My heart belongs to Dublin

Since my cousins and I have, thus far, throroughly rejected the idea of procreating, it was decided that the family needs a new baby. So Desiree went out and got Dublin. I think the family actually carried on more over the holidays because of him then they would have with a human baby. Come to think of it, that may be reason #632 why I love my family to bits.

More on Julie

Since I poked fun at her in my last post, it's only fair that I post a story that explains why she is my best friend extraordinaire.

Thanksgiving morning 2003, the drive home to Schenectady

Me: Whine whine. Sob sob. Blah blah fishcakes. What am I going to do?
Julie: What are you doing?
Me: Huh?
Julie: I've always thought of you as someone who is really strong when it comes to relationships. I've always admired you for that.
Me: Really?
Julie: Yeah. You've always been someone who just doesn't take any shit, from anyone. I don't know why you keep putting up with this.
Me: Wow. *lightbulb, or something* Shit, you're right. What the fuck am I doing?
Julie: I don't know, but you should quit it.

Weeks later

Julie: Holy shit. I've had that speech in my head, like, forever. All I had to do was say it?

Misunderstood song lyrics: a story in four parts

Part I: Julie

It's 1995, and I'm home for the summer. Julie and I are driving up to Saratoga. You Oughta Know is on. We sing. Loudly.

Does she sing eloquently? And will she have your babies?

Julie: Is that a language?
Me: Is what a language?
Julie: Alaquonney. Where do they speak that?
Me: There is seriously something wrong with you.

Part II: The Prequal

The year is 1993. I'm driving Julie and Amanda home from high school. Senior year. I Will Always Love You (Whitney, not Dolly) comes on the radio. We hate it, but we sing. Loudly.

Bittersweet...Memories...that is all...you've given...to meEEEEEEEEE

Julie: Is that the guys name?
Amanda: What guy?
Julie: From the movie
Me: The Bodyguard?
Julie: Yes
Amanda: Is what the guy's name?
Julie: Maurice. Bittersweet man Maurice.
Me: Are you retarded?

Part III: Brenda's story

Several years ago, my friend Jenn and I were talking about the upcoming release of the movie Four Rooms. It was hot on the heels of Quentin Tarantino's success with Pulp Fiction, so people were really buzzing about it. Jenn's major source of anticipation, however, was the fact that Jennifer Beals was coming out of retirement.

So we both started feverishly chirping about how much we loved Flashdance and how cool we thought Jennifer was. I'm sure there was rapid Snoopy-like stomping to "Maniac" tossed in there too.

Which brings us to the soundtrack... Jenn's father would quickly and forcefully turn off Irene Cara's "What a Feeling" any time he heard the opening bars on the radio, emanating from his daughter's stereo, etc. He found the lyrics to be vulgar.

I couldn't quite figure out what was so sexually charged about the song until Jenn sung her father's version... "Take your pants down [do do do doot doot doot] and make it happen..."

Part IV: The Return of Julie

Julie: You know that few brackets song?
Me: No.
Julie: Yes you do.
Me: Sing it.

In a world of few br-ackets

Me: Human wreckage, Julie. In a world of HUMAN WRECKAGE.
Julie: Damn, I really thought I had that one. I put a lot of thought into it.
Me: That's frightening.
Julie: No, like they were talking about how people can just run amok in society today. Because there's so few brackets.
Me: How exactly are we friends again?

The end.

Sunday menu

I'm on dinner duty for Sex and the City Sunday. Here's the menu I just worked out with the roommate:

Something meaty that's been marinated in something
Something shoved into a puff pastry, with cheese
Something green
Something desserty

Ow. Quit it. Ow. Quit it.

This little fishy is switching to beer. Possibly forever. The roommate says Maker's Mark should be renamed "Mark of the Beast".

I have seriously regressed about 10 years in the past month.

Tonight, tonight

I miss Jake terribly.

He's been in LA with the the wife on family business, and there's a big hole in my daytime IM routine. Luckily, he's doing a fly-by-night trip to the Big City tonight and we're going out, most likely to 7B, to get into some trouble, provide mutual therapy and bitch about the state of this cruel world we live in. I can hardly contain myself.

Jake is one of the few people that can make me feel fabulous just by saying I am. I could use a night of fabulous.

A NEW New Year's resolution

I figure there's a 30-day grace period for making amendments to New Year's resolutions. So I'm going to add one.

Anyone who knows me knows that I haven't really kept up with new music since the original Headbanger's Ball went off the air. I mean, I know the crap they're playing on KROQ and Z-100, but I don't really know what's good these days. And I really should. So help me! Tell me what I should be listening to.

I gave her my heart. And she gave me a. Pen.

