tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9326574419914358942024-03-13T19:55:12.561-04:00the fleshwoundfifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-4021500273441042722009-11-17T14:16:00.001-05:002009-11-17T14:16:35.467-05:00Don't Forget To Have Kids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.huffingtonpost.com/gen/117314/thumbs/s-RELATIONSHIPS-large.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://images.huffingtonpost.com/gen/117314/thumbs/s-RELATIONSHIPS-large.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br/>Oh, Mika, really? You're gonna tell young women that the greatest gift a woman can receive is children? Not self-respect? Not knowing who you are and standing up for that person? Not loving yourself exactly as you are? Just what your uterus can do, huh? Yeah, we've come a long way, ladies. <br /><br /><br /><br />How about this -- instead of a "You can have it all. Just as long as you're a mommy." attitude, we all strive for a more progressive ideal of, "As long as you feel true fulfillment in your life and happiness with your choices, it doesn't matter if you have kids early, later or not at all." That way, we can stop telling girls to look outside themselves for their self-worth and maybe work harder on helping them develop self-esteem through making smart decisions.<br/><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mika-brzezinski/dont-forget-to-have-kids_b_350594.html">Read the Article at HuffingtonPost</a>fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-12433992946110223042009-06-17T15:36:00.002-04:002009-06-17T16:02:55.669-04:00wednesday one-linerC. Wolff: Hmm.... I feel like I set something down here<br /><br />Fifi: You know what you set down? A precedent.<br /><br /><br />Yeah, that's right. I did it.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-61816764744883057832009-03-25T17:32:00.002-04:002009-03-25T17:40:11.621-04:00and with this, the silence endsIt's a little-known scientific fact that when you have nothing but time on your hands, said time flies much faster. One hour of free time -- watching TV, not writing, not reading friends' blogs, vegging out -- becomes a week, becomes 3 months.
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<br />I haven't forgotten about you all. I haven't forgotten about writing. I haven't forgotten to do things about which I could blog. I've just been lazy -- enjoying my free time. Try not to hate me for it. Instead, take the opportunity this Saturday to come out to the opening bout of the GGRD & see my debut as a jeerleader.
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<br /><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmdvdGhhbWdpcmxzcm9sbGVyZGVyYnkuY29tL21lcmNo"><img src="http://c4.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/44/l_b023532eb6164404a4b7672955cdeb97.jpg" /></a>
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<br />Saturday, March 28 - Season Opening Double Header
<br /><br />Doors 6:30pm, Whistle at 7:30pm
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<br />GGRD All-Stars vs. Boston Derby Dames All-Stars<br />
<br />GGRD's Wall Street Traitors vs. Suburbia (Westchester) All-Stars
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<br />Including presentation of the WFTDA National Championship trophy, THE HYDRA<br /><br />
<br />at LIU-Brooklyn's Schwartz Athletic Center<br />
<br />at 1 University Plaza, Corner of Flatbush and DeKalb<br />
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<br />Easy access by subway: A, C, G to Hoyt Schermerhorn,<br />
<br />B, M, Q, R to DeKalb, or 2, 3, 4, 5 to Nevins
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<br />Tickets available now <a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmdvdGhhbWdpcmxzcm9sbGVyZGVyYnkuY29tL21lcmNo">right here</a> for the full 2009 season of bouts!<br />
<br />DON'T BE DISAPPOINTED AT THE DOOR - BUY IN ADVANCE!
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<br />fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-80648265453885446172008-11-04T14:17:00.004-05:002008-11-04T15:01:50.898-05:00i totally nailed that ballotWho knew voting could make a person feel so powerful and sexy? Upon successfully making history in the voting booth, I walked out of my polling place, P.S. 34, literally euphoric.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SRCpHascwVI/AAAAAAAAAKY/zWoghd_CUb4/s1600-h/DSC02556.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SRCpHascwVI/AAAAAAAAAKY/zWoghd_CUb4/s200/DSC02556.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264893909286043986" /></a><br />Earlier this morning, it was a different story around here. I had a giant mop to tame before I could leave the house. This photo evidence is for those of you who don't believe my hair is naturally curly. Unlike lucky straight-haired people, I fell asleep with damp hair & woke up the swamp thing. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SRCpVyrYLsI/AAAAAAAAAKg/fi5lmAcW8O0/s1600-h/DSC02553.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SRCpVyrYLsI/AAAAAAAAAKg/fi5lmAcW8O0/s200/DSC02553.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264894156242169538" /></a><br /><br />Oh & in the spirit of the day, I'm still seeking submissions for my future jeerleader name. Let's get some submissions, people!fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-29550879906834922502008-10-14T15:15:00.003-04:002008-10-14T16:15:17.831-04:00and just like that, i'm a jeerleaderYes, my friends, the mood's been heavy lately. But in the midst of all the loss, the man & I managed to miss only one <a href="http://gothamgirlsrollerderby.com/">Gotham Girls Roller Derby</a> bout all season. But we did make it to the latest bout, September 27th, an amazing double-header. The Brooklyn Bombshells barely edged past the bilingual all-star gals of Montreal Roller Derby, the New Skidz on the Block, & had the crowd on our feet, screaming, clapping & stomping ('cause that makes the most noise). Then the Manhattan Mayhem beat the living snot outta the Rhode Island Riveters of Providence Roller Derby.<br /><br />While there, I was recruited by my friends in the world-famous <a href="http://www.myspace.com/jeerleaders">Gotham Girls Jeerleaders</a> to become a member of the hottest group of pom-pom-toting bitches in the Big Bad Apple. Come next season, yours truly will be trackside as one of Manhattan's Jailhouse Rockettes. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SPT83jCG4xI/AAAAAAAAAKI/vZ71uS-NhtE/s1600-h/DSC01790.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SPT83jCG4xI/AAAAAAAAAKI/vZ71uS-NhtE/s200/DSC01790.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257104696275297042" /></a><br /><br /><br />Now, some of you might ask, "Why Manhattan? Why not Brooklyn, you treasonous lech?" Well, because my friend Lizzie Warden claimed me for her very own, & how, my friends, could I fight someone named Lizzie Warden?<br /><br />Some others of you might ask, "Why a Jeerleader & not a skater? I thought you wanted to be a rollergirl." Well, yeah. Even a year ago, I would've said "Hell yeah, I'm gonna be a rollergirl!" But after trying out & being rejected twice, I started playing soccer to get in prime condition & enjoy the camaraderie of a team sport in the meantime. Turns out, I really dig it & I get plenty hurt (just check out my <a href="http://thefleshwoundnyc.blogspot.com/2008/06/bruise-of-week-3-installments-in-one.html">bruises of the week</a>) kicking balls & ass on McCarren's soccer fields every Friday night. Hell, I even got stitches (about which I really meant to blog)! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SPT9o9HGOvI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/sMxJu8PCaXY/s1600-h/DSC01985.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SPT9o9HGOvI/AAAAAAAAAKQ/sMxJu8PCaXY/s200/DSC01985.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257105545089137394" /></a><br /><br />So Fifi Fleshwound might never skate on the flat-track, but I will be an official member of the supporting cast next season. If you haven't yet been initiated into the wonderful world of women's flat-track roller derby, or if you've got a hankerin' for another fun- & blood-filled bout, the Championship Bout between the Bronx Gridlock & the Queens of Pain is October 25th. If you can't make that bout, you'll have to wait for next season when you'll get a load of my fantastic jeering skills along with the uber-amazing action of the derby.<br /><br />In the meantime, I have to come up with a sexy, bad-ass Jeerleader name -- preferably with Fifi, of course, but I'm open to any suggestion. So, help me out with a jeering moniker & earn my undying devotion. Do it. Do it now.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-37735527107169376872008-09-10T15:36:00.004-04:002008-09-14T20:04:23.398-04:00dear rasha<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SMgmxQP7qRI/AAAAAAAAAKA/HTYpUW8nbTI/s1600-h/DSC01377.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SMgmxQP7qRI/AAAAAAAAAKA/HTYpUW8nbTI/s200/DSC01377.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244484393690179858" /></a><br />It was a month ago yesterday that you were taken from us, decades too soon. In that month, those of us you left behind have become closer than ever. I guess you can be happy about that. Many of us have said, "I hope I take on some of Rasha's patience, acceptance, zest for life" in order to have truly learned from your example. Sadly, all I can say so far is I've taken on some of your eating habits. Maybe that's just a step in a more tolerant direction.<br /><br />You've left some pretty stunned people in your wake. Those of us who didn't know each other before have clung together to try to glean more of you from each other. We've <a href="http://bitchcakescommutes.blogspot.com/2008/08/rashas-memorial.html">celebrated your life</a>, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dangercreative/sets/72157607294911625/">your birthday</a>, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bitchcakes/sets/72157607118872635/">your boyfriend's birthday</a>, several other friends' birthdays & the <a href="http://punkrope.com/home/">Punk Rope DVD release</a>. We've attended each other's plays & games, gone on 2 beach trips, picnicked, bowled & dined together. At every event, there was a huge void -- something making us all tear up, that we don't have to explain. There's never a smile or a laugh without the wistful thought, "Rasha should be here." You are greatly missed.<br /><br />Even though it's been a month, it still feels unreal. None of us truly accepts the truth of the matter. And as I sit in an ICU waiting room for the second time in a month, I keep asking, "Why?" Why not the redneck sitting across from me who's obviously never met a fried vegetable she didn't love, a cigarette she didn't smoke or a beer she didn't chug? Why not the enormous lady from the other day who kept stuffing french fries down her gullet, apparently trying to make a quick transition from the Cardiac ICU waiting room to a semi-private room? Why not the little shithead who took your life, instead of you? None of it makes any sense. Maybe none of it ever will.<br /><br />You are forever missed.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-71346906475926127412008-06-17T10:27:00.003-04:002008-12-08T21:59:33.479-05:00crap -- i've been labeled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFfRfKcZm7I/AAAAAAAAAJY/HUqJx7oRoE8/s1600-h/angry_bride.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFfRfKcZm7I/AAAAAAAAAJY/HUqJx7oRoE8/s200/angry_bride.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212865427014261682" /></a><br />All this time I'd been saying I didn't want a lavish wedding, or even a wedding per se -- because I don't want a froufrou dress, DEFINITELY no family & no attendants (because that always seems to devolve into a popularity contest & I couldn't do that to the people I love the most) -- it turns out that I'm an "<a href="http://lifestyle.msn.com/relationships/couplesandmarriage/article.aspx?cp-documentid=7898440>1=32001">anti-bride</a>."<br /><br />With all my anti-consumer-religio-corporate-marriage leanings, I've been pegged as my very own tidy demographic. Damn it all to hell.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-81794884878787856072008-06-16T21:15:00.009-04:002008-12-08T21:59:35.057-05:00bruise of the week (3 installments in one!)<span style="font-weight:bold;">bruise week uno</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcRJsTfZEI/AAAAAAAAAIk/IS6cWrvkePo/s1600-h/DSC01780.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcRJsTfZEI/AAAAAAAAAIk/IS6cWrvkePo/s200/DSC01780.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212653951914042434" /></a><br />Our 1st candidate for glory tonight is from my first soccer game, April 25th. I took a cleat to the inside of my right knee -- from a guy who probably had a good 50 lbs. on me. It's just kind of amazing that he didn't break my leg. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcQvCzaObI/AAAAAAAAAIc/i74gwDx4_zY/s1600-h/DSC01779.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcQvCzaObI/AAAAAAAAAIc/i74gwDx4_zY/s200/DSC01779.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212653494097033650" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">bruise week dos</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcS4XrYmOI/AAAAAAAAAIs/F_nn9uf5P0w/s1600-h/DSC01782.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcS4XrYmOI/AAAAAAAAAIs/F_nn9uf5P0w/s200/DSC01782.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212655853342595298" /></a><br />Our next beauty is from the last week of May. I wish I had a really cool story to go with it -- like I knocked out some Amazon woman's teeth when she shoved her way on the subway one morning. But it ain't so. I stepped out of the way of a woman in my office & ran my hand into a metal hand railing. This one was hot & lasted a long time. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcTZcwLW_I/AAAAAAAAAI0/3y77RdVCs0w/s1600-h/DSC01783.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcTZcwLW_I/AAAAAAAAAI0/3y77RdVCs0w/s200/DSC01783.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212656421640559602" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">bruise week tres</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcUZg3l8HI/AAAAAAAAAI8/WabmwXtRlIw/s1600-h/DSC01786.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcUZg3l8HI/AAAAAAAAAI8/WabmwXtRlIw/s200/DSC01786.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212657522257031282" /></a><br />Our current contender is a swollen, ugly knuckle that makes it painful for me to even walk. That's right, this bitch is my big toe knuckle. I did this 2 weeks ago in a soccer game. I kicked the crap out of a guy, trying to get the ball from him. He was totally asking for it. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e){}"href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcUsyUssLI/AAAAAAAAAJE/Hceogz15vIk/s1600-h/DSC01785.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcUsyUssLI/AAAAAAAAAJE/Hceogz15vIk/s200/DSC01785.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212657853360025778" /></a><br /><br /><br />We also have a runner up for this week -- I took the full brunt of a hurtling soccer ball to the...wait for it...RIGHT knee. My poor right leg has really taken a beating in soccer. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcVQqO2jdI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/66HeDVa0ANg/s1600-h/DSC01788.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFcVQqO2jdI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/66HeDVa0ANg/s200/DSC01788.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212658469663313362" /></a><br /><br /><br />So, how does your black & blue look this week?fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-58031375223468654542008-06-13T16:29:00.003-04:002008-12-08T21:59:35.205-05:00it's thurs...wtf, it's friday already?!This week has come & gone like so many others -- swiftly & without enough chocolate.<br /><br />With the week's end, there are a few things I have to get off my chest.<br /><br />1) Strapless dresses should never, under any circumstances, be acceptable office wear. Not even for ladies. If I see another girl tugging to keep her boobs covered during a meeting, I might just call her out for dressing like her mom when she's working the corner. And it's just now June, for christ's sake. I have several more months for this.<br /><br />2) People with hooves in place of toes should not be allowed to wear flip-flops, sandals, mandals or any other type of open shoe. I almost threw up on a lady this morning, switching from the G to the V at Court Square. Her right big toe was so gnarled it was like a tree stump became human.<br /><br />3) I'm still at work while everyone in my office packs up & leaves. I need to go mourn Tim Russert's passing -- what an amazing political reporter. He will be greatly missed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFLkb9pHcDI/AAAAAAAAAIU/vt5uErHFNzA/s1600-h/DSC05343.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SFLkb9pHcDI/AAAAAAAAAIU/vt5uErHFNzA/s200/DSC05343.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211478887875702834" /></a><br />So, I'm heading out to prepare for my last regular season soccer game. We're tied for 2nd going into the game, so wish us luck, bitches. If you can't make it to cheer on <a href="http://www.nycoedsoccer.com/SpringBrooklyn.html">the Badgers</a> tonight, next week & the week after are the playoffs. In case you're gonna miss those due to previous commitments, outrageous airfare costs or that restraining order, here's a picture our very own precious <a href="http://msbitchcakes.blogspot.com/">Bitch Cakes</a> took of yours truly (from May 23rd).<br /><br />Tomorrow, look for a new post -- that will hopefully be a regular installment: bruise of the week. I have a few weeks of glorious black, blue, purple & green to catch you up on.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-36404486213240422232008-05-22T15:46:00.002-04:002008-12-08T21:59:35.381-05:00the unspeakable power of knee socks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SDXYw-_Q0qI/AAAAAAAAAIM/Yaic1NAxsT0/s1600-h/57226825.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SDXYw-_Q0qI/AAAAAAAAAIM/Yaic1NAxsT0/s200/57226825.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203303280550138530" /></a><br />Living in NYC & being a Vag American, I often get cat calls. Some days, more than others. But the biggest reactions I get are on days when I wear knee socks...and they're visible.<br /><br />Last Thursday: I put on a simple <a href="http://www.target.com/gp/detail.html/ref=sc_qi_detailbutton/601-3865233-4725715?&page=1&index=target&rh=k%3amerona%20black%20dress&asin=B000LWKMDW">black dress</a> -- nothing fancy, just cute (P.S., ladies, if you don't already own one of these, buy one now, as they're unbelievably flattering & forgiving). But, apparently, when I pulled on black/grey/white/red argyle knee socks (with red skulls & crossbones at the top) & some black patent pumps before walking out the door, I became a total vamp.<br /><br />So many male heads turned my way you'd think I was wearing nothing but bacon. Suits, tourists, bike messengers, old men. Even asexual, girls' jeans-wearing hipster boys. A construction worker screamed "wow" from the top of a scaffold. A couple of men walked into doors and other sidewalk impediments. I was walking mayhem.<br /><br />But when I've worn that dress before, reactions were mild at best. So I began to wonder, is it the knee socks themselves that melt men into googly-eyed little boys? Is it the sex-appeal I feel, and surely exude, when I put them on? Or did I just look particularly hot that day?<br /><br />To test my theory, I rocked grey & black striped knee socks today with a grey long-sleeved boxy t-shirt, black capris & the same black patent pumps. Again, heads have turned, cat calls have emanated from trucks & parking garages. Seas of tourists have parted in my path. Other women looked on jealously.<br /><br />However, I left the house this morning in my rain boots, which covered my knee socks completely. Not a head turned. It wasn't till I got to work & changed from the boots to the pumps that I got noticed. Without the visible knee socks, I had on a cloak of invisibility. As soon as people could see them, they could see me. One of my account girls even said, "It makes me proud to walk into client offices with you like that, 'cause you're obviously creative."<br /><br />Obviously.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-74357598513738055722008-04-15T14:31:00.004-04:002008-12-08T21:59:35.474-05:00mooing the ol' party lineIf you’ve never seen it, there’s a <a href="http://nymag.com/nymag/nightlife/partylines/archive/">fun little page</a> in every <a href="nymag.com">New York Magazine</a> with photos of celebrities & non-celeb-camera-whores in their natural habitats—partying. It’s called —‘cause that’s clever. Now, I, as a woman who couldn’t care less about the <a href="http://gawker.com/stalker/">comings</a>, <a href="http://www.tmz.com/">goings</a>, <a href="http://www.britneyzone.com/britney-stops-at-gas-station/">self-service-gas-pump-<br />sightings</a> or <a href="http://www.thesuperficial.com/">love interests</a> of most celebretards, find this page particularly intoxicating. But not from the catch-up-on-gossip-&-OMG-see-what-they’re-wearing viewpoint. Nope, I’m there purely to make fun of them, & I’m sure I’m not the only one who does it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SAT2_kt_KKI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ugSK0zGxi1w/s1600-h/071217-partylines.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/SAT2_kt_KKI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ugSK0zGxi1w/s200/071217-partylines.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189544242686404770" /></a><br />You see, each week, they feature three big soirees in NYC & Photoshop a handful of the beautiful together in one neat little horizontal grouping. One of the “famous” people’s bigger than all the others, like King or Queen Cutout, ‘cause he or she deigned to speak to the press & be quoted. Usually, the quotes make me sad. ‘Cause they’re out of touch. Or just plain ignorant.<br /><br />Anhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifyhow, the super-fun game I like to play with these celebrescapes is to try to deduce the event with the collection of names & faces in attendance. Anytime there’s an Olsen twin, my gut reaction says it’s either, “2nd Annual Eating Disorder <a href="http://www.benjerry.com/features/americone_dream_index.cfm">Ice Cream Social</a> at <a href="http://hogpit.com/">The Hog Pit</a> in the Meatpacking District!” or “Marc Jacobs’ Fundraiser to Buy Pullover Sweaters for Absurdly Large Headed People, Hosted by the Society of Disproportionately Giant Heads at <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/egold/2143174385/">Trump Tower</a>.” I’m rarely wrong.<br /><br />So, play along with me on this one—from the February 14th issue. Let’s see, I see people much younger than me…who get paid too much…to do something meaningless…typically not very well…dressed like homeless people…though those rags probably cost each of their stylists a small fortune….<br /><br />My guess is, it’s “The Biennial Tacky Clothing and Accessory Swap Meet for Talentless Youth, hosted by J-Lo & Mark Anthony’s Placenta, at <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valumart/500805743/">Washington Square Park</a>.”<br /><br />What do you think?fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-90995505155622770352008-03-31T17:59:00.003-04:002008-12-08T21:59:35.556-05:00oh, sorry, sorryLadies, why is it that we cannot approach the same door, simultaneously, from either side without apologizing to each other? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R_Fgm0p0NnI/AAAAAAAAAH8/WZaAgZ1JIf0/s1600-h/200426156-001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R_Fgm0p0NnI/AAAAAAAAAH8/WZaAgZ1JIf0/s200/200426156-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5184030866165479026" /></a><br /><br />Here’s a handy reenactment from the office.<br /><br />As I approach the ladies’ room door, as I do, sometimes dozens of times everyday, the door is pulled open before me. The woman who begins to emerge says, “Oh, sorry,” as I immediately breathe out, without thinking, “Sorry.”<br /><br />Here’s another reenactment. Similar, but with a slight variation. Still at the office, because I pee there a lot.<br /><br />After yet another gallon of fake-tea-flavored water, I approach the ladies’ room door. This time, I turn the handle & begin to push the door in. (I rarely push very hard, as I am extremely sensitive to the fact that there is often another person smack-dab on the other side of it, just praying for me not to send them sailing into the wall or ass-ending them onto the floor.) Typically, before the door is fully open, I’m face-to-face with whoever was trying to exit the bathroom before I arrived to open the door & fuck everything up for her. I immediately spit out, “Sorry,” as I’m met with, “Oops, sorry” from my now-blocked-into-the-bathroom peer.<br /><br />But why? Why do we apologize because we’re both trying to use the same door from different directions? Is it dick to not apologize, to merely open the door & say nothing, or stand aside as they open the door & say nothing?<br /><br />I’ve decided to take a stand beginning today. I will not apologize for being on the other side of the door. Let’s see how the ladies of my super-cool ad agency respond.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-61501077134151946862008-03-16T17:16:00.004-04:002008-12-08T21:59:36.108-05:00time of new life: 6:57 pm, march 2, 2008That's the moment the first needle pricked my skin and changed my body forever. At the age of 34 and a day, I was finally getting the tattoo I'd dreamed of for years, nay decades.<br /><br />As I'd told my other half & Bitch Cakes, I'd felt for most of my life like I'd been missing something -- something integral. My body felt naked without a piece of artwork. And I'd decided years ago that it was my right arm that really needed it. My left arm is my man's territory. He owns my ring finger & has a long-term lease on my wrist, on which I wear an elegant little watch, a gift from him.<br /><br />So if my left arm belongs to my man, then my right arm -- my <span style="font-style:italic;">write</span> arm (ba-dum-bum) -- belongs to me. And being a right-handed writer, I can't wear bracelets on my right arm -- they're irritating & get in the way. So the right arm was just a natural for ink. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R92r_QzxOcI/AAAAAAAAAHc/65n5jumPt5Y/s1600-h/DSC01704.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R92r_QzxOcI/AAAAAAAAAHc/65n5jumPt5Y/s200/DSC01704.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178484249878149570" /></a><br /><br />The tattoo itself is my personal logo, as interpreted by <a href="http://www.ajaxtattoo.com/">Alex</a>, my tattoo artist. The pin up girl first appeared on the cover of Flirt magazine in the 40s or 50s, & when I was in ad school, I fell in love with the drawing & adapted it for my own -- one important facet of which is her left hand, which I fashioned into a perfect Hook 'Em Horns.<br /><br />I wasn't sure how well I was going to fare during the inking process. I don't typically do well with needles. I don't give blood. I don't like having it taken at the doctor's office. And the notion of immunization at my age is rather horrifying. But the tattooing process was completely different. It wasn't just pain for a loss of blood, a dot & band-aid (& possibly a bruise) on my arm, some orange drink & cookies in the event of donation & the ability to travel in malaria-infested areas in the case of immunization. It was going to result in something of great beauty. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R92sdQzxOdI/AAAAAAAAAHk/Q-cNe1ZK3yc/s1600-h/DSC01705.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R92sdQzxOdI/AAAAAAAAAHk/Q-cNe1ZK3yc/s200/DSC01705.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178484765274225106" /></a><br /><br />I watched as Alex, an amazing artist in any medium, began outlining, then shading, then coloring my pin up girl. In fact, I actually enjoyed watching it. Even as I saw myself beginning to bleed, I enjoyed it. Even as the needles scraped over bones and nerves, I enjoyed it. (Check out the entire process on <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dangercreative/">flickr</a> & leave comment, if you haven't already.) Three hours went by faster than I could've ever expected. The shop, <a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=295736771">East Side Ink</a>, full when we arrived, & bustling for the first hour or so, was empty except for Alex, my man, the shop manager and me. We paid our tab -- cash only, kids -- and walked off in the direction of the L train.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R92s_wzxOfI/AAAAAAAAAH0/TtutSfPQWLE/s1600-h/DSC01710.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R92s_wzxOfI/AAAAAAAAAH0/TtutSfPQWLE/s200/DSC01710.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178485357979711986" /></a><br />Unveiling my girl at work wasn't as dramatic as I'd expected. People I didn't expect to enjoy it responded really well, even asking about my artist, as if they might plan a visit themselves. The next hurdle, of course, is my future in-laws, but if they balk, I can add that to the list of things they don't need to understand. But it's not about whether people like it or not. It's about whether I like it or not. And, damn it, I friggin' love it.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-45455594803466224272008-02-29T17:44:00.002-05:002008-02-29T17:47:45.545-05:00on dream jobs & derailmentGenerally, I’m one of those people who would rather dig out my own kidney with a spork than do personal stuff on company time, especially blogging. But as I’m paid to write, sometimes I have to write to get through a block. This, my precious readers, is one of those times, so please bear with me as I write through the pain.<br /><br />As I write, all the synapses in my brain are firing promptly. However, they’re not firing with great accuracy, or with any accuracy at all, really. See, I need them to be firing over management training, which is what I’m trying to write about (for what will be my first ever print ads, thank you very much). But they just want to talk to you, dear readers, and tell you how they’re doing and how much they’ve missed you.<br /><br />Here goes.<br /><br />I greatly apologize to the entire world, but to you most, dear ones, for having dropped off the radar. Seven weeks ago Monday, I started working here, at one of my dream shops—one of every creative’s dream shops. And not only is it one of the top ad agencies in the whole wide world, but as a freelancer, I constantly have to prove myself in order to be offered a real, full-time job at one of the top ad agencies in the whole wide world.<br /><br />So there you have it. I’m not ignoring you. I’m not trying NOT to keep up with all of you through your blogs. I’m just trying to get through daily writer’s block and impress some of the hardest people in my industry to impress. I’ll do my best to poke my head up more often so the whack-a-fifi game is actually fun. Perhaps I’ll even invite some guest bloggers onto the scene.<br /><br />In the meantime, enjoy my birthday tomorrow in your own way. You know where to mail your sacrificial souls.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-36721776928640292152008-01-15T23:31:00.001-05:002008-12-08T21:59:36.276-05:00possibly the greatest use of your time EVARThanks to the <a href="http://unorganizedlibrarian.blogspot.com/">Dewey Decimal Mistress</a>, we can all see ourselves as ponies. <a href="http://www.hasbro.com/mylittlepony/">My Little Ponies</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R42KNfampUI/AAAAAAAAAHM/k9gdqMNpXuU/s1600-h/dreampony.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R42KNfampUI/AAAAAAAAAHM/k9gdqMNpXuU/s200/dreampony.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155929112785102146" /></a><br />From the make-me-a-pony site's homepage, "This pony generator lets you create your dream pony, test generate a starter pony, or see what the pony of two existing parents looks like." Essentially, we have complete artistic license & full reign of the place.<br /><br />So before you go around smacking people upside the head or overturning desks 'cause you just can't take another damn "hump day joke, take a couple minutes to <a href="http://www.jwebgen.com/generate.html">create your pony</a> (that's me in that picture, if you didn't recognize...I lost some more weight). Just imagine what pretty ponies we all can be.<br /><br />And if you're all good little ponies, then--maybe--I'll sing you the My Little Pony song I wrote this summer.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-8637735990524589012008-01-15T10:08:00.000-05:002008-01-17T13:45:20.873-05:00thank you notes: the toughest job in writingThey're the unsung heroes of the job search, the wedding scene and the newly graduated. Yeah, great thank you notes are hard to find, harder still to write. You have to gush without gushing, praise without pandering or condescending, reference specifics only the thanked will understand. There's a secret code to it all; it's both a science and an art form.<br /><br />Just this morning, I sent out one of my very own -- a thank you note for a job interview at a dream agency and a CD (Creative Director, for you non-ad-types) for whom I really want to work. Hell, I may even ache for this. So this note had a big job to do. I literally dreamed about it & woke up writing it. I'll keep you posted on how it fairs.<br /><br />Now, please enjoy my Thank You to Gary at <a href="http://www.tbwa.com/">TBWA/Chiat/Day</a>:<br /><br /><br />I feel sorry for this thank you note, really. It bears the heavy burden of great desire, and knows that it'll probably never up to the expectations of its creator. That's a lot of pressure. In the immortal words of the great Glenn Frey, "The heat is on."<br /><br />Ask anyone who knows me -- disruption is in my very nature. It could even be said that I was born for the job. Every fiber of my being strives to challenge opinions and create new standards. Is she a -happy-homemaking-how-was-your-day-dear-stitching-<br />stiletto-wearing-pink-adoring-girlie-girl, or is she a jeans-t-shirt-combat-boots-<br />wearing-muscle-car-gearhead-red-meat-and-football-loving-rough-and-tumble-tough-<br />enough-for-roller-derby-and-then-some-tomboy? Maybe no one will ever know the full extent. But who am I to fight nature?<br /><br />All I know is, opportunities like this -- to be there in the beginning, lighting a fire that'll lead an entire industry out of the dark ages -- well, they don't come around everyday. Full disclosure: I'm grabbing this one. Yep, I've got it bad for this job, and I'm ready when you are. Thanks for seeing the spark in me, and thanks for carving out so much time for me yesterday. I hope the feeling's mutual.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />UPDATE: Yes, the feeling IS mutual -- I start freelancing at one of the best ad shops in the world on Tuesday!! Hoot, holler, congratulate me, people!</span>fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-6357062378831026592008-01-10T17:03:00.000-05:002008-01-10T17:21:55.572-05:00brilliant little music monkeys in PortlandAs I've said <a href="http://thefleshwoundnyc.blogspot.com/2007/05/abundant-sunshine-on-my-shoulder.html">before</a>, "There are frustrated writers everywhere -- fantastic writers, stifled by narrow constraints, untrusting superiors and a lack of vision." But sometimes, constraints begin to widen, superiors begin to trust & vision gets checked & picked up in droves. I know that most of you lovely readers aren't advertising geeks like I am, but I always love to share great examples with you fine folks anyway.<br /><br />Some of my favorite advertising comes when companies least expect consumers to be paying attention -- in legal disclaimers, and instructional copy. When they don't drop their personality and tone, their brands shine through even better to me.<br /><br />Take, for instance, this brilliant email from a company from whom the man recently purchased a CD. When he read it, he told me to read it. When I read it, I immediately wanted to share it. So, get a cup of coffee, sit back, and enjoy the read. Then tell me. Who will you think of when you order your next CD?<br /><br /><br />From: "CD Baby loves <name redacted>"<br /><br />Thanks for your order with CD Baby!<br /><br />Your CD has been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with<br />sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.<br /><br />A team of 50 employees inspected your CD and polished it to make sure<br />it was in the best possible condition before mailing.<br /><br />Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over<br />the crowd as he put your CD into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.<br /><br />We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party<br />marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of<br />Portland waved "Bon Voyage!" to your package, on its way to you, in<br />our private CD Baby jet on this day, Saturday, January 5th.<br /><br />I hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. We sure did.<br />Your picture is on our wall as "Customer of the Year." We're all<br />exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!<br /><br />Thank you, thank you, thank you!<br /><br />Sigh...<br /><br />--<br />Derek Sivers, president, CD Baby<br />the little store with the best new independent musicfifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-80141615817292714232008-01-02T07:54:00.000-05:002008-12-08T21:59:36.575-05:00still sayin' no in '08As many of you already know, I'm not a big fan of social networking sites. I've poo-pooed MySpace & Friendster for years, assuring my loved ones that our friendships would survive without them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3uSxfampSI/AAAAAAAAAG8/C8lEEXfeZUo/s1600-h/sb10064664m-001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3uSxfampSI/AAAAAAAAAG8/C8lEEXfeZUo/s200/sb10064664m-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150871977772623138" /></a><br />And the years went on without anyone dying catastrophically from my missing presence on Dogster, Catster & Bebo. A few "friendships" died along the way, not casualties of my choosing not to join their trusted network of friends on Reunion or Classmates, but of my not wanting fake people cluttering up my inbox with spam & my address book with their important information. Miss Missouri's phone numbers & birthday? Delete.<br /><br />But I'd still get razzed occasionally to conform. "Join the cult, Carol Anne. Just come toward the light. Then we can poke each other on Facebook." My response to which is, "We can poke each other at dinner next week, but I'm not signing up for yet another site where I can waste even more time online."<br /><br />The weirdest plea came from a still unknown source, because I refused to sign up for the service just to read the goddamned profile of whoever sent me the following message, "daviso hates you! Join him to take over the world! Everybody loves to hate -- hate with him on Hatebook." Clearly, you can see. My interest was seriously piqued. Whose wouldn't be? But all the hate in the world still wasn't enough to pressure me into signing up & giving someone else more e-access to my life, friends, opinions & marketability as a female, living with partner, aged 25-34.<br /><br />Granted, I joined Flickr so I could share photos with ease (check out my latest additions) & LinkedIn so I could network for work (anyone got a job I can have?), but that's where I've drawn the line. Last week alone, I received three new invitations -- two to join Spock & one to join Plaxo Pulse. I've never even heard of these nonsensical online locales, but I'm guessing one is for Star Trek fans & the bigger geeks who love them (yeah, totally sounds like me) & the other is for people with heart conditions & the people who go bankrupt to care for them (thanks for no universal health love, big pharma/private healthcare assholes).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3uS5vampTI/AAAAAAAAAHE/yHT6A4ndYTQ/s1600-h/JK7367-001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3uS5vampTI/AAAAAAAAAHE/yHT6A4ndYTQ/s200/JK7367-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150872119506543922" /></a><br /><br /><br />All I know is -- I'm not signing up.<br /><br />And until I get a REALLY good, legitimate reason for signing up for your favorite way to pass the time online, just leave me off the invite list. I won't be setting up any profiles today, thank you.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-18341547838332507082008-01-02T00:01:00.000-05:002008-12-08T21:59:36.844-05:00please, big tv, meet the writers' demands -- we need them back now<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3s0YPampPI/AAAAAAAAAGk/cyghXVi6T2k/s1600-h/200399857-001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3s0YPampPI/AAAAAAAAAGk/cyghXVi6T2k/s200/200399857-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150768189887915250" /></a><br />Who of you out there hasn't been on TV yet? Come on, who are you? Speak up now. It's a brand new day of the brand new year & I've just seen the rerun of a friend of my cousin's appearing as a contestant on <a href="http://www.nbc.com/Deal_or_No_Deal/index.shtml">Deal or No Deal</a>, originally aired Christmas night. And oh, what an amazing feat of mediocrity it was. This girl, a rude, five-headed, socially irresponsible nitwit, whom I've been lucky enough to know for more than 20 years, has recently garnered worldwide housewife fame for <a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19175054/">delivering a litter of 6</a> in Arizona -- ooh, the first dog-lady there ever! Since dropping all six puppies this summer, she & her husband have trotted themselves & their progeny in front of any camera that seems to be on. "Does that red light mean we're being broadcast live in Shanghai?" Apparently, NBC owns the rights to their American fame, since they're now regulars on the <a href="http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/18353371/">Today</a> show (love your non-hair, Lauer) & just accepted a lousy deal of $121k on the aforementioned DoND rerun. Jamie & I fear there'll be a reality show soon enough, following the daily lives of God's favorite baby factory.(Oh yeah, welcome my cousin Jamie to our family of dedicated readers, people.) Of course, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I looked at their <a href="http://www.maschemiracles.com/bryanandjenny.htm">blog</a> & saw that even their proposal was on national TV. These two media hogs were absolutely destined for each other. Ahh, true love.<br /><br />But Jenny the human uterus isn't the only one getting her 15 minutes. Seems everywhere I look, regular people are getting theirs on the ol' boob tube on ultra-amazing, uber-real reality and game shows. "<a href="http://www.suntimes.com/entertainment/elfman/698161,CST-FTR-elf15.article">Clash of the Choirs</a>" featured superstar Patti LaBelle putting together a choir to compete against the hastily-assembled fighting choirs of posers Nick Lachey, Michael Bolton, Kelly Rowland and Blake Shelton, the last two of whom I've never even heard. I seriously doubt "<a href="http://gameshows.about.com/od/newupcomingshows/p/nothingbuttruth.htm">The Moment of Truth</a>," an elaborate, televised game of truth or dare, will pay off with naked boobies, bullies getting payback from their former victims or astonishing human insights -- all of which you'd imagine from the title. Of course, reality queen bee Carson Kressley couldn't help but jump back into the action with "<a href="http://www.realitytvscoop.com/2007/07/carson-kressley-to-host-how-to-look-good-naked/">How to Look Good Naked</a>," which, we can only hope, will actually help an army of fat girls get naked for TV.