Jake's lament

Jake: Sigh. I'll have you know it's a thankless job being head pompom girl for Team Jess.

Me: And someday, I'll actually be happy and you'll complain about having nothing to do.

Of all the places I don't want to go on vacation

One minute she's writing "for anal beads" on my check, the next she's announcing a move in July. And to where? Florida. I hate Florida. Julie's lucky she's my best friend and knows I'll fly out to see her whenever I can scrounge up a buck fifty for the plane ride down. But still, Florida? Why not Chicago? I've never been to Chicago.

Anyway, in honor of my upcoming desertment, a story.

Jeff was a guy (drug dealer) Julie and I hung out (did drugs) with in high school. I hung (made) out with him a little more frequently than Julie did, but the two of us would often go over to his house together all the time to (score free pot) watch movies and stuff.

One day, as we left Jeff's house…

Julie: Do you really like him?
Me: He's okay.
Julie: Well, are you ever going to get serious about him, or anything?
Me: Like, be his girlfriend? No.
Julie: Well, can I have him then?

For the next four hours, I was outraged. Like, how could Julie just ask to have the guy I was hanging out with? The nerve! Then I realized that I didn't really like him all that much, and we'd still get free drugs if Julie had him. So I gave her the go-ahead.

The next day, Jeff and his two hot friends met Mrs. F, Julie and I at Lollapalooza II. Mrs. F got one hot friend and I got the other. Julie got Jeff. And we all got a lot of free drugs for the next eight months, after which time Julie and I had this conversation…

Julie: How could you have let me go out with him? Did you know he was such a jerk?
Me: I don't know. I thought 'drug dealer' might have been a red flag.

Guys never notice the important stuff

Last night, on The Sopranos...

A.J. passed out, and his friends shaved off his eyebrows. Tony saw him later and eyed him for a bit, trying to figure out what was different about him. Carmella yelled, "He has no eyebrows!" We sipped red wine and giggled.

This reminded me of an old co-worker with no eyebrows. We'll call her Serena, because if I'm going to be a little mean, I don't want to hurt any feelings with real names.

Serena was young, thin and frequently had a thong peeking out from the back of her low, low jeans. She also had very pretty hair. When she started working there, the guys in the office went gaga over her. The girls were perplexed...

Do the guys realize she has no eyebrows?
I don't think so.
How could they not?
We need to investigate.

And we did investigate. I had this same conversation with a lot of boys in the office about Serena, as did my female coworkers.

Do you think Serena is hot?
Yeah, totally.
You don't notice anything strange about her?
No, why.
Dude, you didn't notice that she has no eyebrows?
What, like, she plucks them too thin?
No, like they don't exist.
No way.
Seriously, check it out.

Moments later...

Jess?
What?
Serena has no fucking eyebrows! That's so weird.

I can understand that the boys may have been more interested in the thong and the rack than the missing eyebrows, but seriously. Let's be a little more observant than Tony Soprano, guys.

Spotty minds

DISCLAIMER: The following story was partly inspired by PMS, exhaustion and two glasses of red wine.

One of my girlfriends asked me yesterday if I'd want to erase my memories of the ex. I said no, because then he'd try to befriend me and I'd let him because I wouldn't remember the whole dicing-my-heart-up-and-setting-it-on-fire business. So then we pondered erasing his memory and the fucking with him that could ensue. Good times.

Then Petey and I went to go see Unmitigated Rainbows of the Sunless Mind. I'm not going to review it, because even though I was a film major, reviews are not my area of expertise. I'm more of a "theory" girl. I will say, though, that my reaction to good films is a happy clap, to bad ones is a nose wrinkle. This one gets three happy claps.

Halfway through the film, I started to cry. And for the next hour, I didn't stop. Not sobbing, mind you, just wiping at the eyes every now and then, which caused Petey to cast quizzical glances my way. I started thinking about the good memories that would get wiped out if I erased the ex. The Catskills hike, the Bahamas trip, the country inn up in the Adirondacks when the words I love you were first spoken over an incredible dinner and too much wine. Lazy afternoons on a blanket in the East River park. Cheap Indian food and a $50 bottle of wine. You accumulate a lot of good memories in a year and a half.

Then, of course, I thought of the bad memories that could be erased. I thought of how being treated like you're so insignificant by someone you love so much can obliterate your self-worth, and how I'm still, four months later, trying to remember who I was before him. And thinking, I could be that person again if I erased it all. There was a whole lot of thinking going on, basically.

What I finally ended up with was this. Would I go back and do it all over again, knowing what I know now? No. Would I delete it from my mind if I could? No.

Would I still enjoy erasing his mind and fucking with him? Sure. For a little while. Because I'm evil.

Because everyone loves a good Julie story

I'm starting to think Julie, my lunatic of a best friend, borrows money from me solely because she can later write me a check for the amount. And her favorite part of the check, you ask? The memo line.

Julie called me a few minutes ago to ask if I'd gotten the check she mailed me. When I assured her I had, she first wanted me to comment on the dozens of stickers of barnyard animals she had fastened to the outside of the envelope, and then asked if I'd noticed the memo line. Since I hadn't yet cashed it, I dug it out of my purse while she laughed maniacally and saw that it said for the anal beads. My response? Asshole.

Over the years, I've also gotten for last night, for the crack and hookers, for the sheep, for the hot sex and for the cunnilingus, just to name a few.