In Your Eyes just came on the radio, and much like every other girl born between 1973ish and 1978ish, I cannot hear that song without picturing Lloyd Dobbler outside of Diane Court's bedroom window with a boom box. It's hard to be my age and not have a soft spot for John Cusack, even if he does spend much of his free time trying to get female fans to have anal sex with him. To me, he will always be Lloyd Dobbler.

But here's the thing about Lloyd Dobbler. Had any of us teenage girls actually had a Lloyd Dobbler in our lives, we certainly would've stomped on his heart and run off with some asshole in a leather jacket. In fact, most of us did have them in our lives. And we just liked them, "as a friend." In fact, we may have even turned them into assholes in leather jackets, eventually.

Things I can sleep through

That one car alarm on my street. The really obnoxious one
Action movies
The Friday 4am Latin dance party down the block
Cats screaming for me to get up and feed them
The crazy lady upstairs vacuuming at 8am on a Saturday
The roommate coming and going
Anything on TV Land
Cats tearing the apartment apart because I won't get up and feed them
Ringing cell phone
Conversations

Things I cannot sleep through

The hissing, whirring and wheezing of the radiator in my room
The cold without said radiator

Is winter done yet?

Being remembered

I had a boyfriend years ago, who I'm still friendly with. He informed me the other day that he now has a blog. When we were together, he had a rule that two writers in a relationship could not talk about, nor share their writing. Naturally, I couldn't wait to read the blog. The thing is, he talks about his girlfriend, or "lovah" as he and Carrie Bradshaw like to say. A lot. Like more than I've ever talked about the recent ex, either pre or post-breakup. I enjoy reading, but boy am I glad that he didn't have a blog when we were together, because I certainly gave him enough material. (ammunition?)

He had a concise little narrative about every woman he'd ever been involved with. I asked him once what my narrative would be when all was said and done, and he said...

Jess was amazing. She had an incredible imagination, and wore red leather boots, even in the summertime.

I'm glad that will be my legacy - and not a series of posts detailing tantrums during dinners.

Did someone say Sunnydale?

I've been out frolicking the past couple of Wednesdays, when I should have been home watching Angel. While I can't get those Wednesdays back, I can hope for reruns soon, and I can make a commitment to stay home every Wednesday that there's a new episode. Forever.

Tonight's episode ruled. There was a crazy Slayer! Fantastic fight scenes! Spike got his arms cut off! And most importantly, Andrew made an appearance! Yay Andrew. He's looking a little Dr. Who, and acting a little more gay, but he's still a riot. And he gave us all an update on Buffy, Xander, Willow (I love you Alyson Hannigan) and Giles! That's right! Giles!

And next week, Cordy wakes up!

The only thing I'm sad about is that the Slayer didn't get to stay at Wolfram & Hart. They could use one, even if she is a wack job.

Just one of those tempermental creative types

I've felt generally uninspired and specifically restless all day. So I've been posting, deleting, posting, deleting and have now given up. So read Amie Barrodale's "Prank Calling my Mother, Four Transcripts." While I generally find McSweeney's more than a little pretentious, this has made me laugh every one of the 300 or so times I've read it.

In the sewer we can build a snowman

I adore snowy nights in New York City.

I just walked 18 blocks in a blizzard and loved every minute of it. I loved the guy that wailed at the heavens, "I didn't ask for this snow - why are you doing this to me?" I wanted to tell him that God hates him, but instead I just giggled. I particularly loved that barren stretch of Houston between Clinton and Ridge, where it is so quiet you can almost hear the snow fall and random cars move in slow motion. I seriously wanted to lay down in the middle of the street and make snow angels.

This morning I felt like a college freshman, but tonight I feel like a giddy 10 year old girl.

Referrer Spam

I'm on blog-fire today. Mainly because the marketing people have not told me what to market and the editing people have not told me what to edit. This means I have absolutely nothing to do, aside from checking my email and refreshing Craig's List every 30 seconds or so. Anyway, that's not why I'm here. I'm here to talk about referrer spam.

I'm probably way behind the curve on this, but I've been getting a tremendous amount of porn spam in my referrer logs. And it all has to do with Paris Hilton, oddly enough. And the porn itself is not any good. But I found this article today, which more or less sums up what's happening. I also appear to be getting referrer spam from Wesley Clark's official site. How insidious is THAT?

Someone needs to come over and dress me in the morning

I've never been much of a morning person, but I've settled into a horrendous routine.

