The girl without a face

It was raining at lunch time and I had no umbrella. Instead of venturing far and ruining my new suede skirt, I darted across the street to PAX. On my dart back across the street, a dude on a bicycle hit me.

He was going the wrong way down a one-way street, against a red light. And he was going very, very fast. After he sideswiped me, I wasn't sure if there was any remaining skin on the left side of my face. It all happened too fast for me to yell, pummel or kick, so I stood there dumbfounded for a moment and then headed back to the office in a daze.

I have a huge red welt on my left cheek. My face is swollen and numb. And I'm pissed. I can't smile, and dammit. I love to smile. How am I going to steal someone's date at tonight's CAKE party if I can't smile?

I should be thoroughly black and blue by tomorrow. I intend to tell everyone that I got into a bar fight and broke a girl's nose, because it's important that people fear me.

A letter to the uterus freaks,

Dear uterus freaks:

We have to talk. After updating and perusing my list of uterus-related search terms, I have come to the conclusion that y'all have no concept of where the uterus is, what it is or what purpose it serves. Please, allow me to educate you.

Uterus
1 : an organ of the female mammal for containing and usually for nourishing the young during development previous to birth -- called also womb
2 : a structure in some lower animals analogous to the uterus in which eggs or young develop

You see, there is nothing sexy about a uterus. It is, in fact, about as sexy as a liver. If you are presented with a naked woman, you will not see her uterus, even with a speculum. Based on your misconception of female anatomy, I would assume this does not happen often, but should it occur, DO NOT say anything like, "Oh baby, I want to touch your uterus." She will promptly kick you out of bed. You can find free uterus pics all over the Internet, should you choose to, but something tells me you won't like what you find. THIS is what I suspect you're looking for.

Vagina
1 : a canal in a female mammal that leads from the uterus to the external orifice of the genital canal
2 : a canal that is similar in function or location to the vagina and occurs in various animals other than mammals

I hope this helps you in your quest for the right kind of Internet porn. And more importantly, I hope it helps all future women who have the questionable fortune of sharing a bed with you. Might I also suggest you acquire some information on the clitoris?

Love,
Jess

A conversation with my copyeditor

Him: How did you want this sentence to read?

Him: We has our expert to 30 blush-worthy questions so you don't have to.

Me: Whoa. Um, I had a late night.

Him: I just snorted, in fact, when I heard you laugh.

Me: Hang on...I can't stop laughing.

Him: Want the 1st sentence?

Me: Yes.

Him: Got a problem you're too embarrassed to ask your doctor about? We has our expert to 30 blush-worthy questions so you don't have to.

Me: Okay...

Him: I just had to stand up and look at you while you cracked up.

Me: I'm crying.

Him: I needed this today.

Me: We asked our experts to answer 30 blush-worthy questions so you don't have to.

Me: How could you not know that's what I meant? ;)

Him: Well, it was just one of the many guesses I had. My other guess was this: We'd haves or experts to 30 blorsh-wolly question so you have to.

This calls for one butt dance and two shimmies

The cavefish's review of low-carb Doritos is up today at McSweeney's. I suggest you read it, because there's a very slim chance I'll have anything to blog about today, and Jake says it reads exactly like a bcf.com post. Enjoy!

More adventures in Duane Reade

My neighborhood Duane Reade is a lot of things; expensive, poorly stocked, incompetently managed. One thing it isn't is boring.

I got up at the crack of dawn on Sunday (9:30am) and trekked over to pick up some kitty litter. First of all, if you walk around my neighborhood before noon on a Saturday or Sunday, all you will encounter is crazy people. I walked past the singing man and the woman yelling at herself to grab the litter and got in the long line behind the people rocking and praying and twitching and whatnot. Because there's never more than one register open, and Duane Reade was full of crazies on line.

As I sipped my Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee and waited for the tragically slow cashier to ring everyone up (He's new, and seriously? Slow motion. I want to grab a remote and fast-forward him) when the Biggest Style Nightmare Ever walked into Duane Reade.

Her outfit was Britney-esque, even though she was at least 35 (and that's being generous). I'm not talking stage Britney, I'm talking Cheetos-eating-drinking-airplane-bottles-of-whisky-in-front-of-a-liquor- store-going-barefoot-in-public-restrooms-chain-smoking-Britney. Yeah, that bad. The most horrifying thing was how low her jeans were. Very low. And maybe this woman had shaved or waxed at some point, but she clearly needed a touch-up. There was seriously at least One. Inch. Of. Pube. Stubble. Hanging. Out. Over. The. Top. Of. Her. Jeans. I mean, not that anyone really thought she was a natural blond, but come on.

So offensive was this woman's exposed stubble that the crazy people in line each stopped doing their crazy motion of choice and stared. I stared. We all stared at this woman and her unkempt exposed pubes. I've been getting flashbacks for days, and I shudder every time. I've been lamenting the comeback of the high-waisted jean, but now I might have to reconsider.

