On Fleet Week

Pretty pretty men in pretty pretty white uniforms, everywhere.

You know, every year I wonder why I have not yet bedded a sailor during Fleet Week. Some years I've had a boyfriend. Some years I've been coming down from one of my "sexual awakenings," where I try really hard to have lots of casual sex and then realize I'm not very good at it. (The casual part, that is. Not the sex part.) So then, just as I'm getting ready to revert back to my good Catholic upbringing, the sailors roll into town. Instead of getting a white uniform very, very dirty, I just grin real goofy-like and giggle a lot.

This year, I just don't have time. I've been running around getting ready for the wedding in Alabama. I'm leaving tonight, and won't be back until Monday. No sailors for me.

This is year five with no Fleet Week sex. I'm having a sailor orgy next year to make up for it.

My sexual education

Sheila has a great post up about V.C. Andrews books, those "creepy dark sex books, marketed to kids." I couldn't get enough of the incest and dark family secrets. And I started reading them at a ridiculously young and impressionable age -- 8.

Danielle, who lived behind my grandparents' house and was my best friend, had an older sister Jenny. Jenny was cool -- she listened to Van Halen and had every V.C. Andrews book that had been printed to date. Not to mention really pretty hair. Danielle and I started reading them, and boy did we get an education.

I remember having a really hard time wrapping my head around the sex stuff. It was just vague enough that if you didn't already know what it was all about, you couldn't really figure it out. Especially as an 8-year old. So I started stealing mom's romance novels. I found no answers in the throbbing members and quivering loins there either. Finally, I confessed to Danielle that I didn't get it. Imagine my surprise when she, one year my junior, very authoritatively told me,

It's when a guy pees on a girl's stomach. That's how people do it.

I was floored! That was how women had babies?! There was no way I was ever going to let a boy pee on my stomach. How gross!

For the next couple of years, I had a better understanding when I read the books. Of course he was throbbing! He had to pee! I was a little unsure why he had to hold it for 18 pages, but whatever. I was really upset that Danielle had known more about sex than me, but I figured Jenny had probably told her -- she knew everything.

Years later, Jenny told me she had told Danielle that. Because she thought it would be funny. And she knew that Danielle would tell me. And that we'd think that for years. One mystery cleared up. I'm still not sure about the ghost in their attic, though.

Cheesy Adventures with Little Kim

One week ago:

Me: We haven't seen a movie in awhile.
Little Kim: Let's go see something really cheesy.
Me: Well, we could see, umm, let me think, uhh, how about the Olsen Twins movie?
Little Kim: So glad you said that. I didn't want to have to be the one to do it.

Little Kim is my Terrible Media Soul Sister. She is the one who will call me and say "MTV. Right now. Britney with a snake." When she comes over and I suggest we watch the Baywatch: E! True Hollywood Story, she doesn't blink an eye. When I confess I really, really liked Varsity Blues, she doesn't judge. And yes, we saw Crossroads together. In the theater.

So after finding the one theater in all of Manhattan showing New York Minute after 5:30pm, we bought our tickets and settled in for a long 90 minutes last night. It was entertaining. We chuckled. I don't remember what we chuckled at, because it was that forgettable. Andy Richter and Eugene Levy were still amusing even though they had very little to work with. And as always, Mary-Kate and Ashley were pretty, pretty little aliens I couldn't take my eyes off of.

At least Little Kim and I had each other. The poor girl a few rows ahead (of the 6 people total in the theater), was all by herself. With her tattoos and her punk rock hair and makeup, something told me she wouldn't be telling anyone she had been there. While we waited for the movie to start, I pulled out my little Pucca notebook and scrawled "She LOVES the Olson twins. SECRETLY." Little Kim cracked up.

When the movie was over, we agreed it was terrible, but better than Crossroads. Come to think of it, I have no idea why we never went to go see Gigli together. Oh well, I'll have her over some night and we'll rent it.

One step closer to Botox

I bought my first anti-aging product today.

Earlier this week, my eyes looked like they were about to sprout wrinkles. They looked weary, spent. I knew that any day, the crow's feet were going to move in, and that preventative measures were in order. Hence, RevitaLift eye cream.

More troubling than the actual purchase was the other anti-aging products I nearly bought. I thougt to myself, Maybe I need something for my whole face! Maybe my neck, too! It there anything that will keep my breasts perky? Something to keep my ass from sagging? My mind went crazy.

I have to say, this is the first time I've given any thought to the effect that years lived, smoking and partying like a rock star might have on my youthful good looks. Suddenly, I'm wondering if Botox is really such a bad idea. If I'd get some stuff lifted if the need arose. What exactly is a chemical peel? Do I need one? If I get married sometime in the next five years, will my husband leave me for someone firmer?