7:30am: Alarm. Try to figure out if it's a hairwashing day or not. If not, hit snooze. If it is, decide I can skip the styling. Hit snooze.
7:39am: Alarm. Decide I don't really need to wear makeup. Hit snooze.
7:48am: Alarm. Decide I will not wear anything that needs to be ironed. Hit snooze.
7:57am: Alarm. Decide I've come this far, might as well just sleep until 8:00 or so. Hit snooze.
8:06am: Alarm. Yell "fuck!" and get out of bed. Run around like chicken, feeding cats and taking vitamins. Jump in shower. Look in closet - everything is wrinkled. Grab something from The Pile. Throw it on.

This is what I ended up in today: brown corduroy overalls, camo T-shirt and platform hiking boots. No makeup. Hair in bun. I look like one of Valerie Solanis' minions. Did I mention I work in an office? In midtown?

Nothing that vibrates in Texas, y'all

As a proud supporter of the sex toy industry (well, my local sex shop, at least), I have to say I'm in a bit of a tizzy over this article.

Nick Burns, your company's computer guy

I always find it odd that the IT guys at work send out emails like this...

We will be performing maintenance routines on that particular server at 12:30PM today. Therefore, we ask that you save any open draft messages and close your Outlook program. The process will take approximately 15 minutes. We will send a notification when the routine has been completed. Thank you for your cooperation.

If everyone has to close Outlook, how are they going to receive the email notification that the server is back up?

Rockstar Mondays

I have a raging crush on Sean Conrad. We had drinks at No Malice last night, and talked about blogging, even though we weren't supposed to. Now I'm inspired to meet all of my online crushes offline.

Amy Blair, you're next.

I don't like Mondays

I'm a little sad today, but I can't quite figure out why. I hope it's PMS, and not impending doom.

Validation

I have to say, the fact that I started getting more responses to my Nerve profile when I switched out the slut pic for one that looks like daily-basis me is very encouraging.

Although, as predicted, it took me exactly one month to get bored of Nerve.

On missed connections, flaming kitties and such

All in all, the weekend was a bit of a disaster.

First, there was the aforementioned blog party on Friday night. My Saturday night was supposed to consist of dinner with Sean, an old friend who was in town, and then a party with Tatiana and Scott, my newly hitched and expecting friends from Delaware. Good times. That fell apart totally -- I ended up only spending a couple of hours with the happy couple and not seeing Sean at all, although I did develop quite an affection for Maker's Mark.

Sunday proved to be much better, at least at first. I don't often set an alarm or shower on Sundays, but I had a brunch date at Café Orlin with the WB. I even put makeup on, on a Sunday - that's huge. Red daisies and pumpkin pancakes are a fabulous way to start the day.

My decision to never have children was reinforced thrice this weekend. First, everyone at the party was patting Tatiana's stomach. I would be really, really pissed if I was pregnant and everyone was feeling me up all the time. Second, I had to have a sex talk with my 13-year-old brother. And lastly, my cat went up in flames last night.

John Brown jumped onto the coffee table, and within seconds walked into a candle and ignited. He has lots of long hair, and the whole right side of him just went up in flames. Luckily, the fire went out as quickly as it had begun, and JB sustained no injuries, but still. If I can't even keep two cats safe, I certainly can't be responsible for children.

My personal network doesn't feel so personal

Maybe this makes me totally uncool, but I have to say I've found little use for Friendster aside from stalking ex-boyfriends.

All dressed up and no place to go

I braved the chill winter air last night to attend the blogger bash. Upon arriving at AZ, I was told by a tremendously bitchy host that they were "at capacity" and would not be allowing anyone else into the bar. Seems the party organizer didn't think to mention to the bar that 100 or so bloggers would be descending on the place. Since I had no fellow bloggers' cell phone numbers, I had no choice but to jump in a cab, go back home and drink a tremendous amount of wine with the ladies. I'm bummed -- going to a party solo was going to be a very big thing for a social awkward such as myself. C'est la vie, I suppose.

Some of my best friends actually are, and, eww

I'm been working on Valentine's Day promos at work, and have repeatedly grossed myself out writing phrases like, "Surprise your guy this Valentine's Day with these sweet and sensual treats" and "Play nice -- and naughty" to convince dissatisfied housewives to buy massage oil. In the midst of shuddering over the mere mention of the word "sensual", I remembered my favorite essay ever, Lisa Carver's "Some of my Best Friends are Sensualists". I'm pretty sure she wrote this just for me.

Like going to the dentist, only not

So I finally broke down and became an electric toothbrush conformist. Pink. Oral B. Cute. There's just one problem - every time I use it, I get really dizzy. Is that weird?

No accidents part deux: The ex is a lunatic

Last night's last communication, by me was "Okay, that's it. We are not communicating with each other at all anymore. Ever." One would think that's pretty final, no? Here's an excerpt from today's text message conversation:

Message from: the ex
There is a great Amy Sedaris interview in this weeks Onion.

