Notes taken during a company meeting

Turns out the crazy man on the stoop really is crazy

I have had quite a relationship with the crazy man around the corner for the past five years.

At first, I was terrified of the crazy man. I avoided any attempts he made at crazy conversation. Then one day, he caught me in a really good mood and told me I looked fabulous in my blue trench coat. I smiled and thanked him. From that point on, the crazy man and I have been buddies.

Sometimes, the crazy man is in a bad mood and doesn't say hello. Sometimes, he asks me how I am four times in a row and I answer four times in a row. Sometimes, he says truly bizarre things like I lost my dinner fork under the table! and I just smile and nod. Sometimes we high-five. When dealing with someone crazy on a daily basis, it's always best to take your cues from them and not initiate contact.

Yesterday, our relationship took a startling turn. As I approached his stoop, he was yelling and swearing at someone across the street. Except, um, there was no one across the street. I decided not to get involved in his imaginary brawl, so I put my head down and quickly hurried by. As I passed the stoop, he said, and you too, you fucking bitch. I was actually a little hurt, as the crazy man and I have gotten on so famously in the past. If I told Mom about this, which I might because I like to perpetuate her constant fear about my life in the big city, because it's funny, she will undoubtedly say, well, of course he did. He's CRAZY. Maybe you'll think twice about talking to crazies and homeless people all the time now. No I won't.

I cheated and I liked it

For nearly ten years, Dana at the Corner Attraction in Schenectady, NY has been doing my hair. I get a cut when I go home for holidays. If I'm not going home for awhile, I cut it myself. I take care of the color, unless I'm going through a blond phase. In those cases, I save the four-hour bleaching process for the day before Christmas Eve. I have rejected the idea of spending upwards of $50 on a haircut. Until last night.

Two week ago, I got so riled up watching the series finale of Blow Out that I grabbed my scissors and went to town. Not used to my hair being so long, I messed it all up. I decided I'd hold out until next weekend, when I go home for Mom's birthday. I could not hold out, and got sick of the ponytail.

The roommate suggested I go to her hairdresser. Last night, I did -- armed with this picture and a dream.

First, the shampoo guy went to town on me. It was the best shampoo of my life. Orgasmic, really. I was like one of those chicks on the Herbal Essences commercials. In my mind. Then Jackie, the hairdresser with a mullet, took me over to her chair. In that chair, she worked magic. I kid you not - when I walked out of that salon, my hair looked EXACTLY like that picture. It felt wonderful. It was a salon experience like no other.

I always promised myself I wasn't going to become one of those girls who wasted gobs of money on spa treatments and hair coloring and the like. And now, here I am getting $70 haircuts and pedicures twice a month. If I start getting my eyebrows threaded, shoot me. Seriously. Put me out of my misery.

If you want to see my sexy new haircut, or just listen to some hot chicks play rockin' music, you should go to The Pussycat Lounge tonight and see The Witching.

The infinite wisdom of Jake

Jake: What's the appeal of this guy?

Jess: That I can't figure him out, and I have an endless supply of vague material with which to try.

Jake: I can't figure out my income tax, but you don't see me jerking off to IRS brochures.

Jess: I'm intrigued by him.

Jake: Curiousity killed the KittyAcupuncture.

A letter to God or Mother Nature or whoever is handling these types of complaints

Dear God or Mother Nature or whoever is handling these types of complaints:

Please don't rain all over my fucking beach parade again this weekend.

Love,
Jess

Actually…

I love pina coladas. And getting caught in the rain. Except without the pina coladas part. So I actually had a fine time traipsing around with Animal's face on my ass for all the world to see. Well, all of the East Village anyway.

My wet frolic last night was interrupted by a cute little old man who stopped me on the street and insisted I take his umbrella. I tried to explain that I was already just about as wet as a person could be, and an umbrella at this point would be silly. He pshawed me and tried to thrust the umbrella into my hand. I told him that, really, I love to run around in the rain. He looked at me like I was crazy, pshawed me again and pointed to another umbrella near his feet.

I have another, he said. Please, take it.

Why this man was using a seriously broken umbrella when he had a perfectly functional one at his feet is beyond me. I thanked him profusely and set out with the very cumbersome umbrella, which was held open with a spring and part of a broom handle, also doubling as the umbrella handle. I kid you not.

I was confident I'd find some poor, wet soul who desperately needed an umbrella. Pay it forward and all that crap. I did not -- it would appear the East Village was more prepared for a thunderstorm than I. When I went into the liquor store to pick up a bottle of wine, I rested the umbrella against the doorframe, hoping someone would take it. No one did. But I left it there, confident some sad, soaked person would stumble upon it and consider it a gift from God. On the way home, three people exclaimed, "You're wet!" Yes, yes I was.

Later that night, I was having a little IM with Curly. She remarked that thunderstorms made her wish she had a girlfriend waiting at home to make her dinner and snuggle. Interesting -- they make me wish I had someone to frolic in the rain with.

Q&A with Jess

Q: What's worse than being stuck in a downpour with no umbrella?

A: Being stuck in a downpour with no umbrella wearing a light-colored, very thin dress and brightly-colored Muppet underwear.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUULIEEEEEEEEEEE



It's Julie's birthday. I have already sent her four obnoxious text messages (including this post's title), and will continue to do so until she calls and yells at me.

I once expressed disappointment to Julie over not reading my blog. She said, "What the hell do I need to read your blog for? I talk to you every damn day." When I told her I tell Julie stories frequently, she said, "I was there. What do I need to read it for?" So she's given me free license to talk any kind of smack I want about her. I giggle when she meets friends who read my blog and they treat her like a lunatic celebrity and she has no idea why.

Julie is in Florida now, job hunting but mostly just lying on the beach and contemplating releasing Galileo, the rambunctious turtle, into the wild. If she were here, I'd be planning a big birthday night out with dinner and tequila and bubbles. Since I will not get to celebrate with my crazy best friend this year, I offer you "The Best of Julie."