Runaway bride

One of my biggest fears is this. I will meet someone, fall in love, get engaged, plan a wedding and then completely FREAK OUT on the big day and leave my would-be husband at the altar. I can so see myself doing that. Being a real-life Runaway Bride.

It doesn't help that when I mention this to my friends, they pause, consider and then say, "Yeah, I could see that." And it's not that I'm afraid of commitment, per se. I'm afraid of the wrong commitment. I've never had terribly good judgment when it comes to whom I fall in love with. In college, Cindy and I were considered very good divorce candidates. She beat the odds by finding her soul mate, but I don't think I could distinguish My Soul Mate from Your Average Asshole. I just don't trust myself. Plus what about the boys I'm still what-if-fing about? How could I let go of the notion that one of them could be THE ONE and maybe I should do something about it?

I'm starting to think I'm not so cut out for the forever thing. If I'm going to be a serial monogamist forever, I'm seriously going to have to come up with a strategy for retaining my youthful good looks. And yes, this post was inspired by a Lifetime Original Movie that aired yesterday.

The man downstairs

I have nothing but resentment for Brush Cut, the guy who checks IDs in my office building.

I've been with this company for over a year now. Brush Cut sees me every morning. He sees me around 1:00pm, when I go out for lunch. He sees me when I return from lunch. Until I whip out that ID card, however, we are strangers.

When I first started working in this building, getting my ID card was something of a chore. It took a really long time and a lot of nagging. In those days, Brush Cut waved me through with a smile. When I finally got the card, however, it all changed. Brush Cut now stares me down with the blankest of faces as I fumble in my wallet for that little square of plastic. He pretends he's never seen me before. When I produce the card, he smiles and greets me. I glare at him and make my way to the elevators.

I wouldn't feel so much resentment if I knew all the other employees of this building suffered as I do. But they don't. Brush Cut picks and chooses who gets to walk right by and who gets stopped. It's not based on face recognition, because I can assure you I've had the same face for the past year. It's based on something far more sinister. On the occasions when I forget my card, I'm forced to sign in and I'm given a visitor name tag. Brush Cut knows I'm no visitor.

I fear I might snap someday and lash out at Brush Cut. Until then, I will curse him silently and try to keep my ID card in a more prominent location. Damn you, Brush Cut.

We have a shower here, I just don't know if I could explain taking one at three in the afternoon

Curly: One mom story coming up! I'm just spellchecking!

Curly: It's up.

Me: Hang on. I just started reading a dirty, dirty blog and I need to compose myself.

Curly: Url, please and thank you.

Me: I need a cold shower

Me: http://kinkybitch.blogspot.com

Me: There's editorial stuff and there's sex stuff. Read the sex stuff.

Curly: Heavens!

Curly: I'll have to save this for home I think.

Me: Ha!

Curly: I may need to um... you know... finish myself off.

A letter to the girls behind Go Fug Yourself

Dear Heather and Jessica:

The Roommate and I are smitten. We love Go Fug Yourself. Like, seriously. We want to marry it. Would you like to come over around noon on Sunday and watch Lifetime with us for about 10 hours or so? We don't even care if you out-snark us. We're having meatloaf for dinner. See ya then.

Love,
Jess (and The Roommate)

The Independent Mustache

Heterosexual boys grow bad facial hair for one of two reasons:

1) They are single and trying to convince themselves they don't need a woman

2) They are in a relationship and trying to convince themselves that they have the freedom of a single man

I agree, facial hair is about freedom. Freedom Not to Get Laid. Now, I'm not saying that there aren't some guys that look good with facial hair. There are. Guys with ugly chins or missing lips. Guys with giant scars. Jesus. These are all fine. To the rest of you growing ironic 70's mustaches and all sorts of weird patches of things under your mouth, quit it. 5 o'clock shadow? Good. Tom Selleck? Bad. Unless you are Tom Selleck. And with all the time and money us ladies spend on hair removal, the least you could do is take five minutes to get rid of the fur sculptures. There's nothing you can do on your face that you can't do with this instead.

The ex grew a bad 70's mustache right before we broke up. I have to say, it made my decision a little bit easier. I hope all you aspiring young wildebeests out there take this to heart. The survival of humankind depends on it.

Jake, they hardly knew ye

Quitting blogging is all the rage these days. It is with mixed feelings that I report Jake has jumped on the bandwagon. That's right folks, one-half of everyone's favorite blog package deal is hanging up his keyboard. I am sad because, well, damn that shit was entertaining. I am glad because he's going to use that creative energy for more robust literary pursuits.

Until I fall madly in love, get serious about writing a novel or get someone to pay me lots of money to sell out, I'll be here, picking up the slack. I'm not quite as dirty as Sir Jake, but I'll try to up the kink factor, I promise. Jake, I'm glad I nagged you into starting a blog, and I'll miss it.