<br /><br />And the writers' strike promises to deliver even more of this teleterror (Copyright mine, 2008, bitches). Never before in my life have I valued great writing more than I do now -- now that I'm facing at least a season of these Hey-America-You're-On-TV-'Cause-We-Don't-Wanna-Pay-Real-Talent tablescraps on my beloved big-screen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3s0rPampRI/AAAAAAAAAG0/iEesgIlkVH0/s1600-h/images_sizedimage_222171054.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3s0rPampRI/AAAAAAAAAG0/iEesgIlkVH0/s200/images_sizedimage_222171054.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150768516305429778" /></a><br />Do I say all this because I want my own reality show based on my already extensive body of TV appearances, two of which you can see <a href="http://cbs3.com/health/Health.Alert.Medical.2.310953.html">here</a> and <a href="http://www.scottstanford.tv/punkrope.html">here</a>? No. I truly feel the loss of the brilliant writing we all take for granted.<br /><br />Late & later tonight, after we should all be in bed, America will witness the real comic genius of Jay Leno & Conan O'Brien. Can you guess which one I predict may actually produce a quality show even without his trusty writers? Darwin said only one can survive. Tune in with me to see who goes down in flames & who proves to be worth his weight in jokes. And let's all work on each & every one of you getting some small-screen face time in 2008.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-52320008788052132832007-12-27T12:19:00.001-05:002008-12-08T21:59:37.412-05:00my good night's sleep's keeping me up nightsMere weeks ago, my life changed for the better. <a href="http://thefleshwoundnyc.blogspot.com/2007/10/winning-passive-aggressive-battle-with.html">Napoleon & Pedro</a> 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.<br /><br />The following week, NYC's <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/mopd/html/resources/trans_aar.shtml">Access-A-Ride</a> 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 "<a href="http://www.theonion.com/content/node/29257">the tard farm</a>." (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.<br /><br />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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3PupvampNI/AAAAAAAAAGU/zXvcYWGRq0s/s1600-h/829937-007.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3PupvampNI/AAAAAAAAAGU/zXvcYWGRq0s/s200/829937-007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148721199884707026" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />It's like heaven. <br /><br />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? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3PvJfampOI/AAAAAAAAAGc/DKFd1ioVtbE/s1600-h/200533399-001.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R3PvJfampOI/AAAAAAAAAGc/DKFd1ioVtbE/s200/200533399-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148721745345553634" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-65131947007829507612007-12-21T00:25:00.000-05:002008-12-08T21:59:37.616-05:00in 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 <a href="http://www.schoolofburlesque.com/">Jo "Boobs"</a> 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."<br /><br />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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R2tkvvampMI/AAAAAAAAAGM/hCGQkX3oJQs/s1600-h/72131307.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/R2tkvvampMI/AAAAAAAAAGM/hCGQkX3oJQs/s200/72131307.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146317770545603778" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-48754515397716237712007-12-08T13:47:00.000-05:002007-12-08T15:19:48.559-05:00good morning, crazyI 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. <br /><br />But first, let's cover the crazy guy on the L train this morning.<br /><br />I had to make a run to the city at the crack of 10:30 to hand off the <a href="http://www.rightrides.org">RightRides</a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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."<br /><br />But then, between 1st & 3rd Avenues, he put the box cutter away.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-37313415176041576132007-11-09T01:33:00.000-05:002008-12-08T21:59:37.833-05:00things realized while staring at the backs of my eyelids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/RzQDh80PqSI/AAAAAAAAAGE/gkSlZAupxNw/s1600-h/72131047.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/RzQDh80PqSI/AAAAAAAAAGE/gkSlZAupxNw/s200/72131047.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130729757277661474" /></a><br />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,<br />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,<br />3) men never stop farting. Ever.<br />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!"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Congratulations, my friends, you're all in store for the best me ever. COMPLETELY drug-free, damn it.fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-21178772541955353412007-11-08T11:55:00.000-05:002008-12-08T21:59:37.931-05:00cat-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.<br /><br />Some of the names Stiffany & I've already tossed around are<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/RzNBeM0PqRI/AAAAAAAAAF8/ZBXZUB64joI/s1600-h/cats.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/RzNBeM0PqRI/AAAAAAAAAF8/ZBXZUB64joI/s200/cats.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5130516387597363474" /></a><br />lieutenant ham & his filipino lover raul<br />spspspsp & ttttttt<br />undercover lover & president pervert<br />sea bass<br />the professor<br />jamon<br /><br />The floor is now open -- let the competition begin!fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-932657441991435894.post-19402079306657328312007-11-06T18:36:00.000-05:002008-12-08T21:59:38.157-05:00how dry i am<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/RzD_y6HhnvI/AAAAAAAAAF0/0GNMCJXeBz4/s1600-h/200498009-001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ZM3OCj9Lupc/RzD_y6HhnvI/AAAAAAAAAF0/0GNMCJXeBz4/s200/200498009-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129881225634356978" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Sidebar: Last week at <a href="http://www.punkrope.com/">Punk Rope</a>, 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?fifihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09383752818694477742noreply@blogger.com10