Sunday, November 8, 2009

Chocolate and Sunshine

I was getting a little restless cooped up working from home in my NYC apartment so I decided to quit my job and move across the world to Sydney, Australia. (I've always been a little bit drastic in my actions... Surprising coming from someone as chilled out and drama-free as me, I know.) As of now I am pursuing an endless summer and plan on returning to the northern hemisphere in May just in time for the hot weather. I'm taking my blog with me and moving it over to in order to collect all of my Australian adventures in one place complete with pictures of all the fun I'm having. The photographs are intended to enduce envy so please, stalk away.

For the time being please check me out at No Thongs Allowed instead of Chocolate and Whiskey. I know that for most of you this means adjusting your homepage but, so be it. I've had to adjust my drink orders to "Jack and dry" instead of saying "whiskey and ginger" so we are all making changes in our daily lives together.


Thursday, September 24, 2009

Sister, Sister

I turn 25 today. Eek.

This is what my sisters had to say about it:

C — Happy Birthday Grandma!

K — In honor of your birthday you are on my listening section of my quiz tomorrow. I'm reading a description of what you like to do and they need to answer multiple choice questions about where you are from, what you like to do, what you like to do A LOT, and what you don't like to do. For the record: you are from paraguay, you like to read, you REALLY like to eat, and you don't like to run.

I haven't spoken to my brother yet, but he's a sweetheart so fingers crossed I'll just get a "happy birthday."

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Bobbit is back?

Me: "Hi whatsup?"
Molly: "Hey there I'm actually at work and I am triaging patients (which means that they write on a paper why they are here and then I am the first person to evaluate them) and someone just handed me a paper that says "rip penis". So I'll be right back."

Well that just puts it all into perspective doesn't it? Guess this is the equivalent of me not being able to to g-chat with anybody once a celebrity dies, although that's happening so often these days I'm really learning how to multitask quite nicely.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Death by Jenny Craig

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against fat people. Or maybe I do. But that's besides the point. I just really hate it when their life choices start interfering with me. This morning a delivery man kept incorrectly buzzing my apartment from downstairs. After the first buzz I just let him in like I do everyone else since I work from home and the FedEx people have figured this out and won't leave me alone. Then as the buzzing continued I thought it might be doing irreparable damage to my sanity, so after 15 minutes I went to my intercom and asked him who he was looking for. "Lenny Freeman" he said exasperated. "You've got the wrong person." Buzzzzzzz. "I'M NOT LENNY FREEMAN!" "I meant to say Wendy Friedman." "I am neither of those people." "Well I have your diet food delivery!"

Ah, so it was clearly not for me regardless of the name. "Listen, I don't eat diet food nor do I need it, so please stop trying to push it on me. What apartment are you looking for?" He told me the apartment number from downstairs. Ah, that bitch from below finally realized she was fat and ugly and was going to do something about it. "You need to press the button below mine." I calmly told him. Buzzzzzzzzz. I tried to ignore it. Buzzzzzzzz. "STOP IT!!" "Come down here!" Oh yeah right like I was going to come meet that maniac. "LOOK if you can't get this girl her food that is NOT my problem. It's probably her fault she's fat so let her gain weight and just leave it downstairs or eat it yourself but please GO AWAY."

There was silence on the other end. I didn't know if he had been let up and was coming to murder me with his bags of diet food or if he had just left. But the irony of it all was that I had been about to grab lunch and was now scared to leave my apartment. So I had to sit there, starving, and thinking about how I could probably use any kind of food at the moment even diet food. Maybe this is how this program makes you lose weight. They send scary angry men to come yell at you through your intercom until you are too frightened to exit or let anyone in. Probably slims you down faster than South Beach.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

What are you trying to tell me?

I received this Washington Post Quarter Life Crisis article today from more than one friend of mine, plus a few family members. I thought that this was my favorite quote from the piece:

"At the same time, Seppinni said, technology is breeding a generation of online sulkers. No longer limited to sharing their woes at the family dinner table or while hanging out with friends, quarter-lifers have countless opportunities to brood in blogs and on Twitter and Facebook -- anytime, anywhere. And finding fellow victims to commiserate with is never more than a click away. 'Depending on your character and moral outlook, you'll seek like-minded people, and they are all over the Internet. Someone inclined to be depressed can find people who corroborate. . . . It also leads to focusing on a lot of drama and nonsense.'"

But no... then I got to the end where they were talking about the girl who the entire article was focused on, and how she followed her passion:

"For Buchanan, losing her job turned out to be the push she needed. Blessed with more time to work on her blog, she realized her real passion lay in writing. Now she hopes to make a living from it. 'It's a hard path, and it won't be easy,' said Buchanan, whose fiance is helping to pay the bills while she builds her portfolio. 'But I know what I want to do now, and I have the supportive base to get me there.'"

So you are happily engaged and your fiance is willing to pay for you to do nothing but write? Tough life there champ.

Friday, July 31, 2009

Smirnoff Ice Was a Great Choice

Jamie: "Ugh I am overwhelmed by trying to pack but omg I had the requisite evening of packing/looking through all of my old photo albums last night... I was just cracking up at pics of us all. We were such little freaks I have a lot of old high school ones here and I also busted out a collage Heather made me when we came to college that had photos of us that were HILARIOUS."

Me: "Like what?"

Jamie: "AKA one of Heather and I dancing and you in the background humping her parents TV obviously drunk off of Smirnoff Ice. I showed those all to Tim and he was like my friends and I did not do this in high school. OMG and there are some of us in NYC when I came to visit you at Penn freshman year which are also HILARIOUS because we were slightly hideous and sooo touristy."

Me: "I dont know what is more disturbing — that we were drunk off Smirnoff Ice, that I humped televisions, or that we actually took pictures in Times Square. And we were probably wearing jean skirts while doing it."

Jamie: "And tiny belly tube tops. The best pictures of us are at Key West freshman year. We literally look like the epitome of aspiring baby drunk sluts."

Me: "It's like we were gold diggers but not even looking for gold. Just trashy South Florida ghetto guys."

Jamie: "Like who were we?! Actually... I'm sure I will look back on myself now and ask the same question."

It's entirely possible but I dont know if anything will ever top looking at a picture of yourself, in badly highlighted braided pigtails wearing a wifebeater with a letter painted on it after a football game, pointing at your friend's fridge (whose parents were out of town, naturally) stocked full of a mixture of Mike's Hard Lemonade and Smirnoff Ice with a huge, beaming smile of pride.

To be honest, I'm still quite proud of myself for that moment right now.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Zeus Trumps Cupid

My friend talking about her ex: "I'm waiting for Zeus to come down, strike him with a lightening bolt and be like 'You love her, you asshole. Get your shit together.'"

Me: "ha! love it. making that my away message."

[a few minutes later]

Me: "Someone just pointed out to me... wouldn't it be Cupid with a bow and arrow?"

Friend: "Zeus's lightening bolts hurt more."

Me: "True. Why did they make Cupid a chubby little baby anyways? He should totally be a lighting-bolt-throwing, burning-down-the-house-asshole like Zeus."

Friend: "Cupid's arrow is like, cute, we have a crush. Zeus - much more appropriate for the ass-whooping that is real life relationships, especially in your 20s."

Me: "It's settled. Girls with braided pigtails tied off with pink bows who throw baking parties thought up the idea of Cupid. Blondes. No offense."

Friend: "I don't wear ribbons. Or bake."

Me: "No you don't. And that is why I'm friends with you."

Friend: "You hit girls at bars for wearing double popped collars. That is why I'm friends with you."