If you were never a regular reader of Stiff Little Finger, I suggest you go and get caught up while it's still live.

Fun facts about my mother

Until I bought her one, was convinced that water filtration systems, i.e. Brita, were "a scam"

Will not fly under any circumstances

More often than not, leaves the house and then returns to make sure she turned off the lights

Drinks White Russians

Was the neighborhood "hot mom" when I was in high school.

Is addicted to Boca Spicy Chik'n patties

Buys a new car every few years just because she gets bored of the old one.

Has a crush on the guy who works on the house, which may or may not be why she schedules endless home improvement projects. He's like Elden on Murphy Brown

Has watched Dirty Dancing about 100 times

Loves to sponge-paint walls. Nearly every wall in the house has been sponge-painted

Lives with a cat. They mostly ignore each other.

Once accidentally said hello to one of my ex-boyfriends, who is Satan. Confessed and apologized to me afterward

Begins more sentences with "After I'm dead," than I'm comfortable with. She's 48 years old and in reasonably good health.

Celebrity crushes include Ice-T, Chuck Norris, Steven Tyler, Lee Horsley, Orlando Bloom and girl-crush Mariska Hargitay

Perhaps you'd like to spend the night at the Hyannis Transportation Center with that crazy lady in the plastic poncho

If you have occasion to visit Hyannis and your only option is to take a bus, here is a travel tip for you. The employees of the Hyannis Transportation Center have no apparent knowledge of the comings and goings of their buses. And they don't care, either.

My bus was scheduled to leave Hyannis at 4:00, getting me into Wellfleet at 4:50. At 3:50, I started to get concerned about the lack of announcements. I approached the window and asked the nice man if the bus to Provincetown was late. He said it was. I asked what gate it would be leaving from. He said, "4, probably." I looked out the door. There was a bus at Gate 4. People were boarding. I went outside and asked the bus driver where the bus was going. I boarded the bus three minutes before it left, wondering how many people were waiting at the station for an announcement.

The next day, I arrived in Hyannis five minutes after my connecting bus to New York was scheduled to leave. I approached the window and asked the nice lady if I had missed my bus. She said yes without looking up. I asked when the next bus was. Still without looking up, she flatly informed me there wasn't one. I started to panic, and then remembered what had happened the day before. I ran faster than I had ever run in my life out to the gates. I breathlessly asked every bus driver of every bus where they were going. The last one said New York, and I dove on to it.

I hate to judge a town by its bus station, but unless I'm drinking champagne and eating caviar on Air Kennedy, I ain't going back.

Dirty Holly on Kelly Rippa

I'd like to shove a pole up Kelly Rippa's ass. Does that make me a bitch?

It seems like every time I do laundry, she is on the TV, sucking Regis' cock.

And any time she gets no attention, she pouts. I can FEEL it, even if my nose is stuck in a book.

She a soccer mom who was in the right place at the right time, if you ask me.

Have you ever watched Hope & Faith, her sitcom?

[I haven't]

Well please don't. You're a better person for it.

Oops she did it again

I know you've all been waiting in hungry anticipation for me to weigh in on the Britney wedding. White track suits with "pimp" embroidered on the back? Chicken fingers for dinner? The first dance to Journey's Lights pumping out of a boombox in someone's backyard? Britney's pole dance? Trashtacular. I knew it would be cheesy. I knew it would be tacky. But the actual ceremony far exceeded my wildest expectations. Well done, Mrs. Federline. I give them six months. How long do you give them? Make your guesses, and the winner gets one bootleg copy of Baby One More Time.

And it's true that I stole your lighter, and it's also true that I lost the map

The wine was doing wonders for my anxiety, and I needed a refill.

He was standing next to the wine table. As I passed him, he placed one hand on either said of my waist. I was wearing heels, so when I turned to face him we met each other at eye level. He leaned over and kissed me. On the cheek. My forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. I shook my head and walked back to my seat without saying anything. Aside from my artificially cheery "hi" and his cool "hey" when I arrived, it was the only contact we had at the wedding.

I had promised Julie I would call with a full report. As I recounted The Tale of Random and Inappropriate Affection to her, the following transpired:

Julie: Oh. My. God.

Karl: [in the background] What happened?

Julie: He grabbed her and kissed her on the cheek out of nowhere.

Karl: [in the background] Ah, testing the waters.

Me: What does that mean?

Julie: What does that mean?

Karl: [in the background] He wanted to see how she'd react so he could figure out if he had any chance of getting her into bed.

I can't say I agree with Karl's assessment. He had very little interest in visiting my vagina when we were an item – I can't imagine him being so gung-ho for it now. Whatever the reason, the whole incident was pretty fucking weird.

Coming soon: The Hyannis Transportion Center and the Dumbasses Who Work There, and Fun Facts About Mom.