Julie misunderstands song lyrics
Julie convinces me to dump the ex
The Julie/Jess psychic connection
Julie uses the check memo line to be dirty
Julie hates my boyfriends

Text message to Julie: In honor of your birthday, I just publicly humiliated you. Smooches!

I'll have a #5, super-sized please. Actually, no. I'll just have a salad

I've had a long, complicated relationship with my body.

Around the age of 13, I decided I needed to lose weight if I was ever going to become a famous ballerina. Like many teenage girls, I decided the best way to lose weight would be to not eat. Thus began a long struggle with an eating disorder that I managed to reign in after college. The body image problem? Not so much.

This is an aside, but I think it's funny. I had a therapist a few years back, a tough love old Jewish mother sort of therapist. She talked more than she listened, but she had good points so I didn't mind. On the subject of eating disorders, she said:

Funny that you went the anorexia route. I totally had you pegged for a bulimic. You know, because you're so excessive and have such little self-discipline or control.

Anyway, I've been this on-again, off-again, obsessive fad dieter for years. Atkins? Did it. South Beach? Uh huh. You name it, I've tried it and lost weight and gained it all back again. I've also tried cutting everything bad out of my diet. No junk food, under any circumstances. This results in drunken trips to the Belgian Fry Place at three in the morning where I eat a small country and then hate myself for it the next morning.

The problem is that I LOVE junk food. Love it. You say "deep-fried Twinkies" and some people wrinkle their noses and say "ew." I say bring it. If I were on death row, I freely admit my last meal with be a two cheeseburger extra value meal from McDonald's. Super-sized and with an apple pie, please.

A couple of weeks ago, I said enough with the dieting. I was just going to generally try to eat healthy, and if I wanted something, I could have it. The weird thing is, now that I can have junk food without feeling guilty, I don't want it.

I went out Friday night with every intention of procuring a burger and fries. I came home with an Amy's frozen dinner - brown rice and vegetables. I was perfectly happy with that. Saturday night, Curly and I stood right next to the food table at a party and I only picked a few times. Sunday night, the roommate made a delicious dinner and when everyone went back for seconds I said, "Nope, I'm fine. Thanks." and everyone said "Huh?" and I said "Yeah" and they said "Wow." Wow indeed. It's like for the first time in my life, I'm not controlled by food anymore. And the best part is, I've already lost four pounds. I'll never wear the Brazilian bikini on a beach in this country, but I may have to start prancing around my apartment in it soon.

Momma cavefish on cell phones

Five years ago, I was homeless (in a living-in-my-friend's-parents'-attic way, not a cardboard-box way). While I apartment-hunted, I decided it would behoove me to buy a cell phone. Since that fateful day, every conversation with my mother has begun with some variation on the following theme:

Me: Hi Mom.

Mom: Are you on your cell phone?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Why do you sound muffled?

Me: Because cellular is in imperfect technology. Can we please talk about something else?

Mom: You should get a new phone.

Me: MOM THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY PHONE.

When my stepfather died a couple of years ago, Mom took his cell phone for a test-drive and ultimately decided to purchase one for herself. I was ecstatic, thinking Mom would finally understand the nature of cell phones. Now our conversations go like this.

Mom: Why do you sound muffled?

Me: I don't know. Maybe you're not getting good reception?

Mom: How can I not be getting good reception? I'm in my own house!

Me: I don't get good reception in your house.

Mom: How can I not get good reception in the house? I don't understand.

Me: Do you have a cell phone tower in your house?

Mom: I think I need a new phone.

Me: You HAVE a new phone.

Mom: I'm calling Cingular. Oh wait, that's better. I wonder why I can suddenly hear fine…

Color me uninspired

So I started an open letter to the annoying British boy who has written me the same note on Nerve three times in four months. It wasn't nearly as funny as it could be.

Then I started a post about how I woke up naked with socks on and wasn't quite sure how it happened. Not so much.

Then I started the tale of an old boyfriend who was REALLY into tying me up, complete with the line "The only part I liked was the blindfold. That way he couldn't see me rolling my eyes at him." It went nowhere.

Then Jake and I had an interesting discussion about lube and the importance of foreplay, but I couldn't figure out how to package it.

Then I thought about whining about stupid crushes, but since I whined all day yesterday I better hold off for now.

So I'm giving up. My various muses have failed to muse me. I still want you to be entertained, though, so please read today's McSweeney's. You won't be disappointed.

Conversations with boys - this time it's Jake and it's not about strap-ons

Me: "I just wanted to drop you a note to say that I've decided to date someone I met right before we went out. I had a great time, but I think I connect a little better with this other person. Just didn't want to leave you hanging...Take care."
 
Jake: Nerve boy? 
 
Me: Yup. That was nice of him to email.
 
Jake: Yep. On to the next round of boys. 
 
Me: I probably would not have wanted to jump him any more on the second date than I did on the first.
 
Jake: I think that's a reasonable assumption. Jumping someone is usually a now-or-never sort of sensation. 
 
Me: Yeah. I just wish the guys I do want to jump were so undatable. 
 
Me: Um, I mean "weren't."
 
Jake: Hello Dr. Freud. 
 
Me: Ha! Think I have a latent fear of commitment?
 
Jake: Yes I do.

Me: You're probably right.

My bitch Zach
 
Zach: Suicidal Tendencies is one of my all-time favorite bands. I'm pissed Robbie joined Metallica.
 
Me: Don't diss Metallica. Robbie is yummy.
 
Zach: Never was and never will be a huge Metallica fan. Does that ruin our future together?
 
Me: It might.

Zach: Hey, I have no problem if you want to parade around our apartment in your faded Metallica T-shirts. I'm all about compromise.

