morning disturbances -- well, except for the cat, but he's another story entirely. He still gets up between 5:30 & 7:30 to eat, drink & go potty, but now, I'm able to go back to sleep after filling his bowl & turning on his water & nightlight.

The honking has stopped, or at least it's not happening at the crack of shut-the-hell-up anymore. And with Napoleon & the President gone, there's no more door creaking & slamming next to our bedroom in the middle of the night. No more obscene-hours-new-album-cranking.

It's like heaven.

But the silence has shattered. The landlord & his mistress have begun fixing the place up for the next potential tenant, which wouldn't be nearly so loud without their toddler in tow. God only knows what they're doing across the hall for the 4+ hours they're here everyday, but it's driving me nuts. The love-child runs up & down the railroad, just like our cat does, only he weighs at least 20 pounds more than the kitty & runs on his heels. Oh & he's not our cat, who's adorable some of the time he does these laps. When he's not pounding his way up & down the apartment, he's wailing. Have I mentioned our walls are paper-thin?



Then a couple of days ago, a chill made its way up my spine when I mentioned to the man, "Man, I hope he's not getting it ready for them to move in. I don't think I can take living next door to a toddler. Since I brought that terror up, I haven't been able to sleep. I lie down and bolt back upright, sweating & shaking with the fear of the possible menace that is my landlord's love-toddler, throwing temper tantrums in such close proximity. I mean, I can't even take a few hours of that. What would I do if that's what I came home to everyday? If every night were filled with terrible twos? There are reasons we don't have children, people, and this is one of them. We're selfish for wanting a relaxing, quiet space.

So, now I beg of you. We need good, respectful, infant- & toddler-free tenants to move in next door. He's using a broker for the situation & asking a butt-load for Greenpoint, but I'm begging. If you or someone you love is looking for a fabulous new apartment, won't you please? Won't you please? Please, won't you be my neighbor?

Friday, December 21, 2007

in the flesh(wound)

It was cold in the Slipper Room when the Dewey Decimal Mistress, Rosie & I walked in from the freezing rahttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifin outside. Renowned burlesque dancer Jo "Boobs" met us at the door and gave us the run-down of all the rules. "Use just the one bathroom with the candles in it. Feel free to have some cookies and water, just keep track of your cup, 'cause I don't have enough for seconds. If anyone comes in, tell 'em we're closed for a private event."

Not exactly what I was expecting, walking into my first burlesque class. I don't know what I should've expected, but it was certainly more romantic and sexy than that. As the other ladies in the class trickled in through the front door, my cohorts and I shed our many layers and changed into dancing shoes to prepare for the shakefest that lay ahead.

Soon after Jo Boobs' intern showed up (I know, we were thinking the same thing, "just how does one become a burlesque intern?"), we moved to the stage area to begin the class. Jo took her position onstage, with us standing in the mosh area, anxiously awaiting instruction and the unexpected. She had us all choose from her collection of boas, long gloves and fringe to pin around our waists, then began walking us through a routine. First we learned the boa-drop, then the glove peel, the bump-n-grind and the shimmy, along with classic stances and the value of a quality bounce.

Before we could go on in the routine, it was bra time. Jo had several in one of her bags o' tricks, in case anyone wasn't in one of her own fancy numbers. Since I'd just gotten a sparkly new one the day before, I didn't have to dip into the communal bag. And in case stripping to bras in a roomful of strange women wasn't enough of a step for some of us, it was time to pick our pasties. Tassel-up. Jo and her intern had made these babies just for our class.

I can assure you that the procedure for applying pasties is not a sexy one -- even when applied by a burlesque intern. It was terrifying, actually. "Am I doing this wrong?" "What if it unsticks at the worst possible moment?" "Shouldn't my nipple be much less inverted at this particular moment and temperature?" But once everything was applied, the music resumed, along with the instruction. The final two moves in the routine? The bra-drop and tassel-twirling. Every possible direction and combination of directions.

After two hours, yours truly became a first-level tassel master -- like a D&D geek, but with my own real girl's boobs. I tell ya, it could be months, maybe years, maybe never, before I actually perform burlesque in public, but the boost of adrenaline I got from that class is enough to make me go back for another fix. I don't know why I hadn't done it sooner.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

good morning, crazy

I know, I know, it's been a while, but it's not like I haven't been thinking about you. I've got so much to tell you, actually -- not that I had a Bahamavention & will regale you with tales of the tropics like the Dewey Decimal Mistress, but I've seen some action. And I've had some major triumphs (we'll need a few posts to catch up on all of it, my pretties). And I promise I'll catch up on all your blogs this week too.

But first, let's cover the crazy guy on the L train this morning.

I had to make a run to the city at the crack of 10:30 to hand off the RightRides dispatch bag to the next dispatcher, who's at NYU. So I get on the 8th Avenue-bound L at Lorimer/Metropolitan & take one of the plethora of seats, near the middle pole in the bench. Along with the usual suspects who get on at Bedford, hipster couple & hipster guy, boards a young, scruffy-looking guy with an enormous, jam-packed hiker's backpack. He sits directly in front of me, while hipster couple & guy flank him on either side.

As he begins to dig in his backpack, I notice his pants are stained, from hip to toe. Looks like mud. Maybe paint. Or worse, old blood. From out of the bag he pulls a hefty all-in-one-tool, that sports pliers, a screwdriver, scissors & several sizes of knife blades. Then he dips back in to the backpack & pulls out a brand new box cutter, still in it's packaging.

The couple is at least acting somewhat oblivious to his tool brandishing, doing a crossword or that infernal sudoku, but the eyes of the guy to his left keep getting wider & darting from tool to tool to me & anyone on my side of the train who also may be seeing this odd display. And oh, boy, did I see it & register my concern using eye contact with hipster guy.