Message from: me
Do you have no short-term memory? Are you insane? Am I living "Groundhog Day"?

There are no accidents

So the ex "accidentally" sent me a cutesy text message that was meant for someone else, and then claimed it was a message he sent me before and then accidentally resent it while trying to erase it. And, uh, the dog ate his homework, or something. Uh huh. I'm currently making a mental list of all the things I'd like to "accidentally" do right now.

The story of Gummy

Julie, best friend extraordinaire and Karl, her Irish boyfriend, have decided it's time to hook me up with a hot Irish boy or two. See, Karl's friend are always coming and going from Ireland -- sometimes they stay a week, sometimes they stay a year. I'm a little skeptical about meeting any more of Karl's friends, and here's why.

I think it was three summers ago. Karl friend Gummy had come to the states, and was looking to find himself a nice American girl. So we all went out one night. Sure, he was cute -- tall and skinny, which is just the way I like 'em. But it just wasn't clicking -- for either of us. I think Julie and Karl might have tried once or twice to get us together after that and then gave up completely.

A month or so later, Julie and I had our annual house on the lake party right outside of Saratoga. I was eagerly anticipating the arrival of Zach, who I'd had a four-year crush on and for the first time in as much time, we were both single. I had very big plans for Zach. Unfortunately, he never showed up.

This presented a problem. I had been all set to hook up, and now it wasn't going to happen. I scanned the party -- Hmm, who can I hook up with? Just then, Gummy came over and asked if I wanted to do a shot. I thought, could I hook up with Gummy? I decided I'd do a shot or four and then decide.

Two hours later. I'd just flashed my boobs for the camera, and Gummy and I were sitting on one of the beds in the downstairs bedroom. He picked up my guitar and started playing "Wonderwall" by Oasis. And singing.

First of all, I hate Oasis. With a passion. Like, their mere existence makes me furious. Second of all, is this foreplay? I figured I'd just suffer through it -- nod and smile. Then he broke a guitar string. Before I had the chance to get all bajiggity, he literally jumped on me, knocked me over, and then started kissing me. It wasn't terrible. Well, not until he leaned over and whispered softly into my ear…

I want to lick your ass.

I jumped up and said, "Okay, dude. First of all, NO! Second of all, you kind of have to work up to that. It can't be your opener, for fuck's sake!" (I always like to say for fuck's sake when I'm around the Irish boys)

Then it was getting into the wee hours of the morning, and everyone was settling into bed. Since Julie and I threw the party, we always insisted on having the two upstairs bedrooms. There was literally nowhere else for Gummy to sleep, so after much deliberation, I said he could sleep with me. SLEEP with me. Nothing else.

This is what Julie heard from the next room for the next hour or so, while Gummy attempted to win me over by opening up a big old can of weird all over me.

Ow!

What the fuck are you doing?

No you are NOT!

Quit it!

Stop touching me

Ow!

Look, you can either quit it or you can go sleep on the floor and get eaten by mosquitos.

Okay, all that was bad enough. But the next morning, Gummy wanted to cuddle.

A week later, I was hanging out with Julie and Karl, and thankfully, not the crazy Irish asslicker. Karl says…

So what happened with you and Gummy? He said you're a big freak.

On being friends

I used to be one of those people that just had to be friends with all my exes. Partly so I could say obnoxious things like, "Well, we didn't work as a couple, but boy, are we great at being friends."

It's all bullshit, of course. Either I wanted them back and figured I'd just do the "friend" thing until they decided they couldn't live without me (Like that ever happened. Some decided they couldn't live without having sex with me, but I never got a declaration of love) or I was the one responsible for whatever excavated the relationship in the first place. If that was the case, then I wanted to be friends to alleviate my own guilt, but really what I did was make it worse for the other person, the one who got hurt in the first place. Then they would do the waiting around for me to declare my undying love.

Boy, was I an asshole.

What do you know, emode?

I promise I'm not going to turn into one of those people that takes online quizzes everyday and pasts code into my blog telling everyone my results. That would bore even me. But, this, I assure you, is relevant.

I just took emode's, er, Tickle's, Why are you still single? quiz. The answer? I'm anti-compromise.

I don't think that's true. Yes, I'm stubborn as hell, but I can compromise. When the situation is "not compromise vs. give in", then I will go with the former. As long as the other person is willing to give a little, so am I.

Granted, I may be going through an anti-compromise stage right now. But that's more of a post-breakup-realizing-how-rad-my-life-is-and-not-wanting-to-give-that-up kind of thing. I'll get over it.