Me: Good. I love a man who can compromise. If by compromise you mean let me have my way all the time.
 
Zach: I'm not sure letting you have your own way ALL the time is good for "us." Wouldn't it be better to openly discuss things that will impact us both? If I let you have your way I am likely to end up bent over the bed in a compromising position.
 
Me: Don't knock it 'till you try it.

A long, whiny rant that you should probably just skip over

I am having a morning that may, in fact, result in homicide. No, I do not speak facetiously.

First of all, I'm having some sort of health problem that is not serious but is very uncomfortable/painful, and every time I move it sucks.

Secondly, on my way to work today, every annoying person behavior was displayed -- the guy hogging the pole on the subway, the guy with the bike completely blocking the door, the guys who like to sit with their legs as far apart as possible, thereby squishing the small girl between them (me) with their big, stupid thighs. The people who start pouring in to the subway car before the people can exit. The people who do not hold doors. The people who do not thank you when you hold doors for them. The Commerce Bank MIME this morning who would not Leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone. [Note to Commerce Bank: you sounded promising on the commercials, but I hate you now)

Then the cranky man behind the counter at the deli yells at me. Then I take the elevator up to my office on the 14th floor and walk into a sauna. That's right, no air conditioning. But don't worry! We should have it again in a FEW DAYS!

Add in how annoyed I am with myself about two incredibly stupid crushes I can't stop obsessing over, and you've got one cranky cavefish. A note to anyone that might think about interacting with me today -- do it at your own risk.

All Metallica, all the time

Sheila's review is up. Read it -- it's better than mine. 

I got something to say, I killed your baby today

Sheila, the roommate, the boyfriend of the roommate, li'l Suzy and myself saw Some Kind of Monster last night. I was hoping I could be lazy and just link to whatever Sheila had to say about it, but she hasn't posted yet.

It was better than I thought it was going to be, and I thought it was going to kick ass. First of all, I thought it was a very well done documentary. Watching the band evolve on both a personal level as well as musically to create an album was fascinating. It was unintentionally funny at times, and even touching at others. Some thoughts:

I had no idea Dave Mustaine was so bitter about being kicked out of the band. To hear him talk, you'd think he was a loser who had done nothing with his career post-Metallica. This surprised me, because I was a huge Megadeth fan.

I think the Jason Newstead trash-talking was terrible. He was in the band for 15 years, and they never treated him like anything other than a hired hand. To them, he was a temporary replacement for Cliff Burton. I don't blame him for wanting to pursue other projects. I hope they treat Robert Trujillo with more respect.

On the subject of Robert Trujillo, they were blown away by the fact that he could play the fast bassline on "Battery" so well. Um, hello? He was in Suicidal Tendencies. Of course he can play fast.

That band therapist is running one hell of a racket. $40k a month to hang out and watch the guys go at each other? At one point, James Hetfield said to the guys, "I think [therapist] Phil is starting to think he's in the band." Hehe.

I felt bad for Robert Trujillo once he joined the band. The guys are all sitting around the table and discussing their feelings, saying things like "When you…I feel…" and "What I'm hearing is…" and all sorts of other therapy catch-phrases. He had a look on his face like, "Dude, I wanted to be in the greatest metal band in history. I didn't sign up to sit around, eating salmon and talking about my feelings."

Kirk Hammet might be the nicest guy on Earth.

That's all I got for now. I highly recommend this film to anyone, Metallica fans and haters alike.

Just call me angel of the morning, angel

I've been waking up freakishly early for no apparent reason lately.

I've always been a girl who preferred to miss mornings completely. If I had a job that allowed me to sleep until noon and stay up until four in the morning, it would have been perfect. Those are the hours my body wants to be asleep, and no amount of training or red wine has been able to change that.

I'm also cranky when I have to get up. Actually, cranky is an understatement -- I'm miserable. I hate mornings so much I can't even muster up the desire to have sex when I wake up, on the occasions that a nearly naked boy is in bed with me. Nope, I'd rather sleep.

Then last week, everything changed. The Flamingos were amazed when I was the first one up, bright eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to go. Usually, I'd have to be woken up at least twice, and would not get out of bed until a plan to get me caffeinated ASAP was in place. Sometimes I'd throw things at the offending waker-upper, sometimes I'd cover my head with a pillow and tell the person to shut up. Sometimes I'd get angry and say mean things.

Now, I've started waking up at least one half hour before my alarm is scheduled to go off. I arrived at work at 8:55am today. I've never arrived at work this early. Ever. I usually roll in about 9:45am. I'm afraid I'm turning into a morning person, and I don't like it one bit.

About last night

I might be assaulting y'all with Julie stories for a few days. Just to warn you.

Julie is notoriously late. Like, really, really late. She misses trains. She makes large groups of people wait for her. She calls 1/2 hour after she's supposed to be there and says she needs to "dry her hair." I cannot tell you how many hours of my life I've lost to Waiting for Julie.

Last night, she was scheduled to take the 6:30 train into the city. At 7:30, my phone rings.

Me: Where are you?

Julie: I missed the train and have to take the 8:00.

Me: [silence]

Julie: Are you mad?

Me: I'm fucking HUNGRY is what I am.

Julie: I'm sorry.

Thirty seconds later, someone knocks on my door. Peephole. Julie. I open it.

Julie: Hi!

Me: You are such an asshole.

Julie: Oh come on. I had to hear you get all huffy on the phone one last time.

Metal up your ass

That's what my old Metallica shirt said, complete with a hand clutching a knife coming out of a toilet. My gym teacher made me wear it inside out. Now, the roommate on how excited she (and I, and her boyfriend, and Sheila) are to be seeing Some Kind of Monster tonight:

I think it's going to RAWK! I wish there was a parking lot so that we could hang out in the truck and get high and listen to Metallica with our Metallica t-shirts on.

Indeed.

