The Wounded Idealist

Timeline of Events During the Black Hole of Blogging

2011-11-22T09:44:00.000-08:00

So, yeah. There was this thing that happened in the stunning lapse of my posting where I met a man, fell in love, and entered a relationship with said man. That was winter '10 - spring '11.

Then we broke up.

Two weeks later, I got a new job.

That juuuuust about sums up summer '11. (Hell yeah! Summa 4 eva!)

Here's a nifty timeline of the events following those two rather stunning and maybe just a little bit life altering events:

October 3: I am diagnosed with shingles.

October 10: I fly to Frankfurt for work, with shingles.

October 21: Shingles can go FUCK THEMSELVES.

October 31st: I fall down a flight of stairs, thus re-injuring the leg I broke two years ago. I am wearing a red flapper dress and four inch heels. NEVER AGAIN.

November 4: Back! Back in the boot! Fuck my life!

November 20th: Thanksgiving Friends Dinner. I get accidentally wasted on Prosecco a mere two hours after I vow to NOT DRINK while walking to the host's apartment.

(Oh, irony is a bitch, isn't it.)

November 21, 2:00 am: Having no goddamn idea what time it is (drunk!), I go to the above-mentioned new (and improved!) ex's house where I proceed to ring his buzzer several hundred times until he answers. At 2:00 AM! On a Monday!

November 21, 2:16 am (estimated): New Ex, being the nice guy he is, drives me home, but not before I a). ask to stay at his house, b). ask him to stay at my house and c). confess that I still love him. Pass out sometime shortly thereafter. In my own bed. Alone. :'(

November 21, 7:15 am: Wake up.

November 21, 7:16 am - Present: Mortification: Learning to Live with It.

Mercury in Retrograde

2011-08-18T07:24:00.000-07:00

For reasons that shall remain unmentioned (because they cross all boundaries of common decency) I would just like to point out that I am, in fact, sitting at my desk in my business casual dress without any underwear on.

No, I am not kidding.

Yes, it was a bad morning.

And Mercury can go fuck its red self.

Lesson of the Week:

2010-02-05T09:33:00.000-08:00

When going out on a first date-type thing with a person who has, rather effectively, managed to charm the, um, pants off you over the preceding week to ten days, you should maybe ask a few well placed questions when he's sharing a song from his iPod whereby you can glean sufficient enough information to come to a conclusion on how this person feels about said song and music in general, i.e. if he is a person who is, quote unquote INTO music and maybe not just someone who sort of likes music, hey didn't Dave Matthews Band used to be good, like in college, I really loved Crash, and that maybe, if that person is into music and is trying to share something with you and you know, you kind of like that person but not just like them but LIKE LIKE them that maybe you should, you know, listen to the song he's trying to play for you maybe and not just start screaming about your new! favorite! song! to workout to and then assualt him with Adam Lambert.

Just sayin'.

Ah, Love

2010-01-23T12:32:00.001-08:00

Last night, while sitting in a wine bar with a friend, I got into a mild verbal confrontation with an incredibly drunken idiot who, when asked if he could stop, um, using my body as a wall and um, LEANING ON ME, and please stop swiping me in the face every time he picked up his beer that he put on the bar, um, BETWEEN me and MY drink, told me the following:

"Stop being so fat."

"Leave New York and go back to wherever you came from."

"Go to church."

Charming! I think I found my new boyfriend!

Sunday Musings

2010-01-17T10:42:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel like parts of your past happened to someone else? You remember what happened but you are no longer able to associate an emotion with those events and, because of that lack of emotionality, you feel as though huge parts of your life never even happened to you.

I've been feeling that way lately, especially about things that I used to feel so passionately about, like failed relationships. I can remember the pain and frustration, but thinking about it doesn't recreate the feeling. It's more like hearing someone else talk about their past, instead of associating with it intimately. Maybe it's because I'm different? Because I (hopefully!) learned from those experiences and won't recreate the worst parts of them. Maybe I'm just growing up. Who knows?

Anyway, it's probably best not to even try to continue to wax philosophical about this or anything, especially cause I'm kind of hungover...

For Your Entertainment

2010-01-16T13:58:00.000-08:00

In what is possibly the one of the fastest fails of all time, I will only post twice this week. HA! HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Ahem.

Therefore, I dub my weeks to be from Monday - Sunday rather than Sunday - Saturday in an effort to make three posts this week.

This will probably change again, but for right now, this is how it is.

Anywho, I'm kind obsessed with Adam Lambert right now. I don't know why, other than he sort of reminds me of Freddie Mercury. Which I suppose is the point.

And, uh, I was going to try to post a video of him here but I can't figure out how.

I probably shouldn't be allowed to have a blog.

This Post Brought to You By

2010-01-14T11:49:00.000-08:00

My seething rage.

It's probably not worth going into detail, other than to say I have this, uh, friend, who maybe has an injured body part and has been out of his/her office for the past three weeks, resting this body part.

And then, when this friend finally starts to heal and can get to work and all and is trying to catch up on all the stuff he/she needs to, people starting send him/her requests to make dinner reservations for a day that is very close to today. VERY close. And the list of requirements is as follows:

It must be impressive.

But it must be cheap.

It must have a private room.

That's not too big.

And not too small.

The food must be great.

But not too expensive.

And not too cheap.

It should have some high tables.

And some low tables.

And be in New York.

But not all of New York.

Only the "good" parts of New York.

It must be quiet.

But not too quiet.

And hip.

But not so hip.

I think you get the idea.

Welcome back, friend!

A Moment of Silence

2010-01-08T06:43:00.000-08:00

I'd like to have a moment of silence for the soon to be dearly departed. You see, the cable guy is coming in a couple of hours and I'm going to have to part ways with my DVR and everything saved therein.

Goodbye, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. Christian Slater will always be hot in your presentation.

Go with God, Steel Magnolias and Gone With the Wind. Your affecting Southern American dramas stirred my soul.

Rest in peace, episodes of 30 Rock, The Office, East Bound and Down, and Flight of the Conchords. You made me laugh. Laugh harder than ever.

[[Pours out a little for my boy Kenny Powers.]]

A fond farewell to those I haven't had a chance to watch yet, including Rendition, Suddenly Last Summer, and Michael Clayton. You were taken too soon.

And finally, I'd like to offer up a special goodbye to those comedy staples that no movie library should be without. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. She's the Man. Hairspray. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? This is Spinal Tap. You made it easy for me to fall asleep. That is the greatest gift you could ever give. I hope you are happy in Cablevision heaven.

I knew thee well, fair television episodes and movies. You were the greatest of friends. You will be missed.

Until tomorrow.

The Television Has Landed

2010-01-06T09:27:00.000-08:00

I'm having an anxiety attack about a TV. An LCD HDTV, but a TV nonetheless.

I need a life.

Or to get out of this fucking cast.

Like, now.

Anyway, the only TV I owned until sometime in 2006 was a 12" little crappy thing that I got from my cousin. I think he used to have it in his kitchen. I used it sometimes in my bedroom when I moved in with my mother after college. It was totally fine.

I moved to Hoboken in 2005. Used the roommate/boyfriend's TV in the living room. He had a spaz attack at some point, said we were spending too much time together (I don't think we had officially started dating yet, but really have no idea as to the exact timeline anymore... I try not think about it too much because although I was skinny, I was miserable) and we rearranged our apartment to make it more "separate." I was stressed out, probably clinically depressed, and bought myself a flat screen CRT TV for, like $350. I thought it would make things better. I think it did. I was in approximately $16,000 of debt at the time.

Awesome.

Fast forward a lot of time, some dating the roommate, some more misery, finally moving out. I still have the CRT TV but, for the past few months, have been considering upgrading. I found a TV on Amazon that I liked (and had researched in person) and finally got a notice that the price was low. Like, really low.

Like, so low that if I didn't buy it, I would probably regret it forever.

So, I bought it.

It was delivered today. To the apartment upstairs. I'm still on crutches (story on how that happened still to come but really, it's so incredibly lame that it's almost not worth repeating) and managed to get a 32" LCD TV downstairs and into my apartment, mainly by sliding around on my ass for awhile.

I am small but willful. (Second example: Walking with a broken fibula for 3 days before getting an x-ray. I am so tough. Grrr.)

Anyway, as soon as I got it in my apartment, I had an anxiety attack. Because, how am I going to set it up? I have a broken leg! I thought I had an HD cable box but I don't! So I'm going to lose all the movies I have saved, such stellar titles that are totally irreplaceable like "She's the Man" and "Steel Magnolias." What if the cable guy comes with my new box (heh) and sets up my TV for me and it doesn't work? Cause I bought it on the Internet? WHAT IF I DIE?

Really, that's where the thoughts eventually went. What if, because I bought this Samsung LCD TV on the Internet, I DIE?

Do we think I've spent too much time in my apartment?

Christ...

Resolution

2010-01-02T05:09:00.000-08:00

So. One of my dozen or so New Year's resolutions is to write more. More specifically, to write on this here blog more. Because I looked at the number of posts for 2009 and it was less than 30. Less than 30 posts for the whole darn year. For SHAME.

So. I will be posting more. And the reason I'm being totally lame in this here post and only really writing about how I am going to post more is so when I fail, I can refer back to this and self-flagellate with ease. Like, look self. YOU SUCK. It's on THE INTERNET. MOCKING YOU. How much YOU SUCK.

Ahem.

Anyway, I plan on trying to post three times per week. No, wait. Scratch that verbiage. I plan on POSTING three times a week. Not just TRYING to. Simple twist of wording and BAM. LOOPHOLE. See, I'm just laying it all out on the line, because a). it's good to have manageable goals and b). things like resolutions and goals don't really mean anything unless you either write them down or tell people about them. In this case, I'm doing both. (The previous two sentences brought to you, completely without irony, by my former psychologist. Therapy works, people.)

Plus, I broke my ankle two weeks ago (story to come) and have been spending an inordinate amount of time totally cooped up in my house watching things like "Confessions of a Shopaholic" and "Fraggle Rock" on Instant Netflix. Which probably isn't serving me extremely well. So, yay. Writing inane things here more. While hotly anticipating the next episode of "Jersey Shore."

Because I have GOALS.

Year in Review... Sort of

2009-12-30T18:23:00.000-08:00

I guess this is the point where I reflect on the past year and talk about everything I've learned and how I've grown and how different I am and blah, blah, blah. But the truth of the matter is that, in essence, very little of my life is any different than it was twelve months ago. But I did learn one thing: when that psychic in New Orleans told me I'd be marred at 29, he was totally lying. But we knew already, didn't we?

My mental health is improved. Oh, and I stopped working at the restaurant. I'm not dating anyone, really, but that's not any different than normal. I went to Ireland for a friend's wedding and to Disney World with the family. I went to Toronto and Charlotte, NC for work. I gained 20 pounds. I've done a better job at my, uh, job than I normally do. I write sometimes. I'm learning to live on my non-supplemented-with-a-second-job salary. I broke my ankle. I got too drunk and did stupid things. I've been played. Hard. I learned that it's OK to be sad. And it's OK to be happy. And it's OK to be alone. And I'm happy alone. But sometimes I'm not. Which is OK too. I welcomed two new members into my family. I had a pregnancy scare. I stood up for myself. I've become a better listener. I canceled HBO. And signed up for Netflix. I rejoined my old gym. I still have a love/hate relationship with it. Some things don't change. And some things change imperceptibly. And some changes are huge (like my ass). And hopefully, they'll keep changing.

Happy 2010. I hope all your changes make more sense than mine...

There Was Some Fixodent in my Stocking Too

2009-11-24T20:53:00.000-08:00

Because my mother is under the delusion that she didn't merely give birth to me but, you know, CREATED me in her EXACT LIKENESS, she has no understanding of the fact that I am, indeed, not her clone but an actual living, breathing, person under the age of thirty.

And because she cannot grasp this aspect of reality, my Christmas gift last year was a subscription to Prevention magazine. A healthy lifestyle magazine. With workouts, beauty advice and diet tips. Geared to the over 40, post-menopausal, Botox needing, calcium deficient lady set.

(To be fair, she also got me a matronly red dress and a fluffy purple hat. So. At least there was a theme.)

So, it comes once a month (like other hotly anticipated events in these here parts) and I read it. On the bus. In about seven minutes. It (like other things in these here parts) is minimally invasive.

So this month, I learned that bacteria lives on the back of your tongue. And it breeds stinky breath. So, to combat halitosis, the number one recommendation from Prevention is to use a tongue scraper. It tells you to go back as far as you can without gagging yourself which, AHEM PREVENTION, stop it with the blow job references.

In what is again, another extreme overshare, I do indeed own a tongue scraper. Until I read this article, I had never used it. But now, thanks to this three sentence article, I'm fucking paranoid about halitosis, so I fucking use it every night. Along with brushing and flossing and gargling with Listerine. Because, thanks, Prevention, I really needed one MORE step to add to my already incredibly time consuming and Lost re-run watching interrupting pre-bedtime oral hygiene regimen.

But, really, your mouth does feel fresh after a good tongue scraping. So, you know, public service announcement. Thing.

I Also Have Adult Acne

2009-11-16T12:09:00.000-08:00

In what I'm sure is an over-share of epic proportions, I'm just gonna lay this out there:

I peed myself yesterday.

Slightly.

I have had the croup for what is, oh, two weeks now and cannot shake this damn cough. Or, as a coworker put it, lung fungus. And yesterday, for the first time in ten days, I decided to work out.

So, I put on my running shoes and decided to jog to the gym. About halfway there, I had a coughing fit while running and, you know, let a little out.

Lesson: When re-entering the sphere of the physically fit after a nasty cold/pig flu type disease, put an extra pair of underwear in your pocket.

Just in case.

And I Am So Keeping My Eye on You

2009-11-15T09:19:00.000-08:00

Maybe this is just a by-product of being a hair shy of thirty (ew) or of generally being too awesome for words (probably not) but there's a strange phenomenon that has been occurring lately.

I like to call it "A Situation Wherein All of Your Past Errors in Judgement Come Back to Haunt You" or, more simply, "Attack of the Douches."

You see, this thing has been happening where men from my past, specifically men with whom I had a romantic interest in/connection with, have been contacting me, out of the blue, preaching that they have CHANGED and please give them a SECOND CHANCE because don't you know it's DIFFERENT NOW. As opposed to EARLIER when they were asshole douche bags and did things such as, you know, woo me and then sleep with me and then never call me again. Totally stand up guys.

And because I'm an extremely forgiving person (see also: SUCKER) I usually wind up giving the ex-douches a second chance because hey, people can change, right? RIGHT?

//Tap, tap. This thing on?//

So, anyway. The story is the same. Ex asshole calls/Facebook messages/emails me and opens the communication door. Usually at least one year after they screwed me over the first time. This initial communication is eminently reasonable and rather nice and polite. Because, hey, no hard feelings and I'm not the type to dwell on past injustices (yeah, right), I respond, usually reasonably as well. Phone conversations ensue. There is a profession of guilt (on his part, of course), followed by something to the effect of a half apology and capped off with some begging for a second chance. I react dubiously. He showers me with compliments. I cannot resist compliments. There are semi-romantic declarations of you were THE ONE. And he SCREWED IT ALL UP. Please, please, give him a SECOND CHANCE. Insert some fierce romantic tendencies and I relent.

We meet. It's great. Hilarious. Effortless. Drunk. Hot make up sex ensues. Then...

Nothing.

No follow up phone calls. No more emails. No more communication of any kind.

And it's like, what? Did you really just do all that legwork, make all those proclamations, put in the effort to contact me out of nowhere, just to sleep with me because ... why? To prove you still could? To prove that people don't, can't and never will change? To use me?

I'm just sort of baffled. And yes, I realize that I could, you know, STOP BEING SO EASY but hey. That's not my style. And if you're the kind of guy who is going to lose respect for me because I, you know, LIKE SEX and you know, AM SINGLE, and you know, CAN DO IT WITH WHOEVER I WANT. Well then, you're not the guy for me anyway.

At least this has happened a few times now and I'm prepared. So, ex-douches be ye warned: I'm NOT FALLING FOR IT.

ANYMORE.

It only took me, oh, seven tries. But I have LEARNED, DAMMIT.

Because I'm, like, real smart. Or something.

And There Was Pasta, Too!

2009-11-10T10:34:00.000-08:00

And in the grand tradition of AMAZINGNESS that I started last week with the whole branded Snuggie bit, I'm just going to go ahead and continue to pat my own self on my own self's back (the perpetual wrenched arm is SO totally worth it) and declare myself a culinary genius as well.

Why, you ask?

I made turkey meatballs! Last night! By myself! Without having to call my mother! Or Google anything! And, lo, they are eminently EDIBLE.

I probably should have taken a picture but I am lame. And really, who wants to see pictures of brownish edible spheres of meat?

(I may have just made my eminently edible meatballs less appealing with that image. Thanks, self. You are awesome.)

In an effort to erase previously mentioned mental image, I leave you with this:

Because who doesn't love a penguin? Who?

And on the Eighth Day, Vicki Created:

2009-11-06T11:27:00.000-08:00

I know I'm going on about three months of posting silence and, yet again, I have no good excuse. Other than I am lazy. And love Battlestar Galactica too much. And am ... um ... lazy. Writing is haaaaarrrdd. [Cue tiny violins]

But, in a twisted turn of fate, an EVENT has happened. A MOMENTOUS, CAREER CHANGING event that I am so desperately, completely proud of that I feel an incredible need to shout it from the top of the ... um ... Internet. Mountain. Thingy.

Ahem.

Moving on. My company's marketing team had the incredibly good sense (also known as: poor judgement) to ask me to source some giveaway options for a rather large conference coming up in January. I was asked to price options for two gifts; one in the $1 - $3 range and another in the $20 - $30 range so we can give our shiny, happy clients something to make them shinier and happier and signrighthereonthedottedlinethanx!

In a stroke of sheer creative brilliance (and, why, yes my arm rather DOES ache from all of the patting myself on my own self's back, thank you) I found, requested a sample of and presented as a viable, reasonable option to the senior marketing manager, the head of sales, my boss and my boss's boss THIS:

BEHOLD, the "Snuggle Me Chenille Blanket."

What is a "Snuggle Me Chenille Blanket?"

That, my friends, is a motherfucking BRANDED SNUGGIE.

And lo, the heavens and the earth moved, angels sang, Jesus was reborn and came unto to us and thusly it was deemed by the powers that be A GOOD IDEA and ACCEPTED as a GIVEAWAY OPTION and I AM A GENIUS.

Because really. Who ISN'T going to be talking about the loony-bins at the booth halfway down the third aisle giving away Snuggies?

Hello foot traffic.

My name is Victoria.

So nice to meet you.

Sunday Funday

2009-08-09T20:29:00.000-07:00

Things that my cat ate today:

1. Cat food out of his bowl.

2. Pad Thai.

3. Cat food out of the bag that is wrapped in another bag that he somehow unwrapped and shoved his fat head into.

4. A Welch's Concord Grape flavored Fruit Snack.

I'm in ur baskit, eatin ur snax.