Free Martha

The roommate gave me The. World's. Best. Compliment. Today.

We have this hideously ugly white cabinet, where we keep the silverware, the food processor and on the rare occasions when we don't finish it, the booze. It's painted white, which, in my opinion, is the cruelest thing one can do to furniture and should not be allowed under ANY circumstances. We're having a tall cabinet and a kitchen island built, and the question is: What do we do with said white cabinet?

I suggested we remove the doors and shelves, paint it green and put the kitty litter box in it, with a curtain (for kitty privacy).

Her response?

Cool! You are such a fucking Martha!

I'm practically glowing right now.

And now...a toast...to the President of the Unites States

The WB was kind enough to forward me a link to the 2004 State of the Union Drinking Game. I so wish I was going to be home tonight, surrounded by booze.

On being impulsive

I had a long talk with my dear friend Sean last night about his cautiousness and my lack thereof. He spends days, weeks, lifetimes weighing the pros and cons of what he should do. When he asks me for advice, I'm prone to say things like, "Jesus Christ, just ask her our already." and "Run, very quickly. She sounds like a nutjob." He fears making a wrong decision. I fear NOT making a wrong decision, and then playing the What if game for the rest of my life and thinking something might have been beautiful, when in fact, it was doomed. I would rather live the doom and know I didn't miss out on anything.

Of course, sometimes I dive headfirst into inch-deep water. That's not so fun. I refuse to change, though.

Three days was the morning

How much happier I'd be if I only had to work four days a week. Seriously, I'd put in ten hour days if I could have a Friday or a Monday off.

The weekend was lovely. Had drinks with Alyssa at 7B Friday and talked boys, boys, boys and a little bit of career. Seems I've been bitten by the social work bug -- thinking about trading in my high-paying souless job for something less lucrative but more rewarding. I need to give that one a little more thought, but I'm about 90 percent sold. Had a lovely Saturday evening with The WB. Dinner, drinks and Donnie Darko, which I decided I loved about an hour after it was over. Sunday was Sex and the City. I made Baked Rigatoni with Bechamel Sauce, which was divine, if not The. Most. Fattening. Thing. On. Earth. Try it sometime. You will not be disappointed.

I saw a little of myself in Miranda Sunday whilst watching Sex and the City. Her and Steve were on their honeymoon, and she was dying of restlessness and boredom. Four days of doing nothing but cuddling and having sex. No TV, no radio. It sounded dreadful. Since I've been accused of not having the relaxation gene and not pampering myself enough, I decided to take a long, luxurious bath last night. Promised myself I wouldn't get out until I was pruny. It was hell -- total hell.

Is it naptime?

I don't know if it's the PMS or the lack of sleep, but there's something about listening to Coldplay that makes me want to put pajamas on, get under my comforter, watch sad movies and cry a little.

He lives with hot babes and porks them whenever he wants

This site is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life.

Cool on the outside, geek on the inside

Truth be told, I've done a lot of geeky things.

I've gone to an X-Files convention, parked myself in front of a Playstation II for the better part of two weeks, purchased and watched three seasons of Buffy on DVD, both with and without commentary. And that's just scraping the surface. But next week, I'm outdoing myself. I am attending the Big Apple Blogger Bash with Linus and Pierre, two fellow bloggers who I have never met IRL (in real life, hipsters). I am completely, totally geekified.

Who are these people, and why are they so interested in the uterus?

A little background about blind cavefish. In the mid-90's, a company called Joop! Jeans had a series of bizarre print campaigns that ran in Spin, Rolling Stone and the like. I dug them, and pretty much wallpapered my room with them. There was the clown in the straightjacket with the tagline "Sanity is the playground for the unimaginative." (Following a bad mushroom experience, I had to take it down, but that's another story for another time. I'm such a damn hippie.) My favorite was the one with the squishy fetus-like creature with wings and it said, "In the uterus of love we are all blind cavefish." So there you go.

Because of that tagline, a lot of people searching for uterus information inevitably come to my site. And frankly, they baffle me. Here are some of the terms that have come up recently:

small uterus
going away party uterus
uterus tommy lee
uterus for rent
how large is the uterus in inches
uterus large
all about uterus
uterus sprinkle
fuck you uterus

Freaks.

Just like the HBO show...but not

My friends who live elsewhere think my life is so Sex and the City. Because, you know, I always date models and wear $400 shoes. I guess when it comes to doing fun things on the town with my girlfriends and having dating disasters and whatnot, the analogy can be stretched out of it.

Except for, you know, the sex part. I guess I'm more like And the City. I told Jake I'm bored of my vibrator, aka Big Blue, and he said, in no uncertain terms, "What?! You need professional help."