Everyone needs their own mission statement

I've been reading Crisis album reviews all afternoon, because when I get obsessed with a band, television show or person, I REALLY get obsessed. I've been sending awesome tidbits to Jake like the following:

The music is heavy, unclean, and disturbing, presenting a nightmare landscape accentuated by Karyn's angry roars and impish squeaks.

Once your cerebral cortex has warmed over to the idea of a woman fronting one of the heaviest bands on the scene today, the thorny exercise in catharsis that is Deathshead Extermination should have lovers of the jagged and tumultuous bowing in reverence.

Karyn's vocals duel throughout this track like two starving jackals fighting over a bloody corpse.

A blistering, hate-riddled necessity.

Jake: That's my new description of you when people ask.

Me: Ha!

Jake: "What's Jessica's story?" "She's a blistering, hate-riddled necessity."

A wild blog tale featuring Azee

The title is an inside joke. Deal.

Anyway, it would appear that I have lost my ability to flirt. Totally. My giggles and mischievous eyes used to charm the pants off of boys, literally. Not last night.

Azee and I had a rather filling dinner at Veselka, where we saw an old coworker and opted to pretend we didn't for no real reason. We were considering Starshine Burlesque, but finished eating at 8:30 and didn't think we could rage that long. Instead, we opted for the Lakeside Lounge, because sometimes there are cute boys there.

We went outside to smoke and when we came back, Christopher the Actor had taken my seat. We scanned the bar trying to figure out where to sit, and Dr. Paul offered to move over one and let us have our seats back. We politely thanked them and sat down while they whisper-argued-but-not-very-quietly about who was going to sit next to us.

At first, it seemed that Christopher the Actor had his sights on Azee. They both live in Williamsburg, and they talked about the neighborhood and Carnegie Mellon. Dr. Paul (Who is a real doctor, incidentally and also Christopher the Actor's physician. In fact, that's how they met. Inspiring. Next time I get a pelvic exam, I'll see if The Bot wants to grab a cocktail after.) asked me a series of questions that were supposed to give him insight into my personality, and then declared that he "knew absolutely everything about me." Things were going well with Dr. Paul. Miles away, my mother telepathically got a message that I was being chatted up by a cute doctor and did the dance of joy.

Things were only going well with Dr. Paul because he asked me a lot of questions and engaged me in conversation. Although Azee's usually the quiet one and I'm usually the big flirty maniac, last night I was more like Azee's lame friend. Azee and I stepped outside for a smoke, and when we came back, the entire dynamic was different.

Christopher the Actor bought me a drink, and steered me away from Azee and Dr. Paul, who were having an in-depth discussion about medical tools and denim. Boys, how do you negotiate who hits on what girl? Do you have a pow-pow? Take cues from each other? Is there a secret handshake? Anyway, I gave Christopher the Actor my phone number, and I believe Azee is going to a show with them this weekend while I'm in Cape Cod. In any case, we have definitely not seen the last of Christopher the Actor and Dr. Paul. Yee haw.

How did people waste time at work before the Internet?

Dirty Holly just sent me a link to the Snark-O-Tron 8300. It is the funniest and sickest thing ever. We've been putting each other's names in and generating snarky comments about each other for quite some time now. Here's the best of the best:

I'd like Dirty Holly to spend less time throwing machetes at circus freaks and more time beating up Rue McLanahan.

If I were stuck on a desert island with Jessica, I would maim myself with a bottle of tequila, or, if available, some sort of uzi.

Imagine Dirty Holly. Now imagine Dirty Holly eating a pony.

The most fascinating thing about Jessica is that I think we'd all really like it if she died.

I would love to see an episode of some show where Dirty Holly discovers that her father is Clay Aiken.

Jessica is so annoying, I want to slap her crotch.

Imagine Dirty Holly. Now imagine Dirty Holly humping a platypus.

I think I'd be really pleased, nay, overjoyed if a couple of hobos made sweet love to Jessica.

UPDATE: More snarking going on over at Sheila's.

This goddess ain't so domestic

My mother never prepared me for the wonders of domesticity. Growing up, there were frequently dishes in the sink and cat hair in the carpet. Brand new red shirts were thrown into the washer with white pants, and the effects were disastrous. Dinner was frequently pizza. The toilet paper never quite found its way onto the roll. She wasn't a slob – she was a young single mother.

When I first started living "on my own," I was a disaster. And so were my college roommates, but their disasters were due to the fact that their mothers had done everything for them. I did things for myself, but they were just taught to me all wrong.

Since I moved to New York, doing laundry has taken the form of rinsing out my fishnets and hanging them in the shower. Everything else gets bagged up and dropped off. I am baffled by the concept of doing laundry, and it's a skill I'd rather not cultivate. All the sorting and delicates and whatnot, just thinking about it makes me tired. Even when I was unemployed, I left it to the professionals.