An Open Letter...

2009-08-08T20:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Party of 17 adults and 9 (yes you read that right, 9 MOTHERFUCKING kids), and 2 babies that I waited on this evening:

You suck. You suck so badly that I said, out loud, to more than one person and definitely my manager, that I hoped you rot in hell. All 28 of you. Including the two babies. Who are seemingly probably innocent in all this if it wasn't for a). the fact that they probably aren't baptized yet and, if they were to perish, they would likely join you in hell because, you know, original sin and all and YOU DIDN'T SAVE THEIR SOULS YOU TERRIBLE PARENTS and b). the screaming. Oh God. THE SCREAMING.

Really, I appreciate having to carry heavy plates/large trays of hot coffee/ten cosmopolitans in wobbly glasses to your tables while your nine, yes NINE, children all under the age of seven play Ring-Around-the-Rosie IN BETWEEN MY LEGS. It's totally easy to do. Like walking in the fucking park. While being attacked by a gaggle of Canadian geese, forty-seven hundred crows and sixteen rabid dogs. Yeah, it's that easy.

And really, also, planning your parents' 40th anniversary dinner for eight p.m. and you know, delaying ALL NINE kids' dinners by THREE HOURS without, you know, planning ahead or giving them snacks or NOT STARVING THEM was probably one of the more spectacular moments in parenting I've witnessed in awhile. Up there with that guy who forgot that his little baby was in the back seat of his minivan and he locked her in the car in 97 degree weather and you know, she DIED. I just want to say this to all three sets of parents: YOU ARE GODDAMN GENIUSES. It's almost like all of you were first time parents. Except you aren't! Because you all have multiple children! And really, it's amazing how little foresight you can have, what with completely fucking up their eating schedules and then, incredulously, wondering why all nine kids and two babies are collectively LOSING THEIR SHIT.

And guess what? Telling me that you think I did a really good job and that you're sorry that it was, and I quote, "a little hectic" is really nice and all but 1). " a little hectic" doesn't even BEGIN to cover the complete and total shit show this dinner turned out to be and the sheer desperation I felt while trying to serve you and 2). you know how you can say thank you? You can pay me. In cash. The biggest tip of your life. Because actually just saying thank you? And not tipping me over the 19 percent that's automatically included? Doesn't mean shit.

See you in hell.

I'll bring the sunscreen.

-Vicki

And Maybe Cover Him in Bacon

2009-08-04T08:06:00.000-07:00

I drank 1 and 1/3's pitchers of sangria to myself on Sunday. And I had artichoke and spinach dip, a BBQ bacon burger, french fries, a breakfast sausage, more bacon, a meat omelette, some fried breakfast potatoes and more bacon. I woke up Monday morning, naked, not exactly sure how I had gotten into bed, with MSNBC blaring and my cat standing my my face because I guess I had forgotten to feed him before, um, passing out.

And then I ran into one of my friends who had participated in The Great Bacon & Meat & Sangira & More Bacon Fest of August 2, 2009, and her name is Lollipop (not really, this is what I choose to call her) and she reminded me that, during this fest, I told her I wanted to go to all the big frat parties at Stevens Institute of Technology the first week of school because oh yeah. She is a junior in college and can somebody please explain to me what the fuck am I doing?

I willingly get hammered with college kids on Sunday afternoons and beg them to take me to their frat parties because, and I quote Lollipop quoting myself back to me, "I want to trick a cute 20-year-old Lacrosse player into impregnating me so I can blend my two desires into one." What desires, you ask? The desire to be both still in college and to have a baby.

And I still have the audacity to actually wonder what my problem is.

2009-07-29T08:06:00.000-07:00

Oh jeez. This post is about to go all emo on your ass, but I can't help it. Sometimes that's just the way it has to be.

I was walking to the PATH yesterday, down the stretch of 6th Ave between 14th and 16th streets. They are an unpleasant two blocks, littered with buildings that look like projects and a few homeless people who seem to reside on this particular stretch of sidewalk, as they're surrounded by what looks like garbage but is probably their possessions. Their stuff; Styrofoam cups, dirty rags, lumpy black trash bags. It hurts to look at so I try not to. It also smells like piss.

Against this particular backdrop, two girls, maybe in high school or college, walked by me in the opposite direction. They looked like all teen aged girls in downtown NYC do, like they were outfitted completely at Urban Outfitters or American Apparel. Skinny jeans, ironic headbands. You know. Teenagers.

They were walking in sync, as they were sharing one set of ear buds on one iPod. They were obviously listening to a song and they both commented on the lyrics, singing them out loud:

"I hate myself for hating myself just enough to love you."

And in one random encounter, if you could even call it an encounter, my entire emotional history, the way I felt in and feel about pretty much all my relationships, ever, was summed up.

By two teenagers walking down the street.

Needless to say, I am shamed.

Slightly.

I didn't want to Google the lyrics because I didn't want the purity of the sentiment, the raw feeling of hating yourself for loving someone, to be clouded by some whiny emo song by some whiny emo band. I held out until about an hour ago. But then I had to Google those lyrics and was introduced to ... um, a band who's name I promptly forgot. I listened to the song. It was whiny and emo. And it did kind of ruin the sentiment for me. Which is why I suppose I'm going to be a giant dick and not give the band credit here but I think my brain erased it from my memory for a reason and, well, I'm just going to leave it at that.

But I want to thank that band who wrote that whiny, terrible song, for writing the most concise summary to my entire love life. Depressing as it is.

Thanks.

I guess.

Ooof.

2009-07-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

It's been a stupid long time since I've posted anything. At all. Because. Well... I have no reason.

But I'm committing myself to starting to write in this space again. But, you know. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone.

Hi.

The Wounded, AHEM, Disappointed Idealist

2009-04-30T12:26:00.000-07:00

It was pointed out to me sometime last year that my lead in quote, "A cynic is a wounded idealist," (and hence the title of this blog and you know, MY IDENTITY) is both a). misappropriated to Mark Twain and b). a bastardization of a quote from George Carlin which goes something like, "Scratch the surface of any cynic and you'll find a disappointed idealist."

Which is sooooo not my fault.

The blame lies with my high school English teacher, Mr. White. Mr. White was a great guy, an awesome teacher who, really, got some of my best writing out of me. Ever. I still talk about the research paper I did on Stephen King's The Shining wherein I discussed such advanced literary theories at AGE SIXTEEN that he double checked my source material to make sure I hadn't plagiarized. Which was both insulting and uplifting. Just like the time my honors history teacher, Mr. Maher, handed me back my research paper on the Space Race and said, "Well, I didn't finish it but I don't think that would have changed the grade." He gave me an "A." On a paper he didn't finish reading. Okaaaaay.

[Side note: What the hell is it with my high school teachers and their diarrhea of the mouth? Like, why did I need to know that my work needed to be checked for plagiarism? And that he didn't read the entire essay? DOES NOT COMPUTE.]

Moving on. Mr. White originally misappropriated the above quote to Mark Twain, in addition to bastardizing it. Which, whatever, OK, we all make mistakes. But the notion of a cynic, born of an idealist who had been disappointed and wounded, as it were, pierced my psyche so definitively, encapsulated my entire angst ridden teen aged identity so much so that I have never been able to let it go. It's how I saw myself at sixteen and, unfortunately, except for the killing of several million brain cells during the following thirteen years, I still pretty much see myself the same way.

And I'm not entirely sure if I find comfort in the fact that I'm basically the same person I was thirteen years ago or if I'm totally horrified. Maybe both.

Have I thought about changing the name of my blog? Yes. Will I? No. Will I eventually be called out for the misappropriation and bastardization of the quote on which I've based my online identity? Probably. But then, I wouldn't be so much of cynic if I thought otherwise, would I?

Not Unlike Tracing Paper

2009-03-13T07:39:00.000-07:00

Having been burned in the college dorm bathrooms one two (ha! pun! intentional misuse of too! am witty! ... right?) many times, stuck in stall, pants around ankles and bottom wet, grappling with the toilet paper dispenser to please PLEASE let there be one more square stuck to the cardboard tube, scratching at it for the last scraps of paper in vain, sighing and resignedly asking the stranger in the next stall with the bunny slippers to pass some TP under the metal wall, dignity flushed along with everything else, I am VIGILANT about checking the toilet paper status in public restrooms.

Usually.

Yesterday I made a quick stop to the potty at the gym before hitting the treadmill. The bathrooms in the locker rooms are supposed to be nice little closets in which each very delicate lady can do her business in private, i.e., no metal half walls and rinky dink locks. Little private closets with frosted glass doors that go all the way to the floor. And, incidentally, don't provide for the much needed "Can you spare a square?" moments that haunt us all.

I didn't notice the lack of TP when I sat down to do my business. Finished, I reached over and noticed the empty roll, stomach sinking into my recently emptied bladder. Scratched at the roll, desperate. Thought about drip drying. But, ew, I had to run in my underwear for the next hour.

Then lo, miracle upon miracles, I remembered: PAPER TOILET SEAT COVERS. Above my head in the wall dispenser, behind me.

I grabbed a few and gently wiped, the feeling not unlike the worst one ply tissue you've ever used, scratchy yet absorbent.

And the best part? They, unlike paper towels OR MY UNDERWEAR are meant to be flushed.

Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros

2009-03-12T14:20:00.000-07:00

I just felt the need to post this. Because, unbeknownst to them, Jemaine Clement and Bret Mckenzie will be my husbands when polygamy becomes legal in the US.

Potentially the Worst Post Ever Written. Ever.

2009-03-02T13:06:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to think of something to write, somthing to write, something to write. And I've got absolutely nothing. But, uh, hey! At least I'm writing that I have nothing to write about instead of just, you know, not writing.

In less than awesome news, I've been smoking (cigarettes!) a lot lately when I drink. And that's not good because I'm starting to want to start smoking again and le sigh. That would be bad, for both my wallet and my lungs.

And in other news, it's snowing. But if you live in the continental United States, you probably know that.

And see? See how boring I am? I need to start getting out and doing stuff because, man. I have nothing to say! Loss for words! Me! Maybe hell is freezing over. Blech.

I need a nap.

Eh, I Have No Title. Fuck You, Title.

2009-02-23T17:16:00.000-08:00

Things are kind of awful, no good, terrible in a can I puh-lease PUH-LEASE catch a fricking break sort of way?

I am not handling the end of this most recent relationship very well and, instead of you know, actually dealing with it, I've been doing really productive things. Like sitting on my ass and eating pancakes. And not vacuuming my apartment. And watching "Fraiser" every night at midnight and 12:30. And crying incoherently while on the phone with the Zipcar rep when the car I rented yesterday to get to my cousin's baby shower wouldn't start. And the only other car that was available was in the city on Leroy St. And wuh-wuh-where is Le-le-roooy street? (My failed attempt at recreating my hyperventilating stutter due to sobbing uncontrollably over a DEAD CAR BATTERY, my apologies.) I think the nice Zipcar customer service representative was absolutely terrified. It was pathetic.

Scratch that.

I was pathetic.

I don't know what it is about me, but I can never seem to get to the anger phase of mourning, you know, the phase that catapults you into working out obsessively at the the gym, getting super hot and using your rage to go out and fuck every dude in sight, boost your confidence and MOVE ON.

Yeah, I don't think I have that emotion. Anger. I never got it after my last break-up, for more than a few minutes or so and that hasn't really served me well. And I feel like it would help me, getting angry, because I'm always so stuck in the sad sack state that all I fucking do is eat. Because then I have two things I can berate myself for! Yaaaay! He didn't like me enough and NOW I'M FAT. Great.

I think I'll have some more pancakes.

Remind Me Again: Why Do I Torture Myself ?

2009-02-09T11:06:00.000-08:00

Eh, so I ran out of shaving cream this morning after shaving my right leg but before I finished my left. I slathered on some conditioner instead but I was hurrying and seriously, whoever said that hair conditioner is a "decent substitute" for shaving cream obviously has no idea what she's talking about but whatever. The point is, I was rushing, not really paying attention, using conditioner instead of shaving cream and wound up with a huge gash across my left butt cheek. And I didn't really notice the severity of said wound until I put on jeans. That ... chafe.

It's really rather pleasantly awful. Instead of just merely awful.

On a more positive note, after a particularly unfortunate run in with a tanning booth last week, my sunburned nipples have officially stopped itching.

So.... um.... yay.

At Least it Wasn't Pad Thai

2009-02-08T17:38:00.000-08:00

So, if anyone is a member of Facebook, there's this meme that's been making the rounds called "25 Random Things About Me" where you write a note and tell the Facebook universe, um ... 25 random things about yourself. It's fairly intuitive.

Ahem.

I'm not going to cop out here and re-post my whole stupid list, but like, six of mine were about food. Because I have food issues. But one of them refers to the fact that, after reading Skinny Bitch and having those, uh, skinny bitches, refer to eggs as chicken ovaries, I have a complex about eating eggs now. Because ew. Ovaries.

Anyway, I was working at the restaurant today and a few of us ordered lunch from a local Thai place. My friend ordered Panang Curry, which is totally delicious and innocuous, right?

Well, for some reason, "Surrey With the Fringe on Top" from Oklahoma! pops into my head, only I start singing it "Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry, when I take you out for the curry, out for the curry with the fringe on top!" Which gives the notion of chicks and ducks and geese scurrying a whole new, and rather grotesque, meaning.

And now I'll never be able to think of curry, whether it be green, panang, masaman, or red, in the same way ever again.

It's a wonder I manage to eat at all.

Fist Pump of Nerdiness

2009-02-06T10:22:00.000-08:00

I scored a 19 out of 20.

This lady scored a 20 out of 20.

Yeaaaah...

That's about right.

Wherein I Reveal My Jersey

2009-02-04T12:23:00.000-08:00

A month or so ago, I was on the phone with my friend, Kate and we somehow got on the subject of Rock of Love and my unadulterated adoration of Bret Michaels. And by somehow, I mean that I interrupted while she was asking me about whether or not she should get her cat declawed and blurted out, "Have you seen the Rock of Love Bus?," and then continued to chatter about Bret and his hair for, oh, the next seventeen to eighteen minutes or so.

Kate, being a normal and rational individual, neither watches Rock of Love, nor does she understand my infatuation with Mr. Poison himself. Because, dude, what's with his hair? Is it a weave? Wig? And what about his dia-beeet-us? I don't get it? And does he fuck all those women? How is that attractive?

All valid questions, to be sure.

And the only way I could think of responding to these completely logical and cogent inquiries was thusly:

Me: "It's not so much that I'm sexually attracted to Bret Michaels, per se, but you have to understand that I have a residual idolization of him that goes back twenty years. When I was in third grade, the only birthday presents I wanted were three tapes. Bon Jovi: New Jersey, Debbie Gibson: Electric Youth and Poison: Open Up and Say ....... Aaaahhh." It's watching your childhood idol and still feeling the same way you did when you were eight-years-old and completely obsessed with "Every Rose Has a Thorn." It's not sexual."

[Pregnant Pause]

[Very Pregnant Pause]

Kate: "You know, most of the time I forget you're from New Jersey, but then you say shit like that and I'm brutally reminded."

Touche, Kate. Too-fucking-shay.

Riddle Me This

2009-02-03T17:16:00.000-08:00

It's February 3.

It snowed all day.

I haven't been on vacation in over two years.

It's been six months since I've been to the beach.

I don't ski.

Nor do I snowboard.

I haven't spent any significant amount of time outside since early December.

I have sunburn.

All the above statements are true.

Shakes fist at universe.

Yet again.

Sigh.

An Afterthought

2009-02-02T06:19:00.000-08:00

I re-read that last entry after I posted it and realized that I wrote the most about my feelings regarding the ex-boyfriend's engagement rather than my professional and personal woes. This is not because I care most about his engagement, it's because I care least. And therefore, it's the easiest thing for me to write about.

And this might sound a little bit "lady doth protest too much"-ish but, well, it's true. I'm still trying to figure out how to balance writing about my life in a public space without offending, embarrassing or demoralizing anyone I know in addition to not spending SO MUCH TIME writing about how LIFE IS UNFAIIIIIR (cue violins). Reflecting on an ex's engagement is kind of hilarious, given the chain of events that my realization of it kicked off and, honestly, I sort of knew it was coming. He already knows that I wish them both the best and ... well, that's that.

Also, since my most recent relationship was so short in length, I was given over to thinking both it and myself were failures. Recently, however, it was pointed out to me that maybe it's best to think of a relationship's success not in length of time lasted but how I behaved as an individual within that relationship. Was I honest? Caring? Open to experiencing new things? Kind? Patient? Communicative? I'd like to think that I was all of those things. I'd like to think that this infant relationship is the one in which I've felt most like the best version of myself. And I'm grateful for the things I've learned about myself throughout this experience and know that, if I meet someone I truly like again, I'll be the same best version of myself the next time around.

On Notice: The Universe

2009-02-01T19:17:00.001-08:00

It's so interesting to me that I don't blog when things are really great, nor do I blog when things are really awful, no good, terrible. And I seem to have so few in between times, where things are just, you know, normal and cool, that I rarely post anymore. I think I'm just so terrified of sharing too much, offending people or not communicating well enough, that I avoid posting altogether.

So, I guess, in an effort to sort of break out of things and, maybe, you know, not over think the consequences of my writing, I should go ahead and describe what was possibly the most ironically ridiculous unfunny and annoying thirty seven hours of my recent life.

So, bad things happen in threes. My three bad things happened last week in the span of less than two days.

Without ado, in order of kind of annoying to possibly heartbreaking (also chronological! with timeline!), here goes:

Monday, January 26, 2009 approximately 10 am.

I'm in my office and I check Facebook. I already have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to see what I actually wind up seeing (for reasons too long and boring to get into, let's just suffice it to say that I am either a really good judge of people or totally psychic), but Yaaaaaay! My ex-boyfriend, with whom I've tried to have an awkward friendship and with whom I never want to be with ever again, is engaged to the girl he started dating about 37 minutes after we broke up. We have mutual friends on Facebook. His sister created an album and tagged those friends in it. It was titled something like "Ex&GF's Engagement palooza" or some crap. I didn't even have to look at the pictures.

It's an incredibly awkward feeling, finding out that the only person you ever really considered marrying, the only one who really considered marrying you, is actually going to take that plunge with someone else. There's three emotions I felt intensely upon discovering this information. I feel the need to describe them here for clarity's sake and to help others who, upon discovering similar information, might start questioning their very existence:

1). Gratitude: For finding this information out in the privacy of my own office from Facebook. Shitty and weird? Yes. Better than having to sit across the dinner table from him and listen to him announce it? Oh my god, yes. And seriously, he texted me the morning of their engagement wanting to know when we could hang out, as he had some "things he wanted to chat about." Thank god I managed to avoid that meal.