Mid month check-in

Well, my New Year's resolutions are coming along quite fabulously, I have to say. I've cut the smoking and the drinking in half, lost somewhere between 5 and 10 pounds, and feel altogether peachy. I haven't been writing terribly much, but I'm also in the middle of a fairly intensive rape crisis program which doesn't leave me much time for anything else besides reading for class, and occasionally wailing about the sick nature of society.

My greatest victory, I have to say, came last night. I had an opportunity to have a drag out fight with the ex, and instead I simply let it go. And it felt ten times better than any of the vicious things I've said to him since the breakup.

If I didn't know better, I'd say I was becoming an adult and shit.

I've met my soul mate! Finally!

This is an excerpt from a dude's profile that wrote to me on Nerve. And no, I didn't write back (in case you were wondering):

MORE ABOUT WHAT I AM LOOKING FOR
FEMALE COMPANION, East Village:
Are You a Teamplayer? Busy unemployed junkie seeks nubile employed motherfigure with cable. Computer and administrative skills essential.
Heterosexuality helpful. Soulmates and Kidney thieves need not apply.

Streetlight...people...oh...oh...OH!

I found myself in a work-induced fit of rage earlier today, and as I was about to cry, rip my hair out strand by strand and/or inflict damage on the people around me, a song came on. That song was none other than Don't Stop Believin'.

Okay, I'm not afraid to admit how much I love Journey. I'm also quite fond of Steve Perry's post-Journey solo efforts. I once developed a crush on a guy for the sole reason that we spent an hour at a party discussing our mutual love for this band. I love them THAT much. Right next to The White Album in my vinyl collection is Infinity, and I'm not ashamed of that.

So anyway, there I was, positively seething when the magic of Journey kicked in. I pictured myself, movie-like, slowly getting up from my desk while Steve Perry sang, "Do-n't stop belie-evin'. Hold on to the feeli-i-i-i-n" and beating people up. Like a prizefighter - with gloves and everything. And it made me giggle. Another bad situation avoided because of Journey.

These boots are made for walkin'

Actually, I am wearing boots today. They're red.

I'm eagerly anticipating some upcoming travel next month.

First I am going to Ithaca for a weekend to frolic with my best girlfriend with the biggest neck, Jake. I have been told there will be nature, food, music and many, many drinks. Yee haw! Probably no drugs, which seems odd for a visit to a place so densely populated with hippies. But whatever.

I am jetting off to London with Julie for nearly a week. Look out British boys! Yael's going to try to escape that dreadful place she's living in to meet us for a few days. I've been instructed to find karaoke in London. So far, I can't even find a place to stay. So I appeal to you, dear readers. Does anyone have any suggestions for non-scary, affordable hotel-type places in London? Big sloppy kisses to anyone who suggests a place I actually end up sleeping at.

On Missed Connections

A word of advice:

If you're going to post a Missed Connection for someone, you should probably be prepared for the possibility that said MC will email you something along the lines of, "Who are you, crazy stalker?" and you'll have to come up with an answer, because, I mean, you've already come this far, ya know?

I might have to change my "Most Humbling Moment" on my Nerve Profile to, um, right now.

Bazozzi

Every now and then, I am reminded of a character I know in college. Bazozzi. I'm not sure what his first name was, or if he in fact had one, or if Bazozzi was even his real last name. I know very few things about him, aside from the fact that he was always entertaining.

I met Bazozzi one day in my on-campus townhouse. The roomies and I were passing the bong around, watching TV, when a young man wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a lampshade on his head simply walked in. He walked into the kitchen and began looking through our cabinets and in our refrigerator. Sue came out of her room and announced that she was going to the grocery store and did anyone want anything. This strange man said, "Yeah, let me give you a list. You know what? I'll just come with you."

Maybe it was because we were so stoned, or maybe we just didn't know how to react. But no one objected. We just sat, open-mouthed, while Bazozzi left to either go grocery shopping with or rape and mutilate Peg and Sue. Turns out it was the former.

When Bazozzi returned, he whipped up a Mexican casserole. He put foil over the top, turned to me and said, "Whenever you guys want to eat this, just put it in the oven for 20 minutes". I nodded dumbly. He then went into our bathroom and came out, announcing that he could fix either the light or the fan, but not both. We gave him a ladder and he went to work.

I found out later that Bazozzi had gone to Marist College, for one semester freshman year. Even more disturbing, I found out that he was the mysterious "Clark" that pranked all of the girls in my freshman down nearly daily. Bazozzi became a fixture of our college life. He was at every party. He slept on our couch sometimes. And we didn't know the first thing about him, except that he sometimes liked to wear our dresses.