Fleet Bank thinks I'm a pervert. Or a lesbian prostitute with one client. At least they're keeping quiet about this, although I bet it's in my FBI file.

Practical, not prantical

I had sushi with the lovely and hilarious Michelle last night at Shiki Kitchen on 1st Avenue. It's supposed to be Brazilian sushi, but tasted just like regular sushi.

Michelle's having some boy trouble and asked me for advice, because, I'm "one of the most level-headed and reasonable people she knows." I suspect she only thinks this because I'm older than she is.

While I did, in fact, give her some very reasonable advice, if I'm one of the most level-headed people she knows, she's hanging out with some serious fucking crazies.

Don't be so prantical

Jake: What's the weekend hold in store?

Me: Inevitable Spotty Mind at Sunset tonight. I didn't make any plans for tomorrow because I'm on call until 8. Should I get called in, I will be prantically calling everyone I know to drink with me tomorrow night.

Me: Frantically. But doesn't prantically sound like a real word?

Jake: No. No it does not.

Me: Oh my God. It so does.

Jake: Maybe in Oxygen-Deprived Land it does. Prantically? Lay off the glue, sister.

Me: It sounds like a real word. I'm going to assign a meaning to it and use it always. So there.

Jake: This is how Communism started.

Me: Bling thinks it sounds like a real word.

Jake: Dude, Bling's going to work for [insert giant media conglomerate name here] -- they make shit up constantly.

Me: God Jake. Could you be more prantical?

Go see naked chicks!

Did I mention that my roommate, the lovely Creamy Stevens, performs at Rififi every Thursday night? And that you should go? Often?

Psst. Hey. It's Thursday. So go see Starshine Burlesque.

Today's Journalist Ethics Award goes to...

The NY Post, for this newsworthy little tidbit about Kobe Bryant's accuser...

The accuser, who had blond hair when she was allegedly attacked, has gained weight since accusing the L.A. Laker guard of bending her over a chair and raping her after she voluntarily went to his Eagle, Colo., hotel room on June 30.

Way to go NY Post. Delivering news that matters, as always.

Imminent mid-life crisis, apparently

Since we're pushing 30, Azee and I decided it might be a good idea to go to a lecture last night called, Overcoming the Midlife Crisis at 30. You know, just in case.

The lecture, which was actually more of a moderated discussion, was given by Lia Macko and Kerry Rubin, authors of Midlife Crisis at 30: How the Stakes Have Changed for a New Generation -- And What to Do about It, which I'm going to buy as soon as I finish entertaining the likes of y'all.

The premise is this. The women of our generation grew up with two major factors influencing our lives: 1) lots of options and very little guidance and 2) divorce. The former gave us a sense of entitlement, the belief that we could, and should, have it all. The latter left us needing something the authors call "divorce insurance."

Basically, we all grew up with divorce. If it didn't affect us personally, it affected our families or our friends. We grew up believing, rightly so, that marriage wasn't always a forever thing. We saw single mothers who had never worked in their lives obliterated by divorce. Hell, I saw my own mother sacrifice her entire life just to raise me after getting divorced. In fact, I'm quite certain that's why I feel like having children is a personal sacrifice I could never, ever make.

So anyway, divorce insurance. We grew up wanting to make sure we could support ourselves and make sure we had a firm grasp on our own identities. The order shifted from getting married, having kids then having a career to having a career, getting married and finally, having kids. The problem? A career is something that takes a lifetime, and the ability to have children is limited by biology.

So now what you have is a gaggle of single 30-somethings that don't have the career they wanted, that were led to believe they would have it by a now mostly defunct economic boom, that are in a state of sheer panic and feel they're running out of time, but still don't know what we want to do. Betty Friedan might take issue with the comparison, but I'd say it's The Feminine Mystique of our generation.

After the lecture, Azee and I were practically bursting with things we wanted to say. We compared notes very loudly and excitedly until we parted ways at the 14th St. L-Train. Turns out we've both been experiencing our mid-life crisis a little early, and had no idea.

Getting back out there

After much silliness, I've decided it's time to tentatively start dating again, should I meet someone that doesn't suck. The trick, should I meet the non-sucker, will be to curb the impulsive nature and do something I've never been terribly good at, which is "taking it slow." I'm not even sure what the phrase means, to tell you the truth.

Jake has kindly offered to help me screen out the baddies, since I'm a wretched judge of character. We did a little exercise and came up with a good list.

Top 5 must-have characteristics:

smart
funny
independent/has his own life
employed
honest

Bonus points for goofy movie-lovers who can cook.

Jake lamented the fact that, although everyone has the same top five for the most part, so many people end up with "dumb, humorless, lying layabouts."

Top 5 must-not-have characteristics:

impotence
Mommy issues
flakiness
self-absorption
someone who's never had therapy of any kind (Jake pointed out that maybe this one shouldn't be an absolute, as some people manage to make it through childhood relatively unscathed. We'll see.)

There, now I have a handy little list to refer back to should I meet anyone remotely promising.

Three apples a day keeps you locked in your bathroom for hours on end

All over the fashion district, where very thin women wear very pointy shoes, our friends at New York Apple Country have started a new ad campaign. Posters on the sides of pay phones read, "Eat three apples a day to lose weight."