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

It's my sister's birthday and I'll freak out if I want to

My little sister turns 22 today. For some reason, I find that extremely more upsetting than the fact I'm turning 25 in a few months. Because, I feel like 22 was sort of an annoying birthday to celebrate. You're past all of the good milestone birthdays and all that's left ahead are the "DAMN I'm old" birthdays like 25, 30, 40, 50 etc. So it's utterly depressing that my YOUNGER sister has now reached the age where there's nothing to look forward to in life, in terms of birthday celebrations — which I narcissistically think are the best kind of celebrations. Obviously.

I'm not one of those people that's all, "Oh I just hate celebrating my birthday, let's pretend it's just like any other day." No let's not. It's the day I was born. It's obviously important, and I should be treated like a goddamn princess every second of the blessed day. And showered with gifts and praise for gracing the Earth with my presence. I've always thought those nonchalant birthday people were kind of cool, I wanted to be them. But puh-lease like I would ever pass up the chance to be in the spotlight and make it all about me.

Now... I had a point. Right, about my sister. I checked her Twitter to see what she was up to on this exciting turning point in her life and she had tweeted:

"My students got an 87% ave on the midterm, sweet bday gift!! I wish I didn't have 3 lesson plans to do..Do bdays mean nothing in real life??"

Sadly, they really don't. I remember when I started working and I was actually stunned when I realized all companies didn't automatically give you the day off on your birthday. In my defense, Lotus had always done that while I was growing up so my father never had to go into the office on his birthday.

I was sitting and feeling sorry for myself that my sister was getting so old, and the implication that this in turn, makes me old, when she gchatted me the following:

"Daddy said happy birthday through a fbook message ... devastating."

Burn. My pity quickly shifted back to my darling sibling.

Oh and one more thing: Happy Birthday Sister!! I hope you are having a delightful day! Don't worry about a thing — it only gets better from here...

Monday, July 6, 2009

Hot Wax and Adultery

I didn't mean to cheat. It just sort of ... happened. I've been faithfully going to my waxer Angela for over a year now. Usually I plan my appointments around her schedule, but last Wednesday I finished work later than expected and had to cancel. I stopped by the salon to see if she could squeeze me in, but the girl at the front desk told me my only options were to wait until this week or go with someone else. I felt like I was cheating on Angela, but my loyalty was no match for the fact July 4th weekend was about to begin, and I needed to lay out in my bikini sans shame.

While waiting for this new "Irene" chick in the front room, I heard Angela's voice coming closer. I couldn't bear the thought of her seeing me and realizing my unfaithfulness, so I ducked behind a plant until she left. I'm aware of how fully ridiculous this is, but I have guilt issues. Irene came out to escort me to a back room and as I lay down I heard a girl next to me have a mini-waxgasm. "Oh, Angela! It looks fabulous, OMG! Sooo perfect!"

Slut. She was totally faking it. Her shouting was entirely too loud to be convincing — like porn star loud.

All of a sudden, Irene, who was working on my brows, distracted me by saying "An artist should make paintings of your face." Well hello Irene! I looked up at her with new eyes and she continued in her Russian accent, "You are beautiful! I see a lot of faces, and you, you classic beauty." I blushed while secretly loving my new mistress and her praise — this whole cheating thing was turning out much better than expected. "You should model ..."(aww) "in Europe..." (too kind) "in the 19th century."

Screeeeeech. What?! I instantly ransacked my brain to remember what I learned when I took Art History. Picasso wasn't 19th century right? No he was 1900s. But maybe she's like me and gets confused with the whole "century" concept of changing the numbers, and maybe she MEANT 1900s and maybe she's inspired by Picasso and she should just STOP WAXING MY EYEBROWS before she makes my whole face look uneven!

I just smiled, tried to relax, and didn't say anything. "You are a classic beauty, not like the models that are popular now." I still didn't understand what she meant, but at this point, I was starting to think it wasn't a compliment.

"Are you Jewish?" Ughhhhhh!!! I should have seen this coming. I have recently developed a complex about my nose — I'm convinced its grown bigger than my face sometime in the past year — and this wasn't helping. I tried to tell myself it was a bad angle... after all, she had moved further south at this point. I changed the subject to get her talking about Russia. When she finished, I paid her tip right on the spot instead of leaving an envelope at the front, in the hopes I could avoid seeing Angela. It made me feel like I was paying a prostitute. A very nice prostitute, but still.

Now my only problem will be when I go back next month. Will I have to avoid Irene? She doesn't realize she's my mistress, so if I go to Angela she will think I was unsatisfied with her waxing techniques and unsuccessful attempts at compliments. But I can't just abandon Angela either. Disaster. As if it's not stressful enough getting waxed in the first place, now I have to worry about hurting someone's feelings. Well, there's always my modeling career in Europe waiting for me if anyone can find a time machine.

Monday, May 18, 2009

MFTF: Are You There Dad? It's Not Me, Your Daughter

Daddy dearest, is that you? Are you reading this right now? If so, please just don't tell me. I don't want to know you are following the stories I tell about being drunk, slutty, naked, and just plain disrespectful.

I emailed my father a bunch of my sister's graduation pictures, and he asked me why the file was so large. I rudely but lovingly told him to get with the 21st century and make a gmail account, since he still uses hotmail. He instantly replied with just his gmail address in the body. (Being a smartass runs in the family.) I asked him when he started that account and he said:

"couple of years now... :-) I set it up as my job search email. I do look at it though, it's the one tied to my facebook page (yes! facebook) OMG."

Say whaaaaaaaat!? No, your eyes are not deceiving you. No, I didn't add my own commentary into that quote. As it turns out, today is not just any day. Today is a very special day. Today is the day my father introduced "OMG" into his vocabulary.

And through my feelings of pride and dismay, I sensed the tiniest bit of sarcasm in his response. Could my father have — gulp — found my blog? Does he know my thoughts on him and Facebook? Daddy ... is that you?

If it is — I ask again — don't tell me. But I would like to inform you darling father that I have appreciated your constant Facebook status updates, the new Robin Hood character you recently created, and the wall post from your neighbor that apologizes for her drunk husband  — whom she refers to as "Monkey Man" — going "apeshit" on you at dinner. And I don't know how to properly express my genuine delight in your gift of a Jenny Appleseed plant. Only you Daddy ... only you.

Friday, May 15, 2009

I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that to me

Here are some gems the BF has said this week. You know, just in case the cab driver had inflated my ego too much.

Incident 1 

I ate chocolate and then put on flavored chapstick just as he was coming home. He walked over and kissed me, then looked simultaneously disgusted yet concerned.

 "Um, babe ... are you ok?"
"Yeah why?"
"Did you just throw up?"

Eek. Apparently Katy Perry was wrong about the whole cherry chapstick thing. (Little known fact: I know the ex-girlfriend of the guy who wrote that song, and  he based it on her. It was actually raspberry chapstick, but that was too many syllables. But, I digress).

Incident 2

I'm running out of Focus Dailies so I've been conserving my contacts for special occasions, i.e. whenever I'm seen in public. Because of this, the BF has mainly been seeing me with my glasses on. I put in my contacts and walk downstairs where the BF was watching TV. He lovingly cupped my face in his hands, stared deep into my eyes and said:

"We really should get you lasik."

Oh, wait. It gets better.

Incident 2.5

The BF heads upstairs as I'm done getting dressed and putting my makeup on. He looks at me with a stunned expression.

"What?" I say insecurely and pat my hair down to make sure it's not sticking up. 
"Is there something on my face?"

"No, it's just ... you look so, pretty."

Now this was not said in a compliment-like way it was said more like:

"You look... so... pretty?!?"

In total confusion, as if the word got away from him somehow before he could comprehend it. When he did realize how it came out, he aimed for a quick recovery with this winner:

"I mean of course you are pretty but I had just ... forgotten!"