2). Jealousy: Of him, not her. Wondering why his life gets to work out so seemingly effortlessly in the wake of our breakup when it was so devastating for me. Now, I know that my sadness was mainly because I was scared to move on, but also because he never left me alone long enough to heal, even when I asked him to. But, yeah, jealously. Of him.

3). Relief: Pure, sweet, joyous relief that it isn't me with his ring on my finger.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009 10 am.

Again, my office. I sit down with my boss for my annual review, which goes ... badly. Mostly because my boss, like every other supervisor or teacher I've ever had, says to me "Vicki, you're so smart and talented but your boredom and frustration show too much, causing you to make unnecessary mistakes. You could be so great if you just applied yourself." Needless to say, the heat is on and there's a considerable less amount of time that I'm going to be staring at LOLcats while at work.

Sniff.

I really love LOLcats.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009 1 am.

After a week of cryptic and weird e-mails and no other form of communication, the boy I was dating, the boy who I liked so much, who I was so blissfully happy to be around, who I felt so incredibly lucky have found, broke up with me. Over e-mail. For a reason that I really can't discern, other than I think he may have simply reached the three month mark and freaked out. As men are wont to do. Really, it was the icing on the cake and definitely the tipping point that has driven me to eating excessive amounts of Fig Newmans and mango sorbet over the last five days.

My scale is not happy with this final turn of events.

Anyway, I'm officially putting the universe on notice: I am not taking anymore bad news until January 2010, so if you have some more crap you want to unload on me, you're just going to have to go ahead and keep it to yourself. Fucker.

And it Took Me Two Days to Come Up With This

2008-12-18T13:29:00.000-08:00

I saw this meme over on Life at Willow Manor, and I thought I'd repost it here because it's 4:30, I've done entirely too much work today and, rather than go home, I have to sit here and stare at my computer. Therefore, I am completing this exercise. Basically, you just name your favorite movie that begins with each letter of the alphabet. [Edited to add: This is fucking harder than it looks. Try it. I DARE YOU.]

Here goes:

Amelie

Boondock Saints

Clue

Dead Poet's Society

Event Horizon

Fight Club

The Graduate

Hairspray

Into the Wild

Just One of the Guys

Kalifornia

Love, Actually

Moonstruck

Nighmare on Elm Street

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Purple Rain

Quills

Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves

Sideways

Terminator 2: Judgement Day

Under Siege

Victor Victoria

White Men Can't Jump

Xanadu

You've Got Mail

Zoolander

Tales From GChat

2008-12-17T08:18:00.000-08:00

OK, so here's a chat between myself and my friend Jake last week. I thought it was hilarious so I'm posting it here.

me: what do i buy boy i'm dating for xmas?
i hate holidays/birthdays coming up way too quick

Jake: Does he cook?
What's your price limit?
A Jack Spade shoulder bag?
jackspade.com

me: i don't think he's the shoulder bag type
FUCK
he likes beer
but I think he's asked everyone else he knows for beer stuff

Jake: http://beer.about.com/od/beerrecommendations/tp/10BeerGifts.htm

Jake: This is a serious lifechanger. Makes the best roast chicken of all time and is very, very easy...
http://www.walmart.com/catalog/product.do?product_id=10197092

me: are you smoking something?

me: you want me to get the boy I've been dating for SIX WEEKS a chicken roaster?

Jake: It is so cool.

me: why don't I just murder his libido instead and save everyone the trouble

Jake: So... many... jokes...
Had... to... erase... them all...

me: HAHAHA

And I Think He May Have Broken A Law

2008-12-16T18:47:00.000-08:00

So I know. I suck at keeping up with this blog. I've effectively lost my three readers. I haven't Twittered (Tweeted?) in 35 days. Am huge loser. Well, maybe I'm not such a huge loser, as a lack of a web presence would, in some parts of the country, indicate the gaining of an actual, you know, life.

Some parts of the country.

Not the one I'm in.

I'm actually sitting in front of my TV, watching The Rachel Maddow Show and kind of impatiently waiting for Eli Stone to come on because lord. Do I love that cheesy, feel good dramedy.

Anyway. I had a weird experience a few weeks ago. I got to second base. With my cat.

But wait. It gets better. I not only got felt up by him, but was awakened by the rather unsettling and painful sensation of him actually licking my nipple. And yes, I was sleeping in the nude. And no, I will not tell you if I had company. Well, obviously I had company, as Juice was performing a sex act on my right boob but I was referring to the human kind. I would tell you, kind reader (Anyone? ... Bueller? ... Bueller? ... ) to get your damn mind out of the gutter but, uh, well, I think I may have been responsible for its, you know, going there so I'm just going to stop typing now.

Because my cat licked my nipple.

And I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.

I'm in ur bed, lickin ur boobz.

This Was a Good Week

2008-11-07T13:33:00.000-08:00

Eh, okay, trying to jump back into this whole newfangled "keeping a web log" thing and I don't have much to say. Other than Barack Obama's election as the 44th president has almost totally restored my faith in the collective mass of American citizenry and I'm pretty stoked that don't have move to Toronto (although I do love it there, my obsession with Degrassi aside) . Aaannnndd.... I'm dating someone new. All in all, this has probably been one of the best weeks of my life. And although I'm not really going to write too much about this new gentleman friend because a). he knows and is fiercely curious about this blog and I refuse to give him the address (trying not to scare him off just yet, thanks), and b). we haven't had the "OK, so I write this blog and how comfortable are you with making special appearances on it" conversation yet, I will say this: I like this man. I like him more than I've liked the eleventy hundred other guys I've dated, like him more than I like my luggage (quick, which Steel Magnolia said that?). I like him. I'm happy to have met him. And I'm looking forward to getting to know him.

I know it's like all sappy mushy gushy stuff all the time up here in this joint, right?

Well, I mean except for the, ahem, aggression issues and all.

The Asshole Returns (New and Unimproved!)

2008-11-06T13:47:00.001-08:00

After a long and unexplained hiatus, I return to my tiny corner of the web to resume, you know, writing down my asshole-y experiences. Instead of just telling people about them. Like many men in my life have said, "You are so much funnier when you write [than talk]."

Fuckers.

Anywho. I've been in therapy for about a year now and am vastly improved. VASTLY. I know what I want to go back to school for, what career change I'm making and am generally not crying, um, every day. I think I was clinically depressed. Or manic depressive (eh, which I still might be, waiting for a diagnosis on that one from a psych. Uh, different story for another time) . So one of the things we've been working on is becoming more assertive in my communications with others. And I guess I could be helpful and all and provide some examples of assertive communication blah blah blah but this whole ridiculous preamble has been to express the fact the my intense concentration on asserting my assertive communication skills may have crossed a line. Or two. And my so-called assertiveness may actually be referred to as actual, you know, aggression.

In the past two weeks, I have:

1). Told my cousin's best friend to "fuck off" when she yelled at me to vote for John McCain;
2). Screamed at this same individual to apologize to my cousin for ruining her [my cousin's] bachelorette party under penalty of "devoting my life's work to ensuring that you stay lonely and miserable";
3). Been escorted out of Harrah's casino in Atlantic City for the above mentioned screaming (did I mention that the hallways in that place are cavernous and, uh, echo-y?);
4). Threatened a girl who was messing with my friend to "back off or else." To which she replied, "I'm not scared of you." To which I replied, with a measure of calm scariness that freaked even my own self out, "You will be if you don't leave my friend alone."
5). Got said girl kicked out of bar for fighting even though it was, um, me who touched her first. By sort of pushing her. A little. When she didn't heed my warning and all.

So yeah, I know I'm not supposed to be all smug and proud of myself for behaving this way but the reality is that I'm, um, really fucking smug and proud. I shall threaten your life's happiness and your Friday night festivities! If you mess with my friends and family, I shall HURT YOU. WITH MY WORDS. (And possibly flat palms pressed on your shoulders in somthing akin to shoving. Or gentle caressing.)

I guess I should mention that, after each of the above stated incidents, I both started shaking and crying, profusely apologizing to whoever was around me and feeling much shame.

Smug shame.

Horrible Yet Hilarious Cop Out Post

2008-09-30T07:54:00.000-07:00

OK. So, I know it's a total cop out to post an e-mail chain but I thought it was sort of hilarious. Back story: My coworker, Mildred, left our esteemed company last week and we had a little going away celebration for her last Friday. I sent around the original e-mail to let everyone know the celebration details. Jake is another co-worker and friend, and you'll see how his role plays out below. Also, start from the bottom and make your way to the top. Am super lazy.

Also note: It was raining last Friday.

From: Jake
Sent: Fri 9/26/2008 1:25 PM
To: Victoria
Subject: RE: Reminder! Sometimes Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Wow. That was the best getupoffyourassandcomeout email EVER. I promise that if I'm not running a fever, I'll come out.

-----Original Message-----

From: Victoria
Sent: Fri 9/26/2008 1:20 PM
To: Jake
Cc: Mildred
Subject: RE: Reminder! Sometimes Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

You're just feeling under the weather because of the following:

a). the weather actually sucks;
b). WaMu got eaten by JPMorgan (and I know there's irony somewhere in the situation where my bank is consumed by my ex's place of business but I am hung over and it hurts to think about it too much);
c). McCain may actually get out of his latest bait and switch suckaroo and not completely tank in the polls; and
d). Katie Motherf*cking Couric actually just proved that Palin is as terrible as she seemed to be. End times!

Buck up and come out. There's a very real possibility, given recent events, that the world might not be here tomorrow. So you may as well have fun tonight.

Victoria

-----Original Message-----
From: Jake
Sent: Friday, September 26, 2008 12:03 PM
To: Victoria
Subject: RE: Reminder! Sometimes Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

I'm working from home today. I'd planned to go anyway, but seem to be coming down with something. So, it's 50/50 whether I show up.

-----Original Message-----
From: Victoria Saxon
Sent: Fri 9/26/2008 11:25 AM
To: Entire Office
Subject: Reminder! Sometimes Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

As the universe weeps for Mildred's departure, remember: It's all OK with alcohol.

Victoria

-----Original Message-----

From: Victoria
Sent: Monday, September 22, 2008 4:24 PM
To: Entire Office
Subject: Sometimes Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

And you start to tear up and sing an Irish ballad at the top of your lungs, as it seems to be the only appropriate way to say farewell to our dear colleague, Mildred.

Or, you know, you could just come out and buy her some drinks and wish her well in her career at OUP. And laugh when she stumbles.

Friday, September 26
5:30 pm
@
Molly's
287 3rd Ave
Between 21st and 22nd

Victoria

Another Instance Whereby I Demonstrate My Age

2008-09-23T08:09:00.000-07:00

So, my apartment is, well, was officially really gross. Like, really gross and it needed a good spiritual (in addition to actual) cleaning. So, I sucked it up and went to town on that bitch yesterday. Cleaned out under my bed, behind all the furniture, etc., etc. I don't really even want to discuss how many dead bugs I vacuumed up. Probably too many. Anywho, I have a new rug coming today so the floor is nice and clean, I got rid of a bunch of stuff, and tomorrow my brand new Dyson vacuum cleaner will be here. I cannot wait.

I have this thing lately, where I'm sick of living off hand-me-downs and low quality shit with the idea that "Oh, this isn't the last place I'm living." Or "Oh, I'll just wait until I get engaged to/move in with my boyfriend to get new stuff." Or, "I'll wait until we get married." But, hey, here's the thing: I'm twenty-fucking-eight years old. I'm sick of the fact that I still have the same Ikea dressers I did in college and that none of my glassware matches. It annoys me. Every time I grab a glass, I get irritated. It's like a rash.

I want a nice set of Cutco knives and Calphalon pots and a stand mixer. And I want a better TV stand than the one I bought at Target two years ago and that has a broken wheel (fucking movers).

Also, when I do register for things for our wedding, I don't want it to be for all new stuff. Like, we're in our late twenties, why do we need to register for new dinner plates? What the fuck have we been eating off of for the past seven years since graduating college? Why do I have to make my wedding guests buy me new house ware shit? I understand if we were twenty-two and just graduated college, but really. Come on.

Yeah, yeah. I get it. I lust after matching glassware.

I'm fucking old.

And On This Episode

2008-09-15T07:59:00.000-07:00

OK! It's time for another installment of "What The Google Ads in Your Sidebar Predict About the Future of this Relationship" game!

Doo-do-doo-doo-do-da-da-da-da-dum [simulated cheesy game show music]

OK folks! Welcome and let's get started. Below is the original e-mail received from richard7399 to saxamophone (aka Vicki) via talkmatch.com. There are no pictures attached to this e-mail because Vicki's work platform hates pictures and match.com with the fire of a thousand suns (also see: work computer, in midst of death throes since April 2006). Which is why we'll decide if we should respond to this man, this Richard 7399, based only on what The Google Ads portends.

Let's take a look.

From: richard7399
To: saxamophone
Date received: September 12, 2008
Subject:

Hi saxamophone,

How are you? I read your profile and would like get to know you. You have a lot of qualities that might make us a match. Let me tell you a little about myself; I was born and raised in NYC. I work for an Investment Bank in Wall Street and live in Manhattan. For fun, I like hanging out with friends either at a bar or lounge and every once in a while I like to hit the dance floor. I also like to take advantage of all the great restaurants the city has to offer. On the weekend, I enjoy working out and bike riding around the city. If you would you like to learn more about me, just write back.

Take care,
Richard

OK, first up, before even consulting The Google Ads, I've been around the match.com block here a few (million) times and I'm going to go out on a limb and say ... this motherfucker didn't even look at Vicki's profile! He has a standard spammy e-mail that he sends to every girl who's picture he thinks is cute! He likes to eat! Sometimes! And dance! Sometimes! He likes to work out! Sometimes! He's a man! Who works for an Investment Bank! How original!

But, well, maybe we shouldn't be quite so judge-y, right? So let's see what The Google Ads has to say about this.

Sponsored Links

NY's Newest Hostel
One Block From Central Park!
Check Availability & Book Now.
From $34
http://www.centralparkhostel.com/

Vicki and Richard's first date: Vicki! Wear your chastity belt 'cause he thinks he's getting some . (Eh, who are you kidding. He'll probably get lucky. Remember to shave your legs!)

Manhattan Office Suites
Stylishly Furnished, All Inclusive
Business Suites, Month to Month.
http://www.sunshineny.com/

Second Date: Richard takes Vicki to his stylishly furnished office. Shave your legs because he's doing you on the desk.

Things To Do In NYC
Tired of bars, dinner and a movie?
Get invited to most unique events!
http://www.eventme.com/

Third Date: Having skipped the "No sex before the third date rule," Vicki and Richard decide to keep their clothes on and do something "interesting." In this case, it's lecture about Beastiality and the Romantic Era at The Museum of Sex. So much for keeping it above the waist...

NYC 54' Sailing Yacht
Engagement, Anniversary or Birthday Special.
Sail by Statue&Waterfalls.
http://www.abaconyachtcharter.com/

Fourth Date: Ack! Richard rents a yacht and asks Vicki to marry him. But, but, it's so soon, she stammers, wondering if she can swim to shore in order to avoid having to say "no." In the end she agrees to "think about it."

Roosevelt Island Tennis
12 Indoor HarTru Courts
Roosevelt Island Racquet Club, NYC
http://www.rirctennis.com/

Still Fourth Date: After the incredibly awkward and ill-timed proposal, the captain, unbeknownst to Richard, is drunk and crashes into Roosevelt Island. While waiting for return transportation, Vicki and Richard play tennis to, uh, cut the tension.

KoriCreative Korean Cuisine
and Bar in Tribeca
http://www.korinyc.com/

5th Date: Vicki takes Richard to Korean BBQ in an effort to completely turn him off, as Korean food gives her gas. Really bad gas. She tries to politely tell him that they've only known each other a short time and she can't marry him. Why don't we get to know each other some more? Richard refuses, stating it's marriage or nothing. Vicki tells him she thinks it's best if they don't continue to see each other. She leaves in a cloud of her own methane.

Best Uptown Value.
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Premium amenities.
5-min walk from CPW.
From mid-700s.
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Sixth encounter, this is really NOT A DATE AT ALL, RICHARD: After calling her thirty-seven times in two days, showing up at her apartment and then sitting in her office until she got back from lunch, Richard finally convinces Vicki to speak with him. He shows her pictures of the "love nest" he bought for her as a wedding gift - a condo in a new construction in Harlem. Vicki calls security and has him escorted out of the building. But not without a twinge of regret because - sigh - that condo looked really spectacular.

NYC Guitar Lessons
Friendly, fun & patient!
Throughout NYC or your home.
Beginners welcome
http://www.newyorkcityguitarlessons.com/

Three months later: Richard finally gets the hint that Vicki does not want to marry him, after she quit her job, changed her phone number and e-mail and moved to another state to avoid him. He decide to quit his investment banking job and take up songwriting. All his songs are about Vicki.

So if she gets out after the second date, Vicki and Richard should do just fine!

It's Official

2008-09-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

I'm fucking old.

I was hiding out in my co-worker's office the other day, attempting to avoid doing any actual, you know, work. And I heard that the editors were showing around one of the new assistants and, frankly, I wasn't in the mood to meet him so I stayed put for longer than usual. I prefer to remain anonymous whenever possible, exerting my minimal power and scariness only when necessary. I'm like Ms. Havisham. Only I'm merely twenty-eight. And hopefully without the papery skin.

Anywho, my co-worker says, "Did you see the new assistant they hired?"

And, without thinking, I reply, "Yeah, he's an embryo."

At which my co-worker busts up laughing as I clamp my hand over my mouth, semi-mortified. Because, seriously? The assistant is probably twenty-two. A whopping six years younger than me and Christ. When did I get so fucking old?

And the Correct Answer is ... Lame

2008-09-09T09:43:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning out my mailbox today and found and old e-mail I sent to a friend that I think sums up my personality in just a few short words.

"I watched the last 15 minutes of VH1’s “2007 World Series of Pop Culture” last night.

The final, game winning category that would determine which team moved on was titled “What you Talkin Bout Ahnold?”

Essentially, the host gave each contestant an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie quote, along with the year the movie came out. The contestants had to name the movie from whence Ahnold’s quote came.

For instance, the first question was “1984: ‘I’ll be back.’” Answer: Terminator.

There were six questions.

Between two, count them, TWO contestants, they only answered 5 questions correctly.

I knew every. Single. Quote.

Including the quote from Conan the Barbarian.

Which I’ve NEVER EVEN SEEN.

I think I need help."

Composure

2008-09-04T08:53:00.000-07:00

I'm trying very hard to be as nice as possible to all members of my family right now but, actually, any time one of them speaks to me lately, I start fantasizing about gouging my eyes out with a particularly dull letter opener because I imagine it would be more pleasurable.

My cousin is getting married in two months.

The bridal shower is in a week and a half.

The bachelorette party is in six weeks.

Need I expound?

Nah, didn't think so.

Today I Ate

2008-09-01T19:16:00.001-07:00

An entire box of Newman's Own Fig Newmans.

And nothing else.

That is all.

Carry on.