I never thought I'd be one of those women. I'm still not, but I'm definitely a lot closer than I was yesterday.

Please weigh in

Regarding my last post, should I stick with the amusing anecdotes, or do you want to hear the heartbreaking stuff, too? Let me know - the last thing I want to do is bring anybody down.

Saturday night

I don't often "need" a drink, but I do at the moment.

The Producer is in town, and I'm waiting impatiently to get the call so I can go fulfill my desire to get partially inebriated.

I'm a rape/domestic violence survivor advocate at a local hospital. I've been with the program for months, and have not gotten called in to the ER. Until today.

I was still sleeping when I got the call shortly before noon. I asked the questions I'm supposed to ask, Male or female? Rape or DV? How old? and got my answers; female, DV, 18. I jumped out of bed, washed my face, got all of my materials and hopped into a cab, reading over my what-to-do checklist on the way. I arrived at the hospital and they directed me to her room. I took a deep breath, knocked and then opened the door.

The first thing that hit me was how young she looked. She was tiny, and didn't look a day over 13. She had a bruise on her cheek and her lip was cut. When she moved around, she winced in pain.

It was a long day at the hospital, for both of us. In the five hours I was there, I talked to at least 10 staff members, a freaked-out mother, two frustrating cops and one very frightened girl who was being told exactly what everyone else thought she should be doing. It's weird to be in a situation where you agree with what everyone around her is saying, but your job is to make sure she does what she feels is right for her, even though you desperately want her to make a different decision. At one point, she told me about his family history, and how he grew up with abuse and that's why he's the way he is and I said what happened to him is a reason, not an excuse and something changed in her face and she said yeah and then she repeated it out loud, like it hit her on some level.

Is she going to take him back? Maybe. Is he going to do it again? Probably. Was she 100 percent safe after she walked out of that hospital? No. That's the hardest thing, and something tells me, it always will be.

If I keep getting called in, my entertainment value is going to go way down.

The case of the missing G-spot

To preface, let's just say I was having multiple orgasms when y'all were in diapers. Now then, it's been six months since The Breakup, and while orgasms were few and far between those last few months, they have been nonexistent since.

When engaging in solo activity, I can get there. It's the whole partner thing that throws me off. I have slept with exactly three boys since The Breakup, and I'm starting to get alarmed. Something tells me sleeping with the entire city of New York isn't going to help, either.

The first two were not particularly distressing, as they were just one-offs. It usually takes me a few tries with a new guy. What's upsetting is Favorite Ex. Not only did I get there nearly every single time when we were together, we timed it perfectly. Following the simultaneous orgasm would be a high-five and a "go team!"

Now, nothing. Favorite Ex suggested I see a sex therapist. Yeah, I'll call up Dr. Ruth, pronto. Thing is, I know what the issue is.

I've refrained from a lot of specifics regarding The Ex, but since it's crucial to the story, I'll go there. Plus, I'm no longer interested in Causing Him Pain, so there's no malicious intent. (Me doth think the lady protest too much! Or something.) Anyway, we had a Big Sex Issue. Mainly, me wanting to have it and him, well not. Lots and lots of fighting that would go like this:

Wanna do it?

Audible sigh

I'll take that as a no, then.

You're such a nympho.

Nympho? We haven't had sex in a MONTH. And we live together.

Sex isn't the most important thing in a relationships you know.

Yell, yell, Scream scream, Cry cry.

After months and months and months of that, one starts to make a correlation between sex and anxiety. And now I have a missing G-spot and a broken clitoris. And every time I'm engaging in sexual activity now, I'm thinking stopthinkingstopthinkingyou'regoingtofuckitallupshit.

I believe my current sexual dysfunction is a good reason to avoid relationships entirely. Possibly forever.

New Friday feature

I've decided to add a weekly feature or two. Keep y'all coming back and whatnot. Idea kinda stolen from Sheila's Diary Fridays. From now on, there will be a post every Friday entitled Weird shit the roommate sent me this week. Are you ready?

Fun with taxidermy. Don't miss the pre-mature kittens in the Wonderland section.
A Case of Curiosities

If you thought that bridesmaid dress was bad, darlin', you ain't seen nothing.
UglyDress.com

Kinda makes you think about Burt Reynolds in Striptease
Man Arrested After Motel Room Is Coated In Vaseline

I'm thinking about a Poetry I wrote when I was 13 day, but even I don't know if I can suffer that kind of embarrassment.

Joss Whedon is an asshole

I have a great deal to say about the final episode of Angel. My loyal readers across the pond have not seen it yet, however, so my comments will have to wait. But Joss Whedon, just know that when I find you, you're dead.

The Guide to Laughing

When Nicola asked me to go to some comedy thing at the Bowery Poetry Club, of course I said yes.