One day I came home from class and found Bazozzi, just Bazozzi, in the townhouse. We had this conversation:

Bazozzi: (holding up a Vanity fair) Did you read the Madonna interview? It's really good.
Me: Bazozzi, do you have any interest in knowing any of our names?
Bazozzi: You know what? I'm really not good with names.

An update on comments

Since I have neither the money nor the stamina to bribe the masses to make comments on my site, my soapbox will remain just that.

Really, though, I'm just afraid someone will be funnier than I am, and I can't have that. Not on my blog.

Don't hate tha playa

Today was my first day of training as a rape crisis advocate in the ER at one of the city hospitals. I doubt I'll spend too much time talking about this, because it's not terribly entertaining. In fact, it's quite heavy, and a little overwhelming. That aside, an amazing woman came and spoke to our group today. She's been a woman's rights activist for, like, ever. She helped to start the first rape crisis center EVER, and actually coined the term "date rape". She was inspiring and hilarious.

We spent a little time on the women's movement today and discussed some of the stereotypes. Someone threw out the term "man-hating lesbian" and she said, in no uncertain terms...

"If you want to find a group of women who hate men, look for the heterosexuals. The lesbians certainly don't care."

Stress

So apparently, I moved from the least stressful city in the country to one of the highest. If this is true, which I doubt because their methodology is a little dubious, then why am I always ten times more stressed in Schenectady than in New York?

I blame Mom.

Pushing 30

The last thing you want to find after spending a lovely evening with a boy significantly younger than you is a grey hair. I'm going to watch 12 hours of MTV now to make up for it.

Geeks unite!

And it gets even more surreal

I watched The Surreal Life the first time around. Not all of it - but a few episodes. I watched it for a few reasons: 1) I like to see sublebrities participate in wacky stunts that they believe they will revive their careers. 2) I was madly in love with Corey Feldman back in the day. 3) It was all Motley-Crue all the time from the ages of 8 to 15 (although the object of my affection, complete with a shrine in my bedroom, was none other than Nikki Sixx). And mainly, I wanted to see how all of these people of different ages, backgrounds and downward career spirals would get along. Truth was, Corey Feldman was kinda awful, and the show was kinda boring.

I have mixed feelings about the newest incarnation of The Surreal Life. The cast includes Tammy Faye Baker, Vanilla Ice, Ron Jeremy, Trishelle from The Real World, Traci Bingham and Erik Estrada. And what can you really say about that besides "whoa"? On the pro side, Vanilla Ice got really, really hot and Ron Jeremy just cracks me up. On the con side, Tammy Faye might scare the shit out of me, and I'm not familiar with this Trishelle character. I might tune in this Sunday, because, I mean, how can you not?

A little advice from the experts

Since I'm going back out into the dating wilderness this week, I thought I'd get some advice on what NOT to do. Where I found my advice? datingclass.com. Let's see how many of them I break, intentionally or otherwise.

1. DON'T wear something you don't feel drop dead gorgeous in.
2. DON'T wear colored contacts on a first date. (I can totally handle this one. Ew.)
3. DON'T mention your last boyfriend/girlfriend six hundred times.
4. DON'T talk about yourself too much.
5. DON'T talk wistfully about how many children you'd like to have. (Also an easy one. Ew.)
6. If it's a blind date, DON'T compare yourself to anyone famous, looks-wise.
7. DON'T check out other people!
8. DON'T drink too much!
9. DON'T assume that he/she will automatically grab for the check.
10. DON'T jump into the sack!

If someone offers me a substantial amount of money, I'll try to do ALL of the don'ts. Anyone?

More on dude and gender

See what Linus has to say about dudes calling chicks dude.

The insidious pop music machine

God help me, but the more I listen to Liz Phair's Why Can't I?, the more I start to like it. If only Michelle Branch had recorded it, I wouldn't feel so guilty.

While we're discussing things that just ain't right, I got an email from my college boyfriend today. He called me, "dude". In fact, he's not the only man in my life that refers to me that way. Once, I found myself out with a whole bunch of boys from my old company and said, "Why am I always the only girl at these shindigs?" I was told in no uncertain terms that I had fallen off the girl radar. I had my little black dress on and everything. Being one of the guys is fun and all -- but when I'm looking all girly and shit I insist on being treated as such.

Copycat

Yael stole my 64 questions below and posted them on her blog, with her answers. Read them - they're amusing.

I'm thinking about adding comments, but I'll feel like a big loser if no one responds.

From the "duh" files

Turn out fast food is making American kids fat. Who knew? I seriously hope no one is getting a raise or promotion for that groundbreaking research.