Incident 3

I return from a satisfying Vietnamese dinner for my friend's birthday and crawl into bed, getting ready to doze off. The BF rolls over to cuddle up and just as I'm falling asleep he rubs my belly and suddenly says:

"Oh yeah! How was dinner?" He then squeezes my stomach. 
"I'm guessing good."

Guess I'm not the only one in this relationship with foot in mouth disease.

Maybe I'll wear a flip-flop on one foot and a galosh on the other?


What are you trying to tell me with this image? How is this at all helpful in preparing me for what is going on outside? Am I going to step out into a bright sunny day and then be attacked by a bolt of lightning while only half of me gets rained on? What kind of motherfreaking outfit am I supposed to wear? Is this because you have an inferiority complex since you have been so wrong lately about the weather, and this makes sure all of your bases are covered?

You are about as helpful as NYC traffic signals.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Thanks For the Confidence Boost

NYC Cab Driver: "So what do you do? What's your job?"

Me: "I'm a writer." 

Cabbie: "For what?" 

Me: "I write celebrity gossip."

Cabbie: "Oh."

brief pause

Cabbie: "What else do you do?"


Friday, May 1, 2009


I love this picture I received in an email titled "Swine Flu Culprit." Loved it so much I had to post it. That and everyone is googling "swine flu" right now and I figure it'll get me a couple extra pageviews ;)

In all seriousness, check this out if you want to know if you have been infected.

When Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt are making a photo op out of what Heidi calls "pig flue" then you know we have mass hysteria on our hands.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

I'll have the pasta with a side of abstinence

James: "Let's talk about how I recently went on a date with a girl and she used the word fornicate at the dinner table on the first date. The convo was actually quite notable. She was talking about how she loves babies, so much so, that if she actually got pregnant she might not be able to give it up. So, she just chooses not to fornicate. Quote, end quote."

Me: "No way did she really say that."

James: "I shit you not. Over meatballs at inoteca on the LES."

Ha, I'm guessing that was quickly followed by a "check, please." 

Monday, April 27, 2009

Oh, that's why.

Don't go to the grocery store hungry. It's a piece of advice I've never really understood. I mean, I know that you buy twice as much when you're hungry, but what's so wrong with that? I never regret it later. In fact, I am quite happy with myself the next day when I look in my fridge and it's chock full of fun stuff like maple dipped sausage links and pounds of thinly sliced deli meat and cheese.

Yesterday I was starving so I stopped by the store for some chips and salsa but ended up stocking up on the essentials: red velvet cake, pecan tarts, ham/cheese hot pockets etc. I walked to the checkout line gabbing on the phone, feeling slightly guilty like I often do about being the obnoxious person on the phone, while the lady rung me up. I felt bad enough to feel guilty but obviously not bad enough to hang up. Then I looked into my bag and realized I didn't have my wallet. Shit. Now I wasn't just the obnoxious person on the phone, I was the obnoxious bimbo standing in her bikini and cover up, with a TriDelt hat on, who had just rung up $100 worth of groceries and had forgotten her wallet at home. I hung up my cell, apologized profusely to the woman and rushed home as I weighed my options. I could go back to my apartment, grab my credit card, run back and pay for my groceries. Or I could just bask in my embarrassment, and stay at home, never to show my face at the grocery store ever again. Or at least not without a disguise. Maybe with my glasses on and a completely non-ditzy outfit. But if I didn't go back, all of that delicious food I had just purchased — or rather, picked out — would go to waste. 

So I returned to the store, mortified, and quickly paid the bill. I half-jokingly said to the lady, who had to wait to check anyone else out until I came back,  "You probably hate me huh?" She laughed. Hmm, I'll take that as a yes.

Maybe the reason you shouldn't go to a grocery store hungry has nothing to do with how much  you might buy. Maybe you shouldn't go to a store hungry because when you don't have food in your system you might not think straight, and do something stupid like try to purchase a feast when your only methods of payment are SPF 4 and a beach towel.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Why hello there foot! Meet my mouth.

There are a lot of stereotypical girlfriend things that I'm just not good at. I don't put on an apron, make a casserole and bake homemade cookies, for example. In fact, I don't even own an apron. I bought one once, and that night I got into a fight with the BF. It was right when we moved in together, and I remember I started to say, "I slaved over a hot stove for you and now you are picking a fight —" when I stopped myself, appalled. I was so ashamed that those cliched words had almost come out of my mouth that I took off the cute yet fashionable Anthropologie apron, threw it on the floor and made a silent oath with myself that I'd never purchase another one again.

I also don't clean the dishes, like, ever. I'm not neat and tidy. I don't wear a lot of pink.... well, you get the idea. I'm not the perfect girlfriend in many ways. But if there's one thing I'm consistently GREAT at it's families. Not to brag, but usually, parents love me. I've never really embarrassed myself too badly in front of a BF's family before. 

Well — there's a first time for everything right?

I recently stayed at the BF's aunt's house on a weekend where his grandparents were also in town. I'd met most of his family before, except for his aunt and uncle. We were all seated at the dinner table and chatting, when his grandmother started telling a story about when she was younger, and went shopping at a store in NJ:

"The sales associate walked right up to me and told me I couldn't afford to shop at their store. She refused to even help me look around."

Now, before you judge me, I want you to stop and think if this story sounds remotely familiar at all. Does it ring any bells for you? Because it definitely did for me. And before I could properly think about what I was about to say I blurted out:

"Oh! You were like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman!"

Stunned silence at the dinner table. Incredulously, the BF's aunt looks over at me and says, "Did you just call my mother a prostitute?"

Shit. When I think of Pretty Woman I of course just think of one of my favorite movies and one of my favorite actresses... but all of a sudden I realized, yes. I had in fact, just called the BF's beloved Mimi a whore.

Luckily Mimi and the rest of the family have a sense of humor, and laughingly poked fun at me a little before shrugging it off. Until, of course, later on when I jokingly berated a male dinner guest when he said something inappropriate towards women and I said "I'd be careful what you say, you are the only man here at a table full of girls." Oh right, except for my boyfriend who was sitting next to me and was mildly offended but mainly used it as an excuse to tell me I was on a roll.

When I said goodnight to Mimi she hugged me and whispered in my ear, "You have a lot of making up to do!" I figured she was referring to my faux pas about saying it was a room full of girls, and that the making up was to the BF and not to her after implying she was a prostitute. Which was less worrisome, although a tad more disconcerting. But maybe I just have an inappropriate mind.

Before going to bed, Mimi handed me a 17-page-story the BF's younger cousin had written, and asked me to read it and give her my opinion, since I'm an esteemed professional writer and everything. (Ok, I might have exaggerated that last part).

I came downstairs the following morning and as the family was getting breakfast together Mimi asked me, in front of everyone, what I thought of the story.

Absentmindedly, I answered, "Oh, I fell asleep after reading the first page."

In Yogi Berra's words  — it was like deja vu all over again. Everyone looked at me in silence for half a second, before I realized what I had just said.

"No! Sorry!! I didn't mean — it's not that I feel asleep because the writing was so boring! I meant, I was really tired so I tried to start reading it but wanted to dedicate my full attention to it today, so I put it down..."

But it was no use. The damage was done. 

"Do you always say such malapropisms?" the BF's aunt asked me.

No, not usually. But like I said, there's a first time for everything — even personally insulting the writing of a 12-year-old to her face, in front of her entire family. 

And of course, calling your boyfriend's grandmother a hooker.

Friday, April 3, 2009

If William Golding Set Up Wall Street in Africa

I saw this in a store window while walking down Park Avenue the other day. Seriously? Boys — does this make you want to purchase this suit? Or rather, girls — do you look at this and immediately think of how your boyfriend would look in it? If the answer is yes, that's a little animalistic of you.

It's like Lord of the Flies meets Armani. Or something out of the new Nora Roberts book Divine Evil... but that reference may be lost on 99.9% of you.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

MFTF: My Sister Joins the Facebook Chronicles

I went on to Gmail the other day, unsuspectingly, and was greeted by a new email informing me my father had sent me a Facebook message. Fabulous. He told me that he couldn't remember which of my phones was working and he thought this was best way to contact me. Um... hello Daddy. Ever heard of a little thing called email? At this point I think he's just messing with me.

I was retelling the story to my sister, who apparently was sick of being the only sibling not friends with our father. She informed me that not only had she friended him, she had written on his wall: "I really can't believe you're on facebook". Couldn't have said it better myself.

In response to her post, continuing in his love of FB msgs he said:

"Hey I didn't know if it would be OK to write on your wall so I'm sending you a message. I'm glad they didn't have this when I was in college...there would be too many incriminating pictures out there.

Be good!

Love daddy"

So many amazing things in this message. The fact that he know it wouldn't be okay for him to post on her wall. Plus 5. His comment about incriminating pictures. Ew, Minus 5. Be good! Totally expected, and probably necessary. Plus 5.

I, of course, focused in on the fact he could even write on her wall. I instantly wrote her an email to clear things up:

"Can he see your wall???"

"He could but then I changed it."

"Ha, awkward!"

"Yeah well, I didn't realize. Plus a girl had just written on my wall about me baby oil wrestling."


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

[Insert Fabulous Blog Post Here]

I decided to give up laziness for Lent, but I've been too lazy to write about it. I know, I know, it's almost too easy of an opening sentence. But it's true. I sat down a few days ago to write a blog post, and to be quite honest, it was a bad post. I've been reading Bird by Bird, and part of it talks about how writers often hang on to something that they've written, even if it's crappy, just because letting go of something you've worked on is like killing your baby. Dramatic, yes. But it's totally true. The writer was talking about a book she had worked on for years, I'm talking about a blog post that took me 15 minutes. Tomato, tomato. Anyways, this post is starting to sound like a huge digression and going down the wrong path already. 

Basically, you didn't miss much. In my other post I mean. I told a story about how I tried to sign up for a trial gym membership but only went once, because I was in so much pain following my boxing class I couldn't fathom standing, let alone voluntarily returning to hell. I wrote about how the sales manager at the gym was a Buckeye fan and he signed me up for an Ohio State email listserv, just for fun, since I wore a Gator shirt on that one visit to the gym. (That's what I get for trying to work out.) I made some self-deprecating jokes about how I kept my aspirations low in terms of defining what is a non-lazy activity because, let's be honest, getting out of the house once a day counts for me. But although my aspirations for Lent were low, my aspirations for this blog post were high. It was going to be hilarious, witty, and all things wonderful. But when I read it over I realized that it might have been about eradicating laziness, but it was also just long, boring, and something I was trying to cross off my list of things to do — so that I wouldn't be the ironic epitome of laziness. 

The post is like trying to make fetch happen. It's just not going to happen.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Un Autre Moi

I received this email a few days ago. It was actually written fully in French, which was the first hint that it might have been sent to the incorrect address. I had the BF translate it (he's fluent) and this is what the letter said:

"Hi, as I have no news from you I decided to write. I learned from Jean Charles that Lionel “packed his boxes”!!! You have thus decided to separate…. I am sad for you two. I dare not tell the children, they would not understand, especially Laureline.

You will pass through very painful moments and I am so sad to be far from you. The distance makes it hard to communicate, yet I think about you often without doing anything which makes it true that I have been selfish.

I finally resumed work on March 9, but I am still not calm. I live with the sword of Damocles over my head. The end will probably be when I have my MRI before the summer and they will say that all is gone, that I have nothing more.

I had not heard any news of Lionel since my birthday and it feels so distant, it’s no longer the same!!! I do not know if your separation will be final, but if one thing is sure it’s that I cannot imagine one of you without the other!

I hope to have some news from you soon. I hug you very strong. Big kiss to Jessica and Chris."

Seriously? Why don't people write like this anymore? Or, I guess this is current, but write like this in English? I feel like I've stepped into a Jane Austen novel. Or maybe Sartre, although if that was the case the whole MRI thing would probably have been more extended.

This email reminds me of when I went to Rome and traveled by myself. I asked for directions from a nice man in his forties, Francesco, who proceeded to show me around to different places in the city on his lunch break. I didn't realize how creepy it was at the time, I can be quite naive, and I gave him my email address so he could send me more places to see. For months after, or actually until my Penn email account was erased, he sent me love sonnets he wrote himself. Some in Italian, some in Spanish, some in broken English. Usually on major Italian holidays that I'd never heard of, and especially, always, on Easter. I never replied to any of them, but I suppose it was romantic in its own, thank-goodness-you-are-on-another-continent kind of way.

 A very sick, inner dramatic side of me almost wishes this French email was meant for me. Since my inbox is mainly full of "hey, u drinking tonight?" or "LOL I have the funniest story for you", or "omg his new gf is so ugly, facebook her and confirm." Not nearly as literary. But then I would have a dying friend who has "the sword of Damocles" over his head, a lover whose left me, and two children. Merde!

Sunday, March 8, 2009

A Friendly Reminder with a Dash of Catholic Guilt

Good old Daylight Savings Time. So freaking confusing. I never know whether its EDT or EST and whenever anyone tries to explain it to me I just end up forgetting until the next person feels the need to clear away my confusion. Parts of Indiana don't even observe DST.  Or actually, now the entire state doesn't. Or maybe it does, but it didn't used to. I just remember my dad telling me that at Notre Dame they didn't change their clocks. Okay, according to Wikipedia, Indiana became the 48th state to observe DST in 2006. But, apparently, it's a very controversial topic to people from Indiana. See? Confusing! I'm digressing. My point is, before the times of cell phones, it was easy to forget changing your clocks. 

When I was little, we went to church every other Sunday. Our family was like the child of divorced parents, the church only got custody on alternate weekends. We had to go enough so that my mother didn't feel like a fairweather Catholic that only went on Christmas and Easter. I grew up honestly thinking I was more Christian than my friends who only went on holidays. And then I'd be more likely to go to heaven, obviously. As for my Jewish friends, I didn't think they were any less likely to go to heaven. I thought they would go to heaven, but their heaven would be like a big fun Bat Mitzvah with everyone dancing and singing and getting lifted up on chairs. The song "Sunrise, Sunset" would be playing on constant repeat in the background, a soundtrack to the Yiddish afterlife. I loved that song growing up. I think I always secretly wanted to go to Jewish heaven.

One Sunday, we got dressed and went to church and when we arrived everyone was leaving. We pulled up to the front and my dad dropped off my mother so she could ask what was going on. She came back to the car and started explaining to my dad, in angry Spanish, that we forgot to change the clocks. We were an hour late to mass, and it was already over. It was always a production to get all of us dressed and to church on time so my parents were kind of annoyed at themselves for having messed up the timing. My siblings and I though — we couldn't be happier. For years afterwards, I would think of DST fondly, because it got me out of going to mass that one Sunday. I say this with a twinge of Catholic guilt, because I've become that person that only goes to mass on Christmas and Easter. Well, actually, just Christmas. I aim for Easter once in a while, if I can sucker someone else into going with me. One Easter in college a friend of mine had a costume party. I dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl and my atheist boyfriend at the time dressed up as a priest. Every time we kissed that night, I felt like a sinner. To this day, I look at pictures of that Easter where I chose to get wasted and mock the church instead of going to mass, and I feel overwhelmed with guilt. It's not like I can blame that on any random confusing time change.

Oh well. There's always Jewish heaven. I'll just have to make sure I keep all rabbi and Moses costumes out of my Halloween options.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

What do Ashley Tisdale and Ashlee Simpson have in common?