When I showed up and saw "The Guide to Laughing at Family" on the sign outside, I was slightly skeptical, but still open-minded.

When we went inside and picked up the GTL book, it seemed very chicken-soup-for-the-soul-ish, and I was kinda weirded out. I asked Nicola if this was the kind of show that was designed to change my life -- she said she wasn't sure.

When author/announcer Sean Gold of the GTL Institute took the stage and outlined the show for us -- a children's book reading, a poet and a Christian Rock band called God's Pottery, I was like get me out of here.

Well, trepidation aside, the show was great. Sean Gold's readings from the book were funny and poignant without being sappy. The children's book was called The Boy Who Cried Fabulous and it was great. Poet Hal Sirowitz was an absolute riot, reciting poems from his book Mother Said, which touched on themes like looking at his penis with a magnifying glass and being forced to dress up like a donut for Halloween.

The best part, though, was the band. God's Pottery. Two very Aryan-looking boys, one with an acoustic guitar and one with two tiny sections of a xylophone. They sang a song about premarital sex entitled When the Ring Goes On, the Pants Come Down, one called Jesus I Need a Drink and one I can't remember about women of divorce. I was laughing so hard I was crying. And I think I want to marry xylophone guy. Unfortunately, I can't find any info about them online.

An aside -- my old boss was there. Turns out he's friends with the author. It was really creepy talking to him -- kind of like running into an ex-boyfriend with his new girlfriend. Or something.

Decisions

How long can we conceivably keep doing this?

I was hoping until I left for school.

That's like three months away! That's practically a relationship.

No it isn't.

Are you sure?

Yes.

All right, we'll see.

These days, when I'm not sleeping with my favorite ex-boyfriend, I'm debating whether or not I should be doing so. On the pro side; we find each other endlessly amusing, we never had any problems in the sex department, and he's moving across the country soon. No muss, no fuss. On the con side; it feels like cheating. Not cheating on a specific person or persons, mind you. Cheating on myself.

When the ex (recent, not favorite) and I broke up, I was pretty annihilated. Things Necessary For a Happy Life, like self-esteem, self-preservation, self-this and self-that were all shot. I've spent a whole lot of time trying to remember what my pre-horribly-destructive-relationship self was like, and trying to fill those shoes again.

Then I spend a night with Favorite Ex. He tells me I'm smart, beautiful, funny, sexy, etc. etc. etc. The more he says it, the more I think, "damn right!" And that's the way I want to feel -- I just want to see it through my eyes, not his. Hence, the cheating part.

Luckily, I have friends with the capacity to justify anything. I'll be blathering on and on about whether or not I should just quit it and one of them with say something wise like, Fuck that! You deserve to feel good for awhile after the bullshit [the ex] put you through!

Fuck that, indeed.

You should never name your child…

Apple, for one. Shame on you, Gwyneth! I'm starting to think there should be a list of acceptable names for babies. Flexible, of course. If someone comes up with something passable, the list could be added to. I just don't think one should be allowed to run around naming children things like Boston Baked Beans and Terminator 3. It's just not right. One of the Heathers routinely thinks up the most fucked-up names imaginable for her future children, because she thinks it's funny. That's not as bad as a person who names a child Glitter Mahatma D'Onofrio and takes it seriously.

The roommate sent me this list of very wrong names for children. My personal favorites?

Jennyfivetina

D'Loaf

Yodawn

Chlorine

Slayer

Zestpoole

VulvaMae

I hereby announce that, should I ever bear a child (the biggest IF ever, more like an "as if"), it will be named Treasure Cocaine. Yes, that's really on the list.

On crackheads, mojitos and body aromas

There's our girlfriend, go smell her.

Cindy, I am not going to walk up to a girl on the subway platform and sniff her.

Jessica, do it!

And with that, Cindy grabbed my arm and yanked me over to where the Beautiful Girl Who Was Sitting Next To Her at The Ani Difranco Concert was standing. She nudged me and gave me a look that let me know I was going to be in trouble if I didn't smell her. So I did, discreetly. As Cindy had predicted, she did in fact smell delicious.

Ani Difranco at Carnegie Hall Saturday night was amazing. It was just her and an acoustic guitar and a dude with a cello. At one point, someone in our nosebleed section started smoking pot! In Carnegie Hall! Who does that? There was also a very rowdy dude who kept yelling things out, much to the chagrin of the rest of us in his section. Ani's was not a rowdy concert. One girl finally yelled, Will you shut the fuck UP?! and the rest of the section clapped and cheered.