The wisdom of Scandal

Sung very loudly and very drunkenly at Sing Sing Saturday night, after handing off the last of the ex's stuff.

Could I have loved someone like the one I see in you
I remember the good times baby now, and the bad times too
These last few weeks of holding on
The days are dull, the nights are long
Guess it's better to say
Goodbye to you

Also from the evening's set list:
Baby One More Time
99 Luftballoons
Mr. Brownstone
Fernando
Sheena is a Punk Rocker

Silly Britney

I've done a lot of things for shock value, comic value or because I was feeling drunk and silly and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I've stolen things, tormented innocent people, kissed girls, flashed cameras and given lap dances under those circumstances. But Britney wins. I have never gotten married for shits and giggles, and don't think I ever would.

Actually, that's a total lie. I so would.

To hold y'all over until I get my About Me section up and running

A delightful young man I met on Nerve sent me a list of questions to answer based on a discussion we had about questions. They're very amusing, and here they are with my answers:

1 In what year was your hair longest: 1994
2 What is the length in inches of your pinky: I can't find a ruler
3 What size bra do you wear: 34B
4 What is your shoe size: 7 1/2
5 Number of piercings: 3
6 Number of tattoos: 0
7 Do you like your own smile: Yes
8 Do you wear glasses or contacts: No. 20/16 vision - better than perfect!
9 Are you too old for pig-tails: Never
10 What is your favorite flower: I don't know what they're called - but they look like brightly colored daisies.
11 Do you like karoake: Going Saturday night. Yes.
12 Do you have a driver's license: Yes.
13 What publications do you read on a regular basis: Bust and Bitch magazine, Salon, NY Post (solely for amusement)
14 What is the worst thing that your cat has seen you do: Two cats. And they rarely pay attention to the things I do.
15 How many cigarettes do you smoke a day: On a good day, none. On a bad day, 10.
16 Do you typically exhale through your nose or through your mouth: When smoking, mouth
17 How do you work out (if you answered this with #15, skip it): Gym, yoga, dancing to 80's music in my bedroom.
18 How many roommates do you have: 1
19 How many cavities: None
20 Do you typically hang-out with ex-boyfriends: Not anymore
21 Name three great movies: Only three? Heathers, To Die For, Fight Club
22 How many best friends do you have: 2
23 How many languages do you speak: 1
24 Do you consider your back massage abilities to be decent: Yes
25 How many heavy metal T-shirts do you own: Currently, one. Fomerly, too many to count.
26 How do you get to work: F Train
27 What was the first concert that you attended: Cindy Lauper with Bangles opening
28 Has anyone you have cared for passed on: Yes
29 Do you carry an umbrella when it looks like it's going to rain: No
30 Would you ever wear a black bra with a white fishnet top: Yes
31 Of more importance ... would you ever wear a white bra with a black fishnet top: No
32 Do you have any siblings: 2 little brothers, 1 little sister
33 Do you have any notable fetishes: No
34 It's 3 a.m. and you're starving, what do you eat: Popcorn cooked on the stove
35 How old is your oldest cat: 6 years
36 What's the single most important piece of make-up in your arsenal: Red lipstick
37 Do you have any allergies: Red wine
38 On average, how many movies do you watch in the theater per month: 2-3
39 What ailment are you most concerned about: Insanity
40 What is your favorite part of your body: My ass
41 Do you balance your own checkbook: I don't write checks.
42 Do you have a current passport: Yes
43 What's your drink: Gin & Tonic
44 Do you know what your father did for a living: He owns a pool business
45 Do you wear stretch pants often: Never
... with patterns?
... with stirrups?
46 Do you like card games: Yes
47 What is your favorite color: Pink
48 What three stores would be involved in the dream shopping spree: They are all in Williamsburg and I don't know the names of any of them.
49 Do you paint your toe-nails: Yes
50 Have you ever made banana muffins or only experimented with test batches: No, but I don't have anything against banana muffins.
51 How old were you when you lost your virginity: Not old enough
52 Name three people that you admire: My Mom, my Grandma and my cousin Lisa
53 Where were you born: Schenectady, NY
54 What's the weirdest job that you have ever worked: Field worker at a vegetable farm
55 Have you ever been married: No
56 Have you ever had an orgasm: Yes
57 What was your favorite class in college: Women in Film
58 How long have you lived in your apartment: 5 years
59 How long have you worked at your current job: 4 months
60 Approximately how many pairs of shoes do you own: 30
61 Do you like wearing heels: No. I tend to fall down when I wear heels.
62 Have you ever been arrested: No
63 Do you wear any type of facial cream to sleep: Vitamin E Moisturizer
64 Have you ever harbored negative feelings towards The Beatles: No