And now, your moment of Zen

Thanks to Sydney for this little gem. Oh Britney, how I love thee, you trashy, trashy, girl.

The Sex Crate

I wasn't going to go back to Schenectady after college, but I was broke and a giant media conglomerate in Albany wanted to hire me, so I did. Living with Mom got old fast, so she agreed to rent the other flat to Julie and I. For $200 a month. We stayed until I could no longer bear to be in a long-distance relationship with The Photographer, at which point I dragged her down to live in Yonkers with me and got a job at silly Internet company #1.

This is not a story about The Photographer, though. Nor is it about Yonkers or Internet companies. It is about The Sex Crate.

Julie's parents offered to help move us from Schenectady to Yonkers. It was very nice of them. The plan was, Julie and I would fill our cars with the little stuff and drive down, and Julie's Dad, AKA Wilford Brimley would follow in the U-Haul. There was some debate about where The Mom and Grandma would ride, but Julie decided to take them in her car and put all of her shit into mine.

The packing. I had a Sex Drawer, where all of the goodies The Photographer and I had accumulated in the three years we had been together were kept. I had no intention of the Sex Drawer contents going into the U-Haul, so I threw them in a crate and moved it out into the living room with all of the stuff to put in my car. (RIP Sylvia) Julie's parents and grandmother arrived 45 minutes early without warning, in a flurry of excitement and began poking around.

In the middle of the floor was a crate. Its contents were 1 whip, 1 pair of handcuffs, 2 large bottles of lube, 3 giant boxes of condoms, various ropes, scarves, etc. for tying one up, 2 porn videos, an envelope containing 3 rolls of dirty pictures and 2 "erotic games" we had purchased. Julie's mother began asking me how I was, what the new apartment was like. Wilford Brimley went to open the truck. Julie's grandmother started packing up some of Julie's clothes. Julie, panicked, stepped in front of The Sex Crate and tried to distract her mother. There is no distracting Julie's mother. Then my mother and aunt arrived. There was no conspicuous way to get The Sex Crate out of there, so Julie and I took turns standing in front of it. It felt like when we were in high school and Julie's mom caught us smoking pot and we tried to hide it but she wasn't buying it and took all of our drug paraphernalia away.

Then, Mama Cavefish picked up the sex crate, looked at me sternly and nodded toward the door. I. Wanted. To. Die. She hurried me outside and told me to hurry up and open the trunk so she could put it in.

Mom: What is all this stuff?

Me: How am I supposed to know? It's Julie's.

Mom: Thank God! Julie's kind of a perv, huh?

Me: Totally.

I am the Italian Iron Chef

The salad I made for dinner was such a big hit, I thought I'd share the recipe. In fact, I think I'll start sharing recipes more often. Mix it up. It can't be sex toys and Julie all the time, after all.

Ingredients:
1 1/4 pounds green beans
1 lemon
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon coarsely ground black pepper
4 ounces thinly sliced sopressata
2 bunches baby spinach
1 wedge Pecorino Romano cheese, grated

Directions:
Rinse green beans. Steam 12 minutes. Drain.

Grate 1/2 teaspoon lemon peel and squeeze 2 tablespoons juice. In large bowl, with wire whisk, mix lemon peel and juice with oil, salt, and pepper.

Add beans, sopressata, and spinach to dressing in bowl; toss to coat.

Spoon salad onto platter. Top with Pecorino Romano cheese.

Weekend wrap-up

First, an update. I fell off the wagon this weekend. It hurt a little. I hit my head.

The older I get, the more nervous teenagers make me. As my cool factor wanes with age, I get worried that I won't be able to relate to them anymore. I'm not planning on having kids ever, but I do hope that my Future Divorced Dad's teenage daughter thinks I'm hip. So imagine my delight when I ended up hanging out with a 16-year old goth girl at Mark and Nicola's engagement party on Saturday. She seemed impressed when she mentioned Trash and Vaudeville and I said, "On St. Mark's place, right?" Before long, she was telling me all sorts of things that started with, "Don't tell my mom, but…" She even asked her mom if she could come down to the city Sunday and protest with me. Mom said no, but that's beside the point. I AM STILL COOL. Go me.

There was a very funny Zach Braff look-alike at the party who I briefly chatted with. He had a girl with him, but they didn't seem very couply so I'm not sure what his deal is. I sent Nicola an email inquiry. Fingers crossed.

I joined the United for Peace and Justice march on Sunday. Curly invited me to march with Gays Against Bush. (Please don't get on television. I'll have a lot of explaining to do if you do. - Mom) Should you ever protest anything, I highly recommend doing so with catty gay boys. Awesome. The protest was peaceful, and very, very hot. I took pictures, but with a real camera, not a digital one, so who knows when they'll get developed - I'm bad with that. But you can see pics over in the land of Sean Conrad. Some of my favorite slogans, chants, etc were:

It's hot. It's humid. The president is stupid.

Tax cuts are tacky, darling.

George W. Bush is not my Friendster.

I'd rather vote for Satan.

George honey, just let it go.

The office is dead this morning, as I work three blocks north of Madison Square Garden and the majority of my coworkers thought this might be a good week to use their vacation time. I'll be working from home on Thursday - I don't even want to try getting up here then.