We missed the opening act entirely, because we were chowing down at Esperanto on Avenue C. It tasted as delicious as the Beautiful Girl Who Was Sitting Next To Cindy at The Ani Difranco Concert smelled. I selected Esperanto because Cindy was craving mojitos, and they're supposed to have good ones. She was not impressed, so I promised we'd stop in at Barramundi after the show and get her a good one. Unfortunately, after getting soaked to the bone in the thunderstorm on the way there, it was entirely too packed for comfort, so we headed across the street to Iggy's Celtic Lounge. Cindy never got her mind-blowing mojito.

The next morning at Dunkin' Donuts (we're classy broads), Cindy told me she'd seen the creepy dude on the first floor of my building passed out with his head out of the window. She had gone over to make sure he was okay, and when he finally lifted his head, he was holding a crack pipe. I was floored -- I thought he was just old and weird, not a crackhead. Then I told Cindy about the Methadone Twins, a middle-aged junkie couple that live in my building and walk around the neighborhood completely dazed all the time. Sometimes the woman stops me and demands a cigarette. I don't argue. Suddenly, Cindy leans over and says Oh my God, look out the window. Is that the Methadone Twins? and I looked and it was.

I hope that next time my family comes to visit, they're lucky enough to see the Creepy Crackhead and the Methadone Twins. Moms will feel so much better about the "scary neighborhood" I live in.

Some things never change

It's nice to know that, while the whole world has become completely unhinged, there are things you can always count on. For example, read this little diatribe on Lynndie England (am I a bad person for wanting to see the sex video?) over at Men's Activism, a regular breeding ground for unintentional humor. Don't miss the comments -- they're the best part. Thank God that no matter what happens, they will be forever Missing The Point. Jackasses.

Celebrity sightings

I just saw Troy from The Apprentice in front of the building where I work.

I get pretty excited when I see celebrities. I mean, I don't go up and talk to them, or ask for autographs or anything, but I'll definitely gape a little. Depending on the celebrity, of course. Lenny Kravitz, Christopher Meloni and the one-two punch of Drew Barrymore and Tom Green way-back-when were definitely gape-worthy. Moby? Not so much. [To Moby: I saw you skateboarding around the neighborhood the other day and you need to quit it. You're not 14.]

I'm not quite sure how to deal with the reality TV folks. I mean, they're not talented singers or actors. They're not generally people I'd like to sleep with. I don't get terribly excited, but at the same time, I wonder about them, about what their post-reality-TV are like. I look for signs of emotional distress. The despair that life after isn't any different than life before. Or is it? I don't know, and I want to.

Troy was without visible emotional distress. He had a suitcase, and a little blond (his wife is tall and brunette, but I'm not one to start rumors) with him. He had a suitcase and appeared to be either coming from or going to somewhere important. And he was very, very tan.

I think Andy Warhol was right about the 15 minutes. I hope mine has nothing to do with reality TV. And that modeling prom dresses at the age of 23 at the TV news station I used to work at, for a prom package, wasn't what the Gods of Celebrity had in mind.

On Cinemax After Dark

So I watch a lot of Cinemax After Dark, when I can't sleep. I watch it on In Demand, so I can choose which 28-minute sex-fest I'd like to watch. Sometimes, I fast-forward to the sex. Sometimes, I fast-forward to the dialogue. Depends on what I'm in the mood for. Sometimes I go all the way to the end and then rewind, so I can see everything the movie has to offer me before I decide. Sometimes I'm looking for lesbian sex, sometimes hetero sex. Like I said, it depends. And I don't sleep, so I have a lot of After Dark time on my hands, you see.

Lately, I've been really into identifying patterns. Because, you know, there is a formula for these movies. Whether it's Erotic Confessions 4 or The Best Sex Ever 6, they all adhere to some basic rules.

1. There is no boy-on-boy action. Ever.

2. There is no full-frontal male nudity.

3. There is, however, full frontal female nudity.

4. Male/female sex acts will be performed in the following order: cunnilingus, woman-on-top, doggie-style, man-on-top.

5. Any touching of the clitoris with hands and/or fingers will happen underneath the panties, and will only be performed by the person who owns said clitoris.

6. Girl-on-girl sex does NOT mean that either participants are strictly lesbian.

7. Girl-on-girl action consists of oral sex ONLY.

8. Unless it's a threesome. All threesomes consist of one boy and two girls. Any girl-on-girl action within the context of the threesome will consist of kissing and touching breasts only. All threesomes end with the man engaging in intercourse with one of the women while the other watches and masturbates.

I don't always watch Cinemax After Dark when it's late at night and I can't sleep. Sometimes I watch CNN.

Fast food nation

Tomorrow night, Favorite Ex and I are going to see, "Super-Size Me," the documentary of a man eating nothing but McDonald's for 30 days, and the effect it has on his body.

You may not know this about me, but I love McDonald's. Love it. Nothing makes me happier than a #2 with a Diet Coke and an apple pie. (Note: I am not one of those silly people that thinks I can counteract greasy fast food with a diet soft drink -- I actually prefer diet soda to regular soda) In fact, I even thought about having McDonald's for lunch today, just in case the film ruined it for me forever. One last hurrah, if you will. If I weren't currently so severely troubled by my epic thighs, I would have.

Well, a woman in New Hampshire is outraged by this film, and has vowed to go on a McDonald's-only diet. Apparently, she's lost 10 pounds so far. Read the article -- it's pretty interesting stuff. I have to say, though -- as fond as I am of what one can purchase beneath the golden arches, I harbor no delusions that eating it is in any way a good idea.

Birthday cleaning

The roommate and I are obsessed with Revolutionary Cleaning Products.

During Lifetime Original Movies, there are commercials for said products. A lot. Considering we average about four Lifetime Original Movies per week, we have a lot to get excited about.

The RCP I am currently crushing on, in a huge way, is the Dawn Power Disolver, which promises to remove burnt-on, baked-on food and grease so I don't have to. Like, you just spray it, and dirt just melts away. I'm practically having an orgasm just imagining it. The roommate isn't terribly excited by the Dawn Power Dissolver -- she only has eyes for the Clorox Toilet Wand, a whole new way to clean your toilet. In fact, today is her birthday, and she was positively delighted that I bought it for her.

We get just as excited about things like the One Sweep Broom (nothing sweeps better!) as we do about Johnny Depp. I'm almost embarassed to admit to how many "as seen on TV" products I have purchased.

If anybody's looking for me, I'll be in the big bathroom having dirty fantasies about the All Star 5-in-1 Mop Cleaning System. I'm getting all hot and bothered just looking at it.

Operation get Curly laid

Now that I'm getting some on a regular basis, I want all of my friends to bask in the carnal pleasures. First up, Curly McDimple.

Vitals:
Height: Much taller than me
Age: 30
Location: Brooklyn
Likes: Bernadette Peters, HBO Sunday night, beer
Dislikes: Comic Sans font, bad grammer, Al Roker

Jess says: Curly is a foxy lesbian with a quick wit and a big brain. Her hair is curly, and she has dimples.

What Curly's looking for:
"One non-grotesque woman to get me back on track"
"A pulse"
"Preferably within the five boroughs"
"Not scary"
"Easy on the eyes, more or less"
"Housetrained
"Must NOT like Renaissance Fairs... unless of course, the reason for going is to scowl and make fun of the people"
"High-waisted jeans... don't even"

If you have what Curly's looking for, and would like to do her the honor of having lots of sex with her (after first meeting her for a drink, of course), email me and I'll set it up.

From the "Now sharing things that make me laugh so hard I cry" files

Today, on McSweeney's, Changes to the Hotel California, made in response to Mr. Henley's recent complaint. My favorite?

Upgrade music selection to accommodate both guests who dance to remember and those who do so to forget

I heart McSweeney's.

More on gynecological humor

I shared gynecologist visit tales with Jake Saturday afternoon, over brunch at Cafe Orlin. Now I'm going to share them with you.

My regular gynecologist is The Bot. She is expressionless, emotionless, and runs on five AA batteries. She's also a great gynecologist, in that she is fast and efficient and always gives me a heads-up before she goes diving in anywhere.

Sometimes, she has to take some time off, either because she's having a wiring malfunction or the batteries need to be recharged. When this happens, I see the other gynecologist in the office. She is warm and friendly and makes me unbelievably uncomfortable because of it.

The first time I went to see The Shiny Happy Gynecologist, she made me dizzy with the questions and the talking and whatnot. I nearly lost it when, while she was basically fisting me, she said, "Oh my God! Your stomach muscles are so strong! Do you take Pilates?" I wanted to ask if we could maybe talk about that later, when her hand wasn't inside my vagina, poking on my stomach muscles, but instead I wearily told her I practiced yoga. Turns out the SHG does too! So then I had to give her an overview of which postures I actually did to strengthen and tone. With all the talking, I don't know how she actually got anything done down there.

Although Little Kim and I like to poke fun at The Bot, I'm always very happy when she comes back from recharging, er vacation.

Afternoon in Soho

Little Kim and I spent Saturday afternoon strolling around Soho and spending money we didn't have. I purchased the following:

One crocheted cap, orange, purple and aqua, from a street vendor on the corner of Spring and Wooster.

One strand pearls, pink with ribbon, at Girl Props.

One necklace that says "Money", to replace the one The Pie bought me for my birthday two years ago, which I broke. This one has more bling, is less readable, but still says, "Money." Also at Girl Props.

Then Little Kim and I went to a pizza joint and talked about how we're starting to feel like grown-ups. For example, I have, in the past two weeks, weighed the pros and cons of exactly three things before doing them. That's huge.

Also this weekend, Jake was in town! There was booze! Fish and chips! He got to meet Curly! There was brunch! And gynecological humor! Terrorizing strangers! Good times.

Also this weekend, The Boyfriend of The Roommate made us Cuban food, which we ate in record time while we watched The Sopranos. It was fantastic. I've been daydreaming about it all day, and having dirty fantasies about rolling around in meat.

The naked truth

Esquire just launched Brutally Honest Personals, and oh my God are they awesome. An excerpt:

The only thing that makes me happy is cash in my account. The larger the diamonds, the wider my smile. I know there are men out there who want a pretty young thing on their arm and who are willing to spoil them to keep them there. I want to meet those men.

If I had one, it would go a little something like this.

I'm still obsessing over a not-so-recently failed relationship. I drink too much, and am prone to making drunk phone calls where I pick fights and demand sex. I border on verbally abusive when I have PMS, and yes, the cats will be sharing the bed with us. I do everything in my power to sabotage my own happiness and you shouldn't try to get in the way of that. I have a blog, and will detail every moment of our life together in excruciating detail. Once I've successfully driven you away, I will publicly ridicule you for years to come. On the plus side, I'm funny and smart and a great lay. Pick me!

Pride or something like it

I have this defiant streak. Lately, it's been rearing it's ugly, ugly head. A lot.

A little backstory. The Ex, obviously, no longer lives with me. He does still live in the neighborhood, and works at a restaurant in the neighborhood as well. When we were together, I would walk by the restaurant, sometimes because errands brought me past there, sometimes just to say hello. My food store is around the corner, pet store is one block away and both my drugstore and laundromat are on that block. End backstory.

I've thought about finding new places to go, but then Defiance kicks me in the ass, hard, and says, "Fuck that! You've lived in this neighborhood for five years. You shouldn't have to change anything!" and I puff my chest out a little, assume a glare and say, "Damn right." Defiance smiles proudly.

So, I'll be walking, about to turn on to the street out of habit, and I'll stop myself and think, "Maybe I should just go the other way." Defiance gives me a noogie and says, "Are you fucking kidding me?" That Defiance has a potty mouth. So I lift up my chin a little, feign indifference and charge on.

Yesterday, my charging on was thwarted by The Cutest Yellow Dress Ever in a store window across the street. Naturally, I have to stop and stare wistfully at it. Then, in the reflection of the store window, I see The Ex, standing on the sidewalk, staring at me, waiting for me to turn around. I don't turn around. I turn exactly 45 degrees to the left and walk home, muttering under my breath,

Defiance, you're an asshole.

Just like The Onion, but funnier because it's real

Zach sent me a news story about two young people in Oneonta, NY (his hometown) robbing a pizza delivery guy. Some highlights...

Troopers said the pair stole a large pepperoni pizza, a case of Heineken beer, two packs of Newport cigarettes, a pack of rolling papers and a dozen chicken wings — half barbecue and half honey mustard.

The stolen items were recovered, photographed and stored in the troopers' evidence locker.

Those are my kind of criminals.

A conversation with my 12-year old brother

Him: The Olson twins are hot!

Me: Which one do you like better?

He ponders.

Me: I think Ashley is prettier.

Him: Yeah, she is. But I like Mary-Kate, because she's the dirty one.

Me: Do you even know what that means?

He shrugs.

The Sex and the City legacy lives on

It never fails. Four women put on sassy clothes, order drinks and talk too loudly about things that should probably be whispered. At one point, inevitably, one woman in the group will say We're so Sex and the City right now. Then, we match everyone up to which character they're most like. Here's how it went last night:

Julia: Charlotte
Summer: Miranda
Michelle: Samantha
Me: Carrie

The thing is, I'm always Carrie. And I hate Carrie. I've even taken online Which Sex and the City Character are You? quizzes, and I get Ms. Bradshaw every time. Is my wardrobe that hideous? My insights that inane?

I know the show just ended and all. I loved it. I miss it dearly. I wonder, though, if the legacy it has left behind is four New York women grimacing because they've just been called Charlotte, or Miranda, or Samantha or even worse...Carrie.

If all your friends jumped off a bridge...

Curly's a rock star with her post about things she's not embarrased to admit, but should be. Caught on like wildfire -- a new blogger's wet dream. She inquired as to where my list might be, and while I think I post things here every day that I should be ashamed of, I'm sure I can do better.

1. I attended an X-Files convention, and had my picture taken in "Mulder's office," perched on the desk like some sci-fi tart.