Random Thoughts

2008-08-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

You all know about the uuuuuuuu777uuuuudddddddduuudddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddduuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu ++

Oh, I'm sorry, that was just me cleaning my keyboard. Which is getting increasingly disgusting, as I usually drop about three quarters of whatever I'm eating in a given day on it.

Today it was egg salad with dill and red peppers. Yesterday it was peanut butter. There's no end to coffee stains and water spills. It's really no wonder that my keyboard hasn't caught on fire yet or congealed into a mass of unmovable parts, which I could then sell to Larry Gagosian for $3 million because it's art, man. And then Damien Hirst and I could walk around in our so-unhip-they're-hip t-shirts and large glasses and I could finally ask him what possesses him to do shit like put giant decaying sharks and cows in tanks of formaldehyde and sell them for millions of dollars and please oh please won't you teach me how?

Anywahoo. This is where my mind has gone today. It will probably actually be gone tomorrow so don't say I didn't warn you.

My Addiction: It Embarasses, Um, ... Everyone

2008-08-27T12:12:00.000-07:00

So, here's something about me that, well, I don't know how many people know. Most of the Eastern seaboard, I'm sure.

I have a severe addiction to QVC.

Like, a sickness in my heart that needs to be remedied, although I shall never remedy it because it is a twisted passion that I both revel in and am repelled by.

So, did you know that QVC sells Heidi Klum's jewelry? All those little precious clover/quattrefoil shapes that you see everywhere these days? That they also sell Jay McCaroll's and Chloe Dao's clothing lines? You know, the winners of Seasons one and two of Project Runway? But no where, not anywhere on the QVC website is there any mention of Project Runway in any way being associated with QVC probably because NBC and the Weinsteins and Elle magazine are at war over the franchise? And although being associated with Project Runway would certainly up QVC's status, it's like, QVC doesn't give a shit because they are so beyond caring about their image that they ARE cool. It's so bad, it's good.

And there's this jewelry designer, Robert Lee Morris, and supposedly he's famous and high fashion and whatnot. And is currently collaborating with the Olsen twins, so young Hollywood knows about him. And has this really successful jewelry line on QVC that is incredible. It's called RLM Studio. I am ashamed that I know that. But! I am so in love with his earrings that I came home drunk from a Yankees game one night and dropped one in the toilet by accident. Being hammered, I fished around the bottom of the bowl with my fingers for about thirty minutes, realized it was gone forever, and promptly went to QVC.com to order another pair. At one o'clock in the morning. While drunk. With toilet water on my hands. Behold, the power of the Q to the V to the C.

Once, I bought a Today's Special Value Mock Turtleneck Shell and Asymmetrical Matching Duster Set in Mallard Green. Whenever I wear what is, essentially, a long and somewhat interestingly cut sweater set, I constantly get asked where I got it.

My ex-boyfriend told me the best gift I ever gave him, surpassing the multi-hundred dollar 7.1 surround sound system and DVD player he got for Chrsimukah, was the Rocco DeSpirito Hand Blender with Six Attachments and To-Go Cups. I think it cost $26.95.

A few weeks ago, my boss told me she was thinking of me. I smiled and said, That's nice, why? She replied: I bought a clothes steamer from QVC.

I got home from a few days at the shore last Saturday. It was about ten p.m., I checked out QVC. They were selling multi-vitamins. So now I have Nature's Cure Daily Multi-Vitamin Pack with CoQ10 for Women Under 50 on auto delivery every ninety days. Because that's how I spent my Saturday night. Buying vitamins from TV.

I have knives and sneakers and purses and food processors and jewelry and jackets and cookware and bake ware and a ton of motherfucking shit from QVC. And I motherfucking love all of it.

But my very favorite fact about QVC: Mike Rowe, host of Dirty Jobs and my future husband, got his start in TV as a QVC host.

Seriously.

I have a sickness. And I don't want the cure.

Relationships

2008-08-26T12:41:00.000-07:00

Hmmm. So. Here we are actually given a situation where I lent my iPod to my five-year-old nephew on Saturday because he wanted to listen to "Apple bottom jeans" (his words, not mine). That little brat listened to that song so many times in one sitting that it is now number 23 on my Top 25 Most Played list.

Although actually listening to him sing "apple bottom jeans, boots with the fuuuur, the whole club was lookin' at huuuur" is pretty freaking priceless. I wish I had brought my camera and recorded him doing it. Mental note.

And yes, his parents were there, and yes they were aware of the situation.

Peripherally.

Anywho. Not too much going on, other than, yet again, the universe seeking its revenge upon me for being an asshole for 27.8 of the 28.6 years I've been alive. Without divulging too much detail, let's just say that when you end a relationship with someone you really like before you get to know all the shitty parts of his personality and you build that person up to some sort of god-like figure in your imagination and then you actually see him again, after years have gone by and you find you still feel the exact same way about him that you did during your all too brief courtship, and you decide YOU HAVE LEARNED and GROWN and you WILL NOT TAKE HIM FOR GRANTED THIS TIME and you are honest and charming and, dare I say, easy to get along with, he will summarily fuck you over. And prove that he really was an ass the entire time, you just never got to know him well enough the first time around, and he has been holding onto his animosity toward you for hurting him for WAY TOO DAMN LONG and will put thought and effort into making sure you know just how much of a shit he really is. And this will happen at exactly the same time that you're reading Gone With the Wind for the four hundred and thirty-seventh time and you will actually shed tears of sorrow and frustration for Scarlett as she realizes all too late that she never really loved Ashley, she just loved the fantasy of Ashley. And then you will beat yourself over the head with that behemoth book because really, you are stupid and stop crying. It's a book, for Christsakes.

And you will realize that you still, after many failed relationships, have a unfortunate romantic streak that will just not die, no matter how many times members of the opposite sex stamp their their large and mud covered boots all over it.

And then you will pick upu your iPod and listen to that awful and grammatically challeneged song that is at number 23 and smile ... because you know at least one little man that will never break your still annoyingly hopeful heart.

Things I Learned About My Fitness This Weekend

2008-07-22T13:20:00.000-07:00

Again, in convenient list format.

1). After an eight hour drinking binge that starts at noon and leaves you passed out by nine pm, it may seem like a good idea to get up at eight the next morning and decide that the exact cure for your hangover will be to take a hot yoga class at nine, under the delusion that you will "sweat out the toxins" and it will be O.K. because "you got a great night's sleep." This is, in fact, the opposite of a good idea. It is, in fact, a horrifically bad idea in that practicing yoga in a room that is superheated to 98 degrees on a day where it is steadily approaching that same temperature outside while you are already most likely totally dehydrated from the pitcher of beer and fourteen blood orange martinis you drank the night before, will leave you ... unrefreshed, to say the least. Let's just say that, at various points during the ninety minute class you will cry, dry heave, and contemplate suffocating yourself with your yoga mat. And then later pass out in your pancakes while at lunch with your mother, only to be angrily prodded awake with her fork becasue ARE YOU LISTENING TO A WORD I AM SAYING?

Seriously. Get a Gatorade, stay in bed, watch Ghostbusters and for the love of god, DO NOT take hot yoga class after a bender.

2). Due to a laundry situation on the horizon and a tendency to sleep in the nude lately, it may seem like a great idea to not wear any panties under your shorts when you decide to go running at 6 am. This, also, is not a good idea. For reasons too numerous to extrapolate upon in this forum. Just ... take my word for it. Rather, take my vagina's word for it.

Indisputable Evidence

2008-07-22T07:20:00.001-07:00

That I am probably one of the biggest dorks I know.

Case below, in convenient bullet point, uh .. dash, format:

- I went to see The Dark Knight yesterday. By myself.

- Because I didn't want to be distracted by anyone talking to me during Batman. It's Batman, people. Don't you all know that I am naming my first dog or child Bruce Wayne? Seriously.

- Did you know that I'm female? Yeah. My love for Batman is maybe only paralleled by my love for Alex Trebek and uh-huh. I'm almost thirty years old.

- I brought my own Vitamin Water and Skittles to the movie. I REFUSE to pay MOVIE THEATER PRICES for FLAVORED SUGAR PELLETS.

- I bought my ticket on line so I wouldn't be deterred from my beeline to the actual theater.

- I shut off my cell phone before I even got to the theater.

- I sat down (in a great seat because, lo, I was alone) and proceeded to cover myself with my sensibly remembered sweatshirt and put my newest book in my lap so I could read before the previews started.

- I got out my eyeglass wash and wee eyeglass wiping cloth and proceeded to clean my glasses for six minutes so I wouldn't miss anything.

- I shoved my head into my book until the previews started (and PS, has anyone else noticed that Tropic Thuder is essentially The Three Amigos 2.0? Anyone?)

- I let out a tiny squeal of excitement upon seeing the preview for Terminator Salvation that stars Christian Bale as John Motherfucking Connor and OMG. Swoon.

- I partook in only very tiny sips from my Vitamin Water, lest I need to pee during the movie.

- I cried. Twice. Once because I, being an insane Batman freak, saw where the Harvey Dent arc was going and why, Aaron Eckhart? Why are you breaking my heart?

- And second, I will never get to see Heath Ledger play The Joker ever again. Woe is me.

- My only criticism of the movie is that Commissioner Gordon's son gets a fairly large-ish role while his daughter, aka the person who becomes Batgirl, is relegated to being off screen or having her mother hide her face while she's actually onscreen for all of thirty seconds. I would have liked for Christopher Nolan to have nixed Gordon's son and only used Barbara Gordon in the child fascinated with Batman role, even if we never get to the Batgirl stage in this series (which OK, I get) it still would have been a nice little nod to us Batman freaks like, who-hoo, that's Batgirl. And besides, Barbara Gordon grows up to have a PhD in Library Science, runs the Gotham Public Library, is a technology geek and kicks ass. So much better for my femiladyism tendencies, don't you think?

- Other than that, a very enthusiastic two thumbs up. (Name that movie quote).

My DVR List

2008-07-11T14:42:00.000-07:00

Hmmm. Can you tell me which one does not belong with the others?

What can I say? I'm a woman of many interests.

The Holy Trilogy

2008-07-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

OK, so not really a real, actual Holy Trinity but definitely one that I worship. It is the Holy Trinity of the books of Jon Krakauer and my unabashed, not romantic in any way (except maybe a little), complete and total adoration of him. I love him more than I love Nancy Botwin and Shia LeBouf. Combined. And maybe almost more than I love Jermaine Clement. But not Bret McKenzie. I heart his wolf sweatshirts.

Anyway, I digress. I fucking love Jon Krakauer. I think he is an incredible story teller and a good journalist who tires to approach his subject matter in as unbiased a way as possible. And when he is biased, as in his admiration of Chris McCandless in Into the Wild, he states why he is unbiased, writes about a personal experience to explain his stance and then sort of apologizes. But not really.

Let's take a look at the Holy Trinity. In the order I read it which is, um, kind of out of logical order of most others who read his books but whatever. I'm an indivdual.

Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith

This is the first book by Krakauer that I read because my cousin recommended it to me. It's basically the source for all my information about Mormonism and I definitely re-read it when I started watching Big Love and whoa. People, in any religion, do fucked up things in the name of that religion. Like kill their sister-in-law and baby niece because God told them to. And as someone who sometimes thinks that her cat is talking to her, well, Krakauer goes into depth regarding the motives behind Ron and Dan Lafferty's murdering their relatives and actually portrays them in an understanding, if not sympathetic, light. He uses this murder as a catalyst to discuss the issues within and surrounding Mormonism, Joseph Smith, polygamy, and the rift between Latter Day Saints (the mainstream Mormon church) and Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints (polygamists like Warren Jeffs and those in the Texas compound recently in the news) . Things I took from this book: Joseph Smith was definitely not only a pimp, but an awesome orator who was the founder of a religion that, despite actual, written proof otherwise, managed to convince people that the Native Americans were descended from one of the Twelve exiled tribes of Israel, that he was the messiah, and that oh, yeah, we should totally have communion with God and you can talk to him yourself, no doubt, and he's telling me it's cool to have some more wives. So maybe you should too. That exiled Mormons basically founded the western United Sates, Lee's Ferry, the site on the Colorado river where most modern river tours start, was a place where a Mormon, last name Lee, actually ferried people across the river. That despite the continued issues with polygamy, Mormonism is the fastest growing religion in the United States and probably the world. That polygamists and homosexuals often come together in issues of marriage rights with states because "the enemy of my enemy is my friend." That polygamists practice the sacrament of "bleeding the beast" which is basically how they scam the government into supporting their lifestyle and hey! It's OK!

I'll stop now, essentially I learned a lot, am totally fascinated with Mormonism and have Harold Bloom's The American Religion in my Amazon cart (and reading anything by Bloom equals fucking dedication, man. He is not easy). Reading Krakauer makes me obsessed with things that I normally wouldn't think about.

Into the Wild

Chris McCandless, an upper middle class kid who just graduated from Emory University, cut all ties with his friends and family and set off into the wilderness, travelling lightly and wanting to camp out in Alaska. He, unfortunately, fell victim to his own need for freedom from society and perished, most likely from plant poisoning. I opened this book, expecting to think that McCandless, aka Alexander Supertramp (as he called himself) was, at best, severely misguided, and at worst, a total moron. What Krakauer did here though, was trick my ass into actually sympathizing with this kid and kind of wishing that a). I knew him and b). I had the balls to just take off into the wilderness like that. Get back to nature, back to myself and live off of only what I can carry on my back. He was smart, nice, and good natured, according to those who knew him the last years of his life. And although he caused his family much pain by disappearing, he was a thoughtful person who really believed in what he was doing. He died for it, unfortunately, but he had the courage to live life the way he wanted to, even if only for a short time.

Krakauer: making me see the beauty in what could otherwise be regarded as stupidity, making me admire a tramp.

Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mt. Everest Disaster

I know that this is the book that made Krakauer and, subsequently, Mt. Everest, famous, but of course it's the last one I read. And I've read t multiple times. And because of it, I know who Ed Viesturs (read his book too, another post), Beck Weathers, and David Brearshears are. I watch the Everest series on the Discovery Channel. I want to climb fucking Mt. Everest. How in God's name, does a book about how thirteen people died on the goddamn mountain, make you want to go climb the fucker? Seriously? How does he do that? I know that his heart is still broken over the experience and that he received a lot of shit for the way he told the story, especially the way he painted Anatoli Boukreev. And he probably deserved it, to an extent, however, I believe that he really did try to report the events that occurred that spring in 1996 with as much information as possible, considering those who survived were severely oxygen deprived when the events occurred and can't really be relied upon as objective witnesses. And the book definitely added to the surge of unprepared and ill informed people on the mountain, as exhibited by the fact that approximately ten people died on the mountain in 2006, including the controversial death of British climber David Sharp, dragging the controversial figure of Russel Brice into the spotlight once again.

My obsession with mountaineering and Everest in particular was 100% spawned by this book. Rob Hall and Scott Fischer made mistakes, no doubt, and perished with the others on that fateful night in 1996. It's still a fascinating read, however, and bears looking into, with regard to what pushed man to reach the highest summits.

Have I bored you enough yet with my thirteen-year-old hero worship of Jon Krakauer yet? I have? OK, I'll give it a rest now but really, if you like compelling books, regardless of whether or not you enjoy fiction or non-fiction, his canon is worth looking into. If you happen to read anything by Krakauer or have already done so, let me know what you think!

And P.S., Jake, I'm totally still waiting on that introduction.

Wonders Never Cease

2008-06-30T10:45:00.000-07:00

Well, knock me over with a feather because I think I just shocked the shit out of myself. And lo, this story actually starts with a fresh-ish and probably not steaming but certaintly disconcerting, pile of shit.

Specifically, I was going to work this morning on the PATH and got off with the mass of humanity at the 23rd St. stop to be greeted by a Port Authority officer at the top of the stairs, telling the desk jockeys to "Watch your step on the right hand side ... watch your step" in rather dulcet and pleasant tones. Taking heed, I stared at my feet down the flight of stairs, looking for that which I was supposed to be, uh, looking for. No broken steps. No dead rats. No large slabs of fallen concrete. Nothing on the stairs except those of us walking down them, intently peering at the ground as if our life depended on it.

And there, on the right hand side of the staircase, right at the bottom, was a lovely, perfectly formed pile of shit. I giggled a little (on the inside of course) as poop is always kind of funny. Until that is, I realized, it was HUMAN SHIT. As in, there is no way a dog or other animal pooped in the PATH station because really, the amount of dogs or other animals that could produce a pile of feces that big is, in human ratio terms, like 1:1,432,765.

And then I wanted to die.

Or take a picture.

I couldn't decide.

Anyway, I kept moving, tired to put it out of my head, and failed to do so as my world started crumbling a little bit this morning. I felt the all too familiar demise of logical, rational thought, in response to a simple work related e-mail. I knew I was about to freak out and tried to stop it and couldn't because my emotions or hormones or over-tiredness or whatever it is, overwhelmed my brain and turned it into the full on crazy that usually, mostly, always ends in a crying jag and ensuing depression that takes over my entire being. This is what I'm trying to control in therapy and it's gotten a lot better. And I hate to bring this up but I am tired (I worked a 12 hour day at the restaurant yesterday) and it's my week off birth control, so my brain is potentially reacting to both lack of sleep and the stealing of delishus hormones. So. I had a minor meltdown. It happens. Just like shit on the stairs of the PATH station.

And then, I did some work, wrote a few things which could hopefully potentially increase my job satisfaction and perked up. Pulled myself out of it instead of wallowing and cleaned up my shit.

But not the shit on the stairs.

I don't know who got that pleasant task.

Hmmm, So

2008-06-24T14:27:00.001-07:00

I know that I rarely post at all lately anymore, and certainly not twice in one day, but my mother just had me purchase tickets online for Equus, the 1975 Pulitzer Prize winning play and current British transport starring Daniel Radcliffe, aka HarryMotherfuckingPotter, as a disturbed stable boy who has some sort of sexual issues with his horses and blinds them. And the actor who plays the psychiatrist opposite young Radcliffe is the very same actor who plays Uncle Vernon Dursley in the Harry Potter movies and seriously, there's like full frontal nudity in this and there are three more Harry Potter movies coming out (Deathly Hallows will be released in two parts) and they just started playing The Order of the Pheonix on HBO and YOU KNOW this is going to replace Hairspray in my always on in the background movie must watch Harry and Hermione and Ron and OMG Sirius dies again so sad and isn't Ralph Finnes just so awesome as Voldemort and in September I'm going to see Harry NAKED and BLINDING HORSES FOR FUN and what in the holy hell did I just agree to subject my poor poor eyes and brain to?

Help me.