Fucking Florida of all places

Julie and I are not touchy-feely best friends (Well, except when she gets drunk and tries to make out with me, but that's different), but this morning, we both got a little choked up and went back for a second hug. Thursday, that bitch is leaving me and going to Florida with the Hot Irish Boyfriend. I am sad.

Last night, we did our final trip to the Parkside and then picked up a bottle of wine and went back to my place to watch Eurotrip, which I think would have been funny even if I hadn't been so drunk. Julie told me a story about stealing her neighbor's boxes for the move, lying about it and then getting totally busted. Typical Julie stuff. She always says the absolute wrong thing when under pressure, and the outcome is usually hilarious.

In high school, Julie dated Mike for a little while. Mrs. F, Julie and I decided to go to the movies with Mike and his hot friends, specifically Bram Auget who I loved more then I loved Nikki Sixx.

We decided to see The Guardian AKA the Worst Horror Film Ever Made. The only problem was, it was rated R and we were 15. Luckily, our local movie theater employed the same ID method as my local liquor store - they simply asked how old you were. So all we had to do was say we were 18 and we were in.

We thought Julie might mess this up, so we practiced asking her how old she was. Once we were confident she could do it, we bought our tickets. Julie bought hers last, and buckled under the pressure. She admitted she was only 15 and they would not sell her the ticket.

I tried reasoning with the man behind the counter. Told him she was my little sister and I'd be grounded if she didn't see the movie with us. He was not working with me at all. We sent Julie back up to buy a ticket to Ernest Goes to Jail and told her to sneak into the theater at her earliest convenience.

After three failed attempts to sneak into our movie, Julie was thrown out of the movie theater. She managed to talk her way back in on the condition that she watch Ernest Goes to Jail and stay put. So she did.

Now that I think about it, she probably saw the better movie. Maybe we should have snuck into hers.

Learning something new

I learned a new phrase this weekend, "smuggling peas." DH's boyfriend tells her she is smuggling peas when her nipples show through her shirt. We got a lot of mileage out of that one this weekend. Mrs. F told us she purchased a new bra after being made fun of by Julie and I for her constant pea smuggling.

More on the Flamingos: A written history

DH is a book binder when she's not a hottie librarian. Last year, she made The Book, which all of the Flamingos are adding to little by little.

DH started with the book, obviously. In it, she put a picture of our drink evolution (flamingo sippy cup to flamingo wine glass to flamingo swizzlestick) and a picture of me sitting on top of a cannon, riding it like a horse while the girls lay spread out dead before me with this caption:

Jessica, one of the wild "readers"* has this time taken it too far. Her rage ended in a cannon shooting spree, killing three of her closest friends. In court, Jessica claimed to have shot Abs for talking too much, Erika for being too prepared and Amanda for being a dork. Jessica as never shown any remorse.

* In Abs' husbands circle of friends, we are known collectivaly as "the readers," because Erika and I read at Abs' wedding and as a group, we were too friendly with the groomsmen at the bar after the reception. The wives and girlfriends were not amused.

After a few more entries by DH, the book went to Mrs. F, who posted a picture of DH's ass with the caption "nominated in four counties as the best ass around." Then she cut out pictures of our heads and pasted them onto flamingo bodies, which is really, really creepy.

Then the book went to Abs, who scoured old letters from us for bits that might reflect our younger selves at summer camp. They are as follows:

Erika: Remember, I was meant to be loved, not understood.

Mrs. F: Thursday - I felt really close to everyone and like a family. I never want to leave and lose what we have. I felt empty thinking we only have two days left.

DH: You called just a couple of hours ago, but I'm so excited I just HAD to write to you!

Moi: In our last episode, our heroine was dealing with the tragic [heart drawn over the "i"] breakup that had befallen her. But amidst her tears, her beloved contacted her, seeking a reunion.

Yes, I was a very melodramatic teenager. Whic would explain me being a melodramatic adult. The book is now mine, and the pressure is on to infuse it with something both clever and heartwarming. It's a big job. Then it's off to Erika, who will hopefully be able to update it amidst a move, grad school and planning a wedding. Hm, maybe I shouldn't complain.

The Flamingo visit - some highlights

Thursday night - Little Brooklyn did a hilarious sugar-fiend act at Starshine Burlesque, which prompted us to sing I Want Candy for most of the weekend. Well, when we weren't singing Milkshake or Can't Stand Your Mother. We sing a lot.

Friday - At Speedo Heaven, aka Brighton Beach, Dirty Holly and I had the pleasure of being the target of bird excrement. Nasty brown, runny, bird excrement all over our backs. Yum. Also, DH and I were chatting with a little girl by the shore when she looked at me, nodded toward DH and said, "Is that your mom?" DH is actually a year younger than me, mind you, and doesn't look a day over 12. I also bought an old lady housedress and, much to my companions' horror, announced that I'd be wearing it out that night. The Cavefish knows what looks she can pull off, and to their surprise, I did it. Friday night we went to Sing Sing for karaoke. We didn't rent a room - we opted for hanging at the bar instead. When you hang out at Sing Sing's bar, you get to be like those annoying drunk girls who sing really loud at a regular bar (not that I've ever been one of those girls), but everyone is doing it so it isn't annoying. In fact, we were even enlisted to sing backup for the Cute Boys Who Could Sing as well as the Cute Boys Who Could Not Sing. I briefly chatted with one of the former and thought a love connection was being made, but circumstances kept us apart. I think he just wanted me for my Bette Davis Eyes, personally.

Saturday - We saw David Cross at the Siren Festival, got our asses kicked by the Cyclone (I still have the bruises to prove it) and, due to a miscommunication, coined the term "stealing babies" and said it for the remainder of the weekend whenever someone would mishear something, which happens frequently when five loud girls try to talk at once. Also, DH got to smooch the lovely, the talented, the hot, the delectable, the why-oh-why-isn't-he-my-boyfriend Tyler Fyre onstage at the Coney Island Freakshow. God how I love a man who can eat fire.