Um, New York Apple Country? There's a word for that.

Bulimia.

Weekend highlights

1) Mrs. F, who at the age of 29 has started using the word wicked and said it no less than 12 times between Friday night and Sunday morning, on her lack of memory concerning Friday night's debauchery.

Me: You don't remember the big guys at the bar that we were hanging out with? The ones who looked like football players?
Mrs. F: Oh! I do! They were huge! There were a lot of them, weren't there? Like three or four?
Me: Umm, there were two.

2) Seen around the corner from The Comedy Cellar, where Dave Atell told Julie she would be famous one day, another comic yelled at Mrs. F for claiming she cares about dolphins and Darrell Hammond reminisced about doing coke in the bathroom...

Me, skirt hiked up while Mrs. F, on one knee, spent twenty minutes trying to extricate my fishnet stockings from my sequined purse. After which Julie yelled at me to hold the bag away from the tights for the remainder of the evening.

3) The masturbation talk, which only took us 15 years to have with each other. Followed by Mrs. F asking to see Big Blue, which I have to say felt a little weird.

On Ben

I had some time to think about Ben Affleck yesterday.

There are many reasons to hate Ben Affleck. There's Matt Damon. There's Jenny from the block. It's perfectly acceptable to hate people for the company they keep.

There's Gigli, Forces of Nature and that early 90's Lifetime movie in which he played a high school football player on steroids. There are the numerous unlikable and/or misguided characters he has played in Kevin Smith movies; Shannon Hamilton, Holden McNeil, himself. Hell, he was even a high school basketball player in the truly awful Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie (not to be confused with the brilliant Buffy the Vampire Slayer television show). These are some pretty serious offenses.

Yet, for some reason, I like him. I don't find him particularly good-looking and I haven't been blown away by his acting prowess. In fact, he hasn't even tried very hard to make me like him. But I do.

The other night I saw him on Leno. When Jay asked him about dating, he said he wasn't such a hot commodity right now, what with the media in his face all the time. And I felt bad. When he narrated Curse of the Bambino, I could hear the pain in his voice. Again I felt bad, the way I feel bad for all Red Sox fans (Let's Go YANKEES!) -- they're kind of a sad bunch.

If Ben Affleck were my friend, I'd probably cancel on him frequently but defend him when someone talked smack about him. I'd probably choose "ignore" rather than "answer" when "Ben A." popped up on my cell phone at least 8 out of 10 times. And I'd invite him to my birthday party, but never to Sunday dinner.

Although there are many reasons to do so, I just can't hate the little bugger. And believe me, I've tried.

More on merkins

Zach: Today, I noticed you mentioned merkins, and I have a merkin story. I will have to share it with you at some point.

Me: Stalker. Tell me the story!

Zach: My friend Matt and I, after making a beard from regular hair, decided nothing would be cooler than to make a merkin. Merkins are made from pubes right?

Me: They're not made FROM pubes. They're made to put over pubes.

Zach: What?! I thought they were wigs made out of pubes. Why the hell would you want to make a wig to put over your pubes? [Ed note: Why the hell would you want a wig made out of pubes?]

Me: Back in the day, people used to get lice all the time and they'd have to shave off their hair. It wasn't considered dignified to be shaved, so people would have merkins made to give the illusion of pubic hair.

Zach: Okay, well then we made something entirely different. Wow... the light a good definition can shine on something.

People I've blamed my McDonald's consumption on

The ex, for making me so upset I required food therapy.
Those bastards who laid me off so I couldn't afford real food.
The McDonald's corporation, for making bad food taste so good.
America, for having so little concern for obesity.
Mom, for taking me there when I was young and impressionable.
The F-Train conductor, for bypassing 2nd Avenue and dropping me off right in front of the McDonald's on Delancey.
God.

Dre-e-e-e-eam, dream dream dream

Someone, I don't recall who, told me recently that they do not believe that dreams actually have any meaning. I find that impossible.

Last night, I dreamt that the roommate and I were sitting around the living room, talking. She peeled open a banana and started to eat it. When she realized the entire banana was pitch black and mushy, after taking a bite out of it, she gagged and spit the banana pieces all over the table. Then a bug started crawling out of the banana, and it was the kind of bug that gets under your skin and turns you into a zombie killer on The X-Files. We both started to scream, and tried in vain to alert bug-and-mouse-killer-cat John Brown to its presence. But it got away.

Later, I dreamt that I was at my grandparent's house, only it was really my aunt's vacation house on Lake Luzerne in upstate New York. We were being terrorized by someone in the basement. In a normal response to being terrorized, I decided to sneak into a back bedroom and have sex with Chris from The Sopranos, who I actually find quite repulsive. When the subject of him going down on me came up, he said, "I don't do that." And I still had sex with him! He also told me all about the other girls I had slept with that week, and insulted me a couple of times during the sex. It was all very, very strange.

According to Swoon's Dream Dictionary...

Spoiled bananas indicate disappointment in friends.
If you succeed in killing bugs or otherwise getting rid of them, it signifies that your difficulties will be easier to overcome than you anticipate.
A basement means you need to be firm about refusing plans which don't really appeal to you.

Yeah, I don't know what it means either. But I did notice they have a definition for Merkins! Holly and I were going to start our own exotic Merkin business at one point. I still think it could really take off.

