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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.

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??