My Love, Let Me Share It

2008-06-24T11:16:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've ever discussed this aspect of my personality before, but I love to read. I have loved to read ever since I was a little kid and still have the 60 boxes of children's and YA books from my mother's house to prove it. I read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was in 5th grade. I read Shakepeare's Richard III when I was fifteen because my mother was taking me to see a production of it. I devoured Stephen King, Nancy Drew, The Babysitters Club, Sweet Valley High, and Christopher Pike books like they were candy. My mother had to tell me to put my book down at the dinner table under threat of punishment. I love to read. It has been the only sustained passion in my life from childhood until now and my appetite for great books has yet to waver. My tastes are schizophrenic and range from loving Nora Roberts to reading histories of The Peabody Sisters. I tend to shy away from the really great and heavy reads these days (still haven't gotten through The Last Temptation of Christ and Tropic of Cancer and Christ, I've started Atlas Shrugged more times than I care to admit), sticking to things that are easily digested on the train to and from work. I still watch entirely too much reality TV, but I do love to read. And I'll reread my favorite books over and over again.

A short list of some of my favorites, and why:

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins: You either love Tom Robbins or hate him with a passion and obviously, I fall into the former category. I read this book in high school and it titillated, scandalized, and opened my imagination to an entire universe of flowery and descriptive prose that made me wonder at the possibilities that a truly unique story can tell. I continue to be inspired by Sissy Hankshaw and her over-sized thumbs and want to be Bonanza Jellybean in her lesbian, cowgirl-ed glory. This book came everywhere with me in high school and it made me realize that I could be anything I wanted, even a cowgirl.

Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel: I swear that I could actually smell, feel, and taste every bite of food that Laura Esquivel describes in this book. It's heartbreakingly beautiful, greatly mystical and totally engrossing. I wanted to eat the pages in an effort to completely immerse myself in it. Needless to say, I didn't, but I thought about it.

Bitter is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smartass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry A Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office by Jen Lancaster: Holy shit. Why I started this blog. Why I thought I could start this blog.

Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder: Dude, not to sound cliche or anything, and frankly, I never even owned these books, but in second grade this is the series that spawned my love for reading and the voracious appetite for books in any form thereafter. Thanks Ms. Berger.

Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell: My mother convinced me to try reading it when I was a teenager, in a specifically pissy and uncooperative few years of my life and after finding her absolute adoration for Little Women to be, uh, suspect, at best ( I really couldn't relate to the book and tried to read it a number of times as a tween and teenager and I just. Didn't. Get. It. Like, OK, Jo cuts her hair and Meg dies. So what? It wasn't until I was forced to read it in college for a feminist history class that a light bulb went off. I digress.) and because I found her insufferable in so many ways, that her absolute reverence for Gone With the Wind was reason enough for me to skip it. I succumbed merely because I had absolutely nothing else to read and oh my. How I fell in love. I read this book at least once every couple of years and I will never get tired of it. Never ever ever.

Next time I'll write about some nonfiction books that I love and try to branch out a little from things everyone has read. God, I love books.

I Survived Another One

2008-06-23T13:43:00.000-07:00

This weekend was the third wedding weekend of 2008 and, lo, I survived. I vomited up my barely eaten and entirely undigested dinner at 4 am, cursing my existence but I made it. No wedding nooky to report (and seriously, this is really getting pathetic as I am approaching a very long time without ANY SEX AT ALL and I want to die a little because of it) no one really even single there, as far as I could tell except for myself and maybe, like, one of the bridesmaids and a high school friend of the bride. It was a really long cocktail hour and I needed to sit really badly as the insides of my shoes were actually scraping off the tops of my feet as I was downing Yeunglings (at the black tie affair, I am so klassy with a kapital K) at the tiny cocktail table and trying not to slip in my own blood. I seriously think the cocktail hour lasted about two hours. Maybe three. My feet will never recover.

Anyway, I learned happy things, like the husband of my friend is no longer working for the Army and will never have to go back to THAT PLACE ever again, and that one of my other friends is pregnant with her third child and that my other friends' wedding in Ireland next year will last approximately 27 hours long I shit you not.

And in other awkward news, I haven't seen most of the bridal party and family of the bride in five or six years which means they do not know new and slimmed down Vicki, only fat, Hispanic looking red haired Vicki. To that effect, no one recognized me. I had to show everyone my tattoo to prove it was me. I got blank stares from both the parents of the bride who smiled and nodded and proceeded to ignore me and talk to my other, more recognizable friends. I got blank stares and "oh, now I remember you's!" from the bride's siblings and friends. I guess I should be happy that I've made such a drastic change but it can be unnerving, especially since I haven't had to deal with it for a couple of years.

I went to Pat's King of Steaks and had a provy wit at 10:45 am on Sunday. (Wedding was in Philly, I think I forgot to mention that). I believe this sandwich, plus a Pepsi, is the best cure for any hangover I've ever had. Ever. I actually left Philadelphia with a smile on my face given my horrifically hung over state. And behold - that is the power of a cheese steak.

Waiting for the Call

2008-06-12T07:36:00.000-07:00

Hmmm. So. I think we have a theory in place by which something happens in Vicki's life and she posts about it in an effort to be, like so much of her generation, overshare-y and annoyingly whiny. Or aggressively honest. (Hi Jake!) Whatever. But then, the blog gods descend upon her an effort to punish her for her aggressive honesty by ruling that the exact opposite of that which she wants to happen should in fact happen. Case in point.

So now we have another instance in which we return from a short blogging hiatus, a blogcation, as it were, and write about a very nice seeming boy we were emailing on match.com and by which we are practicing being an adult-like lady and not stressing over it and lo, we are rewarded with an inquiry stated thusly by said seeming nice boy in the third round of e-mails between us:

What would you think of meeting for drinks a night this week?

Not grammatically perfect, but I told him, a musician/music producer/music snob that my favorite music was "anything I can New Jack Swing to" so we'll just go ahead and let that one slide.

So, I reply something along the lines of:

Getting together sounds expeditiously fantastic and it would both the pleasure and penultimate desire of mine to meet for the inbibation of alcoholic beverages that are most likely fermented from wheat and/or barley at some future and set date. In the future. I am free either the third or fourth day from the time that the moon enters the waning stage, in some circles known as the last or second-to-last quarter by which you can see the light of the pale harvest and I should be able to meet on either previously stated day after the leaving of myself from the place in which I work and arriving at a set and definite location for imbibation at a predetermined time. Please note, however, that I do not define time in the arbitrary fashion that seems to be so popular these days, but by the revolutions of my menstrual cycle, as in, when I write this I am quarter to emotional hormonal surge and could very likely meet you sometime after crying jag of the week.

My number is 867-5309 and no my name is not Jenny.

Look forward to seeing you!

Now. Can you tell me why I haven't heard from him?

Because I have no idea.

After a Mild Service Interruption

2008-06-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'm back. I was having a bit of a bad time there for awhile and you know, gave up frozen desserts for a bit, but today I ventured back into the world of both frozen desserts with a Raspberry Jalapeno custard from the Shake Shack and blogging with this, uh, entry.

I haven't gone to see a psychiatrist yet, as I'm still really loathe to go on any sort of medication. I think it could be useful and I don't think that it's bad or makes me crazy or whatever, it's just that maybe it's something a more rigorous yoga practice could fix? Or, like, meditation? Or insane competitiveness that is driving me to train in this lovely 100 degree weather we're having here in the the northeast? Whatevs. I'm just not jumping into it quite yet.

So, in other news, I think I'm about to lose my bet with my coworker regarding the not-dating-anyone-new-for-three-months thing, as I sort of realized that maybe this doesn't have to be an all or nothing situation. And yes, a break from the rigors of Olympic dating was necessary, but I've been getting more male attention from this new eyeliner I'm using (please don't ask why, I can't even begin to explain it), it's summer and, well, I could use a nice distraction (in bed). And I still have this match.com subscription that's good until October and then I read a post on Jezebel somewhere about how on-line dating is pretty much a reflection of real life dating and thought that maybe I was just getting sucked into the whole serial dating aspect of it and I decided to make my profile public again and try to not go insane. So far it seems to be working, as I'm e-mailing one guy. He seems nice and I didn't even push it when he didn't ask me out right away but did drop a hint that it was okay to ask me out. Which he promptly did. So although I didn't technically lose the bet yet, I think I may by the end of the week. And I hope that this guy is cool because I am going to be pissed if I have to pay for dinner at wd~50 for a crappy date. Actually, no, I won't be pissed. It's something I should be doing anyway, as long as it doesn't cause me to lose my mind. And I definitely am not going to sleep with him. I have a distinct "no sex on the first date" policy that I'm instituting because it's all just been so ... bad. So. And in these economic hardships, I haven't really been waxing my delicate flower so yeah. There's that.

Maybe I won't shave my legs either. Even though it's summer. And I'm heavily rotating my short dresses.

Hmmm. In other news, I woke up this morning with my right eye glued shut. It's mildly pink and I think I may have stabbed myself with my fancy new eyeliner so, TEH SEXI. Come and get it.
It's totally hot over here.

The Day of the Yoqua

2008-05-29T13:45:00.000-07:00

Bah. This has been a bad month for posting and I'm feeling all, blah blah blahdittyDAH about it and it's not like I don't have funny things to say but I'm getting a little worried re: the amount of stuff I put on the Internet re: trying to go back to grad school, get my PhD and re: having my own business at some point, very many years and hundreds of thousands of dollars from now. So. There's that.

And then there's also this distinct feeling I'm having lately, wherein the world is out to get me and I think I know what Stephen Crane was aiming at when he wrote The Open Boat. Or what Dryden was getting at with Sister Carrie in that there's a Man vs. Nature/Society YOU WILL ALWAYS LOSE,BITCH type of thing going on here that, in all honesty, is making me paranoid. And irrational.

Example: I'm out to lunch yesterday and my friends and I decide to stop at Yoqua for some delicious frozen yogurt (it's like Pinkberry and Red Mango, sans the taking over the universe one! frozen! dessert! at a time part) and I'm enjoying, REALLY ENJOYING, my delicious yogurt with blueberries and mochi and really really loving it and savoring it, which is why, about halfway back to the office, I had only eaten about a fifth of it. And then, out of nowhere, a huge, ashen faced stoner kid who is obviously fucked up on a number of downers, totally loses his balance, you know, WALKING ON THE FLAT SIDEWALK and bashes into me, sending my delicious frozen yogurt ass over tea kettle and face down SPLAT into the grimy sidewalk. Upon examination, there was nary a blueberry left in the overturned cup and the deliciously sweet mochi was grimy and gray, as was the pitiful amount of yogurt left. And instead of just shrugging, telling the kid off, turning around and going to get another one, what did I do? I played the martyr, stonily declining the numerous offers of my friends to share theirs, held my shit together for the next five minutes it took to get back to work, went into my office and closed the door and cried about it. For three hours.

And all I have to say about that is the following:

What.

The.

Fuck.

Who cries for three goddamn hours about spilled fucking dessert? And uses that one goddamn incident as an indictment of her entire life like see? The Universe HATES ME AND DOESN'T WANT ME TO LIVE because a STONER KID KNOCKED OVER MY YOQUA.

Irrational, yes?

Needless to say, I'm waiting on a call back from my therapist, as I think maybe just a little bit that I could benefit from a consult from a psychiatrist. Because even I, who believes in ESP, thinks that the fortune teller she went to in New Orleans was totally NOT LYING, who reads her horoscope daily and obsessively grills any new boyfriend she has about his birthday information so she can do an astrological relationship analysis to SEE IF WE BELONG TOGETHER, who thinks my cat is indeed talking back to me and the reason her ten week old goddaughter is so damn fussy is because she is having a hard time dissociating from her most recent past life, knows that to cry for three fucking hours over a dessert (which, mind you, my hips DID NOT need) is kind of sort of totally maybe insane.

So yeah. That's how it is over here.

Confession # 483

2008-05-21T09:24:00.000-07:00

I pluck my nose hair. Like a sixty-seven year old man, I pluck my nose hairs. And because it's allergy season, the plucking of the nose hairs is not going very well. Do you know what it's like to have a snot covered ingrown hair inside your nose? No? You've never had that pleasure?

Well, let me enlighten you. It's like having the itchiest bug bite you've ever had. In your nose. And every time you try to scratch it, it looks like you are picking your nose. Which, technically, you are. And then snot and blood seep out of your left nostril while your right nostril holds onto every last dust particle that ever went up there, thus creating a crusty hard rock of booger that will never come out. Until you sneeze on the subway and it comes flying out on your hand and you don't have a tissue OF COURSE and you have to wipe it on your jeans that you JUST WASHED and your left nostril still itches and you continue to pick your nose. In public. And idly wonder why people are staring at you on the train until you catch a glimpse of yourself in the window and realize OH YEAH. My pointer finger is shoved up my nose. Like a four year old.

But the thing is, is that I will continue to pluck my nose hairs, just like I continue to pluck my eyebrows. It's addictive. And really, really satisfying in a masochistic picking at a scab and scratching a mosquito bite way.

Even though the picking my nose part is having an undesirable effect on my social life.

My Weight

2008-05-20T19:09:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've ever really written about my struggles with weight before, I'm sure I have in a HAHAHA I USED TO BE FAT ISN'T THAT FUNNY BECAUSE I'M SO SUPERIOR AND LOST ALL THE WEIGHT AND AM HOT NOW way but that's not incredibly helpful to me or to anyone who may be reading this who is also fighting the bulge. I managed to lose about forty pounds a couple of years ago and the entire process took about two years. Which is strange when I think about it those terms. And it has always seemed as though my weight, whether it's coming on or going off, does so in bursts, usually brought on by stress, depression or both. I remember when I first moved to Hoboken, I got on the scale one day and saw that I had dropped another ten pounds (I had lost about thirty while living at home with my mom) and was now the lowest weight I had ever been in my adult life. And I had no idea how that happened in two months, save for the fact that I was living on my own for the first time, with a roommate who ate healthy and who I had a massive crush on and I think I just stopped eating dinner. Which was sound. And although my weight fluctuated for the next two years, I was never more than seven pounds above my lowest weight.

Until I broke up with my ex-boyfriend and moved into my own apartment. I stopped going to the gym because I didn't want to run into him there, ate my way through the holidays, went to New Orleans at the new year and, upon return, got on the scale. I had gained almost twenty pounds from my average weight. Struggled with that for awhile, up two pounds, down two pounds yo yo, mostly from the fact that I barely go food shopping and eat out entirely too much. About a month after that, I found out that my ex and I were not going to get back together as we had originally planned because he had met someone else and was choosing to date her. In the wake of seeing my life, my future, and my family dissolving, I became depressed. Add to that the fact that I had gone off birth control and I was a mess. A mess that didn't eat and promptly lost eight pounds.

And now I'm hovering at about ten pounds above where I know I'm most comfortable. Ten pounds above where I can fit into my shorts and feel confident in my skirts. Ten pounds above the number on the scale where I'd never thought I be again because I was so damn smug about my weight loss. So smug about the fact that I could lose the weight and keep it off. I should also mention here that I am ten pounds above where I thought I was fat. Hell, I'm probably fifteen pounds away from where I was at my thinnest. And it's OK. It's OK because I know now that that skinny bitch had no right to complain that she was fat. Because I have no right to complain that I'm fat now. I still am a size four or six in pants and a small in shirts and dresses. I know that I look good but I know that, mentally, I would feel better if I could fit into my smaller clothes. And I'm learning to take it one step at a time, fight one day at a time, try not to eat Doritos for dinner and call it a success.

Because although I've been successful at weight loss, I haven't been successful at forming a healthy relationship with food. And although I've internalized the importance of and grown to love regular exercise, I still use food as a weapon against myself. To punish and reward. To guilt. To comfort. To fill, to empty. It's a road to healthy relationship with food that I now pursue and I hope very much to form that relationship someday. But I know I have to take it slow. And hope I can find the patience within myself to respect that journey.

My Weekend

2008-05-18T20:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I made it through another weekend at the restaurant and again, not so bad. It makes it a bit better knowing that I managed to get tomorrow off my real job and that I don't have to be there at nine a.m. And it seems a little weird, using my personal days at my real job to recover from the ass kicking I soundly get at my weekend job but, well, I guess that's what they're for. And I'm feeling much better, I should have posted earlier but I've been busy. I think I was just really, really tired. I didn't start to feel like a human again until about Thursday. Which still doesn't explain the fact that I cry in my therapist's office every week but I am choosing to blame him and his damn disarming demeanor. Freaking jerk makes me comfortable. And the kind of work we're doing is ... not easy. I think most people, when confronted with actually getting to know their own damn selves as intimately as I'm getting to know me, would have quit thirty-seven sessions ago. I definitely think that, no matter how well you know someone, you can never know them as well as you can know yourself. And no matter how well you think you know yourself, you've probably only scratched the surface.

So, in other news, the restaurant was pretty funny this weekend as I think my bullshit tolerance tank is officially empty.

A sampling of my assholery in response to the assholery of others:

- To the table that came in at 10:55 on Saturday night (we close at 11), drunk and having an inflated sense of hilarity, I said, "Sir, it's midnight. I officially have no sense of humor left, so please joke with someone else ... No, sir, I cannot just get you another of "the same" as I was not the server who brought you your first drink. Just because we all wear the same outfit doesn't mean we're all the same person."

- To the server I work with who, after telling me she had only gotten two hours of sleep last night, said that she was thinking of trading her dinner shift with my nemesis and asked me if I would be really upset if he worked instead of her, I replied, "I'd rather work with him than you when you're tired and hungry."

- To my nemesis who told me to shut up for no apparent reason, I said, "Fuck you."

- To the guy I used to date, who came in with his family for his mother's birthday, I said, "Can I get you anything else with that cake? Maybe some cyanide with which to poison myself? No, OK then, have a lovely evening!"

Really, it's been so much fun lately. So much fun I can HARDLY STAND IT. SOMEONE PINCH ME.

Still Don't Have the Funnies

2008-05-14T19:15:00.001-07:00

So. Yeah. I have nothing to say. Still. I found that assignment from my therapist, in which I had to write to down my positive attributes, insanely difficult. And really fucking frustrating because every time I started to write something down, I had to temper it with something negative, like I can be a good listener, when I shut up and LET PEOPLE TALK. Or I am nice. When I WANT TO BE. It was insanely annoying. I mean, he even said today that I am so hard on myself, it's kind of shocking. I'm even getting emotional just sitting here writing about it. And on top of it, he's thinking about sending me to a psychiatrist because he's starting to think that medication might be ... helpful. And I'm all WHAT? Medication? Listen, just because I start crying in your office every week and I can't write a list of what I like about myself, well then, why does that automatically qualify me for medication? But then I think, well, I'm still crying in his office every week and I've been seeing him for almost six months. I think that we should be longer in the process and not, you know, just running down his tissue supply. And as much as I don't want to talk about this, least of all with the Internet, I'm not really talking to anyone else. And that's by design, mostly because I think I'm annoying and would rather not bother anyone. Because yeah, listening to someone talk about their therapy is probably even more boring than watching someone in therapy (HBO and Gabriel Byrne, I'm looking at YOU) and almost as boring as reading about someone's therapy. But this is my blog and I can talk about what I want. And since I have nothing to say and NOTHING FUNNY HAS HAPPENED which is ENTIRELY ANNOYING and I'm thinking of going back to dating just so I have some damn stories already.