Scruffy guy decides that just pulling the new box cutter out of his bag isn't enough. He opens up a small knife blade on the multipurpose tool and cuts open the packaging, returning the blade to its locked position. Then he lifts the screwdriver piece & proceeds to unscrew the box cutter & load the first blade into place, carefully, running his fingers along it, to either test its sharpness or its straightness.

Our eyes grow wider & dart even faster. Hipster guy looks at the box cutter, loaded & ready, then to me, then back to Scruffy & back to me, while me eyes pace the triangle of Scruffy's face, the box cutter & hipster guy. There was no emotion on Scruffy's face, which in my head, as worst case scenario, said, "He's ready to give in & obey the voices."

Naturally, I began to play out the scene in my head & start an internal dialog of my step-by-step reactions. "What if he does what I think he's gonna do & lunges toward hipster guy, to plunge the box cutter into his neck or gut? What do I do?" "Well, I have my boots on, so, of course, I'll kick him in the head." "Right leg or left?" "Umm, right. Planting my left leg firmly & maybe grabbing the pole next to me for added stability. Oh & if I have to defend myself, I'll use the clipboard in the dispatch bag as a shield." "Yeah & what if he lunges at the couple first?" "Fuck 'em, they're useless.... Nah, I'd do the same thing, but maybe try to use the clipboard to shield the girl." "Still right leg?" "Yeah, it's stronger & more used to the kicking motion. Plus I balance really well on my left leg." "And what if he gets up & lunges toward you?" "Never gonna happen." "It could." Alright, well, in the unlikely event he lunges for me, I'll use the clipboard to block while I try to move & position myself to either kick the box cutter out of his hand or kick him in the head."

But then, between 1st & 3rd Avenues, he put the box cutter away.

And then he pulled out a large pair of hedge-clippers, and began running his fingers over the two blades, again, as if testing the sharpness. My eyes quickly flick to hipster guy's, which are now saucers, blinking back & forth, between my eyes & the clippers.

Internally again, "Well, now what the hell's he gonna do?" "I don't know! Don't talk to me right now, I'm trying to think. How are we gonna get out of this?"

But as soon as I figured out that the clipboard could still be a decent shield & it'd be easier to kick the clippers out of his grip than go for his face, he'd opened his backpack o' creepy tools and put them back.

As soon as we pulled into Union Square, hipster guy was out the doors. He didn't bother to hang around to see if Scruffy was getting off with him or staying on to begin his bloodbath. He didn't even bother to look my way again for one last, knowing, "Good luck." He just tucked tail & ran. Maybe a little wetter.

Of course, I don't blame him. But I sat calmly & watched as Scruffy gathered his backpack up & sauntered off the train, probably to go terrorize some other innocent onlookers. And I finally unclenched my ass cheeks on the F train, somewhere between 6th Avenue & West 4th.

Friday, November 9, 2007

things realized while staring at the backs of my eyelids


1) yep, a large cup of coffee consumed more than 12 hours prior (& made me shaky all day) can keep me from falling asleep & yes, it takes more than 1 mg of melatonin to combat it,
2) the music from "West Side Story," which was on public radio when I finally decided to get back out of the bed, sounds magical in a dark room, but is not sleep-inducing,
3) men never stop farting. Ever.
4) And, there really is nothing on TV worth staying up for these days, especially with all the writers on strike -- "We want residuals that are fair & when we get 'em, we'll go back on the air!"

So I think what this means is I'm gonna have to start the incredibly painful process of weening myself off caffeine, which is just a gateway weening for carbonated drinks altogether -- just in time for holidays that I'll face sober for only the 2nd time in my post-pubescent years. Hopefully by doing so, though, I can avoid all kinds of delightful caffeine-induced-faux-and-not-so-faux-infarctions in the next couple of decades, unlike my people before me.

Congratulations, my friends, you're all in store for the best me ever. COMPLETELY drug-free, damn it.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

cat-naming contest!

When my friend Stiffany texted me the other night to ask my opinion on names for her brand new rescues, I felt it was my duty to help. So I'm taking it upon myself to open up the floor & hold a naming contest, pitting you all head-to-head in the process. Keep in mind, there are 2 kittens, so we need 2 names -- preferably 2 that go together hilariously. Also, Stiffany's own nickname is "Hambone" or "Hammy," so if the kitten names go with that theme, even better.

Some of the names Stiffany & I've already tossed around are

lieutenant ham & his filipino lover raul
spspspsp & ttttttt
undercover lover & president pervert
sea bass
the professor
jamon

The floor is now open -- let the competition begin!

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

how dry i am


At the gym a little earlier, I experienced something that's never happened to me before. I'd spent 30 minutes on the arc trainer & decided to get a little treadmill action in as well. Around the 15th minute, I had a dryness epiphany. While I was still working my ass off, going 3.8 mph at a medium incline, I'd almost completely quit sweating.

Now, any of you who've seen me in the gym, walking outside on an NYC summer day or sleeping, for that matter, you know that sweating profusely is one of my great talents. So, what happened? Did I racewalk through some kind of tear in the perspiration-space continuum? Did I find my sweat nirvana?

All I know is, I was so incredulous about the lack of liquid pouring off my face, I started laughing out loud, which prompted every eye in the joint to turn on me. But what'd I care? I was barely glistening, for chrissake.