(Besides bad music and the same first name)

A friend of mine had her nose done this week and before she went in she expressed her concern about the surgery.

"I'm not anxious about this for the reasons you would think. It's just that... to be honest, I feel screwed by God and I think its annoying I have to do this. It's like, I'm excited but I'm as excited as you can be to fix something that was already supposed to be right to begin with."

I found that hilarious, but told her that as long as she didn't look like Miss Piggy after it was all over, I'd still be her friend. There were probably more reassuring things I could have said, but oh well.

After she got out of surgery she said: "The doctor suggested I go all the way under because I seemed like the type where it would be easier if I was all the way knocked out and not talking".

He sure nose what he's doing. (I couldn't resist).

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

[Cue a Jaws and Care Bears Theme Song Remix]

Did the room around you just get a whole lot sunnier? Did you get a warm, fuzzy feeling inside you and have an urge to cuddle up to all of your old stuffed animals? Because this, my friends, is a pink dolphin. He (or she, but I would like to think of him as a fabulously gay male dolphin) was found in a lake in Louisiana. He's an albino dolphin, which is why he is pink. I have a soft spot for albinos — my band director in high school was an African American albino and he was hilarious. Well, not really, but I'm a band nerd and you have to love your director. It's band nerd law.

Regardless, I should probably hate this dolphin just on principle. I mean, he's pink! C'mon! And not like a cool hot, magenta pink. But a Pretty, Pretty Princess pink. He kind of looks like Pepto Bismol. And he's a bottlenose dolphin. Maybe Pepto Bismol can use him in their ads. there's gotta be some joke there. Or not.

I feel bad for his family members. He definitely steals all the attention away. Like the other dolphin in that picture, maybe its a sibling. And the sibling is just that regular dolphin that hangs around and hopes to get some attention from the paparazzi. It's not like the sibling could take a cue from Jamie Lynn Spears and get knocked up as a teenager to gain the spotlight for a little bit because, who cares if a dolphin gets pregnant young? Maybe if it gets jealous enough it'll turn green! That'll show everyone. Okay, corny I know. And I would delete that but it's a tribute to a history of corniness that my family has passed down through the generations.

This dolphin kind of makes me want to bake cupcakes with multi-colored icing, and paint rainbows on my walls, and surround myself with puppies and kittens while singing Kumbaya. He could totally bring on world peace, and cure cancer. But only breast cancer, because... you know.. he's pink. 

Anyways, I thought you guys might enjoy him. If you start to get suicidal from all of the happiness and light in the air, I apologize. It's not easy being pink.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Creepy McCreeperson

I was sitting in my bed, minding my own business, working, and all of  a sudden I turn around and this old lady is staring at me from across the window. I usually keep the shades drawn but I wanted to check out the snowstorm outside, so they happened to be open. Luckily, since it is so freezing, I had a sweatshirt on and wasn't in my usual state of undress. I've never noticed this woman before and it looks like she has an apron on, so I'm hoping she's a housekeeper and isn't permanently setting up shop. Although, now she's on the portable phone so if she's a housekeeper that is kind of scandalous right? Or not at all, I'm just making drama up in my head which wouldn't be the first time. I was really creeped out until I realized that I'm the sketchy one, staring at her, blogging, posting her picture — albeit a fuzzy one to protect her privacy. Ok, that's a lie... I'm too lazy to go downstairs and get my real camera. Is this what the movie Disturbia was like?

Friday, February 27, 2009

It's 2009: Do You Know Who These Children Are?

There's a lot of things about my life that changed once I entered the world of celebrity gossip. For instance, I now know how to spell names that I once had to keep on a list in front of me while I worked. Examples: Matthew McConaughey, Jake Gyllenhaal, Ryan Phillippe, Shia LaBeouf, Hayden Panettiere, Milo Ventimiglia, James Rousseau, Rafaello Follieri. Okay, I lied. That last one I had to look up again. Damnit. (He's Anne Hathaway's ex-bf who pretended to work with the Pope to steal money and is now rotting away in jail. For those of you who didn't know.) Hayden and Milo really double teamed me on the misspellings but luckily they just split up. Creepy Milo will fall off the radar and I'll only have to think about the double Ts single R in Hayden's name. Macaulay Culkin is also a tough one but he's not really around anymore. I'm so glad Tom Cruise is done promoting his movie, because Valkyrie was KILLING me. But anyway, my point is, in a celebrity spelling bee I can hold my own.

My latest problem has been conquering the world of teenyboppers. See, I have always thought of myself as a teenybopper. I love the girl power anthems and the cheesy boy bands. But then, today, I had to write about the Jonas Brothers. [insert the sound of a record screeching to a halt here]. Huh? Yeah, I was right there with you, once upon a time. I don't entirely get the appeal of these three brothers. And then I look at them and if for some reason they start to look cute, and I start to get it, I start feeling old and gross and all Mary Kay Letourneau.

 I used to pride myself on not being able to tell them apart. I mean, c'mon. Now there's a line I won't ever cross. Or so I thought. I had to write about them, and I realized that somehow — I don't know when or how or why it happened — I knew which one was Joe, which one was Nick and which one was Kevin. Luckily when I wikipedia'd I realized I was wrong on the age order. (Which in case you were wondering goes Kevin, Joe, Nick in descending age). Then, I was alarmed to find out I knew Joe's current girlfriend: Camilla Belle. (Not to be confused with Camila Alves, single L, and Matthew McConaughey's baby mama).

All of a sudden, before I could help it, a flood of information came to mind. Joe used to date Taylor Swift before he broke up with her on a 27-second phone call. She then wrote a song on her new album based on their break up and called it Forever & Always. He left her for Camilla Belle, whom he had met on the set of a Jonas Brothers video. (Confession: I heart Taylor Swift. I sing her songs to myself when I'm alone, even Teardrops on my Guitar ... and especially Love Story. I almost ALWAYS root for brunettes over blondes but I'm really disappointed in Joe's choice of Camilla). Now Nick is also quite the stud. He dated Miley Cyrus and then Selena Gomez. I'm fairly positive there was some meanness on the side of Miley —who is just, in my opinion, an entire other teenage phenomena I can't understand. Like who are you? Hannah Montana or Miley? WTF!? Stop MESSING WITH MY BRAIN PEOPLE! Isn't one personality enough? It was for Britney! Well... nevermind. The British accent. Moving on.

Kevin's the least popular of the brothers, and some might say the ugliest. But I wouldn't say that because they are teenagers and teenagers have self esteem problems. I'm all about the love and support of the next generation. Anyways, at the very, very least, I didn't know Kevin had a girlfriend. But then, there it was in the photo caption, staring me right in the face: "his girlfriend, Danielle Deleasa". SHIT!!!!!!!!!! What was I to do? I can't unlearn that now! This information is just sitting there, in my brain, permanently embedded. There's a motherfreaking LINE and I just crossed it. Next thing you know, I'll be running around malls with my Team Taylor shirt on, chasing the poor boys for their autographs and asking the BF to buy me these next Valentine's Day.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


"If you go to my blog, does it work?" - me

"Yes, but it's blank. I had to click on a link." - Alpha

"Ugh, that happens to me too." - me

"Maybe its a sign, that you need to write a new post?" - Alpha

Damn. So true. It reminds me of the Albert Einstein quote I like to use against people who tell me to stop being so messy: 

"If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what then, is an empty desk a sign?"

Unfortunately, that saying never worked on my mother when she asked me to clean my room.

P.S. This post actually fixed the problem... how ironical.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

MFTF Part III: Mystery Solved

I should probably just dedicate my entire blog to Facebook stories about my dad, but for now I'll just keep you all posted via my new series: My Father the Facebooker.

The latest installment brings some clarity to the confusing situation. I was speaking to my dad on the phone when the following occurred:

Father (out of nowhere, and very innocently): "So, should I friend your boyfriend?"

Me: "Daddy! You said you were never even going to friend me!"

Father: "I'm sorry! I thought it would be intrusive."

Me (confused): "Wait. What?"

Father: "You told me once it would be gross for your parents to friend you. So I'm sorry I didn't, but I wanted to give you your privacy."

Me: "But... you did friend me."

Father: "No. You friended me."

Me: "Trust me. I didn't."

Father: "Oh really? Well your cousin did and then your brother and sister did..."

I can hear my siblings in the background simultaneously yell: "NO WE DIDN'T!"

Father: "Oh? Hmm. I'm confused."

And then, it hit me. Friend Suggestion was the culprit!!! My Paraguayan cousin likes to 'friend suggest' different family members. And to be fair to my father, that is pretty damn confusing. You get a message that says, so and so has suggested them as a friend? Accept, Deny. And you click accept and it sends a request to said friend who is never the wiser on how all of this friending nonsense happened in the first place. So my wonderful, loving father was just trying to remain non-intrusive when Friend Suggestion came along and rocked both of our worlds. I should have known. I was feeling a little guilty at making it so abundantly clear that I did not want to be friends with my dad so I tried to lighten up the convo.

Me: "It's just funny to see your walls. Like with other adults."

Father: "Why? I'm a real person too you know." (Actually, you're my dad. So... no you aren't.)

Awkward pause and then....

Father: "I still haven't friended your sister in college yet."

YES! Saved by my delinquent alcoholic sister! (No offense K.)

Me: "Yeah. I think it's best you don't see her Facebook."

Father: "I agree."

Well, at least that's settled. I also had my father promise to try and keep my mother off Facebook. Bigger miracles have been known to happen.

Addendum: My delinquent alcoholic sister suggested I point out that she has made it on to the Dean's list at Duke more times than I have. (Which is easy since I never did at Penn. But she actually has, multiple times). She said "It would add depth." Depth, meet my blog.

Friday, February 13, 2009

It's the Little Things in Life

I didn't get to go pole dancing last Saturday because my party put me way out of commission. Like my friend that was staying with me over the weekend said "The last thing in the world I want to be doing right now is hanging upside down from a stripper pole." Lying down was too much motion for us, there was no way it was going to happen.

It's been rescheduled though, no worries. But I'm still nervous about the class considering how unsuccessful I am at performing anything that looks remotely sexy. But then, a miracle of miracles happened and I regained my confidence. Katelynn from The Real World Brooklyn busted out her pole dancing moves in the most recent episode. I've provided the video above for your amusement. And to celebrate Friday the 13th, because this is crazy scary. There's nothing like an awkward transgendered drunk girl humping a support beam to boost your self esteem. Like my friend said, "She needs to get her roots done. If you are going to be a girl than be a girl."

I mean, at least I'll look better than this right? Fingers crossed.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Ummm... what?

Chris Brown apparently changed his relationship status to single and put up a status message saying that Rihanna will show "her true colors" soon. Hopefully this isn't true...and I don't even have any witty retorts or comments for this but like SERIOUSLY? You beat up a girl, put her in the hospital, flee the scene and then your first public statement IS A FACEBOOK UPDATE? 

WHAAAAAAAT is going on with this world. Jay-Z is going to murder him.

P.S. I understand this is a totally random post but I had to share my dismay at the situation. I'll leave the clever banter to Noelle.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Don't Jump

A friend of mine recommended I buy a book called "The Worry Cure" because well, let's face it, I'm neurotic, and she thought of me when reading it. I went to Barnes and Noble and looked around a little before realizing I needed some assistance. I walked over to customer service and asked the lovely prim and proper lady behind the desk to please tell me where I could find the book. She looked it up, glanced at me with a judgmental glare in her eyes, and said, "The Self Improvement aisle." She also told me the name of the author, and directions on where to find The Aisle, none of which I heard because I was too stunned and embarrassed to pay attention. I quickly named another book I was looking for and she told me to go to the second floor and to the left. Flushed and anxious, I went up the escalator and found my "Bird by Bird" book. I then realized I had absolutely no idea where Self Improvement was. 

And I refused to ask anyone. 

Now, the irony is not lost on me that I wouldn't ask for help, but I was not about to shame myself like that. So instead I walked around the entire second floor of Barnes and Noble, twice, nervous, stressed out, and well— worrying — the whole time and finally made my way up to the third floor. Once there I was surrounded by fitness books and how-to beauty guides. They really know how to make you feel insecure up there on the third floor. I glanced around and then there it was. The Aisle. And by Aisle, I mean ENTIRE FREAKIN' WALL. A wall so high they have a ladder you can use in order to get to the books at the top. (Or maybe it's for launching purposes when you are feeling truly distraught). The Self Improvement section was a monstrous beast. It wasn't small and in the corner, where you could hide and scurry over to the Cookbook section next door, pretending like you were a good little chef. No, The Aisle is a huge overwhelming wall — which in NYC is like prime real estate — a wall of shame, with a bunch of crazy weirdos sitting down in front of it unabashedly. 

I scampered over and contemplated putting on the hood of my sweatshirt. What if someone saw me? I knew I shouldn't have gone to the Union Square book store. Then, I noticed that the books were sorted BY AUTHOR. Shit. I didn't remember the author's name to save my life. All I knew is it was a man because I remember being shocked that a woman didn't write the book about worrying. (Completely and utterly sexist, I know.) But what was I to do? Ask for help? I had already come so far. So I began perusing The Aisle book by book, and right when I was about to give up hope that it was at eye level or below — because there was no way in hell I was calling attention to myself by crawling up that ladder — there it was. And there was only ONE left. I grabbed it, ran past the beauty and fitness aisles, and downstairs to check out before anyone I knew could see me.

Ladies and gentleman, should you ever need to find a book in this godforsaken aisle and you live in NYC, just go to the Barnes and Noble at Union Square, go up to the third floor to your right when you got off the escalator and have your author's name in hand. And wear a wig. You're welcome.

UPDATE: My friend forwarded this post to the author of "The Worry Cure" (his name is Robert Leahy if you were wondering) and he replied: "Hilarious...I can definitely see this happening. I was at a book exhibit at a psychology conference and there was a book on "ostracism" and I asked what it was doing hanging out with the other books."

Is it weird that I find that hysterical? Think this book might have been worth the hunt.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

How to Keep Friends and Alienate Bitchy Manhattan Neighbors

The bitch that lives downstairs — okay wait. Pause. I'm talking about her like you all know what I'm talking about and I've never even mentioned her before. Picture a not-so-cute, angry, bitter girl with annoying curly brown hair that you just want to wash, wearing Cornell sweats and stays in every weekend and has no friends and is jealous that you are such a social, attractive individual ... picture her. She's the girl that lives below me. She's awful. She once complained  that the BF was walking down the stairs in our apartment too loud on his way to work... and then mentioned a Rock Band incident from like a MONTH before. "You guys kept me up all night. You were playing music at midnight!" Sweetheart... that was a lovely rendition of "Maps", we were just serenading you! And to be honest, I just re-read that and it might not sound as awful as I make it seem but just take my word for it. She sucks.

Anyways, this weekend I had a birthday party for a friend of mine that started at 10PM on a Friday. One hour later I get a knock on my door and Miss Congeniality is standing there demanding to talk to whoever lives in the apartment. "You are WAY too loud. This is absurd. I'm going to call the police if you don't tone it down."

I swallowed my reply quoting one of my favorite movie quotes ever: "I'm sorry I'm not the most boring person ever okay? I'm sorry I'm not poor, I'm sorry I don't have a fat ass" and assured her we would be quiet. I went down to my friends hopping around to Madonna and told them to take off their heels and jump on the couch. (Which looking back now is probably how I ended up with chili handprint stains all over my walls.) My friends are very bouncy. 