Sunday - DH and I just discussed whether we did anything noteworthy on Sunday.

Me: Did we do anything noteworthy on Sunday?

DH: We went to the Tenement Museum.

Me: That's not funny.

DH: No, except when we were on the tour and I smacked my head really hard and almost brought down the building.

Me: Ha! That was funny.

The Flamingos began departing around 3 on Sunday, and DH is all that remains. Today we're going to run around to craft stores and buy fun things before I ship her ass back to Vermont with a big smack. It is going to be SO hard to return to work tomorrow.

The date: an afterthought

Nerve boy has his tongue pierced. I have my tongue pierced. I've never kissed anyone who shared that particular piercing. It makes me want to go out with him again so I can kiss him and see if there will be tongue interference.

The queens of kitsch

Reason #473 why the roommate is the best person I have ever shared space with. She just IM'd me to ask if I'd mind a meat shower curtain. I would not mind at all -- quite the opposite in fact.

Three beers and a crazy lady

So the Cavefish had her Big Date last night.

We met at Bleecker Bar at 9:00pm. He was cuter than I thought he'd be. He gave me giant sunflowers, which I thought was a nice touch. We talked, sometimes awkwardly but mostly easily. I had some Guinness and he had some Jack Daniels. He was troubled to find out that I am a Yankees fan. I did not say anything that made me want to punch myself in the mouth afterward. After a few hours, we parted. Kiss on the cheek. It was nice, but I didn't want to jump his bones. Not that the boys whose bones I do want to jump are ever any good for me, but still. If he asks me out again, I'll definitely go. But I won't cry if he doesn't.

The best part of my date was the Crazy Bathroom Lady. I walked into the two-stall bathroom and stole a quick glance at myself in the mirror. She, obviously peeking at me through the space between the stall door and the stall anchor, yelled out YOU LOOK NICE IN GREEN! I thanked her, and then got into the stall next to her. "Doll Parts" by Hole was playing.

THIS SONG REMINDS ME OF MY WEDDING DAY, she bellowed. I wanted to say I'M SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU STOP YELLING but instead I said "oh?" YES, she began. I WAS STANDING WITH MY MOTHER RIGHT BEFORE I HAD TO WALK DOWN THE AISLE AND I SAID 'IF THIS IS THE HAPPIEST DAY OF MY LIFE, JUST SHOOT ME NOW'. I'M DIVORCED NOW.

She exited her stall before me, and continued yelling at me while peeking at me through the gap. Yeah, it was a little uncomfortable. I finished up and headed out to the sink, where she told me she'd been in Columbia the past weekend, and boy do those men love breasts. She told me at great length about Columbian men and their reaction to her breasts. Then, inexplicably, she said YEAH, THAT'S WHAT I WENT TO COLLEGE FOR FOUR YEARS TO END UP DOING. What? Her job is having her breasts groped by Columbian men?

Anyway, I had an amusing anecdote when I got back to the table. Which was good. I'm at my best when telling amusing anecdotes.

Shame on you, New York Post

Not that I think the Post has any journalistic integrity whatsoever, but this is ridiculous. From Cindy Adams' column today:

The B.D. Wong and companion Richie Jackson split: It took 13 movers two days to empty their 26th Street loft. They share custody of "son" Jackson, 4.

"Son?" Apparently, a legal adoption still doesn't make you a real son if you have two daddies. If you'd like to let Steve Cuozzo, the Post's Gossip editor, know how wrong that is, send him an email.

Bring out your dead

I have a little more than your regular passing interest in dead people. A little less than a necrophiliac.

Like I mentioned before, I'm reading Stiff by Mary Roach. I just came across something called Bodyworlds, The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies. A man named Gunther von Hagen invented a process known as plastination, where, simply speaking, human corpses are plastified. He then poses them, dresses them or doesn't, and adds them to his art exhibition. I think it's absolutely fascinating. He gets the bodies via donations -- not donations to science, donations to him. According to the book, there are 3,700 people on his list, just waiting to die so they can be propped up in a museum. If you're not squeamish (And I'm not, but this made me stop eating my lunch immediately. Consider yourself warned), here's the official site. I showed it to Jake, who apparently is not as fond of the not breathing folk as I am. And that's okay. Most people aren't. I suspect Mary Roach and I would have a grand time together, though.

When I was in high school, I took Cosmetology classes. I took them, not because I wanted to be a hairdresser in a salon, but because I thought it would be cool to be a Desirologist, someone who works in a funeral home and does hair and makeup. Then I decided to be a journalist instead. Which later became something else, and then something else after that. But it started with the dead people. Is that weird?

Cavefish has a date

So tomorrow night, I have a date with Nerve boy. If the date goes well, he'll get a real nickname. Whether it goes well or not well, y'all will get a full recap. We are having drinks somewhere in the East Village, following a lovely phone chat tonight. He's little and cute and bald, just the way I like 'em when they're not tall, pale and skinny with shaggy rocker-boy hair.

Dating advice from Mom

Don't drink too much. Don't talk about religion, politics or ex-boyfriends. Don't be all feminist and opinionated. Do NOT go home with him. And for God's sake, do not tell him you hate babies.

Flamingos take Manhattan by storm

This Thursday, the Flamingos arrive. I can't wait.

The Flamingos are a group of girls I met at summer camp a lifetime ago. Not one summer has gone by without seeing them. For years, we saw each other at Mrs. F's summer house in the Adirondacks. Then we ventured to Dirty Holly's in Burlington, Abs' wedding in Syracuse and last year, Abs' house in Baltimore. This year, it's the Big Apple and next year, Erika's in Colorado.

The name Flamingos originated at camp. (We're so Ya-Ya Sisterhood.) All of the boy cabins had woodsy animal names, like Fox and Beaver (he he, beaver). The girl cabins had bird names, like Robin and Cardinal. We had the pleasure of (defacing) being in a brand new cabin one year. It had not yet been named. We decided we were too exotic to be named after a woodsy bird. We needed to be Flamingos. We were 14. Shut up.

The Campaign to be Flamingos was mostly a failure. The cabin was later named Owl. Our obnoxious refusal to be referred to as anything but "The Flamingos" for that week, however, lived on. I have a fierce adoration for those girls.

The agenda is as follows:

Thursday: The Flamingos arrive! After collecting them at various midtown locations, we will check into the HoJo on Houston, eat at El Maguey y La Tuna and watch some ladies get naked at Starshine Burlesque.

Friday: Brighton Beach, baby. The we will have a delicious dinner cooked by the Cavefish (menu TBD) followed by karaoke at the place I went to with my former coworkers that I do not know the name of.

Saturday: Siren Festival and various Coney Island activities including but not limited to riding the Cyclone. Dinner at Grimaldi's.

Sunday: Lower East Side Tenement tour followed by shopping in Williamsburg, the majority of which will be done at Beacon's Closet. Assscat at the UCB Theater.

Not on the agenda: hanging with any of the Cavefish's friends. Mrs. F put the kibosh on that, saying "We get together once a year. I want to hang out with you guys, not spend the weekend playing getting-to-know-you." And well, she has a point. A note to all of my stalkers: You can follow me around this weekend, but please don't approach me. Mrs. F will get angry. Thanks.

Out of the geek closet, into Siberia

Photographic evidence that the Cavefish is a big geek.

The love of your life is not dead and other stories

I returned a rather ominous-sounding call from Cindy today, to find out what "information" she had for me.

Did you read your Marist magazine yet?

No.

Naz is in it. You're going to be upset.

The love of my life is dead. Oh dear God. I stopped walking on Canal St. I stopped breathing. I just…stopped.

Okay, I thought she was about to say he was dead. The real news is, he had a baby. With his wife. Who is not me. The announcement was in our college quarterly update magazine thing. I took this news much better than I took the wedding news, although I did ponder whether the baby was better or worse than death. Does that make me a bad person? When I received the wedding news via a mutual friend, there was gin and crying and regret and misery. This time, I wailed Who is this girl? Why is she not me? Why is that not my baby? a few times, but I think I'm going to be okay.

I don't usually bother with regret. I don't have time to beat myself up for everything in my past. Whatever. I did it. Next. But Naz was different. I never loved anyone before him so fiercely, and I haven't loved anyone like that since. That love was completely unhinged and terrifying. We never dated. We were friends. We slept together at the point where it would have been impossible not to. I lost my shit, completely. Every time we got close, I lost it. I think part of me knew there was no way I could handle the heartbreak of having him and then losing him, so I did everything in my power to sabotage any chance we might have had. I hurt him very badly. I hurt myself very badly. I did Very Bad Things. And six years later, I'm still kicking myself in the ass for not being the girl he's having babies with. And I fucking hate babies.

Vassar girls? Bring it

There was a hilarious Marist vs. Vassar girls debate on Craig's List Missed Connections yesterday. It started with:

As a student, Vassar was also dubbed "Soho North" for the high percentage of NYC women. Since graduation I've only run into but a handful that I recognize. Where are you all?
Let's get a drink (the mug perhaps?)
Bob '95

Then, someone from my graduating class posted this:

The girls from Marist banned them from the neighborhood.
-Class of '97

Then all hell broke loose. It was terribly fun. Also posted: undergoing electrolysis, to which some Vassar '96 girl replied something to the effect of Marist girls being jealous because they couldn't get in to Vassar. All of which proves that we may not be as smart, but we're certainly funnier. After a native Poughkeepsian put up an entire post about why Marist girls rule, I of course told him I think I love him. Because that's what I do. I have a lot of love to give.

Me: I wonder who the Marist girl is.

Curly: Why don't you email her?

Me: Nah, I probably hate her.

Playing catch-up

Azee and I went to Mama's last night to gorge ourselves and catch up. We usually touch base at least twice per week, but with the long holiday weekend, it had been nearly two weeks. Since we're both drama queens, we had a lot of ground to cover.

Mama's was crowded, but we were lucky enough to find one huge table in the back to take over. We sat down, I with my salmon, turnips and swiss chard and Azee with her meatloaf, mac n' cheese and yams. Hers looked much better, but I'm trying to be healthy and get in shape and all that boring stuff. Girl's skinny, and she eats like a house. It makes me want to cry.

We were just about to launch into our boys/work/Fahrenheit 9/11/etc. discussion when a displaced solo diner asked if he could sit at out table. Of course we said sure, and then we weren't sure how to proceed. He seemed intent on his food and not terribly interested in us, though, so we tentatively started the conversation. When I accidentally said "booty call," I quickly looked over to judge his reaction. None. So we went full-speed-ahead with our chat, sans censoring. When we finished eating, Azee got up to get us some to-go containers, and I addressed our silent dining companion.

Hey, I'm sorry you've had to sit here and listen to us for so long.

He pointed to his mouth to indicate he was chewing and would respond momentarily. He chewed FOREVER. I looked at every piece of décor, individually. I checked my cell phone messages. I stared at my nails. I drafted up a five-year plan with flow-charts and a PowerPoint presentation. I had three children. Finally, he spoke.

No problem at all. I was actually going to respond to a couple of things you said, but I was chewing. By the time I got done, you'd be on to another topic.

It wasn't hard to see how that could have happened. He was kind of cute, but the voice that came out of his mouth did not connect with how he looked on any level. It was quite jarring. When Azee returned I told her the Insanely Long Chewer had been listening and had some comments. She supplied him with all of the background information necessary, in addition to what he'd heard, and demanded his opinion. He looked a little dizzy at first, but then he offered some good insight. And then he went back to chewing, which prevented us from saying a proper goodbye. We did get a wave, though.

A letter to Britney Spears

Dear Britney,

You know I'm a big fan. I own three CDs, saw Crossroads in the theater and have dirty fantasies about you on a regular basis. I am part of the Britney-will-be-the-next-Madonna contingency. I defend you on a regular basis. I even have your limited edition Skechers rollerskates. This love runs deep. But Britney, we need to talk.

I was skeptical about this relationship with Kevin from the start. Really Brit, I think you can do better. And I'm not talking about marrying-my-high-school-friend-in-Vegas-better either. That was just weird, frankly. And really, any media-savvy pop diva would let the dust settle a bit before getting hitched again. Your antics are starting to look like career suicide.

Oh boy, Britney, where do I start? First of all, you proposed to him and had to buy your own engagement ring. Second of all, he has two kids, and cheated on their mother with you. And then left her for you. And you're supporting him? What kind of person is he? Third of all, I'm all for shunning tradition, but a red wedding dress? Now, all of these things I could maybe overlook because you're a little crazy and aren't exactly known for wise decision-making. But we really, really need to discuss this pre-nup situation.

Britney, you are worth an estimated $100 million dollars. That's a lot of money, yes - probably more than the average person knows what to do with. Should Kevin knock you up twice and then leave you (not that a fine upstanding gentleman like him would do such a thing to anyone), you will be left with half of that. If your album sales continue to plummet, if your reality show bombs, if you keep canceling concert dates because of (poor ticket sales) knee injuries, your savings account is going to be ravaged, what with that wild lifestyle you need to finance. Plus, let's not forget about those crooked accountants you kids like to hire, who steal all your money and then you disappear only to show up in a VH1 "Where Are They Now?" special years later following stint after agonizing stint in rehab.

I hope I don't sound harsh Britney. I only bring these things up because I care. I hope you'll take some of this to heart, especially the pre-nup part.

Love,
Jess

In case I forgot, I'm not 15 anymore

I'm such a jackass.

Last night, I was staring intently at my underwear-clad body in the full-length mirror (well, half of a full-length mirror. The ex broke it in half and never replaced it, even though he swore he would), trying to figure out if all the healthy eating and working out is having any effect whatsoever on my epic thighs. Suddenly, I see a GIANT bruise below my ass. I poke it. It's a little sore. I do the same thing with the giant bruise on my left thigh, left elbow and right calf. I go through my activities over the past few days and have no recollection of what (or who) could have beaten me so savagely. Panicked, I come to the conclusion that I must have a rare, fatal blood disease. I get ready to call Mom, a nurse, for a diagnosis, and then it hits me.

After Julie begged and pleaded with me to do tequila shots on Sunday night, she also somehow convinced me it would be a good idea to roll down a grassy hill that turned out to be more rocky than grassy.

It would appear that, at the age of 29, I still haven't figured out how to resist peer pressure.

Nice save, New York Post

Boy on the cyberhorizon

So I've had this online personal ad on Nerve for, like, ever. Every so often, I dust it off, give it a little update and watch the very scary messages from very scary boys pour into my inbox. Then I get annoyed and let my profile collect dust at the bottom of the not-recently-updated pile. Imagine my surprise when I get a charming little note Monday and then check out the profile (I always read the note first, so I can convince myself I'm not shallow) and whoa! He's cute! And funny! Jackpot. Slightly resembling the ex, but cuter. I sent him a little note back yesterday after first getting approval from Curly, Jake and Holly. Who knows? The cavefish might have a good (or bad, but I promise amusing) date story soon.

Last Comic Standing, a real-time reaction transcript

curly: Okay, so they make Jay Mohr perform on each episode and...
curly: He sucks
me: If anyone roasted me, I would cry and run out of the room
curly: Awww
me: I kinda want Jay to win just because the other assholes don't take him seriously
curly: Yeah, but I don't know how much longer I can look at him
me: Yay Alonzo! I've seen him do standup and I think he's great
curly: Yeah, but he's part of Ant's evil alliance. He's very funny, though
me: Gary's too pretty for comedy
curly: Dude needs a hair cut, but he's very cute
me: This is fun. It's like you're here being evil with me
curly: Hee hee! I love watching shows together over IM
me: I'd do Gary
curly: He's quite yummy. I love his smile
me: He's so my type
curly: I don't want him to be voted off
curly: Well, you're on a roll already so you should write him a note
me: Dear Gary, I think I'd like to do you. Love, Jess.
curly: Shut up, Jay Mohr
me: Who do you think will win?
curly: I don't know. Ant isn't that funny. His jokes often bomb.
me: I think Gary's gonna bring it
curly: Ha ha ha. Just listen to us!
curly: That theater is ghetto
curly: Maybe the girls will think he's cute and vote for him
me: Stop pacing Gary
curly: Ew, did you see the choppers on that dude in the audience?
me: Oreo have you been reading my diary? Heee!
me: Not so funny, that Ant
me: Ugh, they loved him. Fucking morons
curly: I know. he's a disgrace
me: Gary Gary Gary
me: It's going to be Ant, isn't it?
curly: Sadly, I think so. I hate him. I want to beat the shit out of him
me: Let's find out where he lives and jump him
curly: Totally. I vote for wrestling moves! I body slam him and you give him a dropped elbow
me: You got it. Bitch is going dowwwwwn.
curly: OMG! I'm visualizing you doing that
curly: Ha ha ha ha
me: Ha ha ha
me: In your fucking face insect!
curly: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

I love John Moe

John Moe is the guy who wrote Pop Song Correspondences, Volumes 1 and 2 on McSweeneys. So moved was I (to laughter, and later, to tears) by this feature, I felt compelled to send him this email:

Dear John Moe,
I think I love you.
- Jess

Yesterday, I was positively delighted to receive this response:

Jess,
This is good news. I told both of our families that you would grow to love me. I am vindicated.
John

Anyone who says acting like a crazy stalker doesn't pay off, take note.

Who's getting fired today?

Someone at the New York Post, that's for sure. Today's front page: Kerry's choice: Dem picks Gephardt as VP candidate. Except, um, he didn't. He picked Edwards. Oops.

Nice guy, weird guy or potential criminal?

Hey, are you girls walking to your car?

He leaned over the passenger seat to inquire. He was cute in a non-threatening, grandma-would-love-him, sex-would-be-dull kind of way. That didn't stop my paranoid suspicions from running rampant, however. Curly seemed unfazed.

Yeah, do you want our spot? He nodded, and invited us to get in his car and drive to ours. Serial killer…serial rapist…cannibal…republican…the possibilities were endless. Curly whispered that it was fine, to just get in the car. I didn't argue.

We were driven to our destination without incident. We said goodbye, thanked him for the ride and got out. He then drove away. Didn't take our spot. Just drove away.

Huh?

Maybe he had an attack of conscience right before killing us. Maybe we charmed him out of whatever psychotic torture he was going to enact on us. We'll never know.

Oh well, at least I got to take my first ride in a Mini Cooper. Surprisingly roomy.

Things I have actually said, out loud, to the television while watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy

Kyan, you are beautiful.

Kyan, is there any chance you're really straight and faking it?

You can bend me over and spank me, Kyan.

I bet I could get you really drunk and convince you to do me, Kyan.

Oh Kyan, I'll snuggle with you.

I wouldn't mind getting naked and tanning with you, Kyan.

Kyan, why don't we live in an alternate universe were you want to do incredibly raunchy things to me? It's not fair.

Will you play with my hair, Kyan?

I love you, Kyan. Now and forever.

Kyan, just close your eyes and pretend I'm a boy. I don't mind.

On the water

I'm a giant scaredy-cat when it comes to the ocean.

I wasn't always. In fact, I've only been this way for two years. Two summers ago, the ex and I were at Pt. Pleasant and the water was especially rough. He's not a big water guy - he prefers sand. I get extremely bored laying on the beach and have to go frolic in the water every 1/2 hour or so. So I'm frolicking solo when the Biggest Wave Ever takes me down, pulls me under, holds me there and fills me up with salt water for entirely too long. I emerge coughing and panicked with one breast hanging out of my bikini (and yes, I was the LAST person on the beach to notice that). Ever since then, when the waves start rolling up I jump out of the water as fast as my little legs can carry me.

I do still go in the water, though. I'm determined to conquer my fear, little by little. In fact, I'll be at Pt. Pleasant with Curly this weekend, conquering away. She too is a sea-fearer.

Before Fahrenheit 9/11, there was a preview for a little flick called Open Water. Based on a true story, it's the tale of a pair of scuba divers who get left behind by the boat. Left as in, in the middle of the fucking ocean. Sharks, storms, and I'm guessing not much hilarity ensue. This movie looks So. Completely. Horrifying. And I cannot wait to see it.

Breaking news

I know y'all don't come here for the politics -- you come here for the vibrators, the ex's, the Britney. I know this, so I won't delve too deep into the Politics of Jess. What I will say is that Curly and I saw Fahrenheit 9/11 last night, and it was well worth the $10.50, and even the service charge for buying tickets through Fandango.

Let me start by saying I'm not a Michael Moore fan. I never voted him into the Spokesperson for the Left position. I agree with him on almost every issue, but I find him terribly obnoxious. More than a few of my friends have stated we don't need our very own Rush Limbaugh. We just don't.

So I went into the movie fully expecting to be emotionally manipulated, beaten over the head with things that I fully understood 15 minutes prior and seeing things taken completely out of context. And sure, it was all there, but on a much smaller scale than I had anticipated. Not even enough to annoy me. I laughed, I cried, I cheered and I became so enraged I wanted to start a riot afterward. Everyone should see this movie, regardless of political beliefs. (Jess' Secret Lefty Agenda: Become…one…of…us…)

When the movie ended, we exited the theater and a woman was selling anti-Bush buttons. Brilliant place to set up shop -- the first thing hundreds of angry liberals see. Yeah, I bought one. So did Curly.

Then we headed over to Ace bar to drink and dissect every nanosecond of the film. Which we didn't do, because the end of the Yankees/Red Sox game was on. Say what you will about the "evil" Yankees (eyes rolling) or how "played" my boyfriend Derek Jeter is (still rolling), but my boy took one for the team last night. Anyone who says baseball is boring is mad. Utterly mad.

Sorry, got a little sidetracked there. We decided to give Ruby Lounge a try because Ace was getting annoying. It's really nice there! How it stays in business when we were the only two people there on a Thursday night is beyond me, though. Anyway, we did dissect the film there without the distraction of baseball, and I highly recommend it. Now, I will return to your regularly scheduled programming of sex, drugs and mainstream pop music.

Wanted: New Crush

Bored 20-something seeks new crush to daydream about. It is not imperative that you be single, as any relationship we have will exist only in my mind. It is, however, important that you be someone I will see in person at least twice per week. Ideally, you will be 5'10" or up, thin, pale, with dark hair and pretty eyes. Not required, but will ensure instant crushability. If we will be interacting with one other, you will also have to be funny. And probably smart. And flirt with me a little. Airs of mystery and accents a plus.

Knocking da boots for good health

Zach the pervert sent me a link to this article, extolling the benefits of frequent sexual activity for good health. His favorite line, and mine as well:

I kid you not, ladies. Semen is good stuff. It gives a shot of zinc, calcium, potassium, fructose, proteins -- a veritable cornucopia of vitality!

Perhaps I should rethink my position on swallowing.