Me Me Me

I like blueberry muffins but not blueberry pancakes. I drive fast but walk slowly. I am happy, sad, proud, shameful, professional and improper. I drink cans of Bud Lite in my best dress. I think too much and talk too little. I don't usually say what's in my heart but my hand can write it faster than I can feel it. I choose hope over despair. My heart jumps at the sound of your voice but your face is foggy in my memory. I wear black to weddings. I can eat a whole jar of pickles but get nauseous at the idea of putting relish on anything. I believe in true love but not in other things intangible. I am moody, messy and seamlessly unemotional and I keep a militarily clean home. My heart is cluttered with words that I'll never say but I wear them loudly on my sleeve. I believe in past lives but not life after death. I want you to pick me instead of her even though I would pick him instead of you. I love museums but libraries make me nervous. I prefer closed spaces to open ones but open roads to crowded highways. I can't nap - never could but look forward to crawling into bed at night more than any other time of day. I laugh louder than the rest of the room. I crave immediate gratification of a good short sentence but am myself long winded. I am pro-choice but anti-decision. I like rock over roll. Jack over Jim. I still believe in love at first sight even though I don't know anyone who has ever experienced it. I find Mozart fascinating but never liked classical music. I am overconfident in crowds but reticent in private moments. I feel you should choose honest moments to bare your soul but never soul baring moments to finally be honest. And consequently I believe life is yours to reel in one hand over the other, heels in the dirt .... and I will always always win the tug of war.

The Return of Open Letters!

Dear Winter:
I'm furious. It's December 19th. You are supposed to stay away for FIVE MORE DAYS. So seriously, back the hell off. Enough. 16 inches of snow in the last five days? 11 degree weather? What the hell? ENOUGH ALREADY, you overzealous bastard.

Please govern yourself accordingly,
RF


Dear fire alarm in my building that went off incessantly for the last two nights:
Seriously. Stop it. I feel like there's a gigantic mosquito in my head. And if there are two things I despise, it's mosquitoes and gigantism.

You dig?,
RF

Dear co-worker who I accidentally crashed into and knocked over and sent flying into that table with the printers when I came stampeding out of my office because I am sometimes careless and tend to walk too fast and without looking and with heavy feet and you're kind of small and I didn't see you:
Um... sorry 'bout that.

Apologetically yours,
RF

Dear Strung Out:
First off - I love you, and I think "Twisted by Design" and "American Paradox" are spectacular albums, and I think "Velvet Alley" is seriously a song that I can listen to on an endless loop, especially the part where you yell "I'll make you beg!" That said... "Element of Sonic Defiance"? .. Kind of blows.

Disappointed but not angry,
RF

Dear iPod:
Please don't die. Please? I love you so much. I cannot bear the thought of being forced to get some overly fancy new iPod that plays video and massages my hands and... shit, I don't know... speaks four languages and knows how to satisfy a camel. And frankly, I don't need any of that. You're fine. You're better than fine. But... you're kind of shitting the bed right now. You freeze up for hours. I've needed to wipe you clean and start over twice. And there's that creepy death rattle that comes out every now and then. I'd really rather not have to replace you. Plus, I kind of dig that you're old-school in that cool-like-Donkey-Kong kind of way. So, please don't die.

Hopelessly devoted to you,
RF

As requested: Things you may not know about moi.

I don’t believe honesty is always the best policy.

I have massive road rage and a cement foot. My licence has been suspended twice.

Marriage makes me uncomfortable, but I think I'm starting to believe in monogamy and fidelity.


I always leave a big tip.

I make the same mistakes over and over again. It's not that I don't learn from them, it's just that I choose to ignore the outcomes.

Libraries make me nervous. Too much selection.

I can’t sleep unless the room is completely dark.

I really, really, really dislike dairy products on skin.

I steal snapshots of moments in my days and relive them when I’m sleeping. Sometimes, I change the outcomes.

I don’t regret even the worst decisions I've made. Honestly.

My family is the most important thing in my life. Without one second of hesitation.

I love being alone, but when I want company, the urge is overwhelming.

Certain guitar riff's make me cry.

I don’t believe in soulmates.

I don’t like my hands.

I am obsessed with the smell of sulpher.

I can’t take naps.

I have a huge affinity for the South (particularly Alabama and Georgia).

I can read in Italian better than I can speak it. And understand it spoken better than I can read it.

I don’t sing in the shower, but I do when I take a bath.

I still remember my junior high school locker combination.

Cooking shows relax me.

I have scars on my left fingers from a pumpkin carving altercation with my brother.

I have too much self control when it comes to love.

I prefer Jack Daniels to wine, but I think wine is sexier.

I look at things and see what they are not.

I like cheap, dirty jokes.

I can count to ten in Japanese and can say “Go upstairs and put your sweater on” in Greek.

I don’t like to think about my future. I used to all the time, and it was making me anxious.