Maybe I'm just having a bad couple of days. I worked a lot this past weekend, actually ran my ass of Saturday night, got home after one a.m. and had to be right back in the restaurant by nine a.m. to run my ass off for another twelve hours. Straight. With no breaks whatsoever for all the mommies out there. And I don't think I've really recovered from that yet. And I get to do it all over again this weekend. Which is. Inspiring? Uplifting? Fucking terrifying?

And I could complain about planning my high school reunion which I'm fully in the midst of but it's been surprisingly ... not bad. Actually pretty OK. And kind of fun talking to everyone over e-mail. I just want to make sure I plan something nice and not, well, overpriced. And with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

Speaking of ... I wish I had some wine. OH! I HAVE BAILEY'S. GOTTA GO.

A Really Hard Assignment

2008-05-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

I had a particularly emotional meltdown in my therapist's office the other day with regard to YET ANOTHER wedding I have coming up in June and I freaked out because DUDE. I am the ONLY SINGLE ONE of my friends from college going to this wedding and I alone am going to FUCK UP THE SEATING CHART with my one, single self and WOE IS ME, I am very speeshal and preshus and why am I the ONLY SINGLE ONE? Should I pay a date like Debra Messing did in that horrible movie? Should I invite my gay best friend to the wedding that is being performed by an archbishop, replete with extremely conservative Catholic and WASP-y guests even though he looks like Agyness Deyn with his white blond hair and tight pants? Should I just go alone on the hopes that my old hook-up will be there, single and ready to, uh, mingle (seeing as how hooking up with old boyfriends/whatevers does not nullify and/or cause me to lose the bet)? WOE. STRESS. TEH CRAZY.

And my doctor was all um, can you please calm down? It's a wedding, not a commentary on your worthiness as a person. And seriously, so what if five of your friends from college have significant others and you don't? I mean, that's a pretty small sample of you know, ALL THE PEOPLE ON EARTH and I think you're really defining your self worth and lovability based on external factors. We should focus on internalizing that.

And I'm all, BLANK STARE.

So then he gives me yet another homework assignment. And seriously this is the worst one yet.

I have to write down the things I like about myself.

Sounds easy, right? Do you know what I have so far? A BLANK PAGE.

I mean, it's hard to write down what I like about myself. I don't really know. I know what I DON'T like about myself. I mean, if he asked me to write that down, I could fill at least AN ENTIRE NOTEBOOK. Why can't we just continue to focus on the negative here, people?

I really do hate my therapist.

Life, Post Maniacal Dating

2008-05-08T10:53:00.001-07:00

I've basically ceased dating and therefore have no funny stories, so I apologize for the lapse in posting. I haven't gone out or done anything terribly interesting in the last week except go food shopping for the first time in oh, six months or so, and when I was acting like a spaz at the checkout counter, simultaneously trying to hand the girl my debit card while frantically attempting to bag, and she's all no, I don't want your card you have to swipe it yourself on the handy dandy machine right IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE and I'm all, uh, hee, silly me I haven't done this in awhile and she's all I CAN TELL. Sort of makes you feel stupid when the girl at the Shop Rite checkout is like, c'mon already lady, don't you understand the basics of FOOD SHOPPING and I'm all uh, no. Not really. Can I interest you in an art history lesson about the differences in the subject matter of Susanna and the Elders as expressed through the lens of Laura Mulvey's famous feminist essay "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema" and the theory of the gaze? Oh. You just want me to pay, put my three cans of tuna fish in a bag and leave? OK then.

Ahem.

Anywhichdizzle, I'm basically pretty boring. Having a grand old time hanging out at my apartment, alone, doing mundane tasks and you know, actually cooking for myself and eating real dinners instead of peanut butter and jelly spooned right out of the jars because oh yeah, that two week old bread has a forest of mold growing on it so maybe I should throw it away. Everyone loves a little penicillin with their dinner, no?

It's actually kind of nice and all, being sort of domestic and not having to do it for anyone but myself. Not like I actually cooked or anything when I was living with the ex, but it is nice being able to take the initiative on all things domestic without being all OMFG, what is so-and-so going to say about this? And dude, I sooo don't miss the smelly soccer outfits and sneakers and sports equipment all over the fugging place. Oy. Boys, no matter how neat they are, are inherently gross. And smelly.

It's weird not dating though. I mean, I was on a pretty full social schedule for awhile there and now that I've slowed down and made that bet, I can honestly say that I feel nothing but ... relief. Pure, sweet relief. Relief that I don't have to go out and drink and be social and eat restaurant food and be witty and have the same conversation over and over and over again. And that I don't have to wait for people anymore because OY, a habit I picked up from the ex, I am on time or early for EVERYTHING and everyone else on the planet it seems is habitually fucking late. And that I don't have to deal with stupid text messages because whiny men-boys taalk on the phoooone alllll day and I just don't waaaant to and I don't have to ask them questions and pretend I'm listening when really I'm just staring at the hot bartender over their shoulders, wishing I was alone so I could flirt with him instead of having to zone out to yet another financial industry master of the universe wannabe talk about dividends and products and trades and blahblahblah I work in academic publishing and I'm sorry but you must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.

I am sublimely happy on this break from dating and feel as though I have gotten off this must socialize must meet someone am failure if I am alone for thirty more seconds and oh my god my biological clock is out of control need to procreate nownownownow babybabybaby nomnomnom train to Crazytown I was riding. It's nice to just sit back, relax, and feel completely content with watching prime time The Price is Right on CBS because DUDE! That cleaner and the deodorant are totally the same price! The deodorant! NO, NOT THE SALSA BITCH! THE DEODORANT!

I'm Back!

2008-05-04T19:49:00.000-07:00

I survived the wedding. And it was actually a ton of fun. I made the DJ play "Sweet Caroline," got hammered and sang "Ice, Ice Baby" and was personally responsible for getting both the bride and groom completely wasted. Also, for all you ladies out there, let me tell you a little secret about one of the maid of honor duties that no one mentions to you, especially if you've never seen 27 Dresses (I hadn't):

You get to help the bride pee! It's SO MUCH FUN.

It's a good thing I was annihilated.

I'm pretty sure my mom tried to make me stop drinking at one point. I think I may have yelled at her.

Anywho, the drive up to Boston and back was pretty easy, I didn't get in too many fights and I think I may be learning how to deal with my aggravation in a more positive way.

In other news, one of the other bridesmaids was another friend from high school whom I used to find very annoying. She talked a lot and was very outgoing, asked a lot of questions and tried really hard, at both school and being friends with everyone. She irritated my younger, fatter and angrier self and I just never could spend very much time with her. It's interesting how people change, however, because all the things I used to find annoying, her excitement over small things, her tendency to hug people and always look at the bright side, her engaging conversational skills - are all the things that I now find incredibly charming. And she hasn't changed one bit, so I think that means that I have. I actually found myself incredibly jealous of her, how all that social interaction and general good will comes so easily to her. I wished I could be more like her.

And I just think about how far I've come in the last ten years, how much I've changed and become more self aware, that I feel proud of what I've accomplished and look forward to how much more I can still grow.

Adios Amigos!

2008-04-29T19:40:00.000-07:00

Am going to a wedding tomorrow. Am maid of (dis)honor. Dress doesn't really fit. Bought it too small by accident. Should be fun!

Wish me much luck and drunkenness Internet! I'll miss you!

Cinderella Can Kiss My Ass

2008-04-29T08:58:00.000-07:00

I have a confession. I'm a terrible bridesmaid. I have been in three weddings thus far, a fourth to come in the fall, and I feel as though I have failed at every opportunity to get excited, show enthusiasm or embrace the dreaded bridesmaid dress. Basically because I hate weddings and should probably just say "no" when asked to be a part of them. But then, how do you say "no" to something that is supposedly an "honor" when, in reality, it's just a way for your bride-to-be friend to abuse you without consequence or remorse for a number of months and to loosen your wallet on a bunch of pointless stuff?

Really, weddings are an extension of the consumerist, debt be damned, I'm a princess goddammit and I want it NOW Veruca Salt mentality that pervades American society. I look at a wedding, what people pay for a wedding and all I can think is "They spent their down payment on a house on this?" I know I'm not one to judge, considering I've been, uh scratch that, am in a massive amount of credit card debt, mainly over pointless shit like clothes and spa treatments, but I think it's because I am so the ultimate consumer, I am the person you want to market your shit to because I fall for the infomercial every single time, that I am so fucking terrified of weddings. I mean, much larger corporations than myself with more intelligent and business savvy people than I, tell you what you need, when you need it and that you need more! more! more! of it in order to impress your guests/have a memorable wedding/feel fulfilled in life, man.

Goody bags! Filled with local treats! At the hotel! For your out of town guests! Local flora and fauna on the tables! Hand calligraphy stationary! Programs tied with precious grosgrain and satin bows! That match the flower girl's sash! That matches the bridal bouquet! Themed tables! That represent our love! Let's release doves! And ... on and on and on it goes. And suddenly you're there, in a huge puffy dress, stressed out, in debt up to your ears for what amounts to a party, wondering, "What the fuck happened?" It's enough to drive a normally sane person off the deep end. And a borderline sane person right the fuck into the mental hospital.

Which is why I'm a bad bridesmaid. I'm so scared of it happening to me, when the time comes, that I refuse to feed into it for other people. Which is selfish of me, I know, and it is all about them, I know, but I can't help it. I just can't get behind supporting the marketing machine of gift me, give me, obey me, buy me, crown me, love me, me, me, me. It's just too much.

And then they have the whole Disney weddings thing which ... just, ugh. They actually provide a way for women-children to live out their greatest princess fantasy and get married at the goddamn Magic Kingdom. With a Cinderella carriage, and a footman, and Mickey as your minister or whatever and they design dresses based on cartoon characters and UGH. I hate myself just looking at all of if because I know, deep in my black, black heart, I want the goddamn prince with the glass slipper too.

I have a Cinderella fantasy just like every other American woman on the planet, hell, I'll even own up to the fact that one of my wedding fantasies includes her ice blue princess gown, replete with black choker, and I feel so dirty inside writing this out. It's my own self loathing for even thinking about crap like a goddamn Prince Charming that makes me so resistant to weddings. Because the meanest trick that Disney ever played on young girls? Is convincing them that the fantasy exists. And nothing can take away the sting when you realize that it just doesn't work out that way.

And that Walt Disney was in cahoots with the Nazis.

I still haven't recovered from that one, man.

P.S.

2008-04-27T18:10:00.001-07:00

Juice wanted me to let you know that he is still not amused.

But very interested in fire safety.

Biore Nose Strips

2008-04-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

Can I express some concern about the bad rap that the Biore Nose Strip gets? Now, according to the Biore website, the nose strips

Pull the plug on clogged pores. This weekly pore refining treatment for the nose area instantly removes pore-clogging dirt, oil and blackheads. In just one use, Biore® Deep Cleansing Pore Strips are twice as effective as the leading pore cleanser at getting rid of pore-clogging build-up and blackheads. Helps reduce the appearance of pores with regular use. For best results, do not use more often than once every three days

According to the general female population over thirteen years of age, Biore strips

= FAIL.

What can I say? Strips of paper that stick to my nose and purportedly pull out junk from my pores when I rip it off like a non-hurty Band-Aid make me feel silly.

Do you think I look better this way? What about if I make my sexy face? I should totally wear these out of the house, right? It'll be like the next big trend in cosmetics, bigger than super glossy lip ... uh, gloss. Right?

Yeah, I totally should.

The Bet

2008-04-25T13:54:00.001-07:00

My sweet italian sausage looking finger also smells bad. In case you were wondering. I think I might have gangrene. We're trying to go through a list of ailments that start with the letter "g" and are usually reserved for old men/Revolutionary War soldiers. It's been fun so far. I like to tell people it spontaneously combusted but no one is really buying the Firestarter-only-confined-to-your-middle-finger explanation. I think totes it's plausible though.

(My cousin thinks its a flesh eating bacteria.)

(She's not a doctor.)

(She teaches autistic children.)

(I have a tendency to think her explanation might maybe a little bit be the correct one.)

In other equally weird news, I have a bet with a co-worker going that I feel the need to post here, basically because I am a competitive asshole and will be much more diligent in trying to keep up my end of it if I let the anonymous intarwebs know about it. I am not dating anyone new until the end of August. Because my horoscope told me so. (Don't ask, I am a kooky fuck who pays attention to shit like that. Stop laughing.) Well, it didn't specifically state that I shouldn't date but considering the events of the past week, i.e. Mr. Droopy Dick blowing me off and then another bad date I had last night, well, I am not feeling the mens. But really, the guy last night, it wasn't his fault that the date sucked. I was in a bitchy PMS-y mood and should have canceled. But then I figured, fuck it, I'll go, it might be fun. But he proved to be neither interesting or cute enough to pull me out of my funk, I think I may have yelled at him, and then I left after an hour citing "I have to get home at 8 to give my cat his medication. He needs it at the same time every day." Yeah, I am so smooth. I haven't fucking lied in so long, I'm becoming fucking terrible at it. Like a five-year-old you caught in the kitchen, face covered in chocolate frosting and you ask, "Zachary, did you eat the birthday cake?" And the cocoa covered monster gets wide eyes and says "No." Yeah. Riiiight.

So anyway, not dating anyone until the end of August because my long-term horoscope tells me that this is a really good time for self-reflection, growing out of old methods of communication and generally developing as a human being. And that I should be wary of any personal relationship I enter at this time, as it may only distract me from the self growth I so desperately need. That and I want to enjoy my summer without having to worry about any new douchebags. I have enough bags. Baggage. Handbags. Whatever.

Terms of this bet, this bet I have with a male co-worker - He says I can't go that long without dating anyone. This includes drunken one night stands. I say I can. I have an awesome vibrator. So, my reasoning is, given my insanely competitive nature, that if I am going to knowingly lose this bet, it will be for an awesome guy. And obviously lying about it isn't an option (see above), so I would have to break this deal only for someone totally cool. Makes sense, yes?

So hold me accountable Internet. You know I can't keep anything from you.

Oh No He Didn't

2008-04-24T10:51:00.000-07:00

So. Hmm. Had a strange thing happen to me yesterday. I'm pretty sure I got blown off. By a dude. That I was dating. And am now, obviously, not. So. Hmmm. Normally I think that I would be pretty pissed about the whole thing because, really, I have a giant ego. But then I think, well, you have a giant ego, maybe this is just the universe's way of, oh, I don't know, taking you down a peg or two? So you know, you don't start offending people all the time instead of just part of the time? And then I think, wait, why does the universe need to give me an ego check? Like, isn't that why I pay for therapy? Sitting in Dr. U's office every week, having him find things that are wrong with me that I didn't actually think were wrong with me (So. We seem to be dealing really well with that impulsiveness! Great job! Why don't we talk about your frustration! You seem to get angry a lot! At the people! And the people, you know, aren't going anywhere! We should work on that! The dealing with people! Um. Awesome? Thanks? Dick.) OK, back to the whole being blown off thing. It's weird. Not in the totality of my existence weird because I used to get rejected by guys all the time because of the fatty I used to be but it really hasn't happened in the last couple of years. So yeah. And it was especially weird because we made plans to hang out, like, specific plans to hang out, and then ... nothing. No phone call all week, no text, no e-mail. So I'm guessing he just wasn't that into me, however, I feel like he should have been kissing the ground I walk on considering I was EXTREMELY nice about his little problem. And when I say little problem, I'm talking about his inability to uh, finish, the task at hand (or third arm) if you know what I mean.

Although I suppose posting about his E.D. issues on line doesn't fall under the heading of "Nice Things I Did Today" but then, neither does standing up the girl who was willing to put up with that bullshit.

At least I'm not posting his name.

And I bought my friend, who is sad today, Mr. Softee, sent her pictures of baby lions, and made fun of her to her face. So there's the good karma for you.

Post-Podiatry Update

2008-04-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

I don't have gout. In actuality, the podiatrist I went to looked at me like I was retarded when I asked him, after having ruled out a bunion via x-ray, "Do you think it's gout?" And he was all, "On a scale from one to ten, how painful is your toe?" And I'm all, "Uh ... three?" and he purses his lips, narrows his eyes and is all, "No. It's definitely NOT gout."

And I was sort of disappointed because having gout would kind of fit into my Jeopardy! watching, Key Lime pie eating, Nora Roberts loving, QVC shopping 67-year-old woman trapped in a 28-year-old's body thing I have going for me. Add some glaucoma and we're in business.

Also hilarious, the below quote is from a frequent poster on a message board that I also frequent:

"Cluelessness: There are no stupid questions, but there are a LOT of inquisitive idiots. Put on your big-girl panties and deal. No one is coming to the rescue."

I love her.

That's all I got for the moment. Incest stories a comin'. I swearz it.

I Can Haz Posts, Pleeze?

2008-04-22T11:41:00.001-07:00

I swear, I have posts in me. I have updates and stories and incest, oh my. I also have only nine properly functioning fingers and my lands, do you have any IDEA how hard it is to type properly without your middle ring finger? Yeah, I didn't either. This is hard. And myfinger really hurts from some mysterious blister that appeared, ate the top part of my finger and left it resembling a sweet italian sausage. It's delightful.

Also, I may have gout. Don't ask, I'm going to the podiatrist in a half an hour and will let you know the outcome then.

Non Sequitur City. I Blame Global Warming.

2008-04-18T12:44:00.000-07:00

So, we seem to be in a holding pattern here with the cat ass explosions, something that goes along the lines of normal poop, normal poop, normal poop, etc. and so on, for a few days until we lull ourselves into a feeling of general well being and fist pumpiness of YES! There are no more ass explosions of death! And then, just as the universe has lulled us into this general sense of smug satisfaction, we wake up to another hot, smelly, seizure inducing ass explosion. It's a special kind of torture. BUT. Today I got to chase him around OUTSIDE with wet paper towels to wipe his ass. So at least we're changing it up.

Anywho, moving on, it's so motherfucking hot in my office right now that the sound of my own self typing on my keyboard is lulling me into a coma. I may be the first brain dead person to post a blog entry, so can someone please contact the people at Guinness to see if this is, in fact, the case? I feel like I should at least get a nod in the upcoming edition because this seems like a record-worthy feat.

In other equally horrific news, I think that I have a few stalkers, i.e. guys I have dated briefly who obviously don't understand that when I say "I'll call you," and DON'T it means, wait for it, wait for it ... I'M JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.

Yeah, I went there. So, texting me to see how I'm enjoying the weather, sending me what you think are witty e-mails, etc. and so on, really does nothing for your cause. If I wanted to talk to/see/date you, you would have heard from me three weeks ago when I said I'd call you. Do guys think the whole "simplest explanation is probably the right one" doesn't exist when it comes to the female psyche? Do you think that we don't understand the nuances of dating? Is it part of the hunter/gatherer thing? No entiendo, asshole. Now please keep your witticisms to yourself as a) I'm funnier than you are and b) I'm over it.