Cooking took me a long time to get. I may be a master chef, but back in the early days, I felt fancy if I threw some frozen broccoli into the mac 'n cheese. The fish sticks and grilled cheese and TV dinners of my youth in no way prepared me to be the type of person who hosts dinner parties. That one I worked at, and I have four mouths that are glad I did every other Sunday.

I get messy, though. Very messy. I have a hard time getting a handle on small messes. They become big messes. I'm not dirty, though. There's an important distinction to be made between dirty and messy. Putting things away is something I can never quite bring myself to do. Clothes-wise, I live out of my laundry bag. Dishes sit in the dish drying rack until they are needed again. I sometimes don't wear earrings because I can't find any. I live in chaos.

When I go to my mother's house, though, I'm a little bit different. The first thing I do is put the toilet paper on the toilet paper roll. I do the dishes. I throw away things that have been in the fridge since 1981. I straighten up the pantry and put the stuff piled on top of the hamper into the hamper. There may be hope for me yet.

The case of the missing toenail

I lost a toenail. Well, half of one. Which I do frequently, because while there are many people who can go about their daily business without injury, I am not one of them. If it weren't still so warm out, I wouldn't mind about the nail. But I'm not ready to give up the open-toed shoes just yet.

This presented a problem. I didn't want to gross anyone out with the toe. It's the big toe, and rather conspicuous. I decided a sassy Band-Aid would be acceptable and trudged off to Duane Reade. Minutes later, clutching a small box of obnoxious Barbie Band-Aids, I made my way up to the register.

I've mentioned the lack of open registers at this particular Duane Reade, particularly during the times when people are rushing off to work or rushing home from work. The line was long. Very long. Two boys were behind me in line, chatting and whatnot. I was eavesdropping, because that's what I do. Then I heard one lean in close and whisper to the other.

Boy 1: Check out what that girl's buying

Boy 2: Band-Aids?

Boy 1: Barbie Band-Aids

Boy 2: So?

Boy 1: So…why would you wait in line for 20 minutes just to buy Barbie Band-Aids?

I was buying cigarettes, too, but they didn't know that. I can see how one might find my long wait for Barbie Band-Aids troubling. I'm sporting one today with my pink Dr. Scholls, and I'm sure the one I wear with my fancy black strappy heels and little pink polka-dotted dress at the wedding will look simply smashing.

I wanna rock 'n roll all night

So the metal show. Ruled. Cindy and I had a wonderful time. We got hit on by high school boys. We fell in love with the lead singer from Twelve Tribes. We stalked him outside the club, and then I insisted we stop because I felt fifteen years old, and not in a good way. Crisis was fairly disappointing, but it wasn't their fault. The sound guy had the guitar way up and everything else way down. He should be fired. We also had this conversation:

Cindy: Everyone's staring at us.

Me: Everyone is NOT staring at us.

Cindy: I look like I live on the Upper East Side and you're wearing pink. We don't exactly blend in.

I glanced around.

Me: Okay, you're right. Everyone's staring at us.

Seeing ghosts at five in the morning

Souvenirs from past relationships currently in my possession:

One Marist College Crew team sweatshirt, grey

One bag of seashells, collected in Florida

Two paintings from a three-painting set, one depicting a cow and one depicting a snail. The one depicting a skull was taken back.

Three songs written for and about me by two musicians; one sweet, one sexual, one psychotic

One patriotic top-hat, shiny

Three dozen nude photos of myself, some arty, some dirty

One book on the secret imaginary girl all men hold out for, hardcover

One pair of Adidas flip-flops, men's size 8

One Marist College Italian-American Society baseball cap, white

Herpes

One bottle of strawberry-flavored lubricant, too sticky for regular use

(Just kidding about the herpes)

Three men's socks, two black, one white, all without partners

One bouquet of roses, dried and hanging from my curtain rod

(Really, now that I'm taking Valtrex, I haven't had an outbreak in like forever)

Two chess sets, one for travel, one for home

One photo album containing pictures from a road trip to Memphis, with captions

One framed poster for Radio City Music Hall's New York Art Deco Exposition, January 30 through February 3, year unknown

(Well, one outbreak but it really wasn't that bad. I doubt it was enough to infect anyone)

One 20 page handwritten letter, front and back

One ticket from Shea Stadium, 1994

One photo that still horrifies me, 15 years later

Nine bad poems about one boy, three good poems about another

One quote recorded in the minutes of a weekly club meeting, also attended by Irene from the Real World Seattle.

(Common side effects for Valtrex may include headache, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and dizziness. To avoid a potentially serious complication, tell your doctor if your immune system is not normal because of advanced HIV disease, bone marrow or kidney transplant.)

Gimme a B!