Sidebar: Last week at Punk Rope, I discovered that I put on my bra like a 6 year-old -- hooking it in front, then swinging the cups around & pulling up the shoulder straps. My other 2 test subjects both go shoulder straps first, then clasp in the back. What gives? Am I the only one who still uses the training bra method?

some local not really news: of course it happened on long island

There are so many reasons not to go to Long Island (sorry, Dewey Decimal Mistress, but we all know it's true). There's the long-ass commute from the city by car or train, the accents, the "Long Island-ness" &, of course, malls. But now, good people, the malls are getting worse, in a very laughable way.

According to NYC's ABC affiliate, "Police are issuing a warning to holiday shoppers after two women were nearly robbed and then were shot with a BB gun at a Long Island mall."

Seriously. Shot with a BB gun. At the mall. Green Acres, no less. Isn't that, according to Eddie Albert & the kind people of Hooterville, "the place to be"?

Now, if you go to the link above & check out the still of the video, you'll notice a few things.
1) the young ladies chose to hide their facial identities, but not their nail identities -- in this day & age, that's like posting a Google Earth closeup of you in your front window on your MySpace page. The danger is palpable. As we speak, Al Queda & Microsoft are developing technology to either bomb or market directly to you based on your nail salon choices.
2) the time stamp on the clip is 5:05, which means this was one of the top stories during last night's newscast. Now, I'm not a professional journalist, but I do question if this story is first-five-minute-newsworthy.
3) t-mobile finally got the free advertising it so deserved

It only gets better when you read the report.

"That's when he had pulled out a gun," she said. "He didn't point it at my face, around my waste (sic), my chest, and was like, 'Just give me your phone.' And I still put up a fight."

The most delightful cynical lady working next door to the mall said about the sound of gunfire, "God forbid it was the real thing."


But the saddest thing of all? It took 3 guys to not pull this off.

So who's up for a little shopping trip?

Friday, November 2, 2007

it's official

This morning, I had an interview at a tiny little agency where I quickly realized I wouldn't want to work. It was a short meeting. He looked at my book, we asked each other several questions, then we shook hands & I headed to the elevator.

It's one of those buildings where the elevator opens right into the office, so I stood directly in front of the receptionist, trying to fight the urge to whip out my phone & call the recruiter who sent me there & ask her to let the guy I'd just met with down gently.

When the elevator doors opened, a guy got off & I got on. I guess he realized that wasn't the floor he wanted, so he hopped back on. I'd already pressed the 1st floor button & looked at him to press or request. That was when I saw the look -- the one that tells me he'd like me to hit the stop button so we can have some quality time to get to know each other -- so I turned back to look at the door.


Of course, he took that as his cue to strike up the conversation, "Wow. Well, it is official." Which, damn my neck, elicited a turn of my head. So he continued. "Your hair color is o-ficial!" Now it was time to respond defensively, "Excuse me?" "It's official! Your hair color is official -- that's a good thing, believe me!" "Oh, great, well as long as you approve." ('Cause that's my new response to that line of back-handed compliment.)

Then just before the doors opened, in what I can only imagine is his "bedroom voice," he said, "I bet Monday, it'll be back to all blonde, right." So I gave him a look of disgust & said, "Yeah, this is not a Halloween costume. It's always like this." and walked out of the elevator.

And the father of 5 of my future babies was gone -- just like that.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

winning the passive-aggressive battle with our neighbors


Who would think that an empty bottle of Guinness could start a small war? Until last week, I didn't think it was possible, but now I've seen the light -- and it comes on every time I step out of my front door.

When I walked out last Friday morning, I was met on the stairs by this very same empty beer bottle. It sat on one of the stairs, halfway between our floor & the one below us, with a dollar slipped beneath it. I left it there, thinking, "Well, surely our neighbors will pick it up this afternoon or evening and that'll be that." They'd had people over the night before, and, I guess, didn't have time to clean up yet. So I walked past it all day & didn't think twice about it. That evening, when the man came home, I mentioned it to him. He said, "Oh yeah, that dollar was crumpled on the landing, as if someone had reached in his pocket for his keys & dropped the dollar in the process, so I picked it up, straightened it out and put it under the bottle as an incentive for them to pick up the bottle." "Good thinkin', baby. Surely, they'll want that buck, at least for a snort-tunnel," I responded.

And the bottle sat there.

And sat there.

Finally, on Monday, sick of seeing it on the stairs, I decided to take the dollar as an "asshole tax" and leave the bottle squarely in front of their door. I was making a statement, damn it -- loud and clear.

That night, they came home & moved the bottle in front of our door. The man kept me from exploding and just moved it back in front of their door.

The next day, they moved it directly between our doors, as in the accompanying picture, taken Wednesday. I left it there, refusing to touch it again, and deciding that we'd leave it there until our landlord came for the rent and let him hash it out with them. I washed my hands of it.

Friday evening, I headed to Union Square to hand off the RightRides dispatch bag to this weekend's dispatcher, and met the man near his office to ride the subway home with him.

As we reached the top of the stairs, the motion light flicked on, and we were met with an empty hallway. To both our shock, they'd actually picked the damn thing up. A full week and several moves later, the battle of the bottle was over. And we had won.

Friday, October 5, 2007

live-blogging the oprah show

(to find out why the hell i would do such a thing, see the previous post.)