Although I fully admit that if Mystery tried his game on me, I would probably fall for it in about 2.3 seconds. I am only human here, people.

Also in need of an extremely long nap. And a cookie.

And P.S., my mother is making me buy my own birthday cake. Jesus loves me, yes he does. I try to convince myself of this everyday but even I don't believe it.

A Blast From the Past

2008-04-16T13:36:00.000-07:00

So, I was wasting trolling around Facebook and looking at the "People You Might Know!" or whatever the heck it's called feature. I see a girl I used to be friends with in college, click on her profile. Check out her pics, look at her friend list to see if she's Facebook friends with anyone I would want to add. Notice she's friends with her ex-boyfriend, who is solely responsible for brainwashing her with his misinterpretation of The Celestine Prophecy, causing the synapses in her brain to stop functioning properly, effectively ending our friendship and prompting me to flee Washington, D.C. for Rome. Seriously. During this insane relationship, my other roommate and I got a cat (Juice, to be exact) because we heard he was allergic and wanted him to stop coming over our apartment. Turns out he lied about that, too! Didn't stop him from showing up, unannounced! Everyday!* Every time we saw his red Hyundai Tiburon convertible (also: TWAT) parked outside our place, we would camp out in the house across the street. The girls who lived there started asking us to chip in for rent. For reals.

So, upon seeing her profile, and that she is Facebook friends with him, the following is an e-mail exchange between myself and another friend who also witnessed the above stated insanity.

From: Vicki

Sent: Wednesday, April 16, 2008 4:29 PM

To: Normal Friend

Subject: Just because I threw up in my mouth a little bit

Saw Old Crazy Friend on Facebook. She appears to be friends with Her Insane Ex-Boyfriend. He appears to be married or weirdly hugging a girl on a beach.

I hoped he was dead.

From: Normal Friend

Sent: Wednesday, April 16, 2008 4:35 PM

To: Vicki

Subject: RE: Just Because I threw up in my mouth a little bit

Lol! So funny! I laughed out loud.
Just shows that she is still sick in the head and probably just as annoying.

From: Vicki

Sent: Wednesday, April 16, 2008 4:45 PM

To: Normal Friend

Subject: RE: Just because I threw up in my mouth a little bit

Dude! Can I post this exchange on my blog? Leaving out names and personal information, of course. Your response is too fooking funny!

*I suppose I should take this opportunity to say thank you to Her Insane Ex-Boyfriend for annoying me so much that I had to both adopt Juice and flee the country and consequently have a feline BFF for life, yo, and have one of the most amazing cultural experiences, respectively. But I won't. You do have to admit. This

Is too cute for words.

*Disclaimers and Apologies

2008-04-14T01:26:00.000-07:00

So, I've been finding out recently that in addition to the two people I know in my life who read this, there are two more who at least occasionally check in. And that could indicate something along the lines of, I don't know, an actual trend or something and I feel the need to post a few disclaimers and apologies for those of you just joining us.

1) The name of the blog is The Wounded Idealist, based upon a Mark Twain quote that says "A cynic is a wounded idealist," a saying I've liked and related to since I first heard it back in high school. It also encompasses the spirit of the persona of this blog which is written from a snarky, humorous, potentially offensive tone. I don't mean to offend people, it's an unfortunate side effect of being an asshole sometimes, so I apologize in advance.

2) A lot of what I write, although based upon true events, is usually exaggerated for dramatic effect and occasionally spills over into the realm of pure fiction. I'm never going to say what's the truth and what isn't but in most cases, these posts are "inspired by true events."

3) If I know you in real life, let me know that you read this. Really. I am so flattered and I really want to make sure I don't piss you off. I try to keep everyone in mind when I write, but I have low self esteem and don't think that a) I'm very good at this and b) no one actually would waste their time reading this dusty corner of the web. And, having recently participated in some self and blog evaluation, I realize that I may have posted something last week in a fit of frustration with a specific event, expanded my fit to include a whole group of people for dramatic effect, and realized lo. I am an asshole. If those people who were included for dramatic effect were reading this and took it seriously, not knowing the original story that prompted my frustrated post and the fact that they were lumped in to create a heightened sense of drama, I could have hurt their feelings. It's happened before and I thought I learned my lesson but really, I can be as selfish and myopic as the next jerk and I make mistakes all the time. And sometimes when I'm kidding, it doesn't come off that way.

So, long point short, I'm sorry if I offended you in the past and will try not to do so in the future. I also really want to know if I know you and you read this. And what you think about it, even if you think it's awful.

4) I will do my best to continue to post regularly. But hell, this is harder than it looks even if I am only posting about my cat's ass explosions. So please try not to have too many expectations of me and I will probably post a whole lot more often. I don't perform well under pressure.

Again, this is a learning experience and I am still getting used to the fact that my words and actions affect the population at large and my friends and family immediately. If you fall into the latter categories, please have some patience with me and I will learn how to not be a total schmuck. The fact that I'm calling my own damn self out, unprompted, is progress (I think) but please don't hesitate to hold that ever useful mirror up to say hey! You are being a dick and I know you in real life and no wonder I don't really like you all that much. Or, hey! I don't know you in real life but I read your shenanigans here and I would stick needles in my eyes if I did know you personally because you sound like a massive douche. No wonder you don't have all that many friends or a boyfriend! I wouldn't be able to stand you either!

Trust me. I know I deserve it.

So, Yeah. Fuck Me.

2008-04-11T13:13:00.000-07:00

My step-by-step cure of cat ass explosions yesterday had the exact opposite effect that my smug asshole self intended. I'm laying (lying? I always get that confused) in bed yesterday, watching Jeopardy! and the little shit ass (literally) wanders in my room, a stench to kill all other stenches wafting in behind him. Seriously, it was like his diet food morphed into the thing from Alien in his lower GI tract, died from its own stench, and exited in the form of a massive pile of stinking, smoking, mushy, moist, poo that could out-smell and out-gross the stinkiest baby diaper or hangover shit you've ever encountered.

So, the chasing of said disgusting animal with even more disgusting asshole with wet paper towels ensues, ending with me cornering him in the kitchen, him whining something pitiful, and me having to try to wipe his ass, hold him down and slap my self in the face to keep from dying of the stench all at the same time. It's at times like these that I wonder if men's penises come in handy because, can you, like use them as a third arm or something? Could I have held him down with a penis?

But then I remember, no. That is what your leg is for.

And the stench obviously killed a few brain cells.

After I managed to clean his asshole, I went back to the privacy of my second room and died. Because God is obviously punishing me for all my asshole-ishness including (but definitely not limited to) making my boyfriends use the same toothbrush and telling each of them it's new, not giving change to homeless people, yelling at the Children International and Greenpeace campaigners who stop me everyday to solicit money from me, reading entirely too much Perez Hilton, leaving the first review of a book on Amazon.com and only giving it two stars, not eating dinner, drooling all over myself every time I see my trainer at the gym do bicep curls with the goddamn chest press bar, having no edible food in my refrigerator, not brushing my cat enough, my obsession with Brett Michaels, dreaming that I was friends with Bethenny and LuAnn from The Real Housewives of New York City and waking up smiling, downloading "She's My Cherry Pie" and the soundtrack to Hairspray from iTunes in the same sitting, bragging too much about my hair, hating on Julia Allison all the while kind of wishing I was Julia Allison, pretending not to like the color pink, and yelling at my mother too much.

Obviously, my own personal hell, which I always thought would be waiting for a 33rd Street PATH train that never comes in the dead of summer with a million people on the platform whle wearing a down jacket, is not what the good Lord had in mind. And friends, this is so much worse.

Pray for me.

How to Cure a Nasty Case of Cat Ass Explosions

2008-04-10T10:49:00.001-07:00

A step-by-step guide.

1) Write about it on the Internet.

2) Fiercely monitor all litter box activities.

3) Say a short prayer every time you give aforementioned cat his new, doctor prescribed, diet food.

4) Wait one day.

5) Write another, equally disgusting and more embarrassing post.

6) Check litter box.

7) Find a pee pee cake and lo! Fully solid doody!

8) Do a dance.

9) Tell the Internet....

10) It's lucky I didn't take a picture of said solid doody and post it.

11) Breathe sigh of relief.

12) Cross fingers and hope posting re: posting of ass explosions does not have same effect but in reverse.

It's a gooddamed gorgeous day out people. Enjoy it!

Confession #489

2008-04-09T07:10:00.001-07:00

I have an extra toothbrush that I keep around. And when a gentleman caller stays over I let him use it. When any gentleman caller stays over, I let him use it. Different guys. Same toothbrush.

I am probably definitely going straight to hell.

What Goes in Must Come Out

2008-04-08T21:59:00.000-07:00

My apartment smells like poop. And it smells like poop for an incredibly good reason. My cat, my poor, sick, potentially liver diseased cat is having severe intestinal issues, man. Like, serious diarrhea. And it's so bad, he misses the litter box. And then leaves piles of poop all over my house. So when I get home at eleven thirty at night, the first thing I have to do is run around my house, cleaning up watery cat poop splotches and disinfecting my entire apartment. It's the most fun I've had in a really long time. Really. And you know what the best part is? The best part of the poop that has invaded and is taking over my house, is that it gets stuck on the cat's butt and I have to chase him around, fecal matter flying, attempting to wipe his ass with wet paper towels. It's really a good thing that I love the bastard. The things we do for those, animal or person, we love. It defies logic. But seriously. Look at that face. How can you not love that face?

Wedding, Continued

2008-04-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

In addition to the Sex and the City moment I lived through last weekend, I also had the pleasure of being seating at the table I affectionately call The Seventh Circle of Hell (I'd like to give a shout out to my boy Dante, woot woot).

We all head into the banquet hall after the cocktail hour. I scope my table. It's empty. I hover around my parents' table. I shuffle from one foot to the other. I sip my 7&7. I fidget. Finally! I see three normal looking girls sit down, all in a row. I breath a slight sigh of relief, as whoa! I think this may actually be the "singles" table! No man in sight! Oh, how wrong I was. After being lulled into a temporary sense of well being, the following ensued:

1) I was told I couldn't sit next to one of the girls because they were all waiting for their boyfriends and would need to "make room;"

2) I was asked if the only other single guy at the table, someone I had been set up with once before, years ago, was my "other half;"

3) The boyfriend of previously mentioned girl to whom I could not seat near, sits down next to me and, the first thing he does, before the toast, is pick up his fork, jam it into the decorative plate of butter shapes, shove one in his mouth, and proceed to spit it out on his plate. I breathe a sigh of relief that I don't have to deal with this.

4) By process of elimination, I am forced to talk to the only other single guy. I ask him questions. He answers. He doesn't ask any back. He continues to talk about the groom. Endlessly. For instance, when I ask him if he likes teaching at his new school better than the one he used to teach at (with the groom), he proceeds to answer by, "Well, yes, I do. And I know the Groom really does like it better in his new school too because he has computers and e-mail and it's really much more high tech than where we used to work." Um, OK.

5) The only time anyone speaks to me at the table is when I attempt to ask anyone a question. I begin to feel like a human resources recruiter.

6) I continue to drink, in hopes of getting drunk. It doesn't work. Frustration ensues.

7) Only single guy follows me around for awhile. It gets old.

8) My cousin, the bride, pulls me aside at one point and asks me if I hate her too much for, quite obviously, trying to yet again set me up with the only single dude. I tell her that yes, I do, in fact hate her and am not getting paid to babysit.

9) I retire to hanging out by the bar and stealing my stepfather's seat at my parent's table.

10) I sneak out early, go back to my room, twirl in front of the mirror in my pretty dress, get in my pajamas and eat chocolate covered pretzels while watching the Discovery channel. It is the best part of my night.

Before I Proceed

2008-04-04T09:59:00.000-07:00

With the wedding shenanigans last weekend, I would like to take a time out for a special Public Service Announcement.

Men of the greater New York metropolitan area: Please, when you are dating a woman, especially a particularly good looking one who hasn't exhibited a great deal of patience, please refrain from the following:

1) Not kissing her hello when you see her, especially after you have already been down that road.

2) Sending apologetic text messages for being "too overdressed" because you are coming to dinner straight from work. WTF? Who cares? You're coming from work.

3) Asking why her why she's being quiet when you don't ask any questions.

4) Telling her she has an eating disorder. Um, hello? Did you seriously just say that? While she's sitting across from you, um, EATING?

5) Then actually getting offended when she tells you that you don't have the management skills to be Brett Michaels on "Rock of Love." Seriously, you don't. You are like, the most introverted person she's ever met. Except when it concerns commenting on her eating habits.

Seriously men, this is a short list of exactly what you should do if you never want to date me again.

Onward. I have two or three in line, in addition to the others I'm already seeing, so no skin off my back. It's just a shame that I wasted like, three perfectly good weeks on you.

And P.P.S.

2008-04-01T06:31:00.001-07:00

Cousin Jimmy is NOT actually my cousin. He is the cousin of my mother's best friend's daughter, Kim, who got married. I call Kim my cousin because it's easier to refer to her that way. We are in no way blood related.

Nor are we from West Virginia.

Pervs.

And P.S.

2008-03-31T14:30:00.000-07:00

Cousin Jimmy's girlfriend was there. She was lovely. And black.

My mother still doesn't get it.

Sigh.

Sex and the Shitty

2008-03-31T13:49:00.000-07:00

OK! So. I found my camera. That's the good news. Bad news? I got really crappy pictures at the wedding. Worse news? No pictures in this post either! Ha! What a dirty trick I've played on you, Internet. I hope you forgive me in the morning.

So, I went to a wedding this weekend and, in summation, it was both the best and worst wedding I've ever attended.

As in, it was really the worst, as in, least amount of fun, but the best as in, some classically fucked up things happened to me whilst wasting away in my wedding hall misery attempting (and failing very miserably) at getting drunk off of 7&7's.

Onward! So, this wedding was of a longtime family friend and I fit in the "not quite close enough to be family but don't know any of the other friends because I only ever hang out with these people at family functions and major holidays" awkwardness arena. So, we shall begin with the awkwardness of all awkwardness and how I unwittingly found myself in the EXACT SAME situation as Samantha on Season 1, Episode 3 ("The Bay of Married Pigs") of Sex and the City and weep! A small dream of mine just came true as I wrote that because don't we all aspire to be just like those four bitches? Or not. (Really, not. They are sad old trannies.) But really, it was surreal, as I had just seen this episode on a rerun at eleventy-one o'clock in the morning during a bout of shared bed insomnia and then I'm standing there, having this experience, and having an out of body experience, watching myself from about seven feet away, which is approximately the same distance from my TV to my pillow and thinking, Holy shit, I just saw this happen to Samantha the other night. What was this experience? OK, OK, Internet, you don't have to twist my arm. I'll tell you.

So, in this particular episode of Sex and the City, Carrie goes off on one of her voice-over monologues about it's singles versus marrieds and why can't we all get along nonsense and then starts dating this guy who really. REALLY. Wants to get married. Like, he invites the four ladies to a party at his apartment and shows Carrie his "office" and whips out a baby mobile and talks about how the "office" is really the nursery! They had been dating for ten days! Psycho! So. They're at this party and the only single people there are Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. Samantha is pissed and attempting to drink her sorrows away (ha! sounds familiar!) and begins having a somewhat boring and normal conversation with a boring and normal man about investments or some such shit. Within seconds, boring and normal man's wife swoops in, shoots Samantha and her cleavage a nasty look and drags boring and normal man away. Samantha proceeds to get wasted and winds up fucking the cute Irish doorman at Charlotte's building. (Jealous!)

Anywho, let's fast forward to my actual life, Saturday night. Wedding commences, vows are said, bride and groom kiss, everyone cries, we all adjourn to the cocktail hour. I am looking good, nay, awesome, in my Diane von Furstenberg dress, sans the Samantha cleavage. I go up to the buffet line and wind up standing next to one of the geekier cousins whom I've known for a long time who just so happens to have the BEST JOB EVER as in he works for THE NEW YORK MOTHERFUCKING YANKEES. Needless to say, every time I'm around said cousin, I try to inquire as to job availability within his organization because it is THE NEW YORK MOTHERFUCKING YANKEES.

Ahem.

So. We're gathering food. I'm picking up some carrots. A little cheese, not really paying attention to what's going on my plate because I'm looking for a break in his stream of conscious chattering about his new baby (barf) and I'm just starting to move the conversation over to the JOB OF MY DREAMS when BAM! Appears his very tiny and very scary wife by his side. I swear, I thought she Apparated, as she basically materialized out of thin air. She's holding a plate of food, glued to his side, looks at me pointedly, looks at his plate and says something along the lines of, "Oh, honey. Look what I got to eat. What are you getting to eat?" (Necessary knowledge, I'm sure.) And then pointedly stares in my direction. And I sigh and move farther down the table, knowing that this is my somewhat more understated but equally understood cue to leave because I am single. And hot. And therefore a threat to her marital and mommy bliss. But seriously? I wanted to pull her aside and say, "Your husband used to hit on me constantly when I was fifteen. He had (has?) acne and greasy hair. I always stayed as far away as possible. And now I want to kick my teen aged self for rebuffing his advances at my aunt's pool because I WANT HIS JOB. And I want to tell you that I have no attraction to your husband whatsoever other than the fact that I too, want to work for THE NEW YORK MOTHERFUCKING YANKEES (getting old, isn't it?). So please. Save your energy for your plate of buffet food and don't worry about it. I know, I'm hot. I'm single. It's intimidating. But so are you. And you are married to him. With a child. Chill. Out. Seriously."

Instead I got another drink at the bar. No cute Irishman in sight, though.

Up next: The Table From Hell.

My Saturday

2008-03-29T08:11:00.001-07:00

Can someone please explain the phenomenon that occurs when you have a one room apartment, one small room, that you can't find the exact thing you're looking for when you're looking for it? As in, this morning, I have pictures that NEED TO BE POSTED but of course, I can't find my camera. And of course, I not only need it for RIGHT NOW, I also kind of wanted it for tonight because it's my cousin's wedding. And don't you normally take cameras to weddings? But then I think, won't there be enough cameras there? Like, professional ones, and the fact that a family member is a photographer too and everyone else and their mother (literally) will bring their own point-and-shoot, not to mention the fact that is putting disposable cameras on the tables still en vogue? Or did that particular trend go the way of the puffy sleeve and ass bow (although I do love a good ass bow)? I don't know.