Good times in Westchester

I'm spending the weekend with Julie from the Mod Squad and Mrs. Faulkner, my two oldest and dearest friends. My favorite photograph on Earth is of a 9-year old Mrs. Faulkner and I decked out Madonna-like and posing in her backyard. I in red tights, a purple miniskirt and matching pink lace headband and fingerless gloves. Amanda in her mom's too-big red pumps and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Both of us wearing too much red lipstick. I with my hands straight up in the air, winking. Her with one hand behind her head, hair half in her face. We were adorable.

JFTMS came two years later at a slumber party. One round of Light as a feather, stiff as a board (She was so faking it) and we were instant pals.

Although I adore spending time with the girls, I do have a beef with the weekend planning. JFTMS and I are both incredibly stubborn on incredibly different subjects. So we bicker. A lot. JFTMS lives in Westchester, and when a mutual friend comes to visit for the weekend, she insists on spending Friday night there, instead of just coming down to the city for the weekend like she should. So I'm schlepping up to New Rochelle after work today, and I'm bitter about it.

This is not Manhattan snobbery here, mind you. It's practicality. There is nowhere to sleep at JFTMS's apartment, and I'm far too old to sleep on the floor. Granted, I have been invited to share the queen-sized bed with her and her Irish Lovah, but since she always tries to make out with me when drunk and he encourages the behavior, I'm a little scared. Also, I want to take the girls to El Maguey y La Tuna for dinner Saturday night, and I know my plans will be thwarted by dinner at New Rochelle's Coyote Flaco tonight.

Whining aside, I know I'll have a lovely time with the girls this weekend. It's always a good time when Mrs. Faulkner and Julie from The Mod Squad come to visit. We act like we're about 15 and laugh hysterically for days on end. Plus, it's always a good idea to go out with two other attractive girls who are attached, because I get all the boys by default.

On nicknames

The roommate just informed me that the girl she despises at work, who is a Jehovah's Witness (not why she despises her), has been nicknamed J.Ho.

This got me thinking about nicknames throughout the years. The boys my friends and I hooked up with in college -- Dirty John, London Boy, Eddie Vetter and The Noid. The ones we wanted to -- Dreads Mike, Ed-I-Love-You-Ed and Johnny Angel. And the ones that just hung around and never hooked up with anyone -- Doogie Howser, Cool Like This and CVS Mike. And then I remembered The Doogel, my arch-nemesis.

There is no doubt in my mind that, at one point, I wronged The Doogel in some very major way. Otherwise, there can be no explanation for her desire to pursue every single boy I so much as winked at (Okay, I don't ever wink. Ever. But you know what I mean.) And the numbers are far too staggering to be a coincidence. And I was far too drunk to adhere to any type that we may have shared.

The extraordinary thing about The Doogel is the frequency in which she would make out with guys in bars. Seriously. The second you turned around, there she was, tongue down some guy's throat. And so we dubbed public making out "Doogeling." And it stuck. After she stole Irish, an adorable frat boy away from me, I took great pleasure in telling him, "The Doogel's been Doogeling again" when he arrived at the bar, and nodding in the direction of whatever boy she was hanging all over. That relationship didn't last long. Because she was evil.

One night, the girls and I were hanging around drinking wine when Kyle, who I was seeing at the time, came over and proudly informed me that The Doogel had just tried to jump him at a party. I jumped up, said "That's it!" and embarked on a drunken journey to find her and kill her. Granted, I can't fight my way out of a paper bag when I'm sober, but she's a tiny little thing. I didn't find her, much to my chagrin, and had to return home to pass out without kicking her all-up-in-my-shit ass.

She also approached Nazareth (not a nickname, his God given) Love of my Life and mistakenly thinking there was romance in the air, Nick (a roommate's boyfriend). She took up with Naked Pictures Ex right after we broke up. Finally, she infiltrated my group of guy friends and started dating one of my own. It was all very disturbing and rage-inducing.

Finally, at the end of senior year, I got my reward. The Doogel took home the "Came in Hot, Left Not" title at The River Awards. Homer, standing next to me in that quiet way of his, one eye nearly shut, took a long drag of his cigarette, nodded in my direction and said, "Finally Jess, A little bit of justice for ya."

A letter to the Englishmen in New York

Dear Englishmen in New York,

I'm a self-professed anglophile. I love your accents, your pale skin and your teeny-tiny butts. I really do. You don't have to work terribly hard to get into my pants. That said, you have to at least try a little when responding to my profile on Nerve.

I'm not trolling the Nerve Personals anymore, but I'll check back in if I get an email saying someone responded, just in case it's my soul mate or something. I get funny messages, interesting messages and sometimes, totally crazy messages. From you, I get very dull messages. I don't think you're dull, I just think you're lazy.

You're a hot commodity in this city. We love the British boys. But please, come up with a tagline for your profile other than Englishman in New York. And if you can't change the tagline, at least don't use a variation of it in the subject line of the message you send me. I get it, you're British. I'm already sold on that point. Now give me some of the funny. You'll need the funny to get into my knickers. Also, would it kill you to maybe mention something you saw in my profile? A common interest, perhaps? I spent a lot of time making myself sound infinitely more smart, interesting and funny that I actually am. A little validation, please.

That's about all I have to say, Englishman in New York. I hope you'll take my suggestions into account, and I hope there will be no hard feelings when I don't respond to your dull, dull message. And good luck getting the women of New York to sleep with you!

Best,
Jess

Talkin' smack

Tell me what you honestly think, Jess.

Oh, the trouble answering that question has gotten me into!

For months now, I have not heard from one of my favorite boys. The last time I saw him, we were drinking like there was no tomorrow, he was sharing the anguish of his recent messy breakup and I was keeping quiet about my imminent one. At one point he looks at me very intently and says those fateful words.

Maybe it was the gin and tonics. Maybe it was the fact I have no tact and am unable to sugarcoat anything. But I started with To tell you the truth, I've never had much love for her. And here's why. Then I didn't hear from him for three months.

I've been wanting to pick up the phone and call, but everytime I did, I'd say Shit, what if they got back together? and hang up.

Luckily, the ex spent some time with our mutual friend over the weekend and relayed the message that he'd like to hear from me. Also relayed is his still-single status. I'm now looking forward to drinking myself silly with him and introducing him to all my new single girls. And I'm very happy I no longer have to pretend to like his ex.

Not your typical St. Patrick's Day

It's funny how your perspective on things can change.

Were this any other St. Patty's Day, I'd be rattling off the famous Irish people my grandfather dubiously claims we're related to. I'd also be making plans to go somewhere and drink my face off. If I could find cute, drunk, Irish boys to kiss, even better.

Today's a little different, though. I'm on rape crisis volunteer duty tonight at the hospital, and instead of being a drunken reveler, I'm feeling more like the overprotective Mom of downtown Manhattan.

Get your collective minds out of my gutter

37 of you perverts tried to see me naked yesterday.

Only 37? What's up with that?

A letter to the guy that lives in the apartment building across the street from me who is apparently always home and shouts lewd things at me every time I walk to and from my apartment building

Dear guy that lives in the apartment building across the street from me who is apparently always home and shouts lewd things at me every time I walk to and from my apartment building,

Could ya not?

Thanks,
Jess

What are you having for breakfast?

Someone's apparently having...

uterus pancakes

My naked ass (and other body parts)

Back when I was all skinny and blond and hot and shit, I let an old boyfriend take a whole lot of naked pictures of me.

I don't recommend this. I may not be a celebrity or anything, but knowing that naked pictures of you are out there, swirling around the ether after a breakup is a very nervewracking thing. And if the person who took them refuses to give them to you, with negatives, then you've got a bit of a problem on your hands. Luckily, the ex-boyfriend had to sneak into the photo lab at the college he worked at to develop the pictures and could only get away with a couple at a time, so of the 60 or so total pictures, only five got developed. After numerous tantrums, I was given those five pictures and all the negatives.

Now, these pics were "arty" (except for the ones that looked like Hustler cover art, which are mainly the ones that got developed) and every six months or so, I'm overcome with a desire to get them developed. Not that I'll do anything with them, I'd just like to see them, and maybe say to myself Look at you, all skinny and blond and hot and shit. And every time I get ready to get them developed, I chicken out.

I'm not much of an exhibitionist -- too self-conscious for that. I might, on occasion, flash my boobs at a video camera at a party or stand in front of an open window in a bra and fishnets, but there's usually alcohol involved. In fact, it took him 2 years to talk me into the pictures in the first place. And a barrel of red wine. I just cannot bring myself to get them developed.

So here's my solution. I need to date a photographer. Who can develop pics in his apartment, while I hover and watch like a hawk. Anyone want to play matchmaker?

A revelation of sorts

The Pie, God bless her, has a post up so inspiring that I might be ready to change my life. Fo' real. Just have to work on the sex part (or partNER, rather), because I think daily hour-long solo lovin' might get old fast.

Sure, tell me now

It's amazing the things your friends will tell you after a breakup.

Saturday night Azee and I took ourselves out for a fancy dinner at Loui Loui, which made us both sick, and not in a we-ate-until-we-got-sick kind of way either. We're really good at balancing out Very Serious Conversation with Light Fun Conversation, so there was both laughing and crying. And relationship deconstructing, mostly of her recent, but a little bit of my not-very-recent-but-still-relevant-in-the-fact-that-I'm-a-crazy-person. Then there was drinking, at the lounge underneath Three of Cups, which may or may not have an actual name and was the location where TTBTFO Darren was spotted.

Anyway, we had the following exchange.

Me: You know what? I haven't smoked pot once since the breakup.
Azee: Good. You were getting out of hand.
Me: You thought I was getting out of hand?
Azee: Yeah. Obviously doing anything you could to dull the pain. I was worried.

I probably won't ever listen to you at the time, being the stubborn asshole that I am, but ladies, you can at least try to reason with me.

The ghost of drunken hooking up past

Me: You are not going to believe who I saw in the bar last night.
Cindy: Who?
Me: DARREN!
Cindy: Tell-that-bitch-to-fuck-off Darren?
Me: Yup.

TTBTFO Darren is a boy I met during my sophomore year in college. He was short, Italian and cute, which is just the way I like 'em. (Well, I also like them tall and anorexic-looking, with dark, shaggy hair, big noses and light eyes. If they brood or woefully strum a guitar, even better.)

TTBTFO Darren and I hung out for about two weeks until I came to the conclusion that he was out of his fucking mind. The ex-girlfriends he wanted to kill, the monologues about how no one understood him, the jealousy, the bonsai trees -- it all got very weird very quickly.

So I started making up excuses, because You're a serial killer in training might not have gone over too well. And he started calling me, about 600 times a day. The roommate was nice enough to screen his calls and say I wasn't there until the day when a hysterical Darren said, I KNOW SHE'S THERE YOU FUCKING CUNT! PUT HER ON THE PHONE! and then TELL HER...TELL THAT BITCH TO FUCK OFF! Hence the nickname. After a month of two of glaring at me from across the room at bars and frat parties, TTBTFO Darren moved on.

Cindy: How did he look?
Me: Really cute. He cut off his hair.

Talking to Mom

Me: Hey Mom, did you get my birthday present yet?
Mom: Not yet.
Me: Can I put in a request?
Mom: Wait! I have to get a pen and paper!
(Waiting)
Mom: Okay, what do you want?
Me: Rollerskates
(Silence)
Me: Hello?
Mom: Rollerskates?
Me: Yes, Sketchers ones.
Mom: Why, so you can go to Central Park and almost kill yourself like you did with your rollerblades?
Me: That's because I can't rollerblade, Mom.
Mom: (Audible sigh)
Me: There are a bunch of different colors. I want the ones with the pink glitter wheels.
Mom: Of course you do. 30 years old and everything still has to be pink glitter.
Me: Mom, I'm 28.
Mom: Close enough.

And so we meet again

After much anticipation, there is finally a new chatlog on Amber Forever. Read it. In fact, read all of them. You will not be disappointed.

It's not like I'm ever going to use them

Every now and then, I think about selling off an egg. $7000! I could pay off my credit card debt with that. Naturally blond? Check! Blue or green eyes? Check! Attractive? Check! STD free? Again, check. It's not like I'm getting any younger here. My eggs are going to start committing suicide soon. Shouldn't I do something with them?

He really does like me. I swear.

I just tried to IM Petey and got this away message:

Auto response from liminal999: Seriously...I'm trying to accomplish stuff here, KittyAcupuncture.

It's a good thing I'm unapologetically irritating on purpose, or I might be offended.

My heart belongs to Carter

I've certainly been giving my heart away and leaving it places a lot lately. Whatever, I have a lot of love to give. Anyway, I have a hot date with Carter tonight.

Carter is tall and muscular. Strawberry blond. Inquisitive eyes. Playful nature. Low-maintenance. Just the way I like 'em. He also happens to be a golden retreiver.

If you don't know this about me, I'm not a dog person. I have never cared for a dog. Until about a year ago, I was terrified of them, due to an unfortunate incident involving a rottweiler's teeth and my ass. So when I agreed to dog sit Carter, it was with some apprehension.

First, there's his size. The dog is bigger than I am. I'm having visions of Carter running, me holding onto the leash like a water surfer, face bouncing along the pavement. Then there's the cleanup factor, which makes me think of changing a diaper, which reminds me of my baby hatred and then I get all squeamish and whatnot.

Apprehension aside, I'm sure Carter (Named after Jimmy Carter. Really.) and I are going to have a lovely four days together. It's been a long time since I shared a bed with a boy for longer than a night.

Here he is...

This ho's life

I'm not really a ho, but I can't stop blogging and being called a strumpet, tart and ho-cake by Jake in under 30 seconds inspired me.

First of all, Holly threw in the towel. I win.

Second, a story. I had a friend (we'll call him Dan) in college who I used to hook up with. For all four years. We had a great system. We'd find ourselves at a frat party or bar around 4am with no romantic prospects and one of us would say those magical words. Wanna hook up?

Since he lived with my stepbrother and I had a roommate, some finagling (and usually fighting with the brother) would have to be done. Once finagled, we'd hook up, and have the same conversation afterward, every time.

Me: (or Dan) You don't like me or anything, do you?
Dan (or Me): Nope. You?
Me (or Dan): No way.

On occasion, one of us would fess up to the beginings of serious like. Then the conversation would go like this.

Me (or Dan): I kinda like you.
Dan (or Me): How long until you get over it?
Me (or Dan): Give me a week.
Dan (or Me): Cool. No hooking up until then.

Things were so much easier in college.

Okay, maybe I'm a little bit of a ho...

Hypochondria squared

Take off your shirt and bra, he said. Someone will be in to get you for the chest xray.

I decided then that I clearly have lung cancer. That all of those lung cancer promos for The Division were really God's way of telling me I had lung cancer. That was why the doctor said Hmmm when he listened to my lungs. That's why he wanted a chest x-ray. No one's ever made me get a chest x-ray before.

So I got used to the idea while I waited. Planned out what kind of wigs and headscarves I'd buy. Made a list of people to call and say I love you to, just in case. Standard hypochondria behavior.

Got the chest x-ray, and then went back to the sterile little room for more waiting. Decided I'd find a support group. Write a will. Give back to the community. Nurse comes in and makes me breathe as hard as possible into some doohickey. Tells me my breath is too short. I'm about to pass out from the pain in my chest. More waiting.

Well, your lungs are fine, he says. You have an upper respiratory infection. Here's a prescription for an antibiotic. Take one a day for 10 days.

Mom, a nurse by profession, this morning: They do a chest x-ray to see if you have pneumonia, you nut.

Another nugget from the uterus freaks

red mark on fallen uterus

Exes and writing

Had a drink or twelve with my favorite ex last night. Well, stopped counting at 12, anyway. Could someone please do something to ensure I don't make drunk phone calls? I obviously can't.

Anyway, Favorite Ex and I get together once or twice a year to get caught up. He's still lazy and into older women. I'm still flaky and not into dessert. Good to know some things never change.

We had a long talk about love, and specifically, why some people are afraid of it. Neither one of us understand the fear of a broken heart. I don't care if I get my heart broken - I know it's a fact of life and I also know I'll get over it. More often than not, it's worth it. What FE and I are both afraid of is getting so wrapped up in a relationship that we forget who we are. That's where my commitment phobia comes from.

FE and I agreed to meet back at the same spot in two year's time, finished novels in hand.

Fuck, now I have to write a novel.

On being a jackass

KittyAcupuncture: Is the fact that I'm a total jackass at all endearing?
baconordeath: You're a jackass, all right. But you're okay in my books.
KittyAcupuncture: At least I'm consistantly insane.
baconordeath: Actually no, you have extended periods of rational behavior.
KittyAcupuncture: I get over it, though.

My bush is going to be Alissa's running mate

Crashing conventions

I've been wondering what I'm going to do with myself for four whole days in Huntsville, Alabama. Aside from the wedding, there is nothing else on the agenda.

Lucky for me, there's a furry convention that weekend. Anyone want to don a racoon suit and be my date?

Missing da boys

I love my girls, really I do.

But lately, I've been missing my boys. I've lost most of my NYC guy friends to relocation and evil girlfriends over the past two years, and was positively tickled when I answered my cell phone last night to be greeted with a "What's up, Shady?" in Kyle's awful Rhode Island accent. After confirming for the 603rd time that I am, in fact, not shady at all, I squealed and asked him how he's enjoying life in Denver.

Turns out he's not. After getting his MBA, he couldn't find himself a job and is currently selling furniture (making more than me selling furniture, in fucking Denver, but I digress) Since selling furniture was not part of Kyle's Original Life Plan, he's looking for work elsewhere, elsewhere being NYC. I can hardly contain myself - I've missed that boy to bits.

While discussing his current girlfriend and the breaking of his relationship record (prior to this little lady, it was more of a "Hi, I'm Kyle. Can we break up now?" sort of thing), he asked me if there was anyone I wasn't dating, or if I had any non-boyfriends these days. I adore that boy -- few people understand the inner workings of my twisted mind as well as Kyle.

Who wants to give me herpes?

Sunday, 3:30pm. The roommate and I are, of course, watching Lifetime. A Valtrex commercial comes on. We have the following conversation:

Me: Herpes looks fun!
TR: I know. You get to date really hot guys!
Me: And run through fields!
TR: Why do girls with herpes get to have all the fun?
Me: Look at that, they're sailing!
TR: And having a romantic candelit dinner.
Me: They're so going to do it.
TR: I want herpes!
Me: Me too. From now on, "Do you have herpes?" is going to be one of my standard first date interview questions. We're missing out.

My first Missed Connection

The roommate just sent me this. She's certain it's me, I'm certain it's not, even though I was in Key Food yesterday with my dyed red hair and red coat. I'm going to pretend it's me, though. Just because Mondays are so depressing.

Happy birthday to me

OK, it's a month and a half away, but I'm begging Mom to buy me these. After she asks me five different ways why, at the age of 29, I need rollerskates, and then tells me six different ways that she finds me very strange, she will buy them for me. That's why I love her, and also why I have low self-esteem.

Preserving my Sunday routine

Dear Lifetime TV and Lifetime Movie Network:

A disturbing trend has started in recent weeks. Instead of the usual Sunday made-for-TV movie lineup, you've been showing movies like Thelma & Louise and Angela's Ashes. Luckily, since you have two channels, I can usually find something starring Melissa Gilbert or Kellie Martin, but I'm starting to get a little worried.

Like many Lifetime watchers (fans? addicts?), I have a few movie channels. If I wanted a slick production and a Hollywood cast, I'd watch HBO, Cinemax or something On Demand. I want Lifetime Original Movies, and that's why I watch Lifetime from noon to 9:00pm every Sunday. I want bad acting, poor dialogue and unrealistic story arcs. I want women's prisons, stalking and custody battles gone awry that lead to child abduction. I think I speak for the average Lifetime viewer when I say this.

Please keep this letter in mind when planning your future programming, Lifetime. Sundays are sacred to me, and I'd hate to have to watch poorly dubbed 80's movies on TNT all day in the future.

Sincerely,
Jessica
fan since '98.

P.S. While I'm here, I'd also like to request a Meredith Baxter Birney weekend. As would my roommate. Thank you in advance.

Funny Love Story

The roommate brought me a present today. It's an adorable Pucca notebook. If you're not familiar with Pucca, I'm sure the story on the cover will clear things up for you.

Pucca is a sweet daughter of owner of the Chinese restaurant.
She is a mania to a zzazzangmyeon.
Her boyfriend is GARU. He always chased by her.
You will going to expect their funny lovestory.

I get around, get around woo ooo I get around

All day long, I have been running.

Like Eliza Dushku in the ill-fated Tru Calling, I run, and I run, and then I run some more.