I missed my calling

When my stepfather was alive, I wanted to tend bar at his little saloon. He didn't like the idea of the local drunks harassing me. I brought it up often, and the conversation would go something like this:

Me: Mom said you're looking for a bartender.

Chuck: Yes, but you're not doing it.

Me: But-

Chuck: No

Me: But it would be good exper-

Chuck: No

Me: But why-

Chuck: No

Me: I just don't under-

Chuck: No

Me: But then I wouldn't have to-

Chuck: No

Me: Fine

Now, his son owns the bar, and his cousins run it. Cousin Desiree is going over to meet with them tonight about being the new bartender. I hope she gets the job, but I have to admit, I'm a little jealous.

Little Blue, I hardly knew ye

Me: I killed Little Blue, and Big Blue's on its way out.

Jake: Eegad! Super Vagina!

Me: Apparently my nether regions are where sex toys go to die.

Jake: It's Magic Wand time, my dear. No more fooling about.

Me: I think you're right.

My relationship with vibrators is much like my relationship with boys. Short-lived and destructive.

You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em

After close consideration, it would appear that I'm starting to freak out about turning 30. Just a little.

Granted, I don't turn 30 for another seven months. I feel good about it for the most part. My 20s have pretty much sucked, so I'm assuming my 30s will be better. Plus, I'll just be a damn good 30-something. I know I will. That said, I'm now on a race against time to get all of my shit together in the career love financial sanity departments so I can start the new decade off on the right foot. This means I have seven months to figure out what I want to do with my life get my insecurities in check which will enable me to have a functional relationship get the hell out of debt and stop being so damn self-destructive. And I'm supposed to do all that while the little clown on my shoulder (clowns are more evil than devils - trust me) tries to thwart my growth by saying things like…

Let's get a tattoo!

Don't you miss the nose ring? Shouldn't we get it repierced?

That really young rocker boy is cute!

Oooh, that was a rather mean thought. You should totally text that to the ex!

Drink…more…wine…Smoke…more…cigarettes…Eat…McDonald's…

The rationale the Sensible Me has for doing all these things before 30 is also the rationale used by Evil Clown Jess. Come on, you're turning 30. This is your last chance to do all this stuff. Perhaps I should stop seeing 30 as a beginning or an end, but just as a number that will fall somewhere on the natural timeline of my maturity. With seven months to go, however, methinks the internal struggle freaking out fucking up making strides is only just beginning.

What a waste of panic

There are a lot of things to panic about. George Bush being reelected. Global warming. Shark attacks. Mary-Kate having a relapse. These are not the things I've been panicking about, however. I've been panicking about the upcoming wedding reception and the presence of Texty McTextstein at said reception.

As it turns out, despite the fact that I have the misfortune of seeing him at least twice a week, he has dropped off the face of the Earth as far as our mutual friends are concerned. No one knows why. For about nine months, no contact. They aren't even sure he's coming. Here I've been, wrought with panic and he might not even be there. That's it. I will never again freak out over something before it happens. Ever. Well, I am still pretty worried about Mary-Kate.

Happy endings and new beginnings

For nearly an entire summer, Mrs. F and I engaged in behavior most unbecoming of best friends -- fighting over a boy.

It was the summer between sophomore and junior years of college. Our friendship had been tenuous for quite some time, and so we did what any two people who could barely stand to be in the same room with each other would do -- we decided to work and live together at a summer camp for three months.

There were 11 girls on staff, mostly single. There were six boys, mostly not. This presented a problem, specifically when Mrs. F and I simultaneously set our sights on Mr. F. (Can you tell how this story is going to end?)

For weeks, Mr. F divided his time between us. He took sunset walks on the beach with her. He gave me backrubs when I was having a bad day. He sat next to her at meals. He took me on hikes along secluded paths. The relationship between Mrs. F and I went from tense to downright hostile.

One day, Mr. F had left a sappy note for me. I came out of the kitchen to find Mrs. F rifling through my mailbox. She did not see me. She picked up the note, read it and then stormed out the back door of the dining room, slamming the door behind her. I felt both livid and superior. Later that day, I barged in on a quiet moment they were having in retaliation. Things were getting ugly.

The next week, Mr. F had two days off in a row. The first was my day off, the second, Mrs. F's. He planned elaborate daylong activities with both of us on our respective days. My date was first, and I will admit I had a poor showing. I wasn't terribly in shape at the time and, after our picnic, phase II of our date was an exceptionally long bike ride. After what seemed like forever but was probably not, I dramatically fell off my bike on to the grass and declared I could not go on. He offered to do something less strenuous. I told him to go ahead and enjoy his bike ride.

Mrs. F smirked when I came back to camp very early and very much alone, but I offered no details. The next day, she went on a multi-mile hiking biking swimming canoeing jazzercise space exploration extravaganza, after which I raised my white flag and declared her victorious. If she could keep up with him, she deserved to have him. Then we cried and hugged and rehashed everything that had torn apart our friendship in the first place. All was well in our friendship after that, and Mr. and Mrs. F have been together ever since. A week later, The Juggler, who I had been crushing on for at least six years, arrived at camp and thus began a torrid love affair that made me forget all about Mr. F. Come to think of it, he married one of my friends eventually, too. What's up with that?

Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind

Marist College alumni weekend takes place every October. This is an opportunity for post-graduates to try to reclaim their college years, for a weekend at least. It's also a time to drive actual students out of the bars, as payback for the four alumni weekends one suffers as a student where you practically have to blow the bartender to get a cranberry and vodka, for fuck's sake.

Every couple of years, one of my college friends will suggest we go. And we do. And we drink too much, which just reminds us that we are not, in fact, 20 years old anymore. We see none of the people we wanted to see and all of the people we didn't. We have awkward conversations with estranged friends and old boyfriends. We leave vowing to never return again.

Then something happens. A couple of years go by. We forget what a wretched time we had. We somehow start to miss people we haven't seen in 7 years. We again book a hotel room and take a trip up to Poughkeepsie.

It was no surprise when Cindy called me this morning to suggest that we might maybe want to go to alumni weekend this year. But you know, only for one night, because two is too much. In fact, she's been looking into hotel rooms and figured she'd just book a room, maybe for one night or maybe for two, just in case we decided to go at some point. I found myself saying, "Yeah, sure! Let's go! It will be fun! Let's call Amy and see if she's up for it!" Cindy will be calling Amy, and I will be calling The Boys, and we will all be having another god-awful weekend in Poughkeepsie. Rennies, Noah's, here we come!

Random smattering of Monday morning things

I had a dream last night that I was having sex with Tommy Lee in a college dorm room when my grandparents walked in on us. Grams could not stop staring in horror at his giant scary monster penis.

This spinster-in-training spent a good chunk of Saturday wedding dress shopping with the lovely Nicola. There are a lot of ugly wedding dresses out there. That didn't stop me from holding a dress up to myself and staring wistfully in the mirror for about 10 seconds, after which I became horrified and quickly put the dress back on the rack.

SpongeBob SquarePants was walking around Brighton Beach yesterday, without any apparent agenda.

After channeling Courtney Love on Saturday night, and getting the kind of drunk that's only acceptable for 21st birthdays and New Year's, I've decided to go on the wagon until further notice. I don't want to become an alcoholic, after all. Plus, I think it will be easier to lose these pesky 15 pounds if I'm not swilling wine like it's water. Jake has decided to join me in solidarity. Love that boy to bits.

I am very excited to report that a silly little piece I wrote has been accepted by McSweeney's. There will be shameless self-promotion when it's live.

Come on, who doesn't love a little poop humor?

I had a lovely dinner with Curly and Julia last night at Chat 'n Chew. I resisted the mac 'n cheese, but it wasn't easy. After dinner, we went to Cedar for wine (me) and beer (them). I wish I enjoyed beer more.

Anyway, an older gentleman had the misfortune of being seated next to us, and I think he was into our girl talk at first. When the conversation turned to goiters and losing control of bodily functions, he finished his burger and jetted out of there at warp speed. We giggled. I told this story.

One of the things Julie, Mrs. F and I used to like to do during the summer when we were teenagers was to get a giant bag of pot and go up to Julie's lake house for the day, where we would get stoned, eat junk food and play board games. We also thought it was hilarious to pop in a cassette tape and record our inane drug-induced conversations and then listen to them at a later date and howl. We were 16. Shut up.

One night, we were all at Julie's and decided to listen to the tape from the weekend before. This conversation was on it:

Julie: Hey, did you guys ever shit your pants?

Mrs. F: Yeah, when I was little.

[silence]

Julie: Oh.

Listening to the tape, Mrs. F and I lost it. We laughed so hard we cried. Julie did not.

A letter to the people who arrive here via search engines

Dear people who arrive here via search engines:

I am sorry.

I am sorry that you did not find any "crackheads having sex" here.

I am sorry that I, too, do not have a "crush on gynecologist." Perhaps you could have found some solace in knowing you were not the only one, if you do, in fact, have a crush on your gynecologist. I'm sorry, but mine is a freakish German robot.

I am sorry I have no pictures of "shaved fat cooches" here.

I am sorry I offer no advice on "how to talk dirty to your man." I'm very shy when it comes to the dirty talk, if you can believe it.

I am sorry I have no "peeing sounds for the blind" for you to listen to. I have none for sale, or to give away for free.

I am sorry that "I am" NOT " a creepy rapist who likes to wander around at night stalking 13 year olds." I do believe there are support groups you can attend, or prison cells you can live in.

I am sorry I do not have a "Metallica blood semen shirt" for you to purchase.

I am sorry I have no information on "Mrs. Wild" your "friend's hot mom."

I am sorry I have no "statistics" concerning the relationship between "LSD" and "eggplant." I'm assuming any relationship is purely coincidental, but then again, I'm no expert.

I am sorry I do not know if "Jonathan Antin" is really "bald," or why "Jude Law's hairline" is "receding" at such a warp speed pace.

And lastly, I apologize for having so little information regarding uterus health and uterus fetishes. You are all freaks.

Sincerely,
Jess

Violence + hot chicks = win

I finally saw Kill Bill, Volume 1 last night.

I loved that movie. Loved it. As soon as it was over, I frantically searched the In Demand list for Volume 2. Alas, it was not there. I loved it so much, in fact, that I said to The Roommate and Li'l Suzy:

Holy shit. Uma Thurman is cooler than Buffy.

They agreed.

In fact, she's cooler than Faith.

Again, agreed. Who knew Uma could actually act? She was my first celebrity girl crush, and after a long hiatus, she's back.

I said what?

I got out my little Pucca notebook I routinely scribble in this morning to take a peek at my to-do list. On one of the pages, I have this written, in MY handwriting:

Jesus gave me a pocket on my PJs.

I have no recollection of what could have inspired me to write such a thing.

Rainy days and Mondays always get me down

Every Monday, I run down a list of things I need to do. Every Monday is the day I'm going to quit smoking get in shape eat healthy quit drinking sign up for bellydancing lessons clean my room take a writing class call my shrink finish my novel clean out the closet get a yellow fever shot call super about the tiles update the flamingo book do the dishes buy a new full-length mirror to replace the broken one dye my hair paint my nails buy a frame for that painting straighten out my identity theft stuff catch up on email call my stepbrother update my portfolio pluck my eyebrows give Mulder a bath pay off my credit card debt make some bracelets get a pedicure rollover my 401K and make an appointment with my gynecologist.

Instead, I get completely overwhelmed by everything I have to do and drink a bottle of white wine (I prefer red but it gives me migraines) while watching five episodes of Law & Order back to back. I think it might be an Aries thing. We're a people prone to extremes. For example, see fellow Ram Sean Conrad today.

Other complaints lodged against me by former boyfriends

After writing about Texty McTextstein's hatred of my "writer talk," I started thinking about things other exes have hated about me. It's quite a list, and I couldn't resist sharing. It's important to note that most complaints came straight from the mouth of The Photographer, who spent the longest amount of time with me. For three and a half years, I ruined his life, or so he likes to tell me on the rare occasions we see each other accidentally or on purpose. Enjoy.

I snore.

I steal all the covers.

I smoke and drink too much.

I'm always late.

I act too friendly with your friends.

I swear like a truck driver, and really, why can't I act more like a lady?

I always make jokes when you're trying to be serious.

I'm too wild.

I'm completely insane.

I eat too much junk food.

I still hang out with too many guys I have slept with at one time or another.

I fall madly in love with every new friend I make.

I'm too impulsive.

My love of teen melodrama is troubling.

I'm the most stubborn girl on Earth.

I make giant, sweeping statements without backing them up.

I argue for the sake of arguing.

I'm shady.

I'm too sensitive.

I'm childish.

I'm a nympho.

My temper is too short.

I watch too much television, specifically too much bad television.

I air our dirty laundry all over the Internet.

A letter to my black patent leather, high-heeled Ferragamo Mary Janes

Dear black patent leather, high-heeled Ferragamo Mary Janes:

It's time to say goodbye. I will miss you.

You were already two years old by the time I first laid eyes on you, down the hall of my freshman dorm, in Michelle's closet. I was looking for some fancy black footwear and Michelle suggested I borrow something from her. There you were, on the top tier of her shoe rack, a shiny size 7 and a half. I was in love.

Michelle didn't wear you much, because she was partial to her platform Mary Janes with a more matte finish. I began to wear you more and more, and over time, your form shifted ever so slightly to accommodate my foot. You sat in her closet, but you were my shoes.

One fateful night, Michelle and I went to a fraternity formal, her with Jesus as her date, and I with Fur-fur. You were the perfect complement to my black velvet backless dress. Michelle wore the platforms with her burgundy baby doll dress. Michelle drank too much and fell down the stairs, breaking her shoes. For weeks, she wore you nearly every day and I was in a state of panic. I thought I'd lost you forever.

Luckily, Michelle found a new pair of Mary Janes to occupy her feet with, and I had you back. And senior year, when Michelle screwed me and the other roommates out of thousands of dollars and we threw a "Go shopping in Michelle's closet" party, you became mine forever. You've served me well over the years. The first time the roommate saw you on my feet, she said Oh my! Those shoes are so cute! You look like you have little doll feet! Many a compliment did I get because of you.

Now, you've lost your luster. Your patent leather is cracked, and the heels are dangerously close to falling off. Your tour of duty on my feet is officially over, you cute little things. Goodbye.

Love,
Jess

No one looks good under fluorescent lights

Texty McTextstein hated it when I "talked like a writer." It drove him nuts. He wanted me to be real, and he said flowery language made me less real. That I talked in circles without saying anything. I disagreed.

One night, I got out of bed, pillow in hand. He asked where I was going and I said I was sleeping on the couch. When he asked why, I said because sleeping alone by myself is less depressing than sleeping alone next to you. He told me to stop talking like I was writing a novel and start talking about how I really felt. I told him to shut up and slept on the couch.

When I first met him, the thing that drew me to him, the thing that made me love him was the positive energy he radiated. Even though he was always late. Even though he was seriously lacking in the consideration for others department. Even though he smoked too much pot and flirted shamelessly with other girls. I held on because I hoped I could catch some of his light.

When I found out that the light wasn't real, that it was a lie, I hated him for it.

I'll be there for you, these five words I swear to you

The Rules:

1. No taking the boat out.
2. No sex in any of the bedrooms.
3. No swimming without a buddy.
4. No excessive noise outside. A cop lives next door.
5. No driving home.
6. No flushing on a #1.
7. No throwing marshmallows into the lake.
8. No smoking in the house, unless it's pot and in that case, only in the house. A cop lives next door.
9. No lighting off fireworks.

These were the rules for Jess and Julie's Annual Lake House Extravaganza. It was her family's house, but I did all the planning. Mrs. F, Julie, the Heathers and I would usually go up on Friday and spend the whole weekend. The party would be on Saturday. We did it every summer from 9th grade up to three years ago, when a bitter family ownership battle shut down our vacation destination forever. I miss it.

Something always got broken.

People always had sex.

Someone always wandered into the lake alone.

The cop always came out and told us to shut the fuck up. We even have it on videotape.

People always drove home.

Someone always disrupted the plumbing system.

The night always ended with Julie, Mrs. F, a Heather and I out in the boat, singing Bon Jovi songs at the top of our lungs and passing around a joint, lit sparklers in hand. I don't advise trying to light a joint with a sparkler, incidentally. When the sparklers went out, we'd see who could throw a marshmallow the farthest.

God help me

When it's a friend's birthday and she calls you and says her and another friend who will be in attendance have decided they need to get trashed AND laid tonight and the party kicks off at 7:30 and you were scoffed at when you said you'd happily observe the slutfest but not participate and there's a shady party in the East Village you're going to followed by many bars in the neighborhood, well, I'd say there's cause to be very, very afraid of what's to come.

I'll have a #2 with a Diet Coke, please

The roommate: The top 50 highest grossing fast food chains list is out today. There was a personal note to you from McDonalds thanking you for again making it #1.

A conversation with Mom last weekend, remembered only now because I'm wearing the same outfit today

Mom: Are you wearing that out?

Me: Yes.

Mom: You're wearing a black bra.

Me: Yes.

Mom: With a white tank top.

Me: Yes.

Mom: Don't you think that's a little trashy?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Is trashy the look you're going for?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Where did you come from? Not me, that's for sure.

Sweatin' the character disorders right outta me

Last night, I had a revelation.

I was at the gym, sitting on that machine, the one that's like the Thighmaster, only with weights. I never know how much weight I'm doing, though, because I belong to a ghetto gym and the little stickers that identify the weight increments have fallen off, except for the half of one that says 5, but that's way down. Anyway, I may not know how much I'm lifting, but I'm sure it's a lot.

There I am, squeezing my thighs together with enormous weight behind each squeeze, and thinking, like you do. I was thinking about one of my numerous unhealthy behaviors that I repeat with alarming frequency, when suddenly, I realized why I do it. And I realized how to make it stop. I nearly jumped from my weight machine and did the butt dance.

Now? I can remember neither the unhealthy behavior nor its solution. So much for breakthroughs.

The end of the world

It looks like midnight outside. When are the locusts coming?

Impending doom always brightens my mood. Panic over.

Ready for a cheap escape

I have had exactly two panic attacks in my life. One right after 9/11 and one, inexplicably, at a Cake party. I believe a third is imminent.

Between work, the stealing of my identity and various other unhealthy obsessions, I am a wreck. I can feel the panic rising up into my throat. I can feel myself stop breathing. I can feel my head screaming at me to Just. Make. It. Stop. This is not a fun place to be.

Deep breath…

Deep breath…

I wish more than anything, that I was home in bed with a pint of ice cream, curled into the fetal position watching bad Lifetime movies. Just for a little while. Just until I calm down.

I'm taking a ½ day tomorrow to get my life in order. I've cancelled the Other Jessica's credit cards and put a fraud alert on myself in the event she tries to open any more. I have filed a police report and make a complaint with the FTC. I've gotten copies of all my credit reports and spent hours at the bank. There is still so much to do, though. And my bedroom looks like squatters live there. I stopped wearing makeup for a few days because my room was such a mess I couldn't find the makeup.

Deep breath…

Deep breath…

This day sucks.

Garden State

Go.

See Garden State.

Now.

You will not be disappointed.

I laughed. I cried.

Zach Braff, you are my new boyfriend. Sorry, Adrian Brody.

When you go see it, and you must, keep an eye out for Man Having Sex.

Identity theft update

The Other Jessica, as in, the one who is not me, has been on a wild, crazy and kinda huh? shopping spree. She got herself a Lowe's store credit card, which she rang up to the tune of $3,000 until I cancelled and disputed it. Lowe's? This is what you do with my stolen identity? You couldn't just buy some home furnishings with the $9,000 loan you took out and get store credit somewhere more fun? How about Ikea? Virgin Megastore? Circuit City? I am baffled by you, Other Jessica.

Last night I came home to a bill from Macy's, where the Other Jessica has been doing some damage as well. Seems she racked up over a grand buying Sean John and Rocawear clothing. I actually bellowed a death threat into the void of my apartment when I saw the Macy's bill. I used the C-word too, and I NEVER use that word. Can I have my own Citibank identity theft commercial, please?

An email from Julie

For those of you who have not met Julie and think I exaggerate her insanity, an email I and several others received, in its entirety.

There were some tears shed but Galileo (my turtle) has a new life. I released him into a pond (lake as they call it here) with hundreds of other turtles like him. Of course I had to mark him somehow so he has a bright orange shell (nail polish). He stuck around for a minute or so to say his goodbyes, but then he was off into a big new world. I hope the other turtles don't make fun of his orange shell. I think he'll just tell them he's from NYC and they'll back off.

I can just picture Julie sitting there, painting her turtle's shell with nail polish and giggling. Then the Hot Irish Boyfriend walked in, I'm sure, and said, "For fuck's sake, Julie. What are ya doin'?"

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close…not even a little bit…not even at all

Big sloppy kisses to anyone who knows what movie that line is from.

So I'm bored of Monkey Boy.

Because, you know, I can't be bothered to be interested in someone who's actually interested back. What fun is that? Where's the challenge?

Since The Breakup, I have genuinely liked exactly two boys. They were both unattainable for various reasons and instead of just giving it up I kept recycling them. I'd like one, and then get annoyed, and then move on to the other, and then get annoyed, then go back to the first. I've been doing this for about six months. Clearly, I've been fixating on boys I can't have because I'm terrified of getting into another relationship. And the fact that I can't even be bothered to keep up witty banter with a boy who might very well be dateable is another symptom of my disease.

So I'm taking a boy break. Or rather, that's what I'm saying at This Very Moment. It could last five minutes or it could last five months. That's Big Sweeping Jess Decision #846, by the way.

Visiting the family, Volume III

After consuming mass quantities of Grandma's divine lasagna and Mom's birthday cake, I was in no mood to get on a train. Which worked out fine, because Cousin Desiree was in no mood to go home. She suggested driving me back to the city. I suggested driving me as far as the Metro-North station in Poughkeepsie. We hit the road.

Cousin Desiree is awesome. She's 24, smart, sassy and sarcastic. She's thinking about joining the police force. She's also coming to visit next weekend, and if Jake comes too, which he might, all sorts of madness will ensue. Anyway, we stopped for gas and had a classic who's paying argument. (Let me pay! No let me pay! Shut up, Grandpa gave me money! No, you shut up. He gave me money, too!) We're both totally spoiled, and I ended up keeping Grandpa's money because she's slightly more stubborn than I.

On the way, we started talking about sex. We talked about sex a LOT and then got a little horrified and creeped out because, ew, I'm her big cousin and ew, she's my little cousin. So we stopped, but not before I found out that Cousin Desiree has an extreme aversion to feet. In fact, she said I'd rather take it up the ass than have someone touch me with their feet. Such a dainty flower, that one.

Visiting the family, Volume II

I've been threatening to give the Mom a makeover for ages. It was no small feat, but I finally did it over the weekend.

Mom's problem is twofold: 1) She put on some weight post-hysterectomy and decided walking around in tents would be a really good idea and 2) My stepfather died two years ago and she stopped caring. I told Mom she could either let me go to town or she was going to find herself on What Not to Wear. She chose the former.

The first thing Mom needed was clothes that fit. I took her to Target (partly because I really wanted to go to Target) and loaded her up and sent her into the dressing room. We had this conversation no less that 56 times:

Mom: It's too small.

Me: No, it fits.

Things were not going well, and in a big show of drama, I told her to forget it. We went over to the movie section, where I bought her the Lord of the Rings trilogy instead (this outing was for her birthday). On the way home, she wanted to stop at WalMart for hair dye. Hair dye has been another issue. She's been going gray, and I've been telling her that a single, 49-year old woman has no business running around with gray hair. To make up for being so difficult about the clothes, she offered to let me dye her hair. She also suggested we check out the clothes, just in case. I groaned and followed.

Mom proceeded to pick up carbon copy versions of everything I had forced her to try on at Target and love it. I wanted to kill her, but was happy I was able to buy her a sassy new outfit, with shoes to match. She now looks 10 years younger and 10 pounds thinner, and I am the Greatest Daughter Who Ever Lived.

Mom felt so good she went a little boy crazy. First, she mentioned that if Marco, the guy who works on our house, were 10 years older she'd be "all over him." Then, Cousin Desiree told her about someone she wanted to fix her up with, and in between scoffs, Mom asked a LOT of questions about him. We're going to get her hooked up yet.

Visiting the family, Volume I

I took a much-needed escape from the big city to go upstate and visit the family units. First stop was Saratoga Springs, chez Daddy Cavefish. It was a short visit, but I had a splendid time. Lex, my 9-month old nephew, holds the distinction as being the only baby I have ever liked. So damn cute, that one. I also got some good quality time in with the 12-year old Little Brother, who is exhausting and strange and hilarious. He told me a story about a visit with his psychologist, and it went a little something like this.

Background of the story: Little Brother is obsessed with smells. He thinks every smell, bad or good, is emanating from his person, and will delve into a thorough investigation until he finds the one true source.

Little Brother's shrink suggested they take a walk (I'm assuming because he can't sit still for longer than 10 seconds). As they were walking, Little Brother smelled something positively delicious. After discerning that the smell did not come from him, he leaned over and sniffed the shrink.

Shrink: What are you doing?

Little Brother: Uh, smelling you.

Shrink: Why?

Little Brother: Because you smell good!

Shrink: It's not appropriate for you to be smelling me.

Little Brother: Uh, okay. I'll stop.

My cat is a big, gay asshole

The roommate: I hate to tattletale, but John Brown humped Mulder again.

John Brown humping Mulder is becoming a big problem at home. If Mulder liked it, I'd just say, "Okay, my cats are gay, or they've adopted the prison mentality. Let them hump each other senseless." The thing is, Mulder is not happy. Mulder meows and tries to squirm away. John Brown, being the larger, dominant cat, isn't having it. It's kind of horrifying. As a rape crisis volunteer, I feel like I should do something.

The strange thing is, both cats are neutered. How a neutered cat becomes a gay rapist is beyond my comprehension. And I've had these cats for YEARS. John Brown just woke up one morning and suddenly decided to start humping Mulder every chance he gets? What? If anyone has any advice on this sort of thing, kindly share. In my training, we learned about dealing with special populations, but those populations did not include cats.

It's a small, small world

Monkey Boy asked me to go out tonight, but I have a volunteer meeting at the hospital and then I have to teach L'il Suzy how to shoot up the cat. Who's Monkey Boy, you ask? He's a boy I started emailing after a series of events involving Craig's List. While I generally try to stay away from the Craig's List freaks, he's quite funny. He's also 6'1" and skinny with black hair, and we all know how I love a tall, lanky, raven-haired boy. In between witty email banter, we've been playing getting to know you and I found out a very interesting fact -- he graduated college with Mrs. F, my oldest and dearest friend. And it's a small college. I can't wait to grill her.

A collection of quotes from the Daily News and the New York Post concerning the toddler who was attacked by a monkey Sunday

I don't care if this makes me a bad person. I am laughing so hard I am crying right now. Here's why:

"A monkey bites my grandson in Key Food. Who can think of such a thing happening?"

"I think the animal showed unbelievable self-control until the third rip, and then, in self-defense, the monkey gave it a bite."

"Monkeys are not shoppers. They don't have a role in a supermarket."

"I said, 'Sir, your dog is biting my grandson! Oh my God — what's that tail? It's a monkey! What's a monkey doing in a Key Food?'"

"The guy said, 'I'll open my hand and bitch-slap you and the monkey,'"

"He hates monkeys now."

"There should be no monkeys in the world."

"This man does not need a monkey."

"Yes, they can be trained to do certain tasks, but it is inappropriate to take a macaque into the cereal aisle."

Who the hell is the other WB?

Me: One Night Stand Boy sent me an IM last night

Curly: Which one was that? The actor?

Me: Yup

Curly: Was he the original WB? Or was that that other dude?

Me: Other dude

Curly: There were two WBs, no?

Me: Yes, but I can't remember who the other one was. How bad is that?

Curly: Ha ha ha

Curly: I can't remember how or why we dubbed them these names. Oh wait - because they live in Williamsburg.

Me: The original WB stood for Williamsburg boy. It was also because he was ridiculously young. I don't think WB V2.0, whoever he is, lived in the 'Burg.

Curly: 2.0 is the actor boy?

Me: Nope. Actor boy came first.

Curly: Oh. I'm confused then. Never mind. Anyways, so actor boy/one night stand boy IMd you...

A letter to Gary Gulman

Dear Gary Gulman:

I love you.

I bet you get that a lot, because really, how many hot comics are there out there? Most of them look like the guys we loved to hang out with as friends because they were fun and then said, "I just don't think of you that way." You, Gary, are different.

When that radiant smile of yours lights up your face, it also lights up my face. How I want to tangle my fingers in your thick, wavy hair. You can practice your jokes on me in bed, and if they're funny, I promise you will not be disappointed. Of course, you're a good 15 inches taller than me so our bedroom antics might be limited, but you're a clever guy. I know you'll figure it out.

When you talk to cookies, I get all tingly inside. I do not share your love of cookies, but I will bake them for you. Despite not being a sweets person, I can still bake like Betty Crocker. Since I don't care for them, you'll get to eat the whole batch.

I don't think you're going to win Last Comic Standing, Gary Gulman, but you've won my heart. Thank you for being the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable day.

Love,
Jess

I know I'm cool and all, but seriously

This identity theft business is one giant headache. It's also a little exciting, if I'm going to be completely honest.

Here's the deal. Some chick is running around with a Virginia driver's license for me. Even though I've never lived in Virginia. She also has my social security number, a Discover card in my name and a piece of mail from my apartment. Since 7/27, she has taken out a $9,000 personal loan, opened another credit card for $3,500 and tried to get a store credit card at Macy's. Because, you know, that's the first thing I'd do if I were stealing someone's identity. Open a fucking Macy's account.

So far today, I have gone to the bank twice (not the actual branch - I'm going there tomorrow), called all three credit bureaus to put a fraud alert on myself so no one can open accounts in my name, filed a complaint with the FTC and spent no less than one hour on hold. Tomorrow it's the bank branch and the police station. Theoretically, she should not be able to open any more accounts in my name, but we'll see about that. I really, really hope I get to look at security camera footage.