And, inevitably, I will be placed at the "singles" table, which is fine, but really, I'd rather sit with my mother and her elderly friends. I'm comfortable around them and they pay me compliments. And it would save me the inevitable jockeying for the hook-ups that goes on at the "singles" table at weddings. I could just head anyone who hits on me off by telling them that I have a boyfriend (technically not an untruth, as I have, at this exact moment, three boyfriends) but then ... I get competitive. And really, wouldn't it be a waste of a pretty dress and heels to not at least entertain any of the singles who happen to start hitting on me? Since, of course, my entire family is despondent, despondent, I tell you, over the fact that the cousin with whom they've been trying to set me up with for the past, oh, FIFTEEN YEARS, is BRINGING A DATE. I mean, my mother had me on the phone and said, "I have some bad news," in a tone of voice where, really, I thought someone had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer (sorry Patrick Swayze) or had DIED. And I brace myself for the inevitable tears and upset of emotional equilibrium and am all, "OK, what?" and she says, "Jimmy is bringing a date to the wedding." And then I reached through the phone and punched her in the face.

I mean, really, how insane can you get? Hello, family, this is Reality calling and if we haven't gotten together in the past fifteen years, it's probably not ever going to happen. That and the fact that oh hai, I'm not black and I've only ever seen him date black women. So, seeing as how my love for Maya Angelou alone is not going to make me a sister, I think that I'm pretty SOL for obtaining the affections of Cousin Jimmy regardless of his bringing a date to the wedding.

I must go now, and continue to search for my camera, go to the gym and get a fake spray on tan because purple dress + yellow skin = GROSS.

Ahh, the Seasons

2008-03-26T12:31:00.000-07:00

This will not do. This will not do at all. I am terribly apologetic, sorry, contrite, etc., that I have not posted in what? Five days? It's just that I am so wholly unsatisfied with every post I've started, that I'm finding it a bit difficult to write. And not because I'm depressed! In fact, just the opposite! I am HAPPY. But, in this new found happiness (I say "Thank you, Sun" as I partly attribute my blinding optimism to the return of your glorious light, i.e. Spring) I'm still having a hard time writing. Because with the bitter being not of the so much and the multitudinous of the reasons for the smiles, I'm still not all too eager to put my personal life on display for the intarwebs.

So maybe this will be a little bit serious? Not like, oh so woe serious but maybe explain that part of my optimism, apart from the impending change in season, is due to a mental shift that has occurred within my brain. I'm slowly but surely learning how to operate creatively within the parameters of the life I've established for myself at the moment. How to find wonder, awe and excitement in everyday living. How to actually be aware of my surroundings, of the people I encounter, and to react to both of those things with an appropriate sense of reality, honesty and caring. To know what I'm getting myself into before I rush headlong, consequences be damned. To accept that it's OK to admit that you don't know. That not knowing is exciting. To relinquish control. And that because one phase of your life has ended, doesn't mean that you can't have hope for a future that is both brighter and better than what you had previously thought possible.

And to take pleasure in the small things, like someone actually slipping on a goddamn banana peel on the street. To be aware that these things that you thought were created by Looney Tunes do, in fact, exist. That is truly a special lesson.

The Glorious South and Random Texts

2008-03-21T08:25:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely SWOONING this morning people. SWOONING. Someone loosen my corset and bring the smelling salts. It's all Gone With the Wind up in here.

"As God is mah witness, Ah'll nevah be hungry again!" [Shakes fistful of red Tara dirt at painted MGM sunset backdrop]

Ahem.

All Reconstruction South humour aside, I am very shiny and happy and want very much to speak of which is making me shiny and happy but can't just yet. I have a project that needs a little... tweaking (oh, I DOUBLE DOG DARE YOU to name that movie quote).

In the meantime however, I shall leave you with the transcript of a series of text messages between myself and a friend from this morning. Because seriously people. This is what my life is like. As captured by text message conversation.

(And PS, I copied these verbatim, even though it kind of killed me to leave in the "u"s and the lower case "i"s. I suffered a bout of twitching and then decided to keep all spelling and grammatical errors intact in the effort of full disclosure). [Twitches uncontrollably]

Friend: Watching the shining. It is like the program directors at HBO were listening to our conversation last night. They are very considerate.

Vicki: It's just because i willed it so. see how considerate of your day off i am?

Friend: Do u work for HBO? Or do u have magic powers? After all you have a cat and black hair...hum

Vicki: And my preferred method of transportation is broom so go figure.

Friend: Lol. Your right, u are funnier when you write.

Vicki: I know. it's my gift. and my curse.

Friend: I know what it's like. I suffer from being too good looking. I cry myself to sleep at nite.

Vicki: we can lament the fact that we are too funny and good looking together. it's such a burden.

My Future. As Told By Google Ads.

2008-03-19T08:31:00.000-07:00

After an incident in which I created a blog and e-mailed said blog to blog Supahstar, Sweetney, in an effort to win a writing gig for one of her websites, and in which Gmail unceremoniously FAILED and I DIDN'T GET THE GIG BECAUSE THE LITTLE MAN IN THE GMAIL FELL ASLEEP AND DIDN'T DELIVER MY MAIL IN TIME, I have had very little issues with my Gmail account. I use it for personal stuff and it's been lover-ly, except for the above stated incident.

Anywho, one of my favorite features of Gmail is the Google Ads on the sidebar to the right. They do some fancy programming thingy in which the ads pull out key words from whatever e-mail you're reading and put up "related" ads. For our purposes? We shall use them to tell ..da-da-duuuuum.. the future.

Case in point: Below please find the transcript from an e-mail I received yesterday from one of the men I am dating. (Back story: I sent him an e-mail apologizing that I never responded to him last week as, uh, I was in Atlantic City for part of the week and, um, dating other people in the little free time I had. So, there you go.)

From: [redacted]@gmail.com
To: ME@gmail.com
Date received: March 18, 2008
Subject: RE: Sorry it's been awhile...

Hey there,

Don't worry about it. I had a pretty crazy week myself which included an unexpected visit from the parents this weekend. So of course I played tourist with them all day in the city.
Tons of fun! We should definitely try to get a drink sometime after work this week. Just let me know when you're free.

Talk to you soon,

[Redacted to protect the innocent]

OK, right? Innocuous, nice e-mail sent from a man to a woman in the spirit of getting to know each other. According to Google ads, however, the fate of our relationship is pre-determined. They're the modern Magic Eight Ball. Let's take a look at what life has in store for me and [Redacted], shall we?

Sponsored Links

2008 CuteKid Contest
Think You Have the Cutest Baby?
Enter those Cute Pics to Win
www.TheCuteKid.com

We have a baby! And it will be the cutest!

$289 Disney World Travel
Enjoy 4 Nights at Radisson Resort
Three Days of Disney Parks & More!
www.SaveOnResorts.com

We take said cute baby to Disney World! For $289! Much family happiness in the Happiest Place on Earth!

Tylenol - Get The Facts
Keep Your Child Safe -
Learn About Tylenol Misuse & How To Avoid It
www.Tylenol.com

Woe! Cute baby gets addicted to Tylenol. Family drama ensues. [Redacted] develops a drinking habit and Vicki gains seventy-five pounds. Tylenol is totally a gateway drug for Cute Baby and he develops a debilitating Aspirin addiction.

Dissolve Temper Tantrums
Curiosity based parenting method.
Simple, no punishment.
Free eclass!
http://www.morefunlessworkparenting.com/

Drunk [Redacted] and fat Vicki take an eclass on parenting. Cute Baby kicks his addiction to OTC painkillers. [Redacted] stops drinking and Vicki loses the weight.

Think By: Steve Wright
Decide For Yourself
Is Student Ministry Working?
http://www.inquest.org/

Even worse! Cute Baby finds religion! Vicki longs for the days of the Aspirin addiction. [Redacted] starts drinking drain-o as we can no longer afford alcohol.

Volunteer for Children
Children's Research Hospital
Finding cures. Saving children.
http://www.stjude.org/

Vicki stops lamenting Cute Baby finding religion as Cute Baby is sick. Oh noes!

The Truth About Aspergers
The Truth On Your Aspergers Child
That Doctors Are Not Telling You!
ParentingAspergers.com

Oh yays! Turns out Cute Baby is not terminal, only has Aspergers. Vicki learns all she can about the disease by watching re-runs of Cycle 9 of America's Next Top Model, you know, the one with that girl who had Aspergers? See! You can model! Not all is lost! [Redacted] continues drinking household cleaning products. Cute Baby does not appreciate the career suggestion.

Need a Parenting Advice?
I Help You In Your Own Home!
Amazing Results At Affordable Price
www.ChildMinded.com

Obviously, yes. Yes, we do.

OK, I'm Sorry

2008-03-17T18:24:00.000-07:00

But can SOMEONE OUT THERE please commiserate with me for a moment about a certain travesty here?

OK. I think I've discussed my intense, passionate love for Rock of Love. Maybe it's because the women on the show are hot tranny messes. Maybe it's because I still know all the words to "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" and I still own my Open Up and Say Ahhh.... tape that I got for my ninth birthday. Or maybe it's because I too, long to play roller derby with fucking crazy Lacey. Whatever the reason I LOVE (and I truly mean LOVE in capital letters) Rock of Love.

It is, however, the only reality dating show I can stomach. I loathe pretty much all the rest and, oddly enough, the predecessor of all reality dating shows, The Bachelor, is my second most hated. (Flavor of Love is the one I really can't stand, simply because watching Flavor Flav kiss anyone makes me want to vomit.)

So a commercial for the new season of The Bachelor came on while I'm (still) watching Dancing With the Stars and it features the first! British! Bachelor! And they're calling it The Bachelor: London Calling. And I stopped because.... what. The. FUCK? They are actually naming a season of The Bachelor after a goddamn Clash album? Possibly the best Clash album? And it's even kind of a witty title? Which is more depressing than the mere fact that they named a season of The Bachelor after a Clash album.

Seriously, next they're going to be telling me that JPMorgan Chase bought Bear Sterns in a fire sale for a mere $260.5 million.

Oh wait. Nevermind.

My Evening

2008-03-17T17:35:00.000-07:00

I find myself talking on the phone to my mother tonight and not being able to concentrate on the conversation. There's something about taxes and money and my uncle and Easter but really, I'm just making the appropriate noises during the expectant pauses that periodically arise from the digital sound waves in my ear. I mutter "uh-huh" and "hmmmm" and "Yes, MOM, I promise" at the appropriate intervals, as the only language my mother still understands, from years having worked as a high school guidance counselor, is Sullen Teenager. It's a little known derivative of Northern Jersey mixed with Ex-Hippie, but really, she can't quite comprehend me when I actually begin speaking to her in fully formed sentences with real, actual words from the real, actual English language.

Tonight though, her fluency in Sullen Teenager is incredibly helpful as it affords me the opportunity to avoid listening to her side of the conversation. And truly, I cannot keep my mind on anything that's happening on the phone, as a momentous occasion has occurred this evening. She could have been telling me that Ed McMahon himself was banging on the door with an inappropriately sized check and a garish bouquet of balloons and I would not have reacted with anything other than a mildly disinterested "Uh-huh" as she stopped speaking to open the door.

This occasion, this EVENT, as it were?

Adam Corolla, of "Love Lines" and "The Man Show" dancing the Foxtrot on the season goddamn premier of Dancing With the Stars.

My life is just a little more complete having watched that particular abomination.

Feeling Much Better Now

2008-03-13T19:17:00.001-07:00

Thanks.

Sorry for the mildly bitter post. Still love Anna Farris though, so not all is lost.

And although I love cheese, I don't think my lower GI tract does. Ugh.

Yet again, another reason why it's good I live alone: My lactose intolerance gas.

A Bad Day Begets an Equally Bad Post. My Apologies.

2008-03-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

Having recently received some assvice in which I was told "your blog is really slacking lately" I am finding it difficult to come up with something witty and interesting to say. Seeing as how the second you do anything like, oh, admit that you read this abomination and then actually comment on the fact that perhaps my inanity isn't quite living up to the mundane standards I'd previously set forth well, then, it starts to become like someone is actually, you know, expecting something. Which is totally counterintuitive to my personal philosophy, as I try to do so little in life that no one actually expects diddly squat from me, thus affording me the opportunity to be a dick whenever the mood strikes. And not having to answer to anyone for anything. Which I found out today, the extremely hard way, is not the case. Because my mere mediocrity is the equivalent to most people's best effort and when I actually dick around, people are all whaaa? What happened to her? Why does she suck so bad? I'm sorry I can't go into further details regarding my suckage that goes beyond the realm of this blog but, well, it's personal. Like, really personal and I know how everyone always strives for honesty and openness on these webloggie things but I call complete and total bullshit on that because NO. Everyone edits, everyone embellishes and at any given point anywhere from ten to ninety percent of what I write is completely and utterly exaggerated to the point that I think it can actually be called made the fuck up. I mean, seriously, even this post is totally exaggerated with feeling sorry for my sad sad self. And now that people I know in real life read this thing, it's like HAHAHA I have this really funny story about masturbation that teh intarwebs would fricking love but, uh ... hmmm ... how would my coworker react to reading about that? And then I would totally have to, uh, talk to him and he would know this totally personal and intimate detail of my laughable sex life and then it would be awkward. So really. I can't tell you about my absolutely awful day but suffice it to say that I'm nursing my wounds by sitting in pajamas and watching "Just Friends" for the nine-hundred and thrity-seventh time because I love it and it makes me smile. And Ryan Reynolds is hot. And I can't fall asleep because I have to be awake to pick something up from my friend at the restaurant but he's working and I have to wait until he gets off and all I want is to go to bed. But I can't. Wah. So woe is me and this crappy post and I'm not going back and creating paragraphs so deal with it.

And P.S. does anyone NOT recognize the comedic genius of Chris Klein? It's EPIC.

Atlantic City

2008-03-12T12:40:00.000-07:00

So, I just got back from Atlantic City today and the experience is always one of... amusement and annoyance with a fair bit of horror thrown in for good measure. I mean, when discussing my upcoming trip with my gay best friend, Ryan, (who is from Chicago and has only been living on the East Coast for about a year) he exclaimed, "Ooohh, I've never been there. I want to go." To which I replied, "Ryan, it's not like Vegas." "It's not?," he asked. "No. Well, maybe, if your octogenarian grandmother who is hooked up to an iron lung imagined Vegas then yes. It is totally like Vegas."

I mean, in two and a half days I encountered the following:

- A man so large sitting at one of the Let It Ride tables that no one could sit at the seat behind him at a completely different table.

- A woman eating a sandwich at breakfast piled high with something that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be approximately three quarters of a pound of bacon. On bread. With nothing else. Not once, but twice, did I see this same woman eating this same sandwich.

- Thirteen people on motorized scooters, two of which were incredibly aggressive drivers and three who were hooked up to oxygen tanks. In a facility that still allows smoking indoors.

- One old lady stalking my slot machine.

- Two women, one of whom needed the assistance of a walker, using the stairs everywhere and anywhere that I was trying to use the stairs whenever I had to use them. Repeatedly. And the two were so unsteady that every time I ran into them, I feared for their lives. I swear, I truly thought that they were one misstep away from a disastrous plummet to certain death. And debated pointing out that the casino was equipped with both ample ramps and elevators to take them anywhere they wished but decided that I rather liked their stubbornness. And made sure to hightail it out of the way whenever they started one of their precarious descents.

- Four different men in Bally's for a U.S. Foodservice convention who approached me with the same pickup line, "So, didn't I see you at the dinner last night?"

- Two different hotel rooms, as the bathroom ceiling of the first room fell in and we had to be relocated.

And on another interesting note, my over-excited mother, upon seeing that she had drawn a royal flush on the poker slot machine, forgot to hold all of her cards and instead hit the button to draw a new hand. Thus losing about $500 on an avoidable mistake. And then read in the bathroom for three hours that night because she was so pissed that she couldn't sleep.

All in all: I had a great time.

Guess Which

2008-03-09T21:16:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed watching more tonight.

1). Lesbian porn.

2). The scene in Pretty in Pink where Duckie lip sings to Otis Redding's "A Little Tenderness."

I'll let your imagination run wild with that one...

SWF ISO Answers

2008-03-06T13:33:00.000-08:00

Why does internet dating sometimes feel like I'm getting repeatedly punched in the face by an army of Munchkins? Seriously. Can someone please explain that phenomenon to me?

Also: ISO of a personal assistant whose sole responsibility will be to manage my match.com account and filter through the idiocy. You will be paid in Q-tips and spare change.

Don't all jump at once now.

Reason #436 That I Love Living Alone

2008-03-06T07:01:00.000-08:00

I have had a bra sitting on my kitchen table for the last week. I have no idea why it's there and I have no intention of moving it any time soon.

And I don't have to. Because I live alone. Nah-na-nah-na-nah (sitcks tounge out at internets).

Calling All Men

2008-03-05T05:01:00.000-08:00

Fellas, I don't know if you've heard but I am available. Just putting it out there, you know, in case you were still wondering. And should you decide that you can't live without me, I will just give you a little sampling of what you're in for. Just a taste to you know, whet your appetite.

This is what you'll have to look forward to every morning. Zit cream on my face. Weird splotch on my shirt, bangs clipped back. So hot. And no, this is not the face I would be making in order to get you to kiss me. I think I was gargling mouthwash. I may be gross but I have great oral hygiene!

Wow. That Listerine really wakes you up. And boy, are my bloodshot eyes pretty. I can see the line of boys already starting to form.

Now this is my sexy face. If I come at you looking like this, you know that you are about to get some hot geriatric love.

Juice has decided that he can't take the embarrassment of it all. He hides his head in shame for me.

While you are taking pictures of yourself in the bathroom, woman, I have important plans to be hatching. Have you seen my copy of Mein Kampf? I thought I left it in the Barnes & Noble bag...

Corpulence and Unintelligence

2008-03-03T13:05:00.000-08:00

I'm having a hard time coming up with something to say today. I have a really good story from the restaurant yesterday, but it definitely needs to be fleshed out. And embellished. A lot. In fact, it will probably wind up being totally fictionalized. But a good story nonetheless. Inspired by true events. Let's just say, it involves a young couple, about two too many mimosas, man crying, an extremely uncomfortable bartender and me, gleefully observing this most entertaining of clusterfucks.

Another waiter actually told me I was, ahem, and I quote, "One of the meanest people" he had ever met.

He's probably right, but I still took offense to this for a couple of reasons. First, this guy is an idiot. Seriously. I can't go into to all the reasons why right now because when I think about him I feel stabby, but trust me. I look like the goddamn waiter of the year next to him. Second, this comment came upon the heels my expression of righteous indignation toward an extremely fat and wealthy patron I was waiting on. I was clearing the table and overheard this obese man and his son discussing the son's shitty lawyer job. (A shitty lawyer job? You don't say!) Fatman told the son, "Go into your partners and tell them what you need to build the department. Tell them that they can buy some paralegals to do the work you're preoccupied with." My skin prickled at the phrase "buy some paralegals." Um, excuse me, but I thought one hired professional people these days. Not so much with the plantation owner buying the slaves at the auction block and all.

So, I expressed my supreme annoyance with this obviously overpaid and overfed dude to my co-worker (while swiping said tubby's black AMEX no doubt) and was promptly told the bit about being one of the meanest people he had ever met. I call bullshit on that observation.

Well, not in general, but most certainly in this instance. Thus proving my theorem that my co-waiter does, indeed, take the short bus to work.