One would think I'd tire of Britney at some point, but I don't. I love Britney, both ironically and unironically. I can't get enough of her. Please, please, send me your Britney news, your Britney walking barefoot in public restroom photos, links to other people talking about Britney. Seriously, I have to feed my addiction. For those of you who share my Britney Problem, please go read this, at stereogum. It's hilarious.

Brief fucking language

Last night I had a glass of wine and watched a little of The Apprentice before heading out to see one of the best burlesque shows ever. During the commercial break, they showed a preview for The Forgotton, that new Julianne Moore flick. Looks pretty interesting -- I'll probably watch it on In Demand. At the end, they showed the rating. PG-13. Intense thematic material. Some violence and brief language.

Brief language? What on Earth does that mean? That there will be a few monosyllabic curse words or that it's mostly a silent film with a few choice phrases thrown in to break up the monotony? Where was the brief language warning on Brown Bunny? Could the Motion Picture Association of America please hire a copyeditor? I'm assuming there is some profanity in this film. Why not just say it? One shouldn't have to assume in this situation.

What if this catches on? One day my mother will call me up and say, "It's all that brief language. That's why you're still single." Maybe I'll one day wash my stepdaughter's mouth out with soap for all that brief language she and the other kids are throwing around. Children will be suspended for using brief language in math class. It will be madness. Absolute madness.

Crush update: The final chapter

He has a girlfriend.

Of five years.

And they're not yet married and he's clearly in his 30s, so it probably means he's scared of commitment anyway.

And apparently he dresses himself in a most disturbing fashion when he's not at the gym.

Good thing I found out before any restraining orders had to be issued.

I'm going to die alone.

Love advice from Cousin Desiree

Me: You know why I can't talk to him?

Cousin Desiree: Why?

Me: Because I've been seeing him at the gym for like two years. It would be weird for me to suddenly start talking to him now.

Cousin Desiree: Not really. What body part does he work on the most?

Me: Everything

Cousin Desiree: So pick a part you admire most about his body.

Me: And then what?

Cousin Desiree: Ask him to help you tone up that part on yours.

Me: No

Cousin Desiree: Ask him for pointers.

Me: No

Cousin Desiree: Yes

Me: No

Cousin Desiree: He'll friggin' eat it up. They love when you ask for help, especially with fitness.

Me: No

Cousin Desiree: Yes

Me: That's not me

Cousin Desiree: Okay. Then just spill something on him.

Crush update: I'm a loser

So I went to the gym tonight for some ass-firming and good-natured stalking. I show up. No sign of Gym Boy. I get on the stationary bike in front of the main desk. 12 minutes into my cycling, he walks in and passes right in front of my bike.

Do I say hello? No. Do I smile? No. What do I do? I quickly lower my head and then wait until I'm out of his line of vision to check him out. I suck.

I spent a good portion of my workout in his area. On the few occasions eye contact was made, I quickly looked away. I finished my workout long before he did and had no choice but to leave.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm shy when it comes to making friends. Interacting with coworkers. Public speaking. Mingling at parties. One thing I have never been shy about is boys that I like. I think at this point, my only hope is running into him outside of the gym. Which shouldn't be hard – he lives about 5 blocks away. Somehow, though, it never happens. Sigh.

Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200

If you live in this fine city and rely on underground mass transit to get to work, then you surely had a rough time of it this morning. I know I did.

This was the only morning in the history of this job that I had to be here at a certain time. I had a 9:30 interview scheduled. The plan was to be out of the house by 8:15, get in around 8:45 and then prep and mainline caffeine until 9:30. No such luck.

First, it's pouring, which makes both fully waking up and looking pretty nearly impossible. Then I, along with two hundred of my closest fellow commuters, wait for an F-Train. Announcements are made. No one can understand them. The train finally arrives and we are told it is running on the A line, which is fine for me actually. We go up one stop to Broadway-Lafayette. We sit there. I walk across the platform to the D, which doesn't leave for 25 minutes. The second the train starts moving, a baby starts screaming. 10 seconds later, the train stops. So does the baby. For the next 45 minutes it's stop. Start. Scream. Stop. Silence. Start. Scream. I am in hell. Everyone in the car looks as though they could snap at the slightest provocation and beat someone to death with their umbrella.

I arrive at 9:25, with just enough time to hook my tape recorder up to the phone and call my interview subject. No prep. Luckily, she talked and talked and talked and answered all of my questions before I even asked them.

If Vincent Gallo had taped my entire commute in real time, and put a blow job at the end, he could have made another "art film."

We will we will rock you

I was delighted when I popped by the Crisis website and saw that they are playing around these parts this weekend. Sunday at Irving Plaza, which I can't attend and Saturday, at The Chance in Poughkeepsie. I have seen many a metal show at The Chance, so I decided to attend. The only problem? No one to go with. While I'm sure most of the boys I hung out with in high school will be making the trip down, most of my city friends are not big on head banging and mosh pits. So I decided to go alone, which everyone thought was a very bad idea. Then I thought of Cindy.

Cindy attended not one, but two Pantera concerts with me back in the day. She willingly (and excitedly) attended GWAR shows. She met Danger Danger when she was in high school. She's the only person I've ever met who has heard of the band Vain. And it just so happens, she's going to be in Poughkeepsie this weekend anyway. Yee haw -- this metal chick has a partner in crime. The funny part is, she looks like an Upper East Side mom these days. She's quite stressed about what to wear. I'm all for kickin' it old school -- fishnets, thick black eyeliner, boots etc. If I get her dressed in black and all slutted up, I'll post some pics over the weekend. Rock on.

Dublin turns 1

Cousin Desiree: I hope you're going to call tomorrow and wish Dublin a happy 1st birthday.

Me: You're insane.

Cousin Desiree: I'm serious!

Backstory: Dublin is her year old Boston Terrier. Yesterday, I talked to Grams.

Me: How was your weekend?

Grams: Oh, it was good. We went to Dublin's birthday party yesterday.

Me: Please tell me Desiree didn't have an ACTUAL BIRTHDAY PARTY for the dog.

Grams: She did.

Me: Did people bring gifts?

Grams: Well, yes. It was a birthday party.

Did I mention she baked a freaking cake? And people say cat lovers are weird. Uh huh.

A gaping hole

Yesterday, I was in the bathroom staring at my tongue in the mirror. Like ya do. It didn't look very healthy. It looked kind of sick, and I thought it might have something to do with the metal bar I've had stuck through its center for the past eight years. So I took it out.

It took me about 15 minutes to figure out how to speak without it. I lisped at first, in fact. Just like I did when I first got it pierced. It's a bit sore now, and there's a weird bubble-type thing where the hole was that Nurse Grams assured me will go away once it's completely healed. I'm going to have to hone those fellatio skills now that I'll no longer have the aid of the silver oral sex enhancer.

All day today, I've been contemplating my navel ring. I've taken out the nose ring and the tongue ring, and that will be the last tie to my capricious youth. It's coming out, but I haven't yet decided when.

My first stalking injury

If you've ever had a problem getting motivated to work out, I strongly suggest catching a crush on someone at the gym. You'll be amazed how easy it is to lace up those sneakers and go.

I have gone to the gym every single day this week to try to muster up the courage to say hi to a boy I know nothing about. He's not even my type, really – much too clean cut and well, he actually looks like a grown up. There's something about him, though. This is not a new crush – I've been casually scoping him out for quite some time. One day in fact, ages ago, I found myself walking from the subway station next to him. I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye. He peeked back, then half-turned his head toward me and opened his mouth to talk. Twice. But then didn't. He was either gearing up to say something to me, or he has a facial tic.

He might have a girlfriend, but guys with girlfriends generally don't work out as much as he does. Unless they're cheating. Now that I have an Icy Hot pad on my knee from working out seven days in a row, I think I might need a new stalking strategy.

Julie's hurricane report

Julie has been sending me text message updates from Jacksonville, Florida. Here's the latest:

Just went to the beach. It's mental. Going back with the camera.

All better

I was an emotional and physical wreck yesterday.

Truth be told, I'm a little surprised that someone I broke up with almost a year ago can still have such an effect on me. I'm a little disappointed, too. But, I did give myself yesterday to wallow and cry and get angry and be illin' with the understanding that I would wake up today and be fine. And I am. Yee haw.

Last night, between Runaway Bride and Sweet November (shut up), I went to Duane Reade to pick up some toilet paper, kitty litter, paper towels, Listerine and cigarettes. Oh, this exciting life I lead. Anyway, a grayish older man was ahead of me in line, and two goth girls were behind me. Because there is only ever one register open at this particular Duane Reade, we had ample time to get to know one another.

The older man, with his tube of K-Y lubricant, was staring down the hair dye-purchasing goth girls. So much so that it was making me uncomfortable. I decided the man was creepy, because I don't waste any time making harsh judgments on strangers. When it was his turn to be rung up, he very kindly asked me if I would like to put the kitty litter down on the counter, that it must be heavy. I thanked him and put it down.

When his money was collected and his K-Y was tucked away in a tiny Duane Reade bag, he opened up a giant can of weird. He told me to have a good night, and told me not to end up like the goth girls. Then he began a tirade about how they had the worst fashion sense ever! And how could they leave the house like that! And everything stopped – the cashier did not ring me up, the goth girls stood there, mouths agape, I kept repeating don't make eye contact don't make eye contact over and over to myself. He went on for a good three minutes, before turning on his heel and storming out of the store. Huh?

The goth girls, who really did look awfully cute giggled and one said "Wow, someone forgot to take his medication." The cashier started mumbling about all the freaks in the neighborhood. I was just glad that my sweatpants and "hip hop" T-shirt (with a bunny) were not the clothing items that set him off. When I got home, a kid across the way spent two hours terrorizing me with a laser pointer, and effectively ruined Sweet November for me. Or maybe it was Keanu. Anyway, I love this weird fucking city. Now, I'm off to the gym to stalk the boy I have a raging crush on. More on him later.

Lesson learned and relearned and relearned. Maybe this one will stick.

After a few annoying text exchanges yesterday, I made plans to meet Texty McTextstein on Sunday for coffee.

As the day progressed, it struck me that this was a Very Bad Idea. FORCES, please, spare me the I-told-you-sos. So I sent him a text telling him that I couldn't do it, that there would be no drama at the wedding, that we should just stay out of each other's way. He sent back annoying text after annoying text, and I was too annoyed not to respond to every third one. Then things turned ugly and he said some hateful things that shouldn't have hurt but they did. So I turned off my phone and went to sleep. I had this dream.

Texty and I were making out on a bed in a hotel room. Clothes started coming off. Sex was about to be had. Then he stopped and looked at the clock. Said the International Food Festival that was in the hotel was only going on for a few more hours, and could we do this later? Got up, put his clothes on. I said I wanted to go too, and he told me he didn't want to have to wait for me to get ready. He left, I followed him out in the hallway asking him why he couldn't wait five minutes for me to throw my hair in a ponytail and put on a pair of jeans. He said he just couldn't, and quickly walked away from me. I went back to the room and sat on the bed. I started to cry. I wondered if he was meeting someone. I wondered why he had been in such a hurry to get away from me. I wondered why he couldn't just go to the food festival the next day. I got hysterical. I put my hair in a ponytail, threw on a pair of jeans and followed him down to the festival. He wasn't there. For hours I walked around, but I never found him.

That pretty much sums up our entire relationship. Any and all future text messages received will go unanswered.

I still can't figure out the significance of the brown bunny

I finally saw The Brown Bunny earlier this evening. I didn't watch it so much as I endured it. Utterly painful. To spare you the pain of having to sit through this film without objects with which to gouge your eyes out, I give you a summary.

Hi. I'm Vincent Gallo.

I'm sensitive.

Chicks dig me.

Look at my magnificent cock.

The end.

UPDATE: Here's what Curly has to say. And Sheila, too.

Oh, the drama of it all

Text message received from Texty McTextstein this morning: Hey Jess, do you think it would be a horrible idea for us to hang sometime before the wedding party? I think it could break the ice and prevent awkwardness. Your call.

THE FORCES have lodged a loud and firm "NO!" but I'm considering it. Not because I think it will actually break the ice or prevent awkwardness. Because I'm interested to see just how he attempts it. And it would be a good test of how far I've come in the almost-year since the breakup. And I could also express my displeasure with the "staring me down" technique he's perfected when I pass him on the street. I need to think on it a bit more, preferably when I'm positive I'm not still drunk from the night before and I've put sufficient amounts of caffeine and grease in this little body.

What those of you who didn't attend Starshine Burlesque last night missed

The greatest thing about my friends is that I can ask them questions like, "Can I put a picture of you drinking beer out of a stripper's cooch on my site?" or "Hey, do you ladies want me to post the naked pillow fight pics?" and they always say yes. Those sluts.

You can dance if you want to...any other night. Tonight, come watch the roommate

This flyer is technically for next Thursday, and you should definitely go then, but you should go tonight, too. The roommate promises both shows will be spectacular.

Confessions of your favorite dirty introvert

People are often surprised to find out that I'm something of a social awkward. Mostly because I'm usually drunk, and I am not shy when I'm drunk. And drunk or sober, I'm a flirt. So unless I want to sleep with you, simply toy with your emotions or I've had too much whisky, chances are I'll be shy the first 10 or 12 times I meet you.

I've thought about becoming a journalist off and on over the course of my noncareer, but the whole talking-to-people thing freaks me out. Case in point -- the article I'm writing for work. My job usually consists of copying and pasting all day while listening to Eminem, but I have this rare opportunity to really show 'em what I'm made of. I just did my first interview, and what with the near-hyperventilating beforehand, and the fact that I'm still shaky one half-hour later, I just don't know if I'm cut out for this sort of thing. The four remaining interviews looming will no doubt cause severe anxiety nightmares tonight, involving being naked in middle school or hoping a passing tornado doesn't decide to swoop me up.

This type of thing should get easier over time, but it doesn't. At my last job, I had a good stretch where I was giving presentations at least once a week. It never got easier -- I always had a near-heart-attack right before. My hands always shook. I always looked like something of a deer-in-headlights. I always giggled nervously. It makes me wonder if some things are just ingrained in your personality and can't be changed. Maybe I'm just destined to be a shy girl for all the remaining years of my life. Or maybe I just need a lifetime supply of beta-blockers and Maker's Mark.