I used to have a Japanese fighter fish named "Dwayne Lee".

I never learned to type with the right fingers.

Sometimes I wake up and think my dreams from the night before are real.

I sometimes forgive but I definitely never forget.

I am more optimistic now than I have ever been.

I think people’s flaws say the most about them.

I suck at math.

I despise winter.

I’m not afraid of death; but I'm afraid of what will kill me.

I’d rather not know, than know.

My lasagna will change your life.

Make me laugh and I'm yours.

Admitting you have a problem is the first step .... I guess

My friend Wood and I were just discussing arranging a top secret adventure for the crew when I am back in California over Christmas. Now, our adventures are not for the faint of heart and only a super select group of people will be invited to partake. That being said, we need to ensure nobody outside the circle finds out about it or hurt feelings (rage) may ruin it.

Now the problem. Enter Dustin (Blabs McGee) who earned this name for his blatant inability to keep a secret. I know we all know this about him- but apparently its now a self-admitted problem.

See Wood's email below:


I was going to tell him a secret a while ago (don't even remember what it was now), but I asked him first.

Wood: "Dustin, can I tell you something really top-secret? Like, you can't tell anyone?"

Dustin: "Well, dude, you know me. I mean, you can... but...."

Wood: "Nevermind."


Do you love it or DO YOU LOVE IT???

A Recipe for Disaster

What do these things have in common?

They are all things I have spilled on myself. Today. And it's not even noon yet.

Here is a word-for-word conversation that I had with my colleague 20 minutes ago:

Colleague: Oh, I think you...

Me: I know. It's coffee.

Colleague: Oh. Sorry. Actually, I think you got something else right ...

Me: No, that's yogurt. And before you say anything else, this is ink.

Colleague:... oh.

Me: Can we talk about something else?

Quote of the Year

"I'm not the kind of guy to kiss and tell... but I am totally the kind of guy to sleep with you and videotape it."
~ Justin Chapman, 2007

Amazing.

Another Open Letter: Dear Asian Guy

Dear Asian Guy Near the Stairs at the Subway This Morning,

First let me please just say that I commend you. This is an exhausting city in every way: financially, emotionally, and physically. I often wonder how it is that people can afford to live here on minimum wage, and anyone who shows the tireless, sweat-stained vigor upon which this country was built gets a huge high five from me. Whether you're simply a high-school educated family man trying to earn his daily bread (spam?), or one of those “I was a surgeon back in Singapore” immigrants, I know little about your life except that it is filled with hard work and (I’m assuming, since you haven’t killed yourself) optimism.

On a more critical note, but one that I think might help you in your business affairs, let me tell you a little bit about me. At 9 o’clock in the morning, I am thinking about a lot of things. I am thinking about the day ahead and what it might contain. I think about whether or not blondes have more fun, and I think they probably do, but that their definition of fun probably isn't my definition of fun. I am thinking about Paul Potts. I am thinking, at 9 am, on my way to work, about the controversial issues such as Global Warming - is it a cause of man or nature? Something to ponder at least. I am thinking about whether anyone in Africa has actually stood in a river and taken a bath in the trunk-spray of an elephant like they always seem to do in the movies. I am thinking if blind people dream - what do they see? - are their dreams in audio as they have to reference to what things actually look like?. I am thinking about how when I was in elementary school I had was allowed to have blue high-lites in my hair for a few months, and how that blue hair was a pivotal moment in my life upon which everything could have turned out very differently (hooker) had I not realized my error the summer before fifth grade. At 9 am on my way to work I think about all kinds of things.

Here’s one thing that I don’t think about at 9 am on my way to work, indeed something I’d rather not think about: Thai food. Don’t get me wrong, Thai food under many, many circumstances is delicious. But there is a reason why there is no lemongrass and red curry pork on the Tim Horton's breakfast menu.

And speaking of menus, 9 am is not a time to be handing out yours.

Sincerely,
Me

P.S. Your restaurant-issued vest had so much flair (flair = magic).

Keep your day job. Seriously. Please.

Because of my retarded work schedule lately, my mother and I usually converse late in the evening, once her shows have finished up and I throw back my fourth can of Bud Lite. Our calls have been starting up at around 11 pm, sometimes later. As a result, I'm pretty fucking beat following a long day of work, but manage to spit out most of the pertinent details: namely back pain and bloat. Just bloat. I am not surprised nor embarassed that I behave much of the time like a 59 year old woman. (Please, look away from me .....I'm hideous.)

Yesterday, my mother had a joke. It was about 11:00 pm. This is pretty much how it went down:

(Loud television in the background)

Mom: Oh my God, Paul told me a funny joke. Wanna hear?

Me: (Unconscious with a bubble of vomit coming out of my nose.)

Mom: OK. So there's this little girl. Hold on - Jessica! Jessica!!

Jessica [sister]: (silent.)

Mom: Turn the TV down? I can't talk with it so loud!