Power naps at 7:30am are never a good idea.

Deadlines should be extended when everything is broken.

I am now a full-fledged volunteer at the hospital. After dashing home to pick up the paperwork I'd forgotten this morning, running to one building to get the results of my TB test (negative!) and then running to another building so a HOT security guard could take a picture of me, disguised as a 300 pound woman with no blood in her face, I now have my very own hospital ID badge. I'm on call for the first time tonight as a rape crisis volunteer. I'm scared shitless and don't know what to wear.

Some folks on the corner of 34th St. and Broadway are not very happy about Mel Gibson's latest, and believe Jesus to be gay.

I thought about telling the guy with the headphones on the 14th St. platform that he was, in fact, singing quite loud. I'm not sure he knew. Instead I just giggled.

After work, I'm going to the gym to get on a treadmill and run some more.

Every time I see pudding now, I think of semen. I'm pretty sure there is no pudding in my immediate future.

And that, in a nutshell, is just how frazzled I am right now.

A nugget of wisdom from my roommate (told over IM)

I think it's high time biologists started working on making semen taste like pudding. Why don't they get on that?

Nothing a li'l beer can't cure

Being sick sucks.

For two days I sat around in my pajamas, blowing my nose, watching old episodes of Dawson's Creek (including the one where Abby got shitfaced, fell off a pier and died. It's my favorite episode ever) and waking the cats up every few minutes or so to force them to play with me. Jake swore a few pints would cure what's ailing me, and I was skeptical but decided I'd give it a try.

Actually, he said Guinness, specifically, but they were all out of Guiness at dba, where I met Linus for a few last night. He's a little fella, and a great storyteller. We had a smashing time. And I'm not sick anymore. Which is good, because I'm taking Sean Conrad to his first burlesque show tonight. And yes, sometimes I actually hang out with people I have not met online, but lately, not often.

Grrrrr

This little lady, who I do not know, has a link to me. My description is "angry pink blog." I love it! I'd change the title up above to angry pink blog, but then I 1) wouldn't get all the funny uterus search terms in my stat report (latest: uterus dining) and 2) I'd have to be angry all the time. I'm usually happy, often exasperated but only seldom angry. In short, I don't think I can pull it off. But should anyone else like to refer to me as the "angry pink blog", I will still be very happy.

On being a bigger person, or not

I cannot come up with anything brilliant to say today, as the only thing on my mind should not be discussed in a public forum. Were this not a public forum, I might mention the scores of angsty text messages I received from the ex yesterday concerning the "negative portrait I've been painting" of him and how I'm tarnishing our "beautiful memories". But see, if I did that, more text messages would follow, so I won't.

Were this not a public forum, I might go on to say that I've showed an incredible amount of restraint where the ex is concerned, and have taken great pains never to mention x, y and z. But I won't.

In conclusion, were this not a public forum, I might mention that if one chooses to read an ex's blog everyday, it is not information that should be shared. And certainly not commented on. Especially when the blogger in question has taken great pains to make light of things that are not, or were not, light at all.

Good thing this is a public forum, isn't it?

If you're lucky, maybe I'll get you on the guest list

Michelle couldn't go out Saturday because she had to work. Me and the other rape crisis girls (I so need a new name for them) decided to hang at the cheesy club she works at and keep her company. Since we were already there, we drank and danced the night away.

I have always maintained that I am a bar, not a club girl. Now there is actual proof out there that, on occasion, not only do I visit clubs, but sometimes I actually have fun.

Are you there God? It's me, Jessica

It's impossible to truly enjoy a Judy Blume moment when you're forced to live it with a male friend.

I was lamenting to Jake that my recent weight loss has, in fact, erased the boobs completely. Gone. Bye bye. It was fun while it lasted. I told him the title of the autobiography, if ever I do something spectacular that warrants one, will be The Tragic Disappearance of my Tits. He asked me if exercises can be done to fluff the pillows, so to speak.

Yes, yes there are. You bend your arms at 90-degree angles and do an inward/outward motion while concentrating very hard and saying...

We must
We must
We must increase our bust!

Jake didn't appreciate, or get the reference. It was so sad to live that moment alone.

Petey's 15 minutes (or 18 hours, as the case may be)

Me: I want you to go on Queer Eye.
Pete: Why does everyone keep telling me that?
Me: Can I submit you?
Pete: Sure.

The application has been sent in! If I have my way, Pete will get a Fab Five makeover just in time to go on a televised blind date with Britt. When I said I had matchmaking plans for them, I bet you didn't think they were going to be this big. Pete is a very good-looking boy who needs a confidence booster. And a serious apartment makeover.

This is my first visit to Pete's apartment.

Me: You bring girls here?
Pete: Yeah, why?
Me: Did you ever think this is why they never come back? Ew.

I'll take him, on a toasted everything bagel

I'm home sick today, and since my ungrateful cats wouldn't go to Dunkin Donuts to get me a caramel latte, I had to venture out in my sneezing, coughing state. Apparently, all the hot guys in the neighborhood are roaming the streets before noon. Had I known that, I might have left the apartment more when I was unemployed. Ogling hotties would have been infinitely more fun that fighting with the ex at home.

And had I known that there would be a gorgeous Chris Cornell lookalike at the bagel shop who was planning to smile at me, I might have changed out of the flannel pajama pants before venturing out.