Time for some new material

For those of you who are fans of stories concerning or involving the boyfriend, I'm afraid there won't be anymore. R.I.P. relationship.

However, there will surely be some wacky dating stories in the near future, and I'm a lunatic magnet, so they'll be good. I promise.

I'm Asshole #1, by the way

Asshole #1: They totally did the soap opera switch with her

Asshole #2: What do you mean?

Asshole #1: They just plopped someone else at her desk and didn't tell anyone

Asshole #1: This place is freaking weird

Asshole #1: She graduated with the boyfriend and when I told him she worked here he was like "ugh, she's awful"

Asshole #2: She was always really nice to me, but she reminded me of one of my friends (who I'm no longer friends with)

Asshole #2: and that made it hard to warm up to her

Asshole #1: She seemed nice, but she had that loud, annoying girl quality to her

Asshole #2: Yes, I know what you mean

Asshole #2: And she seemed kind of tool-ish

Asshole #1: Haha

Asshole #1: Actually, we hated her

Asshole #2: We are such assholes

Asshole #1: I blame it on the environment

On sex, and pizza. Well, just pizza, really. And a compressed meat product.

I had a hankering for pizza today, as I sometimes do. Brenda suggested the place around on the corner, on 8th between 37th and 38th. I'm generally wary if I don't see a Ray's or a Two Boots sign, but I can't be choosy when I'm out of my element.

The plain slices looked acceptable, and I was quite intrigued by the spinach and sausage pie. I got one slice of each. While I was quite excited about the sausage and spinach slice, I practiced delayed gratification and ate the plain first. Very good - props to Brenda.

One bite into my fancy slice and I knew something was wrong. The sausage tasted like something I have never tasted, but like I had always imagined something I'd never tasted to taste like. The mystery meat product? SPAM. And not the teen-girls-licking-ass variety of spam either. The meat in a can.

I rifled through the spinach to get a better look at this mysterious pizza topping. It. Looked. Just. Like. Spam. Ew.

I was so vomitous after my discovery that I couldn't even eat cookies. And I love cookies. Especially free ones.

The wisdom of Liz Phair

And it's true that I stole your lighter.

And it's also true that I lost the map.

But when you said that I wasn't worth talking to,

I had to take your word on that.

I'm going to hell

I had sex with a priest.

Okay, so he wasn't a man of the cloth at the time, but still. I found out the other night that an old boyfriend, li'l Mike from da Bronx, has joined the priesthood. I. Am. So. Blown. Away.

I can't really say I saw any signs. I mean, sure, it was college, but the kid was a punk. He got in fights - lots of them. In fact, two frat boys bombarded my dorm room one night and beat him with a baseball bat and lacrosse stick because he started with them at a party. He also cheated on me (and not with God, mind you), told me about it very nonchalantly and said, "I don't want to break up over this or anything". Incidentally, after my throwing a telephone at him, that was the conclusion of our ten months together.

Now, he did go to church regularly. He also tried on several occasions to drag me with him, kicking and screaming. I went once, and spent the entire mass whispering dirty things into his ear while he blushed and told me to shut up between clenched teeth. Now I wonder if I missed out on my opportunity to be saved.

Oh. My. God. Did I mention I had sex with a priest?

My all-time favorite phrase

Business up front, party in the back.

I giggle every single time.

Oxycodone, Percoset, Xanax, oh my!

I've been getting an extraordinary amount of "buy prescription drug" spam in all four of my AOL accounts. I'm not sure if one can actually purchase drugs this way, and I'm a little afraid to find out. You see, I adore painkillers. I'm not a junkie or anything -- if a Percoset or Vicodin happens to come my way -- then so be it. I haven't yet escalated to the ranks of beating up old ladies to steal their prescriptions. The former roommate, Vile Eric, dated a nurse and left me little presents here and there. His painkiller supply was his only redeeming quality, now that I think of it. So the current roommate and I were just discussing what life would be like if we really could have a steady neverending supply of painkillers.

First of all, I would stick with Codeine, Valium and Percoset. I would be a complete and total junkie. I would crush pills and sprinkle them on my morning cereal. And in my coffee. I would sit in my chair and drool. I would pet the cats idly while my mind wandered to faraway lands with flowing garments and Enya playing ever-so-softly in the background. I would not worry about money. I would not work. I probably would not even shower but I would buy a tiara and wear it always.

Ah well, one can always dream.

Reason #632 why coworkers and friends should not be on the same AIM buddy list

I just sent the Director of Marketing this IM:

Every Thursday, when I sit down to do my promo calendar, I want to cry.

This is not the first time I've gotten myself into IM trouble. The first was when I worked at the corporate office for a major entertainment distributor. I use the term "worked" loosely, because there wasn't all that much to do and I spent the majority of my time finding excuses to walk through the warehouse so I could check out all the hotties. One day, a coworker and I were IM-ing about our stage show when we became rockstars. I sent something alluding to how much the audience would dig bestiality with chickens and got no response. Then I realized I had not sent the email to my FRIEND Paula but to HR PAULA. I was so convinced I was fired. Luckily, HR Paula was out to lunch so friend Paula and I snuck into her office and deleted the offending window before I got charged with sexual harassment of livestock.

But wait! There's more! While working at my first Internet company, I started out as the assistant to the sometimes-charming-often-maddening CEO, Dan. One day, I sent Petey an IM proclaiming my intention to march into Dan's office and kick him repeatedly. Only I didn't send it to Petey -- I sent it to Dan. I was not fired, mainly because Dan was more concerned about who I was saying it to than what I was actually saying.

Apparently, I have not learned my lesson.

Guess how people are finding my site?

If you guessed...

By typing "fuck you uterus" into Google, you get a lollipop!

Words and phrases the roommate will not say, but will occasionally spell out when necessary:

L-O-I-N

P-A-N-T-I-E-S

M-O-I-S-T

M-A-K-E L-O-V-E

S-U-C-C-U-L-E-N-T

Saturday night fever

If you live in the New York Metro area and have not yet made plans for this weekend, and don't intend to because you have no life, or just love a good show, then I suggest you head out to L'Amour and go see my buddies Lyntshaw tear shit up. Not only are they old friends from back home, but the drummer was my high school sweetheart.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home

The Wizard of Oz was on Sunday night. I was so delighted, I actually bounced in my chair a little and clapped. Of course, I was also wine-soaked, which heightened my delight a wee bit. But I digress...

As I spend the day fantasizing about inflicting severe pain on many, many coworkers, I'm beginning to think this whole corporate thang ain't me. I was seduced by the Internet industry five years ago and led to believe that a corporate environment could be made uncorporate by beer, a dog and an X-Box. Not true.

So I'm making a New Year's resolution early -- by the end of 2004, I will be spending my days at home, clad in pajamas and a tiara, writing and making bracelets and getting paid for it. If this doesn't happen, I will get breast implants and become a porn star.

A ride on the PATH train

I took a little ride out to Jersey to have lobster and big, fruity drinks at The Crab House and overheard this on the PATH train:

Jersey Guido #1: (nodding in my direction) Dude, everyone is reading that book.

JG #2: What book?

JG #1: The Da Vinci Code

JG #3: I read it.

JG #2: Was it good?

JG #3: Yeah. I mean, if you're actually going to read a book, it should be that one.

Catholic girls love to confess

So, it looks like Pink and Tommy Lee are an item. This is the conversation I had with myself after hearing the news:

me: Ew. How could anyone date Tommy Lee?
me: Oh whatever. You think he's hot.

And I do think he's hot, in a dirty, scumbag kind of way. And it makes ME feel dirty. If I were at a bar with my friends and he was there, I would leave when my friends left, sneak back in, take him home, do unspeakable things to him and then never, ever tell a soul. And take the longest shower of my life right after I kicked his sleazy ass out of bed.

Introducing...

blind cavefish jewelry! That's right folks, the store has launched. Check back for new products daily. Or twice a day. Or maybe three times. Just do it.

Memories, memories

Because I'm a total cheeseball, I sometimes listen to Launch's Love Songs Station. Like right now. Crazy for You by Madonna is on, and it's like Junior High all over again.

Remember radio dedications? I remember sitting at my cousin Tonya's house, dialing the radio station over and over and over to dedicate Crazy for You to some silly boy who wasn't even aware of my existence. Steve, Chris, Craig and Brian...this one's for you.

A word on Law & Order: SVU

If you hate the new ADA as much as I do -- and I'm sure you do -- and miss Alex Cabot terribly -- as I'm sure you do -- I made an important discovery last night. If you close your eyes when she's on screen and just listen to the voice, she sounds exactly like Alex. Exactly! Only without the eye-bugging and face-twisting. You can just pretend you've suddenly gone blind and Alex Cabot is still the ADA.

An internal memo, not for distribution

Date: Tuesday, November 11, 2003
To: The non-editorial people who are all up in my copy
From: A disgruntled copywriter
Subject: Back the fuck up

Dear non-editorial people who are all up in my copy:

You are obviously very invested in this project. I realize that and appreciate that. But you see, my copy has already been edited. By editorial people. That being said, you, of a non-editorial department, should back the fuck up.

I know this sounds harsh. I don't mean it to be - I'm just one of those temperamental creative types. I worked hard on the copy that you, a non-editorial person, think should be rewritten. I had an actual strategy behind it. It was not based on whimsy, I assure you.

In the future, please try to leave the copywriting and editing to the copywriters and editors. Should you fail to do so, I will have no other alternative but to kick you. In the shins.

Best,
Jess

Normal schmormal

Is it strange that I only read movie reviews after I've seen a film, and only read recaps of television shows that I've already watched?

I think it might be.

Quote from my Saturday afternoon New York City cab driver

I do not fear the black man, but I fear the Puerto Ricans.

Radio Pop Slop

I've been listening to Launch Radio all morning, The Big Hits station to be exact. I noticed myself desk dancing at one point and realized I was jamming out to Hilary Duff's "So Yesterday".

My love of mainstream pop music is so horrifying, even I'm appalled.

I was recently confessing some of my darker musical secrets to Jake and he said, "We're at that point in our friendship where you have to stop talking and just look hot."

It sure ain't a Disney kinda holiday

So I saw Pieces of April Friday night. It was positively delightful. Though not as good as Home for the Holidays, it had the same touching-yet-dysfunctional family realism. My only complaint is her 'hood. The scary, horrible place she lived in that was so wretched her family turned the car around and left as soon as they saw it was not only on my street, but on my block. Three doors down. Right above the performance space where the boyfriend and I saw an improv show on our first date.

I hear, the secrets that you keep, when you're talkin' in your sleep

When the alarm went off this morning, I reached over to briefly fondle the boyfriend and was told, very angrily, "Stop! You're going to steal my sandwich space."

I promised to never, ever steal his sandwich space again.

Now presenting, the class of 1993

So, my 10 year high school reunion is coming up in just a few short weeks, and I'm getting all nostalgic. Allow me to share some of my fondest high school memories with you.

You know that girl, the slut? The one that had the most unbelievable rumors circulating about her, and everyone believed them? Yep, that was me. I was so not a slut. In fact, in high school, I was a serial monogamist, and there's not really anything sexy about having sex with the boyfriend you've been with for a year. Actually, I was notorious before I ever even had sex. Granted, I did dress slutty (think Kelly Bundy), and the hair defied gravity, and I had no use for any of the guys that went to MY high school. But that doesn't mean I:

Got pregnant and didn't know who the father was.
OD'd on cocaine and lost the baby
Carried on a sordid tryst with my hot friend Matt behind the backs of our respective significant others.
Married serial-killer-to-be Dan King, also of my graduating class, post-graduation.

I do believe there was also something about giving several blow jobs at a party, making out with my female first cousin and I'm also fairly certain I ended up being That Hot Dog Girl. The truth? I've never had a one night stand, never even went down on a guy until after college and cringe at the idea of butt sex. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to get very drunk at my reunion and tell this same story over and over. Oy.

A breakthrough like no other

So there I was, sitting at my desk at work, tears streaming down my face, hating the world for all its imperfections when suddenly, a lightbulb went off over my head (well, I was actually cropping a .jpg of one in photoshop, but that worked too). I said to myself, "Hey Jess, remember that birth control pill you were on two years ago where all you did was cry and rage and wish maiming upon everyone that crossed your path?"

So there it is. I am pill crazy. Again. And I'm getting all sorts of puffy to boot. The pill I'm on, Yasmin, is supposed to be a miracle pill. For six months, it was. But month by month, my PMS has gotten longer and more intense. This month, it hit the two-week mark. Two weeks of PMS. The poor boyfriend. Pre-pill, PMS was two days at most.

I called my gynecologist, who I affectionately refer to as "the bot". I beg for another pill. She tells me, in her German accented monotone, that if I can't take this pill, I can't take any. I'm now going to start the patch - we'll see how that goes. I would try the NuvaRing, but in all honesty, after 10 years I still haven't mastered the tampon.

Tati and I once had a brilliant idea for a phone with a breathalizer built into it. If your blood-alcohol content was past a certain point, you could not make phone calls. I'm an incorrigible drunk dialer. And drunk emailer. And drunk IM-er as well, I'm afraid. But, I'm even worse with the PMS. I need a PMS cell phone, with text messaging block. Time to go make my apologies to the boyfriend.

Don't just sit there with egg on your face

A list of food accidents and difficulties I have had today:
1. Spilled coffee on my dress during company meeting.
2. Spilled same cup of coffee on my desk.
3. Dropped bagel on dress butter-side down.
4. Dropped large piece of broccoli into pasta with a lot of sauce, thereby splattering sauce on my keyboard and my person.
5. Broke fork in said broccoli, unbeknownst to me, attempted to shove it in my mouth and stabbed myself.

It's only 1:45, people. It's only downhill from here.

R.I.P. Delorey's

About a year ago, a man who was very dear to my mother and I passed away and left his bar, his home, to his son. Early this morning, that bar, which was very dear to me, my family and my friends, burned to the ground. The bar's name was Delorey's, the man's name was Chuck Delorey, and here's one of my favorite memories of them both.

It was a Friday night about three or four years ago. Friday night meant karaoke and my Uncle Jim tending bar. Naturally, my friends and I could see no reason not to have a drink or twelve, the bar being walking distance from my Mom's house, the Mom working an overnight shift and the gang planning to crash there in her absence.

A little too timid for solos, we started doing ensemble numbers. We did some Beatles and the bar regulars shifted uncomfortably in their seats. We had a couple shots. We did some solos, and the karaoke regulars went to check their place on The List. We had some drinks. We got very, very drunk. The bar patrons looked as though they were planning to stone us. We did a very loud, very drunk rendition of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

Chuck: That's it. You're banned.
Me: Banned? From the bar? Are you serious?
Chuck: On Fridays, yes. No more karaoke.
Me: Do we have to leave?
Chuck: Get out of here.
Me: [grumble grumble] Fine, I'll see you at home.