(TV still blaring)

Mom: If your father wakes up, we're both in trouble.

(pause - TV volume lowering)

Mom: OK. So there's this little girl and she lives next door to a construction site -- wait, do you know this?

Me: (White painted face, black lipstick, wrapping invisible rope around my neck and miming my own death.)

Mom: Listen to me, you're gonna think this is so funny...it's soooo funny. So this little girl, she's sooo cute, and she lives next door to a construction site and one day she walks over (pause) No, I'm screwing it up, hold on. (pause, she starts whispering to herself) okay, so she goes next door and asks the construction men if she can help them. So, they say 'okay' and everyday she helps they do little things - you know, here and there ... Hello? Are you there?

Me:

Mom: So, they men paid her $1 for her work each week, and finally when she had to go back to school ... Hold on. Jessica!! Stop clinking your fork on the plate!! You're eating too loud, I can hear you all the way to here!! (phone rustling, girl's voice in the background.) You shouldn't even be eating, it's almost midnight! (phone rustling) OK, hi? Rebecca?

Me:

Mom: So, she had to go back to school and her mother asked her if she was going to keep helping them on the weekends .. Rebecca? Listen, you're gonna love this.

Me:

Mom: Then, her mother asks her if she's going to still help on the weekends, because, you know, she has to go back to school. And the little girl said ... Rebecca?

Me:

Mom: So, the little girl said "Only if Home Depot delivers the fucking drywall" .. did you hear me? The fucking drywall?

Me:

Mom: Isn't that hilarious? (laughing wildly) The fucking drywall!! Rebecca?

Me:

Too far? Probs.

Hell? Def.

Holla.

Single? Not for long!

I have always detested the dating scene. The old me thought thought nothing worse of getting to know someone ... small talk, awkward silences .... after a recent conversation about men and relationships over lunch with my BFF, I'm confident that as long as I stick with a few proven success strategies, I'll be breaking hearts all over the city.

Now, I've actually been told a number of times that I am a fabulous conversationalist ... and I think this rings especially true for dates as I always make a point to talk about interesting topics. Mostly I talk about myself. I tell my date about my intense dieting regimen and explain how I know I could stand to lose a few pounds, and then I ask him if my jeans make me look fat. I find that men like to participate in the conversation so I've learned to ask good questions. Sometimes, of course, I ask my companion questions about himself. Some of my favorites are: "How much money do you make?" "What kind of car do you drive?" and "Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and savior?"

When a guy first comes to my house, I will be sure to dress my guinea pig up in her finest because I want to make a good impression. I would spend most of the time talking to my piggie in a baby voice and let her kiss me right on the mouth because I know how important it is to men to find someone who will be a good mother. Sometimes, for effect, I may pretend to breast feed her. I think that would really get the point across: Look at me! I am totally maternal and super fertile!




When I first go to the guy's house, I will always bring a little something and show I wasn't raised in a barn. For example, if I dated a Jewish guy I would bring him a large ham and a crucifix. Or if I I dated a divorced man, I'd bring him a copy of the best selling book "Why Divorce is a Huge Sin and You're Gonna Rot in Hell."

I love going out to eat on dates and I almost always spill on myself. I think men find it really attractive. Usually it's beverages - I can't tell you how many times I've missed my mouth and sent Jack Daniels on the rocks straight onto my lap. Sometimes it's food, though: last night as I was eating dinner, I dropped a little feta creamy dressing down my heaving cleavage. As I was digging in my boobs to remove the cheese, a male friend of mine walked up. I could tell he found me so hot in that exact moment. There is nothing that says "sexy" quite like cream-covered-titties. (actually that's probably true)

When things progress physically on a first date, I always, ALWAYS pretend like I'll put out and then at the very last second I don't. I think it makes men respect me. It says "Um, actually, I'm not putting out. Almost, but not quite! Look at how respectable I am!"

What more could a guy ask for?

When you gotta go....

This is a fucking gem.

Place: Shanda's BBQ - Summer 2006

Setting: All of us getting shit-faced in the backyard when Dustin (a.k.a. Dizzle, Dizzy-D, Blabbs McGee, Schnizzler, Twizzle Sticks and most recently Digger) decides to use the pisser ... which faces the backyard and has see through blinds. Hilarity ensues.

This video was taken AFTER he spend a solid 10-12 minutes looking in the mirror, flexing his big "man" muscles, checking out his ass while he was draining the main vein ... afterwards he proceeded to inspect his nostrils for snowflakes, clean out his ears, fix his hair, unbutton his shirt a few notches (you know, for the ladies) then point at his reflection in the mirror and wink ... all while we watched and busted guts laughing.

Oh, and he didn't wash his hands.

Peace.

P.S. For a little background on Dusty click here.

It's more about the "beats" than the "bells" ... per se

My sister just got married. Congratulations A & C. It was the best wedding I have ever attended - