* “We make our own fortunes and we call them fate.” – Benjamin Disreali.
* “Whatever happened to anyone else could happen to you and to me. And the end of my youth was the possible truth that it all happens randomly.” - The Indigo Girls.
* “Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Behind the clouds the sun is shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.” – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
* “It (destiny) is what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their destiny is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their destiny.” – Paulo Coehlo.
With my birthday looming before me, I’ve begun to think a lot about the idea of fate. I say looming because I feel like my birthday is actually a giant shadowy figure, coming out of the horizon to eat me alive. I have no idea why I feel this way…my birthday should actually be really fun, but I am totally struggling with this one, as I mentioned a few weeks ago.
Anyways, as I get older, as life just continues to get more and more complicated, I’ve begun to really ponder the idea of fate and destiny. As the quotes above show, fate is something everyone thinks may exist, but opinions of it couldn’t differ more. How many things are we really in control of? How many things happen for a reason? Is anything pre-ordained or do we all, in some way, through small decisions everyday, make the bigger things happen ourselves?
My question, specifically, is- does this apply to people? When it comes to trying to find the right person for you – how much is up to pure fate and how much is actually up to you? Fate would be if I turn down this street corner instead of that one - will I miss my soulmate or run into him? Being in control would mean, if I had the opportunity to speak up, but just didn’t – did I miss my chance forever?
However, I don’t want to place the blame squarely on myself either. What if this mystery person didn’t turn down the street corner that I was headed down and missed ME? What if they had an opportunity to say something and clammed up instead? Are these tiny decisions really what leads us off our collision course with one person and puts us squarely in the path of another?
Part of me tends to think yes…and if that is indeed the case, then there is absolutely nothing we can do in the way of worrying about things. If my life’s happiness can actually boil down to what streets I decide to take to get to the subway, then I’ll f*ing throw a party for myself right now because there will never be anything to get depressed about ever again.
But the tiny part of me that holds out for no, the part that says one half of the equation is fate and the other half is what you decide to do with what’s placed before you, is what screws me up. How are you supposed to know if you messed up? How are you supposed to know what you could have said that would have made the difference? How are you just supposed to accept that you can only do your best and that the rest will take care of itself? That’s what I used to assume. Lately, I’m not so sure.
Which brings me back to my original point of those tiny decisions. Are those tiny decisions, although technically made by us, really just part of fate’s bigger plan? These are huge questions with no clear answers. No one can predict the future. No one knows what someone else is thinking. The best we can do is go on with our lives, hope we are doing the best thing and just continue on with the day…but really, is that all there is? Because you know what? That really f*ing blows.
And on a totally different tangent, as I’m writing this, is it a coincidence that my freaking iPod is randomly selecting the most depressing love songs that I have on here? Ninety-eight percent of my iPod is filled with hip-hop, yet the last five songs have been by Maroon Five, Selena and similarly themed artists. I find that to be quite non-coincidental.
Anyways, winter is coming and these are the thoughts on my mind. I do have to do some work now, I’m sure I’ll have more thoughts on this soon.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Winter is Here and With It, the Blues
There are a few things that I love about fall in New York. The beautiful trees. The chill in the air. The feeling of calm that takes over the city as everyone prepares for hibernation. Scarves, boots and cute sweaters make their return. I went and bought a skull cap with skulls on it that I’m wearing right now and feeling pretty damn good about. I love hats. I love this hat.
But there is one thing I hate…the phenomenon of winter blues. Daylight savings was Saturday night. In Florida, this means the sun doesn’t go down at 8 p.m., it goes down at 6:30 p.m. In New York, it means the sun doesn’t go down at 6:00 p.m. it goes down at 4:30 p.m., maybe even earlier on an overcast day.
I don’t know what it is about the idea of the sun going down, but it makes me instantly depressed. So long as the sun is shining when I wake up in the morning I feel a-okay. The minute it starts to go dark in the late afternoon, I begin getting sad. Whereas in years past I had work to occupy my time (though there was always something really weird about looking out the window at 5 p.m. and seeing its pitch black outside), things are a bit different now. I’ll go to the gym I guess, maybe spend some more time writing, try to find some new hobbies…but I don’t know. This is a tough time of year during a tough time in life. We’ll see how it goes. This blog might get downright gothic if I don’t get my act together.
The Best Halloween Costume I Saw and the Best Ones I Didn't
I think it has to be the couple I saw dressed as Jack and Kate from Lost. He had the cut off T-shirt, with the fake cut below the eye. His shirt was slightly dirty…he just looked very Jack-like. Kate had on a wig to make her hair a bit longer and she had on a wifebeater. I don’t know, it just looked really good and I thought that was creative.
However, the best costumes I saw via pictures were from a party my friend Pammie went to – a group of kids dressed up like the entire cast of Saved by the Bell. Awesome!
But there is one thing I hate…the phenomenon of winter blues. Daylight savings was Saturday night. In Florida, this means the sun doesn’t go down at 8 p.m., it goes down at 6:30 p.m. In New York, it means the sun doesn’t go down at 6:00 p.m. it goes down at 4:30 p.m., maybe even earlier on an overcast day.
I don’t know what it is about the idea of the sun going down, but it makes me instantly depressed. So long as the sun is shining when I wake up in the morning I feel a-okay. The minute it starts to go dark in the late afternoon, I begin getting sad. Whereas in years past I had work to occupy my time (though there was always something really weird about looking out the window at 5 p.m. and seeing its pitch black outside), things are a bit different now. I’ll go to the gym I guess, maybe spend some more time writing, try to find some new hobbies…but I don’t know. This is a tough time of year during a tough time in life. We’ll see how it goes. This blog might get downright gothic if I don’t get my act together.
The Best Halloween Costume I Saw and the Best Ones I Didn't
I think it has to be the couple I saw dressed as Jack and Kate from Lost. He had the cut off T-shirt, with the fake cut below the eye. His shirt was slightly dirty…he just looked very Jack-like. Kate had on a wig to make her hair a bit longer and she had on a wifebeater. I don’t know, it just looked really good and I thought that was creative.
However, the best costumes I saw via pictures were from a party my friend Pammie went to – a group of kids dressed up like the entire cast of Saved by the Bell. Awesome!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
“If My Job Was to Wake Up, Masturbate and Go Back To Sleep, I’d Still Find A Way to Hate It”
Sadly, I can’t take credit for this TREMENDOUS quote, but I can say that I was in the conversation that prompted its delivery.
My friend J., who I met out for a drink last night, has, by any standard, a very cool job. He’s a sports radio commentator in South Florida. He works for a radio station that covers both the Marlins and the Panthers. Currently, he’s in New York, covering the Panthers/Rangers series at Madison Square Garden. He got here on a chartered plane and traveled with the team. He then got a free limo ride into the city to deliver him to his friend’s apartment. He is working for the next two days at Madison Square Garden and then he will travel to Long Island over the weekend to work at the Panthers/Islanders series. Then he will take the limo back to New Jersey and fly home, with the team, back to South Florida. This type of job is enough to make most guys I know insanely jealous. Yet, J. had reason to complain. And we got to talking. We all have reason to complain. All the time. No matter what our job is, no matter how glamorous it seems on the surface. Because let’s face it, at the end of the day, even if your job is just to wake up, masturbate and go back to sleep, so long as it carries the definition of job – something you have to do – you will find a reason not to like it. Or not like one thing about it. Or not like most things about it.
Which got me thinking about jobs in general since I have no idea what I want my next job to be. I’m trying to make my job be “writer,” but I, too, have found that by simply saying that I have to write every day, it’s much more difficult to actually do. I did so much better when I just wrote because I felt like it (which happens at least once a day.) So I think the point is effectively proven.
I really don’t have anything more to say about this, I just knew I needed to share this quote because it’s so fantastic.
My friend J., who I met out for a drink last night, has, by any standard, a very cool job. He’s a sports radio commentator in South Florida. He works for a radio station that covers both the Marlins and the Panthers. Currently, he’s in New York, covering the Panthers/Rangers series at Madison Square Garden. He got here on a chartered plane and traveled with the team. He then got a free limo ride into the city to deliver him to his friend’s apartment. He is working for the next two days at Madison Square Garden and then he will travel to Long Island over the weekend to work at the Panthers/Islanders series. Then he will take the limo back to New Jersey and fly home, with the team, back to South Florida. This type of job is enough to make most guys I know insanely jealous. Yet, J. had reason to complain. And we got to talking. We all have reason to complain. All the time. No matter what our job is, no matter how glamorous it seems on the surface. Because let’s face it, at the end of the day, even if your job is just to wake up, masturbate and go back to sleep, so long as it carries the definition of job – something you have to do – you will find a reason not to like it. Or not like one thing about it. Or not like most things about it.
Which got me thinking about jobs in general since I have no idea what I want my next job to be. I’m trying to make my job be “writer,” but I, too, have found that by simply saying that I have to write every day, it’s much more difficult to actually do. I did so much better when I just wrote because I felt like it (which happens at least once a day.) So I think the point is effectively proven.
I really don’t have anything more to say about this, I just knew I needed to share this quote because it’s so fantastic.
X-List Celebrity Sighting
Last night at the Village Pourhouse, spotted John Norris from MTV News chatting with friends and then exiting the bar. John looks surprisingly young in person, roughly the same as he does on TV, which is odd because he’s been on MTV news since I was like 10. I say, good for him.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Smack This
I’m sitting here watching today’s Sucker Free MTV, watchingthe new Akon/Eminem video, classily titled “Smack That.” I still love it, I run to it on the treadmill – good beat people. But what’s curious is that they blank out the words “ass” and “sore” in their respective places…yet the girls asses and big fake tits are hanging out all over the placee. So let me get this straight – it’s okay to run a video named Smack That and show women as strippers being objectified by men (dressed as the glorified thugs all young men aspire to be)…yet it’s the word ass and sore that are sending the wrong message to the youth. Yes, yes…I get it now.
I Murdered Mickey
I don’t know. Up until Wednesday, I was pretty sure that human beings had the whole animal intelligence thing on lock. I use the word “was” because last Wednesday, our apartment officially became a war zone, turned upside down by a creature that can’t possibly be smarter than I am, but outfoxed me at every turn.
We were being held hostage by a mouse. The mouse had a gun and a flak jacket on, he wasn’t talking to police negotiators...the mouse knew, as did we, that there was no way he’d go alive.
Let me start where I left off.
After the discovery of the mouse and the ripping apart of the kitchen to no avail, I was working from home on Thursday when I look up to see Mickey (as we had begun to call him) on the kitchen counter behind the coffee pot, staring at me. I stared at him right back for about a minute, until he ran back across the counter and back wherever he came from. I was so grossed out. My roommates were scared of Mickey, I was more grossed out. Mice are dirty. They poop all over everything. And they smell. So there was no way that I wanted him near our beloved coffee pot, and everything else for that matter. So I jump up and I rearrange the few traps we have out to fall directly in line with where he was running to and fro from. Oh but this Mickey, he didn’t take the bait. Nope, he just ran right around the traps. Up until this point, I had hoped that Mickey was dumb and would just willingly sniff and eat the peanut butter on the traps, but Mickey wasn’t as dumb as originally thought.
So fast forward through the rest of Thursday, Friday and Saturday, where Mickey would torture us by popping up all over the apartment. If he wasn’t hanging out on the counter, he’d run all over the stove and down through the burners. Or, he’d take everyone by surprise and run out from behind the couch back to the kitchen. What was worse, is that on Friday and Saturday nights my roommates and I both had company staying at our house, so we had to explain why our house was booby-trapped for mice. And then watch everyone scream and shout (a few brave souls attempted to catch him) as he ran around the traps, through legs, at people, etc.
Finally, by Sunday we had enough. We put our heads together and devised a plan. A. and I went and brought 12 glue traps and 12 regular old-school mouse traps. P. and I did the mousetrap assembly while A. just walked around the apartment, cleaning up nothing and muttering to herself. (I definitely discovered Annette’s Achilles heel…rodents. I look forward to the day when I can use this to my advantage.) We lined up the traps across the doorway where the living room meets the kitchen. If Mickey decided he’d like to go watch TV, he’d have to run across the glue traps to do it. We lined up the mousetraps across the kitchen counter, in case Mickey decided he’d like to take a leisurely stroll by the coffee pot again. We finished by placing two traps on either side of the couch, in the back, in case he wanted to take a nap back there. I was satisfied with our Fort Knox-like line of defense. A. and P. went to their rooms to go to sleep. I stayed on in the living room, inexplicably hung up on Extreme Makeover on the Style Network. Sure enough, within minutes of it quieting down, Mickey decided to show his face from under the stove. I watched him stare at the glue traps, clearly perplexed by this new obstacle in his path. I slowly picked up the phone and told A. not to come out of her room. Mickey sensed my movement, however, and ran back under the stove. He reappared a few minutes later, stared at the glue traps again and ran back under the stove. I was pissed. He was supposed to run right at me and get stuck…only he was proving once again, that he was no one’s fool.
He reappeared a few minutes later ON TOP OF THE STOVE. This is when I started to get angry. Refusing to be held hostage by the mouse, I had cooked dinner for myself that night because freelancing doesn’t afford me the opportunity to order out with the frequency that I used to. I save money by cooking at home. So, even though I was a bit scared, I had baked a chicken in the oven; the oven that is directly below the stove Mickey was now using as his personal stairway to heaven. The very idea that he may have walked or ascended through the stove on the way to the oven, either before, during or after I had made my chicken was enough to make me want to get up to the bathroom and vomit. I made a silent vow that Mickey would die tonight for this faux pas. For the time being though, I yelled for him to “get the fuck off the stove” and then turned to my right to watch A. shriek and scream out what was he doing, as I knew she would. I told her not to worry about it, and decided that I’d have to leave the living room to force Mickey to make his move.
Several minutes later, I’m watching TV on my bed when I sense a movement to my right. I look at my door and see Mickey scampering into my room. I guess he figured that if he couldn’t go straight into the living room, he’d squeeze into the next smallest space – the slit under my door - and see if anything was up in here. The idea of the mouse in my room, only discovered because I happened to keep my light on and saw him, made me furious. I yelled at him again to “get the fuck out of my room!” I called Annette and told her to put a towel under her door and then I pulled a towel under mine and began the wait.
About an hour later, I’m caught up in an episode of CSI, when my phone rings. It’s A. She asks, “Do you hear that?” I say, “No.” She says, “The mouse is yelling.” I say, “The mouse is yelling? Hold on.” I put my ear to the door. I hear nothing. She says, “I heard him yell.” She sounds like a five year-old who just saw the boogie man for the first time. I knew I was in this alone. I said, “Hold on…I’m going out.”
I slowly opened the door. The kitchen is dark. I hear nothing. I tip-toe across to where the light is to discover Mickey, in one of the glue traps, struggling to get free. I scream bloody murder.
It was one thing to see him running across the apartment in his little brown blur, it was quite another to see his 3 inch body stuck in a trap, while he wriggled around trying to chew off his own leg to get free. I just started yelling, “Oh my god! Oh my god! I have to kill him, I don’t know how. I don’t know how! Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!”
By this time, A. has gathered up the courage to peek at him. She sees him squirming, yells that he’s getting free and jumps up and onto the couch yelling “Kill him! Lia kill him! KILL HIM NOWWWWWWWW!”
This continued on for at least two minutes as the two of us just watched Mickey, trapped by his hind legs and tail, work his hardest to get free and we screamed holy hell. Finally, I bent over, put my hands over my face and was like get it together Lia. This is your job to finish.
I stared at Mickey, who looked like he may come free at any moment. I grabbed the paint roller extender we have behind our kitchen “table” and flipped another glue trap on top of him, making a little Mickey/glue trap sandwich. I begin yelling again, which begins A. yelling again. I am screaming, “What do I do now? How do I kill him? How do I kill him? I can’t pick this up! I can’t pick this up!” And A. is still on the couch yelling “I don’t know! Just get him out of here, just get him out!!!”
So, for some unknown reason, I take the stick, because Mickey is moving around like crazy, and I just begin beating the sandwich. I couldn’t do it hard, but it was hard enough for Mickey to squeak with every whack. I’m yelling, A. is yelling, Mickey is yelling…and I’m just beating down harder with every yell not knowing what the hell I’m doing.
Finally I realized that glue traps are supposed to be the humane way to kill a rodent, but that Mickey is clearly not being treated humanely and I am beating a mouse to death with a paint roller extender. I look to my right and see our dustpan. I tell A. to get a couple of plastic bags. I put the dustpan on the floor, and using the extender, push the sandwich onto the dustpan.
I ask A. for the bags, which she throws at me, but being that they are plastic, they don’t go far. I’m like A., just hand me the bag, he’s not coming loose. She darts over, gives me the bag, and darts back to the couch.
I take the dustpan and flip it, over-easy style, into the plastic bag. Mickey has ceased to move at this point, he may have succumbed to his internal bleeding, but I wasn’t taking the time to find out. I sealed the bag and ran out the door, down the five flights of stairs, onto the street, dropped the bag on the pile of trash already on the curb and ran back up the five flights of stairs in about a minute flat. Once inside the apartment, A. and I continued to get the creeps over the whole ordeal, and stood in the living room, shaking off the chills and reliving the whole five-minute ordeal.
Finally, we calm down and A. tells me that I definitely win roommate of the month and that I am officially her hero. I take a moment to bask in the glory, but then realize that I actually beat the mouse, who was kind of cute, and I begin to feel bad. But not that bad when I remembered his escapades all through the stove.
In any case, I think our mouse problems are now over. Hopefully, over for good. Let it be known in the rodent world…if you decide to visit Apt. 5C…you just might catch a beatdown....ya' heard.
We were being held hostage by a mouse. The mouse had a gun and a flak jacket on, he wasn’t talking to police negotiators...the mouse knew, as did we, that there was no way he’d go alive.
Let me start where I left off.
After the discovery of the mouse and the ripping apart of the kitchen to no avail, I was working from home on Thursday when I look up to see Mickey (as we had begun to call him) on the kitchen counter behind the coffee pot, staring at me. I stared at him right back for about a minute, until he ran back across the counter and back wherever he came from. I was so grossed out. My roommates were scared of Mickey, I was more grossed out. Mice are dirty. They poop all over everything. And they smell. So there was no way that I wanted him near our beloved coffee pot, and everything else for that matter. So I jump up and I rearrange the few traps we have out to fall directly in line with where he was running to and fro from. Oh but this Mickey, he didn’t take the bait. Nope, he just ran right around the traps. Up until this point, I had hoped that Mickey was dumb and would just willingly sniff and eat the peanut butter on the traps, but Mickey wasn’t as dumb as originally thought.
So fast forward through the rest of Thursday, Friday and Saturday, where Mickey would torture us by popping up all over the apartment. If he wasn’t hanging out on the counter, he’d run all over the stove and down through the burners. Or, he’d take everyone by surprise and run out from behind the couch back to the kitchen. What was worse, is that on Friday and Saturday nights my roommates and I both had company staying at our house, so we had to explain why our house was booby-trapped for mice. And then watch everyone scream and shout (a few brave souls attempted to catch him) as he ran around the traps, through legs, at people, etc.
Finally, by Sunday we had enough. We put our heads together and devised a plan. A. and I went and brought 12 glue traps and 12 regular old-school mouse traps. P. and I did the mousetrap assembly while A. just walked around the apartment, cleaning up nothing and muttering to herself. (I definitely discovered Annette’s Achilles heel…rodents. I look forward to the day when I can use this to my advantage.) We lined up the traps across the doorway where the living room meets the kitchen. If Mickey decided he’d like to go watch TV, he’d have to run across the glue traps to do it. We lined up the mousetraps across the kitchen counter, in case Mickey decided he’d like to take a leisurely stroll by the coffee pot again. We finished by placing two traps on either side of the couch, in the back, in case he wanted to take a nap back there. I was satisfied with our Fort Knox-like line of defense. A. and P. went to their rooms to go to sleep. I stayed on in the living room, inexplicably hung up on Extreme Makeover on the Style Network. Sure enough, within minutes of it quieting down, Mickey decided to show his face from under the stove. I watched him stare at the glue traps, clearly perplexed by this new obstacle in his path. I slowly picked up the phone and told A. not to come out of her room. Mickey sensed my movement, however, and ran back under the stove. He reappared a few minutes later, stared at the glue traps again and ran back under the stove. I was pissed. He was supposed to run right at me and get stuck…only he was proving once again, that he was no one’s fool.
He reappeared a few minutes later ON TOP OF THE STOVE. This is when I started to get angry. Refusing to be held hostage by the mouse, I had cooked dinner for myself that night because freelancing doesn’t afford me the opportunity to order out with the frequency that I used to. I save money by cooking at home. So, even though I was a bit scared, I had baked a chicken in the oven; the oven that is directly below the stove Mickey was now using as his personal stairway to heaven. The very idea that he may have walked or ascended through the stove on the way to the oven, either before, during or after I had made my chicken was enough to make me want to get up to the bathroom and vomit. I made a silent vow that Mickey would die tonight for this faux pas. For the time being though, I yelled for him to “get the fuck off the stove” and then turned to my right to watch A. shriek and scream out what was he doing, as I knew she would. I told her not to worry about it, and decided that I’d have to leave the living room to force Mickey to make his move.
Several minutes later, I’m watching TV on my bed when I sense a movement to my right. I look at my door and see Mickey scampering into my room. I guess he figured that if he couldn’t go straight into the living room, he’d squeeze into the next smallest space – the slit under my door - and see if anything was up in here. The idea of the mouse in my room, only discovered because I happened to keep my light on and saw him, made me furious. I yelled at him again to “get the fuck out of my room!” I called Annette and told her to put a towel under her door and then I pulled a towel under mine and began the wait.
About an hour later, I’m caught up in an episode of CSI, when my phone rings. It’s A. She asks, “Do you hear that?” I say, “No.” She says, “The mouse is yelling.” I say, “The mouse is yelling? Hold on.” I put my ear to the door. I hear nothing. She says, “I heard him yell.” She sounds like a five year-old who just saw the boogie man for the first time. I knew I was in this alone. I said, “Hold on…I’m going out.”
I slowly opened the door. The kitchen is dark. I hear nothing. I tip-toe across to where the light is to discover Mickey, in one of the glue traps, struggling to get free. I scream bloody murder.
It was one thing to see him running across the apartment in his little brown blur, it was quite another to see his 3 inch body stuck in a trap, while he wriggled around trying to chew off his own leg to get free. I just started yelling, “Oh my god! Oh my god! I have to kill him, I don’t know how. I don’t know how! Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!”
By this time, A. has gathered up the courage to peek at him. She sees him squirming, yells that he’s getting free and jumps up and onto the couch yelling “Kill him! Lia kill him! KILL HIM NOWWWWWWWW!”
This continued on for at least two minutes as the two of us just watched Mickey, trapped by his hind legs and tail, work his hardest to get free and we screamed holy hell. Finally, I bent over, put my hands over my face and was like get it together Lia. This is your job to finish.
I stared at Mickey, who looked like he may come free at any moment. I grabbed the paint roller extender we have behind our kitchen “table” and flipped another glue trap on top of him, making a little Mickey/glue trap sandwich. I begin yelling again, which begins A. yelling again. I am screaming, “What do I do now? How do I kill him? How do I kill him? I can’t pick this up! I can’t pick this up!” And A. is still on the couch yelling “I don’t know! Just get him out of here, just get him out!!!”
So, for some unknown reason, I take the stick, because Mickey is moving around like crazy, and I just begin beating the sandwich. I couldn’t do it hard, but it was hard enough for Mickey to squeak with every whack. I’m yelling, A. is yelling, Mickey is yelling…and I’m just beating down harder with every yell not knowing what the hell I’m doing.
Finally I realized that glue traps are supposed to be the humane way to kill a rodent, but that Mickey is clearly not being treated humanely and I am beating a mouse to death with a paint roller extender. I look to my right and see our dustpan. I tell A. to get a couple of plastic bags. I put the dustpan on the floor, and using the extender, push the sandwich onto the dustpan.
I ask A. for the bags, which she throws at me, but being that they are plastic, they don’t go far. I’m like A., just hand me the bag, he’s not coming loose. She darts over, gives me the bag, and darts back to the couch.
I take the dustpan and flip it, over-easy style, into the plastic bag. Mickey has ceased to move at this point, he may have succumbed to his internal bleeding, but I wasn’t taking the time to find out. I sealed the bag and ran out the door, down the five flights of stairs, onto the street, dropped the bag on the pile of trash already on the curb and ran back up the five flights of stairs in about a minute flat. Once inside the apartment, A. and I continued to get the creeps over the whole ordeal, and stood in the living room, shaking off the chills and reliving the whole five-minute ordeal.
Finally, we calm down and A. tells me that I definitely win roommate of the month and that I am officially her hero. I take a moment to bask in the glory, but then realize that I actually beat the mouse, who was kind of cute, and I begin to feel bad. But not that bad when I remembered his escapades all through the stove.
In any case, I think our mouse problems are now over. Hopefully, over for good. Let it be known in the rodent world…if you decide to visit Apt. 5C…you just might catch a beatdown....ya' heard.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
L. and P. Star in: There’s a Mouse in the House
The Date: October 18, 2006.
The Place: New York, New York
Starring: Lia, as herself. P., as herself.
Narrated by: Lia.
Yesterday, after a quick happy hour with former co-workers, I was on my way home when I received a call from my roommate that bordered on hysteria.
Before I go into what the call was about, I should first recount what happened to me that morning. I was half-asleep making my morning coffee and I went to take down the sugar from the kitchen shelf where it resides. Somehow, no idea, I had no glasses on or contacts in, so I was flying blind…literally…I missed. The sugar container, and the crouton container beneath it, went flying. Sugar and croutons spilled everywhere. I’m talking all over the counter beneath the shelf, all over the floor, all over me and into the living room. I was already running late, the LAST thing I felt like dealing with was cleaning up sugar from everywhere…but because the thought of ants and bugs having a party in the sugar made me sick, I started to clean up. Three vacuum and sweeping sessions later, I believed I had gotten it all. “Thank you Dyson,” I said, and I left the house.
Fast-forward about eight hours, and my roommate P. is calling me. I’m just starting the walk home. The conversation sounded something like this.
Me: What do you want? I hate you. (This is our typical hello.)
P: Ohmygod, helphelphelp.
Me: (Very concerned.) P, slow down, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you ok?
P: I saw, I saw….
(My phone cuts off! Because my phone sucks!) (Phone rings again)
Me: P, are you ok? Are you hurt? What’s the matter?
P: A mouse! A mouse just ran across the kitchen! I’m standing on the couch! I don’t know what to do! Get cleaning supplies!
Me: Oh my god, oh my god, I spilled sugar everywhere this morning. I can’t believe it. Oh my god, I just threw up in my mouth, that is so gross.
P: (Calms down considerably.) You spilled sugar this morning?
Me: Yes, everywhere. That’s probably why the mouse is there.
P: Mice eat sugar?
Me: I have no idea.
P: I wonder if mice eat sugar.
Me: Hmm, I don’t know. Good question.
P: You better not tell A.
Me: I know.
P: Actually she doesn’t even use the sugar.
Me: But she uses the croutons that I spilled underneath it.
P: True.
Me: We’re off-topic. Where is the mouse now?
P: (Hysterical again). I don’t know! It ran toward the refrigerator! And then went underneath! Get something to kill it with!
Me: Hold on! I’m by Duane Reade. Give me 20 minutes and I’ll be home!
P: Hurry! (click.)
I ran through Duane Reade like a madwoman, grabbing papertowels and toilet paper…(we needed both anyways) and then of course, I stopped in the beauty aisle to grab two new shades of nail polish that I wanted. This is hardly what one should buy when you need to kill a mouse. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I would kill the mouse by rolling it up in Bounty? That maybe, once I caught the mouse, I could paint it’s nails a cute new shade of plum for fall? But in my rush, this is what I brought home.
I then speedwalked home to find P. on the couch staring at the kitchen.
Me: Where is it?
P: Still in there somewhere, I don’t know.
Me: (out of breath and sweating up a storm): Ok, I’m going to get changed and I’m going to get him.
P: You are a badass.
So I put my hair up, put my PJ pants and T-shirt on, put on flip-flops and hit the kitchen cabinets. Inside, I hear a vile, vile, scratching sound coming from deep inside. I should also note, that in the two-year duration that we’ve lived in this apartment, we have never so much as seen a mouse (except twice, on the bottom floor) nevermind have one in our house. We get the occasional cockroach, which normally involves someone yelling, someone grabbing a shoe, smashing the cockroach, doing a heebie-jeebie dance, yelling for someone else to grab the body, throwing in the trash and then a yelling/jumping combination again from being grossed out. Bugs we have down pat. Mice? No idea.
Me: Mice don’t have spines, how do you kill one?
P: Mice don’t have spines?
Me: No!
P: How the f*** are we going to get it?
Me: I think you can scare mice to death.
P: Haha, just stick your face in there then.
(laughter)
Me: (Grabbing the mop). I know, I’ll just beat him to death.
P: What if you miss?
Me: I don’t know. Dammit, I should have bought a mousetrap!
P: Do you think Joseph has mousetraps? (Joseph is our 60-something-years-old super who always tries to grab or brush up against P’s chest.)
Me: Probably. You go down there, he’s your boyfriend.
P: No! Gross! He’ll give me a mousetrap and then grab my boobs!
Me: Do you want to kill the mouse then?
P: Be right back.
So P. runs out and I’m staring at the kitchen cabinets. I hit them again. I hear the mouse inside. I take a deep breath and say out loud, “I’m going to kick your ass!”
I open the cabinet a peep, and start taking things out one by one, and then slamming the door shut in between. I figured one of two things. I’ll trap it in there. And I’ll remove every object it can use for cover.
P. comes back in, sans mousetrap.
P: Ugh, Joseph answered the door in a silk robe.
Me: A silk robe?
P: Yes, it was disgusting.
Me: Who does he think he is? Hugh fucking Hefner? Did he have a mousetrap?
P: No, he said he’d send the exterminator up tomorrow.
We both roll our eyes because that won’t happen. We haven’t seen the exterminator in months.
P. notices the stuff outside of the cabinets.
P: What are you doing?
Me: I don’t know! I don’t know how to kill a mouse!
P: You kick ass. Good luck with that.
So, I’m taking things out one by one, but after a while, I don’t hear the mouse anymore. So I turn to P. and say, “I don’t hear the mouse anymore.”
P: Is it in my room? I’ll kill you!
Me: Did you see it run past me and run into your room?
P: Hmmm…no, but I was watching Two-a-Days.
Me: I think we would have noticed.
P: Haha, it’s in your room.
Me: I hate you.
So anyways, long story short, I Swiffered the kitchen twice to remove any sugar that may have gotten on the floor. The mouse disappeared and I put the kitchen back together. Now I’m home alone, peeking to the right every so often to see if the mouse has decided to pop back in. I have no idea what to do if it does. But I have some nailpolish if he/she wants a makeover.
The Best Birthday Invitation I Have Ever Received
Everyone I know – including myself – is going to be hard-pressed to beat this one. I thought I was so clever calling my next birthday “The 5th Anniversary of My 21st Birthday.” Apparently, I’m not as clever as I thought.
Good Day Friends & Enemies,
Don't be alarmed, this e-mail is a cause for celebration. Well, to be more specific, a cause for celebration for anything connected by an ampersand. History has proven that many things, are in fact, destined to be linked together forever. Like Jews & Suffering. Wait. Okay, maybe that's a bad example. But in my defense though, the persecution has made us stronger as a people throughout five thousand some-odd years. What I'm tryin' to say though, is that some of man's best achievements are better remembered as a duo. We've got: PB & J, Internet & Porn, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Balki & Cousin Larry, Spring Break & GHB, Tanqueray & Chronic, which in most cases, will eventually lead to last and certainly not least, Chicken & Waffles (you thought I was gonna say Blood & Semen, didn't you???)
Taking all of this into account, we ask that you grace us with your presence to celebrate the two birthdays of another duo: Mike & Cory. To be completely honest, I (Mike) don't really consider us a duo. I hardly like Cory. Unless of course he's got a player on his fantasy football roster that I want. We are only in this together because roughly 26 years ago, by mere coincidence mind you, our respective parents either planned to conceive OR purchased faulty contraceptives. I guess we really aren't linked by fate or friendship or any of that other nonsense, but rather the ultimate duo of Penis & Vagina. Regardless though, I'd still have to say it’s only due to an & and only an &. But I digress, here are the details:
What: The 26 year, 9 month Anniversary of the Conceptions of Mike B. & Cory F.
Where: Sweet & Vicious
5 Spring Street (Between Bowery & Elizabeth)
New York, NY 10012
When: Saturday October 21st, 2006, 10:00 pm
Hope to see everyone there!
Mike (& Cory)
Please forward to anyone you feel necessary.
P.S. - I do realize that January was (and still is) a busy month for bonin' so some of you might have other prior obligations and birthdays (even your own!). Try to stop by if you can, but we won't hold it against you if you can't.
P.S.S. If anybody has a problem with the short notice, you can F off. You're just a dweeb anyways.
Genius.
The Place: New York, New York
Starring: Lia, as herself. P., as herself.
Narrated by: Lia.
Yesterday, after a quick happy hour with former co-workers, I was on my way home when I received a call from my roommate that bordered on hysteria.
Before I go into what the call was about, I should first recount what happened to me that morning. I was half-asleep making my morning coffee and I went to take down the sugar from the kitchen shelf where it resides. Somehow, no idea, I had no glasses on or contacts in, so I was flying blind…literally…I missed. The sugar container, and the crouton container beneath it, went flying. Sugar and croutons spilled everywhere. I’m talking all over the counter beneath the shelf, all over the floor, all over me and into the living room. I was already running late, the LAST thing I felt like dealing with was cleaning up sugar from everywhere…but because the thought of ants and bugs having a party in the sugar made me sick, I started to clean up. Three vacuum and sweeping sessions later, I believed I had gotten it all. “Thank you Dyson,” I said, and I left the house.
Fast-forward about eight hours, and my roommate P. is calling me. I’m just starting the walk home. The conversation sounded something like this.
Me: What do you want? I hate you. (This is our typical hello.)
P: Ohmygod, helphelphelp.
Me: (Very concerned.) P, slow down, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you ok?
P: I saw, I saw….
(My phone cuts off! Because my phone sucks!) (Phone rings again)
Me: P, are you ok? Are you hurt? What’s the matter?
P: A mouse! A mouse just ran across the kitchen! I’m standing on the couch! I don’t know what to do! Get cleaning supplies!
Me: Oh my god, oh my god, I spilled sugar everywhere this morning. I can’t believe it. Oh my god, I just threw up in my mouth, that is so gross.
P: (Calms down considerably.) You spilled sugar this morning?
Me: Yes, everywhere. That’s probably why the mouse is there.
P: Mice eat sugar?
Me: I have no idea.
P: I wonder if mice eat sugar.
Me: Hmm, I don’t know. Good question.
P: You better not tell A.
Me: I know.
P: Actually she doesn’t even use the sugar.
Me: But she uses the croutons that I spilled underneath it.
P: True.
Me: We’re off-topic. Where is the mouse now?
P: (Hysterical again). I don’t know! It ran toward the refrigerator! And then went underneath! Get something to kill it with!
Me: Hold on! I’m by Duane Reade. Give me 20 minutes and I’ll be home!
P: Hurry! (click.)
I ran through Duane Reade like a madwoman, grabbing papertowels and toilet paper…(we needed both anyways) and then of course, I stopped in the beauty aisle to grab two new shades of nail polish that I wanted. This is hardly what one should buy when you need to kill a mouse. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I would kill the mouse by rolling it up in Bounty? That maybe, once I caught the mouse, I could paint it’s nails a cute new shade of plum for fall? But in my rush, this is what I brought home.
I then speedwalked home to find P. on the couch staring at the kitchen.
Me: Where is it?
P: Still in there somewhere, I don’t know.
Me: (out of breath and sweating up a storm): Ok, I’m going to get changed and I’m going to get him.
P: You are a badass.
So I put my hair up, put my PJ pants and T-shirt on, put on flip-flops and hit the kitchen cabinets. Inside, I hear a vile, vile, scratching sound coming from deep inside. I should also note, that in the two-year duration that we’ve lived in this apartment, we have never so much as seen a mouse (except twice, on the bottom floor) nevermind have one in our house. We get the occasional cockroach, which normally involves someone yelling, someone grabbing a shoe, smashing the cockroach, doing a heebie-jeebie dance, yelling for someone else to grab the body, throwing in the trash and then a yelling/jumping combination again from being grossed out. Bugs we have down pat. Mice? No idea.
Me: Mice don’t have spines, how do you kill one?
P: Mice don’t have spines?
Me: No!
P: How the f*** are we going to get it?
Me: I think you can scare mice to death.
P: Haha, just stick your face in there then.
(laughter)
Me: (Grabbing the mop). I know, I’ll just beat him to death.
P: What if you miss?
Me: I don’t know. Dammit, I should have bought a mousetrap!
P: Do you think Joseph has mousetraps? (Joseph is our 60-something-years-old super who always tries to grab or brush up against P’s chest.)
Me: Probably. You go down there, he’s your boyfriend.
P: No! Gross! He’ll give me a mousetrap and then grab my boobs!
Me: Do you want to kill the mouse then?
P: Be right back.
So P. runs out and I’m staring at the kitchen cabinets. I hit them again. I hear the mouse inside. I take a deep breath and say out loud, “I’m going to kick your ass!”
I open the cabinet a peep, and start taking things out one by one, and then slamming the door shut in between. I figured one of two things. I’ll trap it in there. And I’ll remove every object it can use for cover.
P. comes back in, sans mousetrap.
P: Ugh, Joseph answered the door in a silk robe.
Me: A silk robe?
P: Yes, it was disgusting.
Me: Who does he think he is? Hugh fucking Hefner? Did he have a mousetrap?
P: No, he said he’d send the exterminator up tomorrow.
We both roll our eyes because that won’t happen. We haven’t seen the exterminator in months.
P. notices the stuff outside of the cabinets.
P: What are you doing?
Me: I don’t know! I don’t know how to kill a mouse!
P: You kick ass. Good luck with that.
So, I’m taking things out one by one, but after a while, I don’t hear the mouse anymore. So I turn to P. and say, “I don’t hear the mouse anymore.”
P: Is it in my room? I’ll kill you!
Me: Did you see it run past me and run into your room?
P: Hmmm…no, but I was watching Two-a-Days.
Me: I think we would have noticed.
P: Haha, it’s in your room.
Me: I hate you.
So anyways, long story short, I Swiffered the kitchen twice to remove any sugar that may have gotten on the floor. The mouse disappeared and I put the kitchen back together. Now I’m home alone, peeking to the right every so often to see if the mouse has decided to pop back in. I have no idea what to do if it does. But I have some nailpolish if he/she wants a makeover.
The Best Birthday Invitation I Have Ever Received
Everyone I know – including myself – is going to be hard-pressed to beat this one. I thought I was so clever calling my next birthday “The 5th Anniversary of My 21st Birthday.” Apparently, I’m not as clever as I thought.
Good Day Friends & Enemies,
Don't be alarmed, this e-mail is a cause for celebration. Well, to be more specific, a cause for celebration for anything connected by an ampersand. History has proven that many things, are in fact, destined to be linked together forever. Like Jews & Suffering. Wait. Okay, maybe that's a bad example. But in my defense though, the persecution has made us stronger as a people throughout five thousand some-odd years. What I'm tryin' to say though, is that some of man's best achievements are better remembered as a duo. We've got: PB & J, Internet & Porn, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, Balki & Cousin Larry, Spring Break & GHB, Tanqueray & Chronic, which in most cases, will eventually lead to last and certainly not least, Chicken & Waffles (you thought I was gonna say Blood & Semen, didn't you???)
Taking all of this into account, we ask that you grace us with your presence to celebrate the two birthdays of another duo: Mike & Cory. To be completely honest, I (Mike) don't really consider us a duo. I hardly like Cory. Unless of course he's got a player on his fantasy football roster that I want. We are only in this together because roughly 26 years ago, by mere coincidence mind you, our respective parents either planned to conceive OR purchased faulty contraceptives. I guess we really aren't linked by fate or friendship or any of that other nonsense, but rather the ultimate duo of Penis & Vagina. Regardless though, I'd still have to say it’s only due to an & and only an &. But I digress, here are the details:
What: The 26 year, 9 month Anniversary of the Conceptions of Mike B. & Cory F.
Where: Sweet & Vicious
5 Spring Street (Between Bowery & Elizabeth)
New York, NY 10012
When: Saturday October 21st, 2006, 10:00 pm
Hope to see everyone there!
Mike (& Cory)
Please forward to anyone you feel necessary.
P.S. - I do realize that January was (and still is) a busy month for bonin' so some of you might have other prior obligations and birthdays (even your own!). Try to stop by if you can, but we won't hold it against you if you can't.
P.S.S. If anybody has a problem with the short notice, you can F off. You're just a dweeb anyways.
Genius.
Aging…and Raging…
So, I’m a little less than one month out from my 26th birthday and to be perfectly honest, I’m not really that excited for it. I remember turning 25 and I was happy to turn 25 because I always felt like people took 25 seriously. There is just a difference between saying you are 24 and saying you are 25…I noticed a drop-off in the “your still a youngster” type of comments. I could finally rent a car – yeah!
But turning 26 is different. When I was interning between my junior and senior year of college, the summer after I turned 21, most of the people for which I worked were 26 and 27 years old. I remember thinking (and this is only five short, short years ago) how old they seemed. How successful they looked and dressed. How mature they acted.
I look at the nearly 26-year-old person staring back at me in the mirror and all I can say is that you don't look at all like those people. The bed that I sleep on – I can’t get on it in the middle because the planks (it’s from IKEA) that keep it in the frame come off the frame and make the mattress sink. At the end of the day, the new game I play with myself is to see how much money I spent. If the total falls between $10 and $15, I consider the day a resounding success. Extra points if the total is less than $10. I have no health insurance and spend most of my time at the gym praying that I don’t break my leg on the treadmill. I could go on and on. Long story, short, this is a pretty far cry from what I expected from myself at this age.
On the other hand, I’ve never had better friends surrounding me. People comment to me that I look happier, more rested and more healthy. I finally started writing the book I’ve been promising myself I’d write for the last three years.
I guess my question is – what I’m currently struggling with – is what is more important to me? Success or happiness? Is it possible to acheive the very best of both? From the age of 14, I have always been pushing toward an invisible goal. I got top grades in school, I worked at night, I played sports on the weekend, I built that perfect college resume. I went to school for free, worked my butt off, but went into debt anyway and graduated right on time. I suffered for a year at my first job. I then picked up what little I had and moved to New York City to try and make it here. And I did.
Now, three years later, I look back and by all counts, things have been a success. So, I’m not making the big bucks right now, I’m just making bucks. I always thought I’d be engaged or married by the age of 28 because it seemed so old, let’s face it, that’s not even close to happening. (I now think 31 will be closer to everything for me.) But somehow, I’m weirdly calm and happy. The thing that makes me unhappy is the fact that I’m still ambitious, I just don’t know what I want to be ambitious about. Is my life's work really going to be devising marketing plans in a cubicle and then calling journalists and hoping they aren’t rude on the phone as I try to pitch them my clients’ stories? Then dealing with the clients' BS when things don't happen (or dealing with the BS even when they do?) Is this what all the late nights of studying, the sacrifice (can’t go to happy hour guys, I’ve got this press release to write!), the struggle, has been for? I just don’t think that for me, this is it. And it’s not that I don’t see the bigger picture if I continue down this path – the hard work now, earns the payoff later, but what about my youth? My happiness? My sense that I’m living the best life I can? (thank you Oprah!)
I can't help but wonder, and I wish I could ask, if the people that I watched so closely as an intern, did they go through these same feelings and thoughts when they were 26-years-old? If I had to guess, I would have to say yes...but they seemed so different from the girl (woman?) that looks back at me every day. I have no idea…and yet, reading this back over...I obviously do know some things for sure. But what is right? Is any of it even wrong?
But turning 26 is different. When I was interning between my junior and senior year of college, the summer after I turned 21, most of the people for which I worked were 26 and 27 years old. I remember thinking (and this is only five short, short years ago) how old they seemed. How successful they looked and dressed. How mature they acted.
I look at the nearly 26-year-old person staring back at me in the mirror and all I can say is that you don't look at all like those people. The bed that I sleep on – I can’t get on it in the middle because the planks (it’s from IKEA) that keep it in the frame come off the frame and make the mattress sink. At the end of the day, the new game I play with myself is to see how much money I spent. If the total falls between $10 and $15, I consider the day a resounding success. Extra points if the total is less than $10. I have no health insurance and spend most of my time at the gym praying that I don’t break my leg on the treadmill. I could go on and on. Long story, short, this is a pretty far cry from what I expected from myself at this age.
On the other hand, I’ve never had better friends surrounding me. People comment to me that I look happier, more rested and more healthy. I finally started writing the book I’ve been promising myself I’d write for the last three years.
I guess my question is – what I’m currently struggling with – is what is more important to me? Success or happiness? Is it possible to acheive the very best of both? From the age of 14, I have always been pushing toward an invisible goal. I got top grades in school, I worked at night, I played sports on the weekend, I built that perfect college resume. I went to school for free, worked my butt off, but went into debt anyway and graduated right on time. I suffered for a year at my first job. I then picked up what little I had and moved to New York City to try and make it here. And I did.
Now, three years later, I look back and by all counts, things have been a success. So, I’m not making the big bucks right now, I’m just making bucks. I always thought I’d be engaged or married by the age of 28 because it seemed so old, let’s face it, that’s not even close to happening. (I now think 31 will be closer to everything for me.) But somehow, I’m weirdly calm and happy. The thing that makes me unhappy is the fact that I’m still ambitious, I just don’t know what I want to be ambitious about. Is my life's work really going to be devising marketing plans in a cubicle and then calling journalists and hoping they aren’t rude on the phone as I try to pitch them my clients’ stories? Then dealing with the clients' BS when things don't happen (or dealing with the BS even when they do?) Is this what all the late nights of studying, the sacrifice (can’t go to happy hour guys, I’ve got this press release to write!), the struggle, has been for? I just don’t think that for me, this is it. And it’s not that I don’t see the bigger picture if I continue down this path – the hard work now, earns the payoff later, but what about my youth? My happiness? My sense that I’m living the best life I can? (thank you Oprah!)
I can't help but wonder, and I wish I could ask, if the people that I watched so closely as an intern, did they go through these same feelings and thoughts when they were 26-years-old? If I had to guess, I would have to say yes...but they seemed so different from the girl (woman?) that looks back at me every day. I have no idea…and yet, reading this back over...I obviously do know some things for sure. But what is right? Is any of it even wrong?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Dreams DO Come True!
Don't ask me why, but one of my lifelong dreams has always been to get punched in the face. I'm talking full-on, hit me in my jaw and just knock me out punched. I think it's because I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, and a sick, sick part of me just wants to see if I can stay on my feet. I know this is a weird thing to want, I just can't help it.
Well...as it turns out, Mike Tyson actually announced that he would fight women on his new world tour. I don't see in this article (http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2006/more/10/16/tyson.tour.ap/index.html?cnn=yes) where they are accepting volunteers, but I'll sign up if they take them. Who better to fulfill this fantasy for me? I'm willing to put my absolute hatred for Mike Tyson on the sideline for this one...it would be worth it.
Other dreams I have are to slam dunk a basketball with no help, but I am realistic that this will probably never come true unless someone figures out how to put trampolines and/or rocket ships in my shoes...and to get tackled full-force by someone in the NFL. However, that will probably result in a broken back...whereas getting punched in the face might only result in a broken jaw. I'll take the jaw.
Well...as it turns out, Mike Tyson actually announced that he would fight women on his new world tour. I don't see in this article (http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2006/more/10/16/tyson.tour.ap/index.html?cnn=yes) where they are accepting volunteers, but I'll sign up if they take them. Who better to fulfill this fantasy for me? I'm willing to put my absolute hatred for Mike Tyson on the sideline for this one...it would be worth it.
Other dreams I have are to slam dunk a basketball with no help, but I am realistic that this will probably never come true unless someone figures out how to put trampolines and/or rocket ships in my shoes...and to get tackled full-force by someone in the NFL. However, that will probably result in a broken back...whereas getting punched in the face might only result in a broken jaw. I'll take the jaw.
Monday, October 16, 2006
It Doesn't Quite Make Up for the Loss but...
The Gators lost on Saturday night and I was so sad. However, I sent the best text message ever to someone (a UM fan I might add) who attempted to talk s*** to me. Considering UM is non-ranked and considering several players had a fistfight with players from FIU…I couldn’t believe the that this person would talk smack, but this person can be an a-hole (sometimes) so I wasn’t really surprised.
The text message I received was:
“Go Gators.”
My reply: “I f***ing hate you assclown. Nice fight tonight douchebag.” Lol. The best part was that I didn’t quite remember sending this text message (I was drowning my sorrows). So when I read back my texts from the night (of which there were many and half of which I wish I didn’t write, damn you unlimited text messaging!) the next day it was a welcome surprise. I think the words assclown and douchebag are the greatest words ever. I now have all my friends using the word douchebag...assclown is next.
The text message I received was:
“Go Gators.”
My reply: “I f***ing hate you assclown. Nice fight tonight douchebag.” Lol. The best part was that I didn’t quite remember sending this text message (I was drowning my sorrows). So when I read back my texts from the night (of which there were many and half of which I wish I didn’t write, damn you unlimited text messaging!) the next day it was a welcome surprise. I think the words assclown and douchebag are the greatest words ever. I now have all my friends using the word douchebag...assclown is next.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Little Bit of Everything
30 Rock
This show is freaking hilarious. If you love Tina Fey as much as I do (she's one of my heroes) then you will love this show. It also stars Alec Baldwin (after seeing him in this show and in The Departed, think he just took the top spot on my Favorite Actors List), Tracy Morgan (who I go back and forth on whether I think he is funny, but on this show he's hilarious) and Judah Friedlander. P. and I met Judah recently and hung out with him...so he's like totally my friend. Which also makes the show awesome. Anyways, I highly recommend watching...it's hilarious.
Gym Boyfriend
So..my gym boyfriend and I totally broke up a few months ago, and truth be told, I've actually acquired about four new gym boyfriends since. The break-up was fortuitous because I've actually seen original gym boyfriend (OGB) with his girlfriend like a million times since...you can't have an imaginary boyfriend when you know he has a real-life girlfriend. That just sucks. But anyways, both A. and I have noticed that he's been fighting with his girlfriend like right in front of everyone at the gym. The other day, she was running on the treadmill and he was talking to her and she was totally ignoring him. And then he gave one of those I-can't-believe-you laughs and stormed away. A. spotted that. I spotted her crying and asking for her keys which he reluctantly gave to her. Since I have new gym boyfriends, OGB's personal life is no longer of interest to me...however, I can't say a small part of me doesn't enjoy the fact that they are fighting. OGB is still hot and a girl can dream.
Book
Today I also finally forced myself to sit down and write for an hour and a half. Because I can no longer go to Kudo Beans (3rd St. and 1st Ave., home of McWigger - boycott it people, boycott it!!! Do it for me and woman-kind everywhere!), I took myself to Starbucks because you have to pay for Internet there...I knew I wouldn't and I wouldn't be distracted as I tried to write. And I wrote for an hour and a half and I got out four pages. I'm very pleased with them. I got out a short prologue and a pretty good outline for Chapter 1. I have no idea how to write a book, but I finally started today. And I think it went very well! Then I had to check my email so I came to my new coffee shop on 13th St. and Avenue B. It's a lot further from my house, but they have free wireless, good prices and a staff that doesn't throw spare change at my head.
This show is freaking hilarious. If you love Tina Fey as much as I do (she's one of my heroes) then you will love this show. It also stars Alec Baldwin (after seeing him in this show and in The Departed, think he just took the top spot on my Favorite Actors List), Tracy Morgan (who I go back and forth on whether I think he is funny, but on this show he's hilarious) and Judah Friedlander. P. and I met Judah recently and hung out with him...so he's like totally my friend. Which also makes the show awesome. Anyways, I highly recommend watching...it's hilarious.
Gym Boyfriend
So..my gym boyfriend and I totally broke up a few months ago, and truth be told, I've actually acquired about four new gym boyfriends since. The break-up was fortuitous because I've actually seen original gym boyfriend (OGB) with his girlfriend like a million times since...you can't have an imaginary boyfriend when you know he has a real-life girlfriend. That just sucks. But anyways, both A. and I have noticed that he's been fighting with his girlfriend like right in front of everyone at the gym. The other day, she was running on the treadmill and he was talking to her and she was totally ignoring him. And then he gave one of those I-can't-believe-you laughs and stormed away. A. spotted that. I spotted her crying and asking for her keys which he reluctantly gave to her. Since I have new gym boyfriends, OGB's personal life is no longer of interest to me...however, I can't say a small part of me doesn't enjoy the fact that they are fighting. OGB is still hot and a girl can dream.
Book
Today I also finally forced myself to sit down and write for an hour and a half. Because I can no longer go to Kudo Beans (3rd St. and 1st Ave., home of McWigger - boycott it people, boycott it!!! Do it for me and woman-kind everywhere!), I took myself to Starbucks because you have to pay for Internet there...I knew I wouldn't and I wouldn't be distracted as I tried to write. And I wrote for an hour and a half and I got out four pages. I'm very pleased with them. I got out a short prologue and a pretty good outline for Chapter 1. I have no idea how to write a book, but I finally started today. And I think it went very well! Then I had to check my email so I came to my new coffee shop on 13th St. and Avenue B. It's a lot further from my house, but they have free wireless, good prices and a staff that doesn't throw spare change at my head.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Random...
Beyond Z-List Celebrity Sightings
So today I had a few "celeb" sightings, I say celeb in quotes because they are really totally beyond even a letter in the list...but I saw the Iranian comic from the first season of Last Comic Standing, who I recognized because when I went to Caroline's to see Gary Gulman, he opened. Maybe he was the second season of Last Comic Standing. It doesn't matter because no one else would recognize him but me.
The second person was slightly better, but I am pretty sure I saw one of the girls from the Road Rules that took place on the boat. Ayana maybe? I think someone stole her bra and they had a fight. That one. Yeah I know...I didn't care either.
Boring.
So today I had a few "celeb" sightings, I say celeb in quotes because they are really totally beyond even a letter in the list...but I saw the Iranian comic from the first season of Last Comic Standing, who I recognized because when I went to Caroline's to see Gary Gulman, he opened. Maybe he was the second season of Last Comic Standing. It doesn't matter because no one else would recognize him but me.
The second person was slightly better, but I am pretty sure I saw one of the girls from the Road Rules that took place on the boat. Ayana maybe? I think someone stole her bra and they had a fight. That one. Yeah I know...I didn't care either.
Boring.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
The Other Day, I Accidently Kicked a Baby
So a few Sundays ago, when Bmoney and RR were in town, my roommates, Bmoney and I all went out to brunch. We were all tired and full when brunch was done and as we stood on the corner deciding what to do next, I realized I needed a good stretch. Welcome Back Lia had been the night before, and as usual, Bmoney and I had torn up the dance floor so my legs were a bit sore.
So as I’m standing on the corner, I’m looking to the right and I kick my left leg out to the left, an unusual move in and of itself, as normally, I don't kick my legs straight out to the side in order to stretch them. I bend down or whatever. So anyways, I kick my leg out, only I make contact with something when really all I should have felt was air. I look left. I see nothing. I look down. I see a toddler...looking at me...slightly startled, his Tootsie Roll Pop on the ground. My hands flew to my mouth. I had kicked a goddamn baby in the face.
My roommates stared. Bmoney stared. I stared. I looked at the mom. She was staring at me…not angrily (THANK GOD), as I hadn’t injured the baby, just kicked the lollipop straight from his mouth.
We all just continued staring when I finally was able to get out, "Oh My God. I am SOOOOOO sorry! I just KICKED your son."
The mom was like "It’s ok, you didn’t mean it."
I was like, "I just kicked your baby. Now he doesn't have a lollipop."
She laughed. I looked down again and it was actually the baby giving me the dirty look.
Hands still at my mouth, friends still silent in surprise, I continued to apologize. The mom said no problem again and their party continued on.
Once they were about ten steps away, we all collapsed in laughter. Turns out, it’s kind of funny to kick a baby in the face....as long as the baby doesn't get hurt.
So as I’m standing on the corner, I’m looking to the right and I kick my left leg out to the left, an unusual move in and of itself, as normally, I don't kick my legs straight out to the side in order to stretch them. I bend down or whatever. So anyways, I kick my leg out, only I make contact with something when really all I should have felt was air. I look left. I see nothing. I look down. I see a toddler...looking at me...slightly startled, his Tootsie Roll Pop on the ground. My hands flew to my mouth. I had kicked a goddamn baby in the face.
My roommates stared. Bmoney stared. I stared. I looked at the mom. She was staring at me…not angrily (THANK GOD), as I hadn’t injured the baby, just kicked the lollipop straight from his mouth.
We all just continued staring when I finally was able to get out, "Oh My God. I am SOOOOOO sorry! I just KICKED your son."
The mom was like "It’s ok, you didn’t mean it."
I was like, "I just kicked your baby. Now he doesn't have a lollipop."
She laughed. I looked down again and it was actually the baby giving me the dirty look.
Hands still at my mouth, friends still silent in surprise, I continued to apologize. The mom said no problem again and their party continued on.
Once they were about ten steps away, we all collapsed in laughter. Turns out, it’s kind of funny to kick a baby in the face....as long as the baby doesn't get hurt.
Monday, October 09, 2006
McWigger Strikes Again
On Grey's Anatomy, there is McDreamy. And a McSteamy. On the new TV show, Lia's Anatomy, there is McWigger.
Lately, I’ve been avoiding the coffee shop to stay away from McWigger. McWigger is the guy who asked me if I liked porn in the middle of our “date” and he manages the coffee shop that I like, which is how I came to meet him. I thought he owned it…and not that I’m one of those girls…but I’m one of those girls…and he actually manages it. This and other horrifying facts came out on our “date” and long story, short, I’ve been avoiding the coffee shop ever since.
McWigger is not very mature and I knew that he would not handle himself as a 31-year-old properly should, had I continued to frequent the store as I was. However, quite frankly, I’m tired of trekking all over town trying to find a place that was just as close and just as cheap. It’s not fair. So I took the bull by the horns and brought the paper there on Friday.
I’ve done this a few times and thankfully have not run into him, but I knew my luck would run out. As it were, Friday was the day luck was taking a vacation. I heard him before I saw him, because McWigger is the loudest f*ing person on the face of planet Earth (time has not been kind to McWigger in my mind. I'm a Scorpio. Once I decide I don't like you, I hate you. I have officially crossed over to the I-Hate-McWigger side of the Force). I knew it would only be a matter of time until he came over to bother me and I was mentally prepared. Sure enough, I’m reading the Post, pretending to be entirely and utterly engrossed in whatever it was I was reading when the chair opposite me gets kicked and comes crashing into the table. This was a McWigger version of hello. I was ready for it though and I totally pretended like I didn’t even notice. A normal person might take this as a hint – but, then again, a normal person wouldn’t have kicked the f*ing chair to begin with. Predictably, the chair gets kicked again, this time much harder. I look up with an untterly non-amused expression on my face to find McWigger staring down.
Me: Oh hey, what’s going on?
McWigger: How are you?
Me: Pretty good, how are you?
McW: You tell me.
Me: Tell you what?
McW: How I’m doing.
Me: I don’t get it.
McW: Tell me how I’m doing.
Me: What?
McW: You tell me how I’m doing.
Me: Ummm…alright. You’re doing …fine?
McW: Yes I’m doing fine.
Me: Okay. Great. Good for you.
At this point, I was hoping the conversation was over, but McWigger then whipped out his new cell phone to show it off to me. As it happens, it’s a Samsung and I was just in the Samsung store in the TimeWarner Center, looking at this very phone, which is the slimmest in the world. At the store, they told me it was only available in Korea, so I inquired about how he was able to get it. “I paid $500 for it,” was the response. “Of course you did” was mine. He then proceeded to tell me it had a camera on it that could take pictures in very rapid succession. “Cool,” I said. “Yes, it’s great for porn,” was his response. No lie. I had enough. I don't know what his stupid porn kick is about, but it's disrespectful and I was taking a stand. I was like, “What the fuck does that mean?” His answer, “Um, I don’t know.” I replied, “Well, I’m going to get back to the paper now.”
I tried to go back to the paper but McWigger refused to let the conversation die and we spent a few more minutes talking about crap. By crap, I mean McWigger was threatening to call this guy who also visits the coffee shop regularly named Eric. Eric is a cool guy, and I knew he developed a small crush on me, but I was not interested. Eric has bad teeth and is in need of a good haircut, and probably a good shower as well. However, Eric can talk about many things including art and history and politics and he’s traveled. McWigger’s conversation points consist of porn references (see above and original entry) and how much money he spends on absolute crap. I was like go ahead and call Eric then, so he starts to dial, realizes I don’t give a shit and hangs up. He finally goes back to work. I was hoping this was the end of it.
However, several minutes later he’s back by the table cleaning up some papers that were under it. The last paper he throws on top of what I’m reading. Without looking up, I take the paper, fold it, and place in somewhere deep in the back of the newspaper. I continue reading.
Several seconds later, and I cannot make this up, a fucking dime nails me in the throat. McWigger had whipped a dime at me and hit me in the fucking neck. I wanted to stand up and yell “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? GROW. THE. FUCK. UP!!!!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. So, I took the dime, which had bounced off me and onto the table, and put it in my purse. It was about 2:40 p.m. I told myself I’d leave at 3 p.m. And find a new coffee shop. Forever.
But McWigger wasn’t done. Minutes later, he is hovering over me again. Now I’m seriously furious. A.) Get a fucking clue. B.) Grow up. C) Leave me the hell alone. All of these things I wanted to scream while kicking him repeatedly in the balls, but I restrained and just ignored him. I was doing the SuDoKu puzzle and just wanted to be left in peace to finish it because I was making record time.
No such luck. McWigger circles again and stands over my table. I am seriously filled with rage, but I keep my head down and ignore him. This is when McWigger grabs the pen out of my hand. I look up. He looks at me, looks at the puzzle and then the douchebag starts filling in numbers. I grab the pen. I’m like "What the hell are you doing?" He’s like "Revenge is a bitch." I’m like "Revenge for WHAT?" He goes to write in the puzzle again. I put my hand over it and say, "Stop it. Now." He goes to write on my hand but winds up cutting it with the pen instead. I go, "You just cut my hand you fucking asshole, STOP IT." He lets go…thinking that I was joking. I give him the dirtiest look the world has ever seen, call him a douchebag under my breath and go back to the puzzle. It’s now 2:57 and I decide I’ve had more than enough.
I pick up the paper and walk out of the shop. He watches me go and I give him a peace sign over my shoulder. As in PEACE BITCH.
I fucking hate McWigger.
Lately, I’ve been avoiding the coffee shop to stay away from McWigger. McWigger is the guy who asked me if I liked porn in the middle of our “date” and he manages the coffee shop that I like, which is how I came to meet him. I thought he owned it…and not that I’m one of those girls…but I’m one of those girls…and he actually manages it. This and other horrifying facts came out on our “date” and long story, short, I’ve been avoiding the coffee shop ever since.
McWigger is not very mature and I knew that he would not handle himself as a 31-year-old properly should, had I continued to frequent the store as I was. However, quite frankly, I’m tired of trekking all over town trying to find a place that was just as close and just as cheap. It’s not fair. So I took the bull by the horns and brought the paper there on Friday.
I’ve done this a few times and thankfully have not run into him, but I knew my luck would run out. As it were, Friday was the day luck was taking a vacation. I heard him before I saw him, because McWigger is the loudest f*ing person on the face of planet Earth (time has not been kind to McWigger in my mind. I'm a Scorpio. Once I decide I don't like you, I hate you. I have officially crossed over to the I-Hate-McWigger side of the Force). I knew it would only be a matter of time until he came over to bother me and I was mentally prepared. Sure enough, I’m reading the Post, pretending to be entirely and utterly engrossed in whatever it was I was reading when the chair opposite me gets kicked and comes crashing into the table. This was a McWigger version of hello. I was ready for it though and I totally pretended like I didn’t even notice. A normal person might take this as a hint – but, then again, a normal person wouldn’t have kicked the f*ing chair to begin with. Predictably, the chair gets kicked again, this time much harder. I look up with an untterly non-amused expression on my face to find McWigger staring down.
Me: Oh hey, what’s going on?
McWigger: How are you?
Me: Pretty good, how are you?
McW: You tell me.
Me: Tell you what?
McW: How I’m doing.
Me: I don’t get it.
McW: Tell me how I’m doing.
Me: What?
McW: You tell me how I’m doing.
Me: Ummm…alright. You’re doing …fine?
McW: Yes I’m doing fine.
Me: Okay. Great. Good for you.
At this point, I was hoping the conversation was over, but McWigger then whipped out his new cell phone to show it off to me. As it happens, it’s a Samsung and I was just in the Samsung store in the TimeWarner Center, looking at this very phone, which is the slimmest in the world. At the store, they told me it was only available in Korea, so I inquired about how he was able to get it. “I paid $500 for it,” was the response. “Of course you did” was mine. He then proceeded to tell me it had a camera on it that could take pictures in very rapid succession. “Cool,” I said. “Yes, it’s great for porn,” was his response. No lie. I had enough. I don't know what his stupid porn kick is about, but it's disrespectful and I was taking a stand. I was like, “What the fuck does that mean?” His answer, “Um, I don’t know.” I replied, “Well, I’m going to get back to the paper now.”
I tried to go back to the paper but McWigger refused to let the conversation die and we spent a few more minutes talking about crap. By crap, I mean McWigger was threatening to call this guy who also visits the coffee shop regularly named Eric. Eric is a cool guy, and I knew he developed a small crush on me, but I was not interested. Eric has bad teeth and is in need of a good haircut, and probably a good shower as well. However, Eric can talk about many things including art and history and politics and he’s traveled. McWigger’s conversation points consist of porn references (see above and original entry) and how much money he spends on absolute crap. I was like go ahead and call Eric then, so he starts to dial, realizes I don’t give a shit and hangs up. He finally goes back to work. I was hoping this was the end of it.
However, several minutes later he’s back by the table cleaning up some papers that were under it. The last paper he throws on top of what I’m reading. Without looking up, I take the paper, fold it, and place in somewhere deep in the back of the newspaper. I continue reading.
Several seconds later, and I cannot make this up, a fucking dime nails me in the throat. McWigger had whipped a dime at me and hit me in the fucking neck. I wanted to stand up and yell “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? GROW. THE. FUCK. UP!!!!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction. So, I took the dime, which had bounced off me and onto the table, and put it in my purse. It was about 2:40 p.m. I told myself I’d leave at 3 p.m. And find a new coffee shop. Forever.
But McWigger wasn’t done. Minutes later, he is hovering over me again. Now I’m seriously furious. A.) Get a fucking clue. B.) Grow up. C) Leave me the hell alone. All of these things I wanted to scream while kicking him repeatedly in the balls, but I restrained and just ignored him. I was doing the SuDoKu puzzle and just wanted to be left in peace to finish it because I was making record time.
No such luck. McWigger circles again and stands over my table. I am seriously filled with rage, but I keep my head down and ignore him. This is when McWigger grabs the pen out of my hand. I look up. He looks at me, looks at the puzzle and then the douchebag starts filling in numbers. I grab the pen. I’m like "What the hell are you doing?" He’s like "Revenge is a bitch." I’m like "Revenge for WHAT?" He goes to write in the puzzle again. I put my hand over it and say, "Stop it. Now." He goes to write on my hand but winds up cutting it with the pen instead. I go, "You just cut my hand you fucking asshole, STOP IT." He lets go…thinking that I was joking. I give him the dirtiest look the world has ever seen, call him a douchebag under my breath and go back to the puzzle. It’s now 2:57 and I decide I’ve had more than enough.
I pick up the paper and walk out of the shop. He watches me go and I give him a peace sign over my shoulder. As in PEACE BITCH.
I fucking hate McWigger.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Bryant Park
So...I am currently sitting here spending a beautiful afternoon in Bryant Park, complete with my iPod and free wireless internet. I heart what New York has made me appreciate.
What I don't appreciate are the following:
1.) Couples in love. I'm not trying to be bitter Betty here...but at this moment in time, this is getting on my nerves.
2.) People who are trying to sunbathe. In October. In the middle of New York City. I understand it's warm out, I understand the sun is shining, but give it up, people, give it up.
3.) People who are eating food that smells delicious. I am getting slightly hungry, therefore, temptation is not good for me right now. I have no money to spend on food outside of my house. I have a terrific pantry full of tuna fish and the ingredients to make a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich at home. I don't need to be tempted with the incredible smell of a Subway steak sub right now. Bastards. I'll probably get one. And it will be amazing. And then I'll have my usual buyer's remorse. DAMN YOU JON LOVITZ AND YOUR HILARIOUS COMMERCIALS.
I have to get out of here and make a bacon, egg and cheese immediately.
What I don't appreciate are the following:
1.) Couples in love. I'm not trying to be bitter Betty here...but at this moment in time, this is getting on my nerves.
2.) People who are trying to sunbathe. In October. In the middle of New York City. I understand it's warm out, I understand the sun is shining, but give it up, people, give it up.
3.) People who are eating food that smells delicious. I am getting slightly hungry, therefore, temptation is not good for me right now. I have no money to spend on food outside of my house. I have a terrific pantry full of tuna fish and the ingredients to make a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich at home. I don't need to be tempted with the incredible smell of a Subway steak sub right now. Bastards. I'll probably get one. And it will be amazing. And then I'll have my usual buyer's remorse. DAMN YOU JON LOVITZ AND YOUR HILARIOUS COMMERCIALS.
I have to get out of here and make a bacon, egg and cheese immediately.
My BS Meter is Broken
I used to pride myself on being able to see through BS. I’m a pretty down-to-earth girl…I don’t respond to pick-up lines, I see right through so-called players and whatnot. Normally, these types of guys can sense this and they don’t even approach me in the first place. It’s a source of pride for me. I enjoy the fact that I’ve never had to deal with anyone’s lies because I saw through them the moment I met them.
However, lately, I think my finely tuned skills are faltering. For the second time, I met someone who seemed genuine, who seemed like they were really nice and then they blew me off! At first I was insulted. I was like what am I doing soooo wrong that two seemingly normal guys just disappeared. In the first case, I have a pretty good idea what I did wrong so I’m not concerned about that. However, in the second case, I have no freaking idea. Rather than turn outward, I turned inward and figured it out – my BS meter is totally broken! I’m talking like totally turned off! At the very least, it’s in a temporary state of disrepair. And this is very upsetting to me, because I use this meter not only to help myself but to help others - to give advice and help analyze the BS things boys tell them. I just can’t have it going and breaking down. I don’t feel like writing about all the crappy dates I go on forever because I can’t see that someone is a douchebag. (The only other answer is that people just get busy, don’t care or their ex-girlfriend comes back in the picture, or whatever…but those ideas aren’t nearly as fun to write about.)
The problem now is though that when/if I do meet someone totally genuine, I’m not going to believe them. And this, my friends, is how New York women grow up to be bitter and jaded. It starts sometime in their mid-twenties and steadily grows worse until you hate every man who walks by because you can already see the lies coming out of his mouth before he even opens it to say hello. I was sad when I reached this conclusion and realized I probably only have 1 –2 years left in New York before I have to leave to save my own life.
In addition, separate from the BS meter, I was officially called “an older woman” for the first time the other night. I was at my little cousin’s house and his friend sat down to talk to me. He was 21. He asked me how old I was. I was like 25. He was like sweet, an older woman. I was like Oh. My. God. I just laughed, and I was like yes, I’m an older woman. And then I started to cry. No, just kidding I didn’t cry, I laughed. But inside…I died a little. Haha, no I’m just kidding about that too. I thought it was funny. Sad and weird…but funny.
I also realized the other day that I have learned to scope people out based on the presence of a wedding band! How horrible is that!!!! Am I so old that this is now a pre-requisite to even forming an opinion? The answer is yes! Agggh!!!
Curumin
So my roommate brought me to a show at Joe's Pub last night to see a Brazilian musician named Curumin. His style is like Brazilian/Samba/Funk and he totally kicks ass. The show was a lot of fun and it was also really cool to be at Joe's Pub. Check out his stuff, you won't be disappointed.
However, lately, I think my finely tuned skills are faltering. For the second time, I met someone who seemed genuine, who seemed like they were really nice and then they blew me off! At first I was insulted. I was like what am I doing soooo wrong that two seemingly normal guys just disappeared. In the first case, I have a pretty good idea what I did wrong so I’m not concerned about that. However, in the second case, I have no freaking idea. Rather than turn outward, I turned inward and figured it out – my BS meter is totally broken! I’m talking like totally turned off! At the very least, it’s in a temporary state of disrepair. And this is very upsetting to me, because I use this meter not only to help myself but to help others - to give advice and help analyze the BS things boys tell them. I just can’t have it going and breaking down. I don’t feel like writing about all the crappy dates I go on forever because I can’t see that someone is a douchebag. (The only other answer is that people just get busy, don’t care or their ex-girlfriend comes back in the picture, or whatever…but those ideas aren’t nearly as fun to write about.)
The problem now is though that when/if I do meet someone totally genuine, I’m not going to believe them. And this, my friends, is how New York women grow up to be bitter and jaded. It starts sometime in their mid-twenties and steadily grows worse until you hate every man who walks by because you can already see the lies coming out of his mouth before he even opens it to say hello. I was sad when I reached this conclusion and realized I probably only have 1 –2 years left in New York before I have to leave to save my own life.
In addition, separate from the BS meter, I was officially called “an older woman” for the first time the other night. I was at my little cousin’s house and his friend sat down to talk to me. He was 21. He asked me how old I was. I was like 25. He was like sweet, an older woman. I was like Oh. My. God. I just laughed, and I was like yes, I’m an older woman. And then I started to cry. No, just kidding I didn’t cry, I laughed. But inside…I died a little. Haha, no I’m just kidding about that too. I thought it was funny. Sad and weird…but funny.
I also realized the other day that I have learned to scope people out based on the presence of a wedding band! How horrible is that!!!! Am I so old that this is now a pre-requisite to even forming an opinion? The answer is yes! Agggh!!!
Curumin
So my roommate brought me to a show at Joe's Pub last night to see a Brazilian musician named Curumin. His style is like Brazilian/Samba/Funk and he totally kicks ass. The show was a lot of fun and it was also really cool to be at Joe's Pub. Check out his stuff, you won't be disappointed.
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