She came up for what I thought was the second time, what I later realized was the third, and was on the phone to my super complaining and yelling about how it was 1 AM on a Friday and we didn't have any respect. I offered her a sip of my bottle of Jack to calm her down, but that only served to further upset her. I didn't understand why she refused to talk to us, so I promptly, and wastedly, called my Colombian super, explaining to him in broken, drunk Spanish that we were clearing out the apartment and I was so sorry. I thought that I would win, because hey, we are both Latin and ethnicities have to stick together right? 

Me and one friend were going to walk downstairs and yell at her for being such a party pooper, and another friend of ours offered to come down and take pictures while we did that. Out of a party of 30 people, only the BF had the sense to stop us. Looking back, that was probably a good thing. I don't know that walking downstairs and getting yelled at by two drunk girls while getting paparazzi'd would have helped the situation. I think I also said I was going to put on a Penn sweatshirt so she would know that not only was I more social than her, I was just as smart.

I didn't have the satisfaction of doing this (instead, I settled for jumping up and down loudly in my apartment like the total mature woman I am) but I later found out that a friend of mine had answered the door the second time Miss Congeniality came up. When MC complained about the noise, my friend said to her "Honey, if you don't like the noise, you shouldn't live in New York City" and then shut the door in her face.

And that is why I love my friends.

Friday, February 6, 2009

My Father, The Facebooker Part II

I know I've already had a full blown freak out about my father joining Facebook, but I thought I'd update you on his progress, and my panic attack level. 

This is what his Wall looks like. And obviously not the old version of Wall, but the newer, more stalker version that makes sure you are completely up-to-date on every activity taking place in that person's FB life.

Erik wrote: Hey! You forgot to put Married as status. You will be in big trouble when your wife finds out! (True story, my mom is as crazy and jealous as I am. Hey, it had to come from somewhere)

Janet wrote: Surprised to see you here (ha! yeah, you and me both) You have to get your wife on here, it's much easier to keep in touch. (OMFG OMFG OMFG) LOL I just read Erik's comment, get to it FAST! (kill me.. and wait how do adults know what LOL means? Seriously?) 

FATHER is listed as Married.
Comment #1: Congratulations!
Comment #2: Why wasn't I invited? (from my littlest sister)
Comment#3: It's about time you made an honest woman out of her (DUDE! That's MY MOTHER you're talking about!!)

Let me be clear, I love my father. And my mother. My entire family in fact. So hopefully, if one day they stumble upon this, I hope they are not insulted. I mean this all, with complete and total love, devotion, and full blown anxiety.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

At This Rate, My Polaroid Picture Would Never Develop

Folks, I'm sorry to disappoint but I just don't know if this whole belly dancing thing is going to work. My first class was yesterday and let me tell you — it wasn't pretty. Not only did it re-confirm my fear that I will never be able to move my hips like a true Latin girl should, but it introduced even more self esteem issues with the illusive Shimmy maneuver. The teacher had us think of our pelvis region as a "salad bowl" — which may have been the first problem since I really hate salad. Then she showed us a series of moves using our hips and butt that I could fake but seriously — since when has faking it ever felt as satisfying as the real thing? Then at the end of the class when I was feeling defeated but hopeful she told us to Shimmy. Simply place our feet down, let the earth's energy move our butt, and just... you know... shake it. 

UGHHHHHHHHH. I just couldn't do it. The aneroxic cokehead doctor shouldn't have told me I need to gain weight to model in France, she should have just told me to gain weight so I COULD FREAKING SHIMMY. That would have done it.

Then the teacher showed us an "easier" version of the Shimmy. And by easy she just meant, here's another way I can show you how everyone can do something you can't.

It's too much. I can take my awkward hip movements, I can take looking like a freak show who desperately wants to be a sexy belly dancer but looks like she's having a seizure, I can take staring at other women's jiggling bodies and actually longing to have their large asses, but I CAN'T TAKE NOT BEING ABLE TO SHIMMY.

I quit. I'm sorry. Maybe I'll have more luck with pole dancing.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Between Lapdance 101 and Intro to Platform Heels

Tim: Btw, whats up with the stripper classes? You learning new things for the BF or thinking of a career change?

Me: It's a pole dancing class, not a stripper class.

Tim: Pole dancing = stripper class

Me: Haha. I'm taking it for fun. That, and a belly dancing class.

Tim: Yes.... pole dancing + belly dancing definitely = stripper curriculum

Me: Hey, we are in a recession. I've heard it pays the bills.

Tim: I love that NY Times article saying that men still pay for strippers even when the economy is in the tank.

Me: SEE! Strippers are like cockroaches. They will be the last ones standing when the world ends.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Almost As Clever As Mariah's 2008 Album Title

So I walked into the bathroom at Tonic one night and saw a group of girls huddled over a hot pink Blackberry:

Dumb Girl #1: "S-A-R ... then ...wait."

DG #2: "S-A-E ... no that's not right. S-A-R-G-A-N-T. Does that sound right?"

DG #3: "Yeah that is definitely it."

I couldn't help myself:

Me: "Are you girls trying to spell sergeant?"

DGs in unison: "YES!!! Do you know how?"

Me: "Yeah. It's S-E-R-G-E-A-N-T." 

I walk into a bathroom stall and repeat myself, slower, because apparently that was too fast for them.

DG #2: "Oh myyyyy gawwwwwd, you are like, a GE-NIUS! "

DG #3: "Total genius. Definitely."

DG #1: "Yeah, how did you know how to spell that? Do you know somebody in the police academy or something?"

Me: "No, I just knew how."

DG #3: "You are like, a LIFE SAVER. Like, a lifesaving genius. [turns to other DGs] So now, I can send the text right? Gawwwwd he probably reads my text messages out loud to everyone in the band and makes fun of me."

I silently agreed with her, at least the part about the boy making fun of her, but was slightly confused about the band reference. It made me think back to my marching band days, but that doesn't make sense because the person who would be the equivalent to a drill sergeant would be called a drum major. Duh. 

DG #2: "Girls, we have been in the bathroom for-freaking-ever. Maybe it's time to leave. We've already taken pictures and everything."

DG #1: "Yeah, you are right. We should leave. Bye genius!! Thanks again!"

DG #3: "P to the S Jennifer, I love your dress! Didn't you like wear that as a shirt last week?"

And then the door closed. So I never got to hear Jennifer's response to her friend's obviously backhanded compliment — I mean she simultaneously called her a slut and a fashion repeat offender in one fell swoop.


Thursday, January 29, 2009

Daddy's Little Drama Queen

Help. This picture terrifies me. Because, it may look like your standard blank Facebook profile picture, but it isn't. Because, next to this picture is a very, very scary name. Because, I thought this day would never come.

My father has friended me on Facebook.

I've heard of this happening — to friends of mine. But I never, ever, thought it would happen to me. I just thought it happened to everyone else. When Facebook first became open to the wild — or the public, rather — and parents started discovering it, it never crossed my mind that my parents would join. When other friends came to me crying, shrieking in agony that their parents had friended them, I said everything you are supposed to say in this situation: "Oh WOW, that is just so AWFUL, I am SO sorry. You know, there's always limited profile." But secretly, I was grateful that my parents would never subject me to this type of torture.

So today, when I saw that email ... you know the one... "The person who has taken care of you your whole life, who taught you to be mature, well-mannered, thoughtful and most of all DISCREET, who thinks or at least hopes you are all of these things, who treats you like the responsible eldest child you should be, has just added you as a friend." ... when I saw that, I died a little inside. They might as well stamp 'disappointing alcoholic potty-mouthed-slut' on my head and call it a day. Because when I joined Facebook I didn't Daddy-proof it. And my walls go WAY back. And I'm not just talking FB walls. I'm talking those figurative walls you put up in high school when you lie and say you just "had a sip of one beer" and "don't even have a crush on that boy, let alone stay by myself with him in the house," and you keep all the truth locked up inside your evil, evil, sinful daughter head.

Then, I saw we had 3 common friends and I thought to myself: Judas, Judas and Judas! Had my three siblings already accepted him, that effortlessly? Shit! But alas, it was just two of my cousins and a friend of mine — et tu Alana? 

So now, I don't know what to do. Do I accept defeat and limit profile? Do I ignore and feel guilty, like, forever? Do I call him up and say, politely, "Daddy, I THOUGHT WE DISCUSSED THIS!?"

I mean, his profile consists of his name, birthday (full, including year), high school and colleges (complete with their graduation dates) and this:
Oh, Daddy dear. I think I'll probably accept, and chide him about it. Gently. But the most terrifying thing is that this could be opening Pandora's Box. This could lead to... and I don't even want to jinx it so I'm knocking on wood but... this could lead to someone else adding me as a friend. 

My mother.


Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Can You See The Resemblance?

BF: "Hey! You just walked over the subway grate! Like it was a real floor!"

Me: "Whaaat are you talking about. I only avoid them when I'm wearing heels."

BF: "No, you never walk over them. You don't think of them as solid ground."

Me: "Actually, you are confusing me with Toby."

To clarify, Toby is the puppy we took care of for my friend Josh while he was away a few weekends ago. Before he left, Josh told us Toby never walks over subway grates because, and this is a direct quote "He doesn't think of them as solid ground."

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Heroin Withdrawal

Seriously? The DP referenced Mean Girls? Seriously? As if it isn't hard enough leaving college for the real world, my alma mater has to torture me with witty ads quoting The Greatest Movie of All Time. Isn't it enough that when I ran into a Penn student at a NYC bar, he asked me what year I graduated, and his response to '06 was "Oh WOW!" Isn't it enough for me to know most of the people reading this are waking up when I'm almost ending work, are probably already drunk, talking about Smokes, and OMG — it's Tuesday. Kweder. There are no words.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Working Girl

These are the instructions for the pole dancing class I signed up for with a friend of mine. Apparently I need to find three songs I can strip to and six-inch heels. I particularly like the last line "There is no judgment allowed in our classes, of others or ourselves." I wonder if I can get that as a tattoo on my body somewhere: No Judgment Allowed.

Of course, I would be exempt from following that rule. Obvi.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

The Definition of a Mixed Signal

These are the new lights popping up on crosswalks across Manhattan:

Is it just me, or does looking at this make anyone else feel like a 15-year-old boy on a first date?

My Waxer, The Sadistic Comic

The only positive thing I get out of going to get waxed every month is seeing Angela, my Russian waxer. She's friendly, easy to talk to, and in a way, less painful than going to see a therapist. (Yes, messed up, I know). She also has quite a way of making her point:

"I really enjoy my job because I get to spend time with such nice girls, and get to talk about nothing. It's so much easier than maintaining real friendships. With real friends, there is so much drama. With me and you, it's all nice and light. You don't hurt me, I don't hurt you —" she stops, smirks and YANK, "Well... emotionally."

Monday, January 19, 2009

This explains everything

"Your mother hates watching scary movies. I've never seen Silence of the Lambs because we rented it when she was pregnant with your sister and two minutes into it she said 'Turn it off! I can't watch this or I'll have a miscarriage!' And how can I argue with that?" - my Dad

See, it's not my fault — drama's in my genes.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Maybe they were both flying south for the winter...

Me: "UGHH. I've always hated birds."
Noelle: "Nooo, I love my babies! I keep thinking about that poor bird that landed in the engine. Yikes."

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Excuse me while I wipe my nose

Sooooo my new doctor thinks I'm an aneroxic cokehead.

Yeah. I know, right?

I went to my doctor's office earlier this week for my yearly check up, and was confronted with a new female doctor who was all bright and shiny with a nice peppy ponytail. I could tell from the moment I met her we weren't going to get along. 

She sat down, opened my chart and yelped. "OMG ... your body index...." she stuttered... "You can't model in France!"

HUH?! I looked at her blankly, stunned. She collected her thoughts and said "What I mean is, your body mass index is way too low! You are too skinny to model in France. They wouldn't allow it." Damn, my life goal of moving to Paris and becoming a supermodel is shot. Seriously? I mean, that can't even be true. This woman should go to South America. Her head would explode.

Then, she said, "What are you goaling at... 100?" I was still confused, but that seemed to make more sense than the model comment. I mean the word "goal" I associate with soccer, which has nothing to do with my weight unless she was telling me I couldn't play soccer in France. "I don't understand what you mean." She explained that she was asking me if I was aiming to be 100 pounds. I told her that my friend Jamie and I threw a party for me when I broke 100 in high school and that I was very proud of three digits and wasn't looking to go backward, thank you very much.

She then went into her whole schtick about eating disorders, and how important eating is — no, really? — and I let her talk for a little to make herself feel better than interrupted her. "Ma'am, I have a fast metabolism. I'm also hypoglycemic. I actually eat lots of meals several times a day because if I don't my blood sugar drops and I get really bitchy." She smiled at me and said "Honey, I doubt you are hypoglycemic, but if telling yourself that makes you eat more then I'm all for pretending." Wow. And hellllllooooo Dr. McBitch.

We moved on to the STD portion of our conversation. "Maybe we should test you for Hepatitis C just once, to make sure you don't have it." I thought that was kind of random but I was like whatever you want, go ahead. She said, "Well if you snort drugs, you are at risk for Hep C." I nodded my head and smiled politely, biting my tongue. "You know, you can get it from sharing straws."

Whaaaaaaaat!? Let me explain something. I'm a bit of a germaphobe. Yes, yes I am a huge disaster and am super messy but I really hate germs. I don't like to share forks, I hate when people ask if they can have a bite of my burger, and I am thoroughly disgusted by subway poles. "OMG really!?" I shrieked. She lit up, although I didn't understand why. "Yeah, like coke straws." I replied, "Oh well I don't drink soda but sometimes I share my water bottles." She looked at me, dumbfounded. "You can't really be that naive?" Ahh, but I can. When she realized I wasn't in fact, "messing with her" as she put it, she explained that she was talking about cocaine. "I meant straws to snort cocaine. Like rolled up dollar bills. I feel like a badass doctor explaining about drugs. Wow, you really are that innocent."

Okay, you all might think I'm really slow. And it's not like I've never seen drugs before or am Mary freakin' Poppins but I just don't pick up on drug jokes. Like Colin Farrell's sniffles joke at the Golden Globes last Sunday — totally went over my head until I read about it at work. My friend's joke when I came out of the bathroom for too long (I had been talking on the phone and hiding from the loud music), "What were you doing in the bathroom?" "I wasn't pooping I swear!" I proclaimed as he laughed and explained thats not what he was implying. But hey, I'm not the most innocent out of all my friends. At a bachelorette party in Vegas a guy offered one of my girlfriends a cigarette, said "Want a bum?" and when she nodded he stuck the cig up her nose and she gasped in surprise, simultaneously inhaling the white powder that was in the hollowed out tube. Apparently he had said "Want a bump?" and she had misunderstood, accidentally doing coke for the first time.

Anyway... the good ole doc tried to make up for all of her accusations when she found out I wrote gossip for a living and told me how she loves Perez and then said the necklace I was wearing was "soo Carrie Bradshaw". But the damage was done. And once she said I was so skinny she could easily feel my ovaries, I decided I'd had enough. I'm taking my starving sniffles elsewhere from now on.