The Flamingos photo project

I'm picture crazy lately! Anyway, Mrs. F was kind enough to send me pics from the annual Flamingo reunion. I know you really want to see the naked pillow fights pics, but instead I present you with one of the tamer versions of many girls on a bed. Clockwise from the left: Erika, Moi, Dirty Holly, Abs, Mrs. F

If you needed money, all you had to do was ask

The cavefish is an identity theft victim.

I received a letter from my bank today that said, "We are pleased to inform you that we are ready to close on you Personal Installment Loan in the amount of $9,000." Except, you know, that I never applied for one. I immediately called the bank and was routed through a series of customer service representatives, the next slightly more panicked than the preceding. The last rep informed me that someone had gone into a bank in a shady part of Brooklyn armed with my social security number and account information. They took out a loan for $9,000. IN MY NAME.

I have to call the branch tomorrow and straighten it out with them. I am so freaked out about how someone could have gotten enough of my personal information to do that, and I wonder what they're planning next.

Random Monday morning

There is still no A/C on my side of the office.

Up to this point, I have been unscathed by the office food thief. Motherfucker stole my banana.

While going through old pictures to find the aforementioned Gary (He's hot in that dirty heavy metal way -- the roommate), I came across this pic of Meeners and I at our old bar, The Village Drummer in Albany. Now I want to chop off all my hair and dye it back to my natural color.

I still have sand in my ears from my trip to the beach, AKA the sandstorm from hell. I think it's in my ass, too.

Dirty little secrets

The roommate and I watched One Hour Photo yesterday. I'm generally not a Robin Williams fan, but damn. So suspenseful, such beautiful cinematography. Anyway, We had a brief discussion about our shared dislike for Robin Williams, and she made a Mrs. Doubtfire crack. That's when I remembered -- I actually saw Mrs. Doubtfire. In the theater. Why, you ask? I was on a date.

I had an evil friend Kris when I was in high school. She was the sister of the guitarist in my ex-boyfriends band. She was one of those people that had no particular like or dislike for anyone – she just delighted in screwing people's lives up. She was like one of those soap opera characters who strategizes the downfalls of people who never wronged her personally in any way and then stands in corners having conversations with herself about her evil plans for them. One night she suggested we go to Saratoga Winners, the big upstate heavy metal bar, to see her friend's band play.

We arrived as they were starting their set and immediately went to the bar for drinks. I was only 18, but due to (being a groupie) dating some of the guys who played there, I had an in with the bartender and door guy. I got my beer and turned my attention to the stage, where The. Most. Beautiful. Boy. I. Had. Ever. Seen. was singing. He had long black hair with blond streaks running through it. It was the early 90's and he was in a band, so he was sporting a random assembly of grunge wear. I was smitten.



Is that your friend Gary?

Yes.

He's beautiful.

He has a girlfriend.

When the band finished their set, Gary came over. He was saying hello to Kris, but he was looking at me. We were introduced and then he whispered something in Kris' ear. She punched him and he laughed and walked away.

What did he say?

He said 'your friend is hot.' So I punched him. BECAUSE HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND.

Ouch. Point taken. Over the next few weeks, Kris dragged me over to Gary's house frequently. Because we totally liked each other and she delighted in watching us squirm. One night, she went out for more beer. She tried to get me to go with her, and Gary made up some really transparent reason why his friend Kevin should go with her instead. The second they were out the door, we were all over each other.

For four weeks, we were all over each other. One night in particular, Gary suggested we go on a "real date." This involved eating cheesecake and then going to see Mrs. Doubtfire, which he suggested. The hot boy from the heavy metal band LOVED Mrs. Doubtfire. How weird is that?

So the girlfriend. Her name was Claire. She lived in Long Island. He'd been wanting to break up with her forever, but didn't want to do it over the phone. Blah blah blah. He said all the stupid shit guys say when they're cheating, and I believed it all because I wanted to believe it and because he was so unbelievably beautiful and because he played guitar and sang me songs late at night and it made me melt into a little puddle of smittenness.

Kris called and asked me to go to one of Gary's shows. I was kind of miffed that this was the first I was hearing about the show, but I couldn't mention that to Kris because even though she knew what was going on, it was this unspoken thing between her and I.

Have you guessed why Gary didn't mention the show yet? Because Claire was there! I walked in just as she was arriving. She ran up to Gary and he picked her up and spun her around. She looked like Lisa Loeb. She was adorable, and clearly very much in love with her lying, cheating bastard of a boyfriend. Kris LOVED watching me try to hold it together. She invited Claire over to hang out with us while the band set up.

Claire was sweet, and a lot of fun. She was the kind of person that I probably would have been really good friends with under any other circumstances. As I sat there chatting with her, I knew that she was going to go back to Long Island and Gary was going to call me and give me a lame excuse for why he hadn't broken up with her and apologize for not telling me about the show. I also knew that I could never, ever see Gary again, or ever be someone's "other woman" again. As karma would have it, my next relationship with Mike ended because he cheated on me, but he's Father Mike now now so I won't hold any grudges.