4:00: the opening music is angelic, almost a hymn
4:02: photographic slideshow summarizing the book ends, oprah tells gilbert "this is bigger than when bono visited"
4:04: oprah, "who has not met the tiles (on her bathroom floor)?!"
4:08: is it just me, or does the luggage under oprah's eyeballs actually say louis vuitton?
p.s. i love that the op keeps repeating everything liz gilbert says & then turns & yells it at the audience
4:09 oprah interrupts her mid-sentence to send us to break

{fantastic commercial break, by the way; apparently viewers are teen smokers who watch the news}

4:12: oprah proclaims, "eating!! yes!" then mentions the fact that she, "oh, has a tv show"
4:13: liz gilbert imitates charlton heston as god & i cried a little bit
4:14: oprah goes to quote the book & we see there are post-its flagging pages with highlighted paragraghs & notes in the margins -- blech
4:16: oprah coins the term "snot-sobbing" & gilbert calls it, "double-dipping" then says, "word salad," which i loved
4:18: oprah, "i love you 'cause you wanted to EAT!"
4:19: oprah can't fathom "the freedom to gain 24 pounds"
4:21: oprah declares she wants to go to naples & eat the pizza (or the pizza guy, if she's that hungry, i guess)

{commercial break: damn hasbro for their incessant media buys}

4:23: oprah's friends sound boring as hell -- they go to her house to all read a book out loud? my god, ladies, do something, rather than read about it
4:24: oprah doesn't seem to get the actual reason to go to an ashram, or, for that matter, the point of gilbert's journey
4:26: oprah's already making me sick

{commercial break: the chico's woman has really shitty taste, also, there's no "at chico's" -- i hate that copywriter's crutch}

4:31: one of the characters from the book, richard from texas, comes up on stage
4:33: oprah asks richard a string of stupid questions -- too many to count
4:34: oprah obviously don't get transcendental meditation
4:36: i hate oprah's laugh, but then again, she'd probably hate mine

promo interstitial for monday's show: "i talk to someone whose wealth approaches mine" -- jerry seinfeld's wife apparently holds the secret to life

{commercial break: dumb crap, like empire today}

4:39: oprah quotes "wizard of oz"
4:40: (when the medicine man didn't recognize gilbert) oprah, "why didn't you just go home?"
4:42: oprah, "and then you found love!" 'cause, really, that's what a spiritual journey's about....
4:42: oprah should NEVER read books out loud, especially when it's erotic or romantic, 'cause she puts on a really weird voice & sounds like a constipated ostrich
4:43: oprah puts up a picture of gilbert & her lover & then swoons when gilbert says, "that's my new husband on our wedding day"

{commercial break: tyler perry meets "today's soft music"}

4:47: oprah, "god bless the men in here who've read it"
4:47: oprah seems shocked that you just need to shift your view of life to do kinda what she did
4:48: the liz gilbert "do it yourself" steps to enlightenment
1) ask yourself in your morning journal, "what do i really, really, really want?"
2) write down your happiest moment of the day in a journal [oprah inserts her own gratitude journal here]
3) change your mantra -- quit beating yourself up or dragging yourself down
4:51: OMG ponies! oprah's gonna announce her next book club book after the break

{commercial break: do they really think oprah viewers are so fat they need the lap-band system? also, raymour & flanigan's furniture looks so much better on tv than it does in real life, but it's on sale right now!!}

4:53: it's announcement time (while she continues to lick gilbert's ass)
4:54: oprah, "if you love love, it's 'love in the time of cholera'" as she shits herself over the 50-year love story: 50 YEARS! now she's ruined gabriel garcia marquez for me

"brought to you by" interstitial for dove, which is a great partnership

{commercial break: ok, here's why her viewers' need the lap-band system, a commercial for friendship sour cream endorses eating it straight out of the container -- i can;t think of much grosser}

4:57: go to oprah.com, bitches & tell me all about your love story, 'cause it's time for "love in the time of cholera"

thank god it's over!


number of times oprah licked liz gilbert's asshole in one hour: 43

number of retarded questions lobbed gilbert's way: 38


Now, I ask you, people, why -- WHY?? -- is Oprah so goddamn popular??

america's favorite nihilistic crushing opinionator throws it in our faces again


It seems she's unavoidable, that evil, "this is your year," "Secret"-spewing, soul-eating, yo-yo-dieting, celebrity cuddling monolith. For years, I thought I'd done it -- kept my nose out of the Oprium, but today, I'll be forced to watch her damn show for the 2nd time in 2 weeks. And it's not because she sent me this email. That was just sad, forced marketing.

Last week, I was forced to watch when Michael Moore faced off against a PR lady from some health care lobby. Thank all the deities for Michael Moore's ability to read & retain statistics, joined with his giant cajones. If not for him, all our uninsured infants would be toting automatic weapons, funded by the Saudis.

Anyways, today, I'm forced to eyeball the Op again as she sits down with Elizabeth Gilbert, the "rock star" author of "Eat, Pray, Love".

I read it this year, despite Oprah's backing, in fact, defiantly against Oprah's backing. Nothing makes me run from a book more than the Opinion, but I'd already fallen in love with "Eat, Pray, Love" when a woman on the subway said, "Oh, did you read 'Middlesex' too?" Apparently, that was the book Oprah put on her summer pedestal. I shook with horror & possibly spat on the woman in those moments of shock & anger over her thought that I might be a brainless Optomaton. After that, though, I made sure to hide the cover when I was reading it in public, especially in the presence of WASP-y, middle aged, judgmental Connecticut-types.

But if you haven't read it, seriously, I'll loan it to you. It's that fuckin' good.

Now for a word from Noprah, the anti-Oprah.

If you haven't yet, pick up Amy Sedaris' new tome, "I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence". It's full of crazy recipes, craft projects & funny stories about a gal & her bunny -- and no, that's not a euphemism. One of these nights, I'm gonna hostess a little Sedaris-fest, cook something from the book & make my bitches get all kindsa crafty.

Prepare yourselves.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

weirdest wedding ever

Since we're kinda on the topic of weddings, & it seems to be the recurring theme of my life these days, let's discuss last weekend's fiasco in navy and silk flowers. It contained, by far, the most bizarre ceremony I have ever seen in a wedding, but we'll get to that in a few.

First, the timing. The ceremony was scheduled to begin at 2 and the reception at 6. All of our fear going in was that we were going to be trapped in the church for almost four hours, trying to stay awake, avoiding direct eye-contact with the man on the cross, and restraining my man from any outbursts. (Sidebar: his family stopped going to church when, at around age 5, in the middle of a mass, my boy gasped loudly & cried out, "This is so boring!" I bet him a nickel if he'd do it again. That nickel's, sadly, still in my purse.) So, with fear & trepidation in our hearts, the man, his parents & I decided we needed to broach the subject at the rehearsal dinner. The bride & groom assured us that, no, we wouldn't be stuck in mass all day, but not with much assurance, "Well, it is a high mass, so it'll be an hour or an hour & 1/2."

It ended up being closer to an hour & 1/2, but there was too much standing up & sitting down for me to actually fall asleep. I kept joking that with all the standing up & sitting down, I couldn't wait for the fight, fight, fight. One of his cousins said, "Oh, just wait for the reception. There's bound to be some fighting there." No one but the man got the joke. My god, people! Don't you know a basic cheer?

The biggest topic of the 2 & 1/2 hour break between the wedding & reception had to be the Nazi salute the priest asked the group to give the happy couple.

I shit you not.

Near the end of the wedding, after the typically snoozetastic Bible readings, songs, candle-lightings & communion, the priest asked us all to stand again. But this time, he threw us a play-along curveball. "Everyone please raise one hand in the direction of the happy couple, to symbolize laying on hands while we bless them in prayer." Needless to say, everyone followed the priest's lead & raised his or her right hand to the right side of the stage, where the doomed duo were seated. Everyone but me & the man. Hell, I even saw his parents doing it.

Now, does everyone have that mental image? Right hands raised up in the air, slightly to the right? The look on the groom's face, as we would all hope, was pure terror. I mean, the man was extremely uncomfortable seeing all his & his new wife's friends & family giving them "the ol' Sieg Heil." Afterward, he tried to describe it from his perspective, but felt he couldn't do the creepiness justice. Heil to that, bro.

Now I ask you, friends, have you ever seen such a display at a wedding, Catholic or otherwise? 'Cause one of the other guests said at the reception that he'd seen that at several weddings. Is it an upstate thing? Is it a Super-Sized Eastern European thing? Also, do the bride & groom usually sit through Catholic weddings, or are upstaters just extra lazy, 'cause I buy the latter reason completely.

(Sidebar: We had to come home when we did before I caught the fat & bitters. You couldn't swing a roasted turkey leg in Rochester without hitting a 300+ lb. woman in her gaping mouth. Seriously, they were all enormous & unhappy & kinda terrifying, looking at me like I was crazy 'cause I didn't have any Xs on my clothing labels. Of course, every story we heard involved several pitchers of beer & hours of angry drunk driving -- not a damn thing about sobriety, happiness or particularly hard workouts.)

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

for the record

We aren't taking any more suggestions on wedding locations. That goes for all of you -- friends, family & foes. No more mentions of Niagara Falls, Graceland, Disney cruises, Panama, random Rochester religious establishments, Vegas, your house, our house, Central Park, City Hall, the moon, or wherever else the hell you think is romantic/convenient/hilarious.



Last time I checked, you weren't the one gettin' hitched or ponying up the cash for it. Hell, even K-at wanted to weigh in on this one.

Please, resume your regularly scheduled lives & be happy when you get an invite to the reception. Oh, did I mention, our wedding may just be the 2 of us? Yeah. Well. Just kinda fits us.

Thank you anyway for your concern. In this case, it truly is the thought that counts.

'cause we deserve it


Ladies, it's time we did something nice for ourselves, while doing something to help others. Thanks to the dim sum bum for bringing this lavish luxury in the name of charity to my attention. Now, I share with you.

During the month of October, you can get Pretty in Pink treatments, including waxing, mani/pedis, facials & among other indulgences, at some of NYC's best spas & salons.

The best part? Treatments are all $31 -- that's thirty-one dollars, people! Some treatments are regularly $150.

Why the hell are they being so nice to us? They're trying to raise awareness & money for Y-ME National Breast Cancer Organization.

Call a spa or salon NOW & book some pampering for yourself -- & do something good for someone else, for a change.

Monday, September 17, 2007

landlord's lightning response

our plumbing problems came to a nasty poop-soup head today, so i was forced to call the landlord, fearing the need for a professional plumber.

he finally arrived -- after more than an hour & 1/2. checked it out. went & got a bigger plunger. came back in & asked why the hallway stinks. i said, "we just got back in town yesterday, but i'd put it on those guys (across the hall)." he knocked on the door & asked napoleon dynamite, who said he hadn't noticed the stench. comes back in & says, "nobody knows nothing, right?" while rolling his eyes, but smiling. plunged the toilet twice. cleared it out. said to throw out the plungers we have, call him if we need him again & to have fun peeing. apologized for the muddy footprints in poo-water on the floor. giddy the whole time.

i mopped the floor & cleaned the walls for the umpteenth time today, though i still wouldn't wanna eat off either surface. now i'm finally gonna eat lunch.

unbelievable.

it's not you, it's your family



It's amazing how exhausting family can be. This weekend, the boy & I met his parents upstate for the wedding of one of his cousins. We stayed at a hotel right next door to his folks' hotel &, as planned, I acted as the group chauffeur for the weekend. And even though we didn't spend every free second with them, his family got on each and every one of our very last nerves.