2. I watch more late-night Cinemax than you would believe.

3. I saw Poison, Lita Ford and Britney Fox in concert. Together.

4. From the ages of 8 to 15, I cultivated an astounding shrine in my bedroom to one Nikki Sixx.

5. I have a really, really bad habit of being the drunk girl in the bar, making out with someone.

6. I saw one Ms. Britney Spears in Crossroads, in the movie theater. And I paid for tickets.

7. I think Artie on The Sopranos is really sexy.

8. I thought The Celestine Prophecy was absolutely brilliant and life-changing when I first read it.

9. I own Excess Baggage, Can't Hardly Wait and Empire Records.

10. I used to be Wiccan.

11. I LOVE Journey. Still.

12. I cried the first time I saw the Bon Jovi video for Living in Sin.

I might eat it, it's so cute

I can't post cute kittens on my site, because I'm already a crazy cat lady and I know my limits. That doesn't mean I'm above sending y'all elsewhere to view them, though. Please go check out the cutest cat ever over in the land of Sean Conrad. You will not be disappointed. That thing is so cute I want to eat it.

Playing hooky

Most boys I spend the night with nervously ask me if they're going to be the star of the blog the next day, more than once during the course of the night. Not favorite ex. When we finally got out of bed this morning, he decided to clean up, and casually mentioned, oh, about four times, that I could use his computer and update the blog if I wanted to.

Instead, I lounged around in the navy Calvin Klein T-shirt I unsuccessfully tried to steal three years ago, read The Time Traveler's Wife and listened to Ani DiFranco's Not a Pretty Girl. Favorite Ex's music collection resembles that of a college freshman girl pursuing a Women's Studies major sometime in the mid-90's. Well, except for all the U2.

It was a lovely evening. We had a sunset picnic on the terrace and too much red wine. Then some dope and Dylan. I never want to work on a Wednesday again.

Looks like the Cavefish finally got herself, to put it in the obnoxious and annoying words of Carrie Bradshaw, a lovah.

Furries 101

I'm going to Huntsville, Alabama for a wedding Memorial Day weekend and there will be a furry convention in the hotel I'm staying at. I am very excited, and have already warned Cindy that we will be crashing it. In discussing said convention with others, it has been brought to my attention that not everyone knows about furries. Hence, an education.

What is a furry?

1. an anthropomorphic animal character. i.e. an animal with human characteristics.

2. a human who relates strongly, in whatever way, to the idea of the characters outlined in the previous definition. This may involve anything from a person who simply enjoys viewing furry fanzines or films, to someone who actually desires to be a 'real' furry, or believe that they are literally a non-human trapped within a human form.

3. a person with an important emotional/spiritual connection with an animal or animals, real, fictional or symbolic.

You can view the entire furry FAQ here.

Also, here's a great article from Vanity Fair about furries. I don't judge -- I just share information. But there's no way I'm not getting into that conference.

I don't eat chicken

The Subservient Chicken, which I found via The Spinster, has proposed marriage, on one knee, and I've accepted. I think I'll spend the remainder of the day thinking up bizarre things for him to do -- and the remainder of my life, really, because what else is a husband good for if he won't stand on his head while clapping?

The last minute

I am a procrastinator of epic proportions. Always have been. I'm also incredibly lucky -- which is why I've never had to learn a hard lesson about the dangers of waiting until the last minute. Don't y'all just hate me right now?

Anyway, Jake and I were just discussing the art of procrastination (and it is an art, for those of us skilled in it) and I remembered my all-time greatest story.

It was junior year in college. Amy calls up Michelle and I and asks if we want to drive to Connecticut to see Poe and Tracey Bonham. Of course we do! Only one problem -- we have a 10-page paper due for American Feminism at 11:00 the next day on a book we haven't yet read and it's a two-hour drive. We decide we'll read on the way there and back and then spend the night in the computer lab writing our respective papers.

Well, we don't read on the way, because we're too busy screaming the lyrics to every song on Exile in Guyville, and then we need to listen to I will Survive a few thousand times because one of us -- I don't recall who -- had just suffered a heartbreak and when you're 20 and a boy breaks your heart and you're in a car full of girls -- dammit -- that's what you listen to.

So we go to the show, it rocks, we sleep on the way back and pull in to Poughkeepsie at 2:30am. We stop for Nodos and 2 extra large coffees, change into flannel pajamas in the car and set up shop in the computer lab. Michelle and I split up the book, skim for important passages, and finish our papers at 10:45. At this point, I haven't eaten and the caffeine coursing through my veins is making me nauseous. I spot a girl from our class and she's clean and she has makeup on and she's printing out her paper and I walk up to her wild-eyed and ravaged and ask if she would please, please hand in my paper for me. She agrees. I go back to my dorm room, throw up and sleep for 10 hours.

I get my paper back a week later. A. I do my best work under pressure.

Hot chicks and strip clubs

The Pussycat Lounge is, by far, the strangest strip club I've ever been in.

There is no stage, there is just a teeny tiny ledge behind the bar. Every few feet, a semi-naked woman dances. Guys sit at the bar and stare at them. It's a little creepy, frankly. No offense to Jake, who used to frequent the joint, but it is. And the neighborhood is mad shady.

The reason for my visit to said establishment was to see The Witching do their thing. Their thing being, rocking their asses off. Like the last time I saw them, Ruby, the singer, temporarily struck me gay. She did the same thing to my friend Nicola, who, by the way, is South African and engaged and I'm going to the wedding in Cape Town in January and I'm so excited I can barely contain myself. Anyway, they were awesome and I'm going to post an announcement next time they're in NYC and I expect you all to go.

Missed opportunities

There I was, walking out of the Fleet Bank on 2nd Avenue and 4th St. on Saturday afternoon, doing laps around my own brain, when a man stepped into my path and said, "Hello again."

After being jolted from my zombie-like stroll so suddenly, I could do nothing except look at this person as if he were crazy. He, in turn, mumbled something, flushed red and walked away.

Once he was safely out of sight, two things registered. 1) He was really, really cute and 2) He was trying to chat me up. Since running after him was clearly not an option, I had no choice but to call myself an asshole and chalk it up to another missed opportunity. I really hope he wasn't my soul mate or anything.

She used to fall down a lot. That girl was always falling again and again. I used to sometimes try to catch her. But never even caught her name.

It's a little-known fact, but Robert Smith wrote those words about me. No really, he did. Because I fall down. A lot.

I trekked over to the East River bike path on Saturday with my rollerskates and a dream. I quickly learned that these were not the white high top rollerskates with the purple wheels of my youth. These were fast. Very fast.

I was very wobbly at first, and resembled Phoebe in that episode of Friends where she and Rachel went jogging together and Rachel was horribly embarrassed by the way Phoebe flailed about when she ran. Then I got the hang of it, although the East River park bike path is not of the smooth, rollerskate-friendly variety. It's not like, say, the West Side Highway bike path. After about 20 minutes of good quality skating, I crashed in a most spectacular fashion. There was blood. A lot of blood. Pouring out of my right hand and left knee. And boy did my ass hurt. I decided to put my flip flops back on and hobble home.

Now, one would think I'd pack it in and go over to the West Side Highway next Saturday, when it's rollerskating time again. But no. I'm determined now to conquer the East River park bike path. No matter how much blood I may lose in the process.

Nora

I've seen quite a few movies on Lifetime lately with Homeless People You Have Meaningful Conversations With That Make You Reflect On Your Own Existence in them. I was kind of jealous, because I see homeless people all the time and have not once had a noteworthy interaction. Then today, I met Nora.

I was putting the finishing stitches on a bracelet in the little park near the 1st Avenue subway station when a woman came over and sat next to me, producing a plastic bag from her larger black leather one. She was 40-ish and smartly dressed, in a maroon and black horizontal striped fitted shirt, long black skirt and black beret. Her makeup was impeccable. She asked me if I liked scarves. I said I did and she pulled some gorgeous scarves out of her bag. Unfortunately, I didn't have a dime on me so I couldn't buy any, but I would have.

Nora began telling me about what an awful day she'd had as she sipped a beer out of a straw. She's a singer and had a bad audition. She's homeless and sleeps on the subway. She buys nice clothes at the salvation army and then sells them for more money to support herself. She doesn't panhandle, and she doesn't usually drink during the day.

Nora was a little paranoid -- she thought everyone that walked by was saying things about her under her breath. She had some delusions of grandeur and a fantastic sense of humor. I listened to her for the better part of two hours. She's writing a Broadway play, and quietly sang a little number called Syphilis for me. It was quite funny, and she really could sing. She would be right in the middle of a sentence and she'd stop suddenly and say things like that's a fantastic hair color for your skin tone or your bracelet is lovely -- have you though of working with suede? or you're such a nice girl. She wanted to know my name, what I did for a living, whether I've ever been married and whether or not I have a boyfriend.

After telling me a long story about how men lusted after her when she was a topless dancer -- how men are always lusting after her and it drives her crazy, she paused, looked me up and down and then said I bet you don't have that problem. You're the kind of girl that men fall in love with, not lust after. Frankly, I didn't know quite how to take that.

Another woman came and sat on the other side of Nora and she whipped out her little bag of scarves and started all over. She was done with me. I got up and said, have a good day Nora, and she grabbed my hand, hard and told me it was lovely meeting me and she hoped I had a wonderful life.

On the way back home, the crazy guy on the stoop proudly informed me that the birds were singing lullabies. Last week he proudly informed me he had lost his dinner fork under the table. I felt lucky that I had met Nora, and hoped she's sell all her scarves.

Mom: Why didn't you answer the phone when I called?
Me: I was hanging out with a homeless woman in the park.
Mom: There is something seriously wrong with you.