His dad was in classic form, but because he was around his family, he was even more on edge, which translated into non-stop angry rants spewed at anyone withing listening range. Here's how his typical tale goes:

1) gender of character
2) race of character
3) religion of character
4) college major of character
5) where in the class character graduated (if available)
6) college character attended
7) whatever character may have said, done, worn, or other nonsense
8) silence -- sweet, sweet silence, which only lasts a few precious moments

Seriously, people. These are the only things that matter to this man, who rants constantly about the narrow-mindedness & ignorance of the religious right, Catholics, fundamentalist Muslims, and any other religiously-inclined intolerant person. Oh, the delicious irony that he just doesn't see.

Our weekend of family research led us to conclude that, other than himself, the only members of his dad's family who aren't completely self-absorbed, loud annoyances are his grandma & the cousin who got married.



His mom, as you might assume, has attained sainthood.

And it is fan-fuckin'-tastic to be home again.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

a theory on carpet and drapes


While tweezing my eyebrows today, I came to a weird realization. The area south of my pantular equator is also in need of some tending. Is this common?

I decided to take a trip to the Rite Aid to investigate & creep myself out. Wandering the aisles of the store, I'd take a gander at the random women (poor, poor science experiments).

There were a few with enormous, out of control bushes above their eyeballs, and just the possibility of other enormous, out of control bushes on their bodies made me a little nauseous.

Has anyone else thought of this frightening comparison, or is it just me?

In the meantime, I've got a little gardening to do.

r.i.p., dream job

Childhood dream of working on toys & games for a living.


Time of death -- high noon.

We will never forget you.

Monday, September 3, 2007

god bless the labor day weekend

Or Satan bless -- I'm not picky. Either way, this was a super-fun, busy weekend. It was full of great food, lots of friends & had the added bonus of 3 whole Bitch Cakes experiences. And if you know her, you know what fun that is.

we chose to go to jersey

Yeah, you read that right. The man & I went to a BBQ at my friend Ted's in the heights of Jersey City. He & his hubby Ricky hosted a fantabulous soiree (which seems to be an annual shindig) abundant with meats & show tunes. They're both in the thick of the NY theater scene, so it would've been odd if the backyard would've been filled with preachers & accountants. And of course, my world famous cupcakes were a hit. By the way, I'm thinking about branding them as "D-cups," or maybe "Fifi's D-cups." What do you guys think about that?

That night, I dispatched for RightRides, but I'll tell you more about that later. That's a whole long post, in & of itself.

breakin' all the rules -- okay, just 1



On Sunday, Bitch Cakes, the man & I all went down to one of our friendly neighborhood playgrounds to swing. Not in the sexy way. Old school, down-home, real-life swinging. On swings.

Turns out, adults aren't supposed to enter the playground without the accompaniment of a child, but we weren't there to swig warm beer & piss ourselves on benches, nor were we there to pick up "dates," so I think we were right to be there.




It just felt so good to bask in the same kinda endorphins we did as diablitas/o. I think this is some therapy I'm gonna need more & more often.




and then there was ice cream

If you've never been to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, then you're not really a New York ice cream lover. That's just all there is to it. There may only be 8 flavors, but they're the most luscious, indulgent 8 flavors of ice cream that humans may ever have the pleasure of tasting. The Big D had a butter pecan/coffee cup with fresh strawberries on top. Look at that first lick of heaven (also the title of her autobiography).
Bitch Cakes had some coffee & chocolate, I believe. Whatever it was, doesn't she look happy?
The man got strawberry, coffee & vanilla chocolate chunk & I got coffee, strawberry & chocolate. What a delicious reason to live in Brooklyn.


Of course, we also had to pose in front of the gorgeous Manhattan scenery, boobs & all, just to piss off the line of Asian wedding parties who were waiting to get their pictures taken where we were standing. Thought there was gonna be a rumble. These bitches on wheels definitely would've come out on top.

Friday, August 24, 2007

heading for the kitty ford clinic

Last Sunday, the man & I went enjoyed brunch with a couple of friends at Lodge in Williamsburg -- a great spot for a delicious meal & hyper-funny hipster fashion-spotting. Could their jeans possibly get any uglier?

But I digress.

After brunch, we stopped by a pet store to peruse & buy goodies for our cats. When our friends saw this cigar cat toy, they said our cat had to have one -- he'd never be able to quit playing with it. So, we brought their gift home, and, lo & behold, it's 100% bona fide crack. He can't take it, it's so addictive. He was so excited, he literally started balding himself -- pulling out big clumps of hair every time he kicked himself, which was near-constant.

See for yourself why our cat's soon to be joining Lindsay Lohan in rehab.



So...anyone wanna cat-sit this little crackmonster in Mid-September? Anyone?

Monday, July 9, 2007

elementary lunch, my dear

I just had an adorable little lunch of peas & fish sticks (it was really just a fat fish stick, rather than a patty), which I washed down with a glass of ice cold milk & followed with a banana & a couple icy pops. How cute is that?

I just wish I could find the cord to download pictures from my camera, 'cause I'd have shot it & added a pic to make you giggle as much as I did.

By the way, it was an UPA-friendly lunch, as I ate the correct serving size & hardly even touched the tartar sauce with my fishy-fish.

Was your lunch UPA-friendly? Honestly.

hoppin' good times with dirty dames

Everyone who knows me knows I'd rather die in Queens than in Jersey. And that's not saying much. But on Saturday, I found myself packing a small bag & heading to New Jersey -- by choice. We Punk Ropers got an invite from New Jersey's own roller derby queens, the Dirty Dames to come down & teach a class & have some fun. Where better to conduct our brand of insanity than legendary bowling alley & live music venue Asbury Lanes in Asbury Park, NJ?



Getting there was a bit of a pain in the ass. NJ Transit is neither easy to navigate nor on time, plus the other half of our group likes to live on the edge & only got to Penn Station with scant minutes to spare before our departure. All-in-all, it took us more than 3 & 1/2 hours to get there from our happy hamlet of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Yowza.

But at least it was worth it. Not only did we have a great time with the Hub City Hellrazors & get them salivating for more Punk Rope action, but they invited yours truly to workout with them in New Brunswick while I train for the Gotham Girls.



After such a fun time with the Hellrazor bitches, this coming weekend is gonna be a derby-derby weekend. For anyone brave enough, we're heading to Jersey again Friday evening for the Dirty Dames' next home bout, against the Wilmington City Ruff Rollers from Wilmington, DE. Join us if you dare. For anyone interested, but avoiding nasty skin reactions to Jersey air, the Gotham Girls' next bout is Saturday night in Harlem. Just remember, whichever bout you attend, get your tickets early so you're not left outside in the dark. By yourself.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

take the steel upa challenge!

Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time again. Summer is here, and the temperatures are scorching. So, of course, we do what comes naturally to make ourselves more comfortable. We take our clothes off. Or, at least, we take pieces of clothing away.

For some people, it's all well and good. They're not dumping muffin tops over their pants and skirts, pale jiggliness isn't offending the eyeballs of everyone around them, and the thong factor is usually not top of mind for them. The rest of us are a sore sight, though.

That's why I'd like to invite you all to join me in the inaugural Steel UPA Challenge. What's an UPA, you might say? Well, it's the same thing as a gunt or a gock, but we here at the fleshwound refer to it lovingly as the upper pussy (or penis) area. When this area is big and flabby, we refer to it as a FUPA, or fat upper pussy/penis area.

It's a great thing to love and be comfortable in our bodies, but when we combine low-cut jeans with FUPAs, horrible things happen. I've seen pictures of myself violating this principle, and I'm constantly assaulted by this sad, sad sight on the subways, in the parks, and on the streets of New York City everyday.

So I ask you all, my friends, to take this pledge today. Stand up, wherever you are, and repeat these solmen words with pride, dear readers.

I (insert name here) do solemnly swear to firm that shit up and/or keep that shit covered during these warm summer months. I promise to wear clothes that fit me, including shirts that cover my boobies and can tuck into my pants, shorts, and/or skirts. I promise to not purposely wear cute thongs to try to cover up the fact that I'm sporting pants and/or skirts meant for children and/or hanging at half-mast. I swear that I will smack the uncovered fat of friends, loved ones and strangers on trains to bring this heinousness to their attention as well, out of the love of my heart. Amen.

Now, friends, let's get our asses to the gym & get that shit all firmed up. Who's coming with me?!

Monday, June 11, 2007

it's derby time, bitches

Friday night, the man & I braved the trip to the Upper East Side to watch the ladies of the Bronx Gridlock take on the 2006 champs, Queens of Pain, at Hunter College. If you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, and you're sensitive to cussing or thoughts of massive pain, look away, or simply go to another blog altogether. It ain't gonna be pretty. You see, those are two of the teams representing the five boroughs in the beautiful & deadly Gotham Girls Roller Derby.



Holy crap, was it a great time -- and for $20 a ticket, it was a cheap night of entertainment in Manhattan. The Gridlock & Queens were neck & neck for the entire bout. Elbows & hips became the most formidable weapons, fishnets were de rigueur & the sweet sounds of hundreds of "fuck yous" rang out from all over the gym -- directed at refs, skaters, cheerleaders & mascots -- anyone, really. There was even a kick-ass halftime show, featuring Brooklyn Double Dutch, five chicks who can jump 2-3 ropes at a time, with insane amounts of cool & rhythm. The double dutch show was followed by a little representin' by the cheerleaders for all 4 Gotham Girls' teams. Not quite as rhythmic, but a lesbitronic/boy's wet dream nonetheless. In the end, the Gridlock skated like demons & truly earned the win -- 118 to 107. It was a beautiful thing.



If you've never been to the derby, here are a few things you should keep in mind:

-don't start shit with any of the other fans -- they may skate for another derby league & they can most definitely kick your soft pansy ass
-you'd better cheer like hell, no matter what team you choose to back
-to keep from shredding your voice, stomp as you cheer (particularly loud & obnoxious on wooden risers)
-dress for high temperatures -- it tends to get boiling hot in bootleg basement gyms & you'll be jumping up & down & stomping a lot

Y'all join us for the next bout this Saturday, June 16th. Get your tickets now, though. Those bitches sell out just about every time.

Monday, May 21, 2007

abundant sunshine on my shoulder


In case you hadn't noticed, I was really unhappy at my last freelance gig. The Creative Director was a complete douchebag & the place was sliding quickly down the bowl of an enormous toilet in flush mode. As luck would have it, I was emancipated almost two weeks ago. The CD said they just didn't have enough work & money to keep two writers on staff, so he let me go & kept the poor guy who was struggling through his second day. Soon enough, he'll join the frustrated copywriters' guild.

It's not exactly an exclusive group. There are frustrated writers everywhere -- fantastic writers, stifled by narrow constraints, untrusting superiors and a lack of vision. Every day, I see more proof, especially online. Take, for instance, this example from weather.com. Looks to me like someone was sick & tired of describing conditions as merely "sunny," "cloudy" or "raining." It's abundantly clear to me that someone's unhappy.

That's why this time, I'm taking it easy. I'm not going to be pressured into taking a job just to work. This time, I'm going to be much pickier & get what I want, instead of just a paycheck & a daily sense of dread.

Friday, May 4, 2007

peoples gots to go when peoples gots to go

The fun portion of this trailride I've been on the the past couple months is coming to a bitter, sad end. I'm neither bitter, nor sad, but I'm keenly aware of the dwindling numbers in the humor column here. Friday marked the passing of yet another one of my newest & funniest compadres from the tiny agency I've been calling my temporary crapshack recently. She didn't die -- yet. She may if she sends me pictures from the beach this week. She just got a better job at a better place. Much better in both categories.

And today, the unsettling reality of silence is overwhelming. Seriously, nobody's talking. Sound has died in suite 900. Who will I take hour-ish-long lunches with? Who will dare to suffer the occasional afternoon Smoochie? I'm gonna need to have a bake sale to raise the funds necessary to find my sanity, wherever it may be.

Or I could just find another job & run far away from the eerie silence of rats trapped in cages of their own making. Yeah, I'm gnawing outta here. Anyone got a tooth file?

UPDATE: I Smoochied myself. Now I feel dirty, but in a totally good, healthy way.

Friday, April 20, 2007

fuckin' activist judges

On Wednesday, April 18, 2007, as the 24-hour news outlets gushed story after sensational story about the crazed VA Tech gunman and his innocent victims, the Supreme Court ruled to uphold W's "Partial Birth Abortion Ban," which he signed into law in 2003. The law hadn't been applied yet, as it smacked of unconstitutionality. But that all changed on Wednesday, as his ultra-conservative appointments to the Court made their presence felt. In a 5-4 decision, SCOTUS (aka, SCOTUM) opened the door to terrifying erosions of our reproductive rights, with, one can assume, more civil rights soon to follow.

Being a good little activista, I donated to NARAL, stirred up my hornets' nest of friends and wrote a letter to Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. It was the least I could do to calm my blinding fury and remind those fuckers to keep their hands off my body. I'm posting my letter to Justice Ginsberg, in case anyone else wants to write her and thank her for her support, or if you just have a hankerin' for more of my voice. Plus, NARAL has started a petition and a letter to the editor campaign, both of which you can find here.

Ladies, gents, please stand with me now as I salute Justice Ruth "The Motherfuckin' Truth" Ginsberg.


Dear Justice Ginsberg,

I am writing you on my behalf and that of many friends who are deeply troubled over the Supreme Court’s decision today to uphold the Partial Birth Abortion Ban Act of 2003. We are not only troubled but terrified at the possible implications that this ruling could hold for reproductive rights in the future.

As we all know, the religious right and fundamentalist groups have been fighting for more ignorance and less necessary healthcare and prevention for years. In my 33 years, I’ve only known our country as a somewhat progressive nation, for legalizing abortion and making several strides for equal rights for women and minorities. But the tide seems to be changing, and what was a small group of like-minded individuals has become a political force with which to be reckoned.

This group has a hard time separating church and state, clearly demonstrated in the majority opinion, in which Justice Kennedy said the ruling reflects the government’s “legitimate, substantial interest in preserving and promoting fetal life.” We can also see it in Bush's response, "Today's decision affirms that the Constitution does not stand in the way of the people's representatives enacting laws reflecting the compassion and humanity of America." (emphasis mine) This from a government which has consistently sent thousands of young men and women to die in an unnecessary war, supports torture when it’s in their best interest, and is helping to take basic healthcare out of the reach of even the middle-class. The Constitution only stands in the way of zealous groups’ and individuals’ agendas.

I applaud and thank you for your strong dissent against this ruling, and I ask your advice for productive ways in which my friends and I can demonstrate our shock and dismay over this ruling. We are all active in our local pro-choice groups, and vote with passion and conviction, but 2008 is a long way away. The reasonable, pro-choice majority needs to be heard over the cacophony of cries for our country to revert to the Dark Ages from small fundamentalist groups.

Please, continue to stand strong for our Constitutional rights, and thank you for continuing to fight for reproductive rights, and the health of all American women. And please let us know how we can stand with you in fighting the good fight.

Sincerely,

Fifi
Brooklyn, NY

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

bizarre observations of tv-land

Last night, I caught enough of Deal or No Deal to notice the thing that stands out to me even in their commercials. It's glaring, actually, and I can't be the only one who notices. It's not just the models who are all dressed alike. All the DoND zombies are similarly tailored. The "I'm proud to be an American" uniform for female contestants seems to be black pants & an ill-fitting brightly-hued sweater. Tasteful, yet whitebread, plus it's Lee Greenwood-approved. The male contestants all sport khakis or black pants with the kind of pastel oxford shirt that says, "I'm not gay, I'm from Kansas & I don't know any better."

What do you think? Are there just racks & racks of sad, boring clothes in their green rooms, or do you think those poor saps actually come dressed identically?

Talk to me, Goose.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

welcome to my fleshwound

This is my first post to "the wound," as I'm gonna fondly call it from time to time. Pressure from friends, especially the dim sum bum, has me writing a blog post instead of working. What can I say? I'd rather do this anyway.

So what can you expect from the wound? Well, along with amusing you with only-in-New York moments, we here at the wound will be launching the inaugural Steel UPA Challenge (more details soon to come). Plus, you'll be able to depend on weekly-ish updates on your people in Greenpoint, including anecdotes, musings, and the occasional picture and video (though you may never see us, per se). Occasionally, we may also romp off into uncharted socio-economic-geo-political waters, but don't be scared, babies. the wound will be with you (picture "the force" with more out-of-basement moments). There may even be a review of some item, service, or event from time to time, and you can probably guarantee regular rants.

No different from any other blog, right? Just so much more fun, 'cause it's the fuckin' fleshwound, baby. Oh, yeah. There will definitely be cussing. Fundies beware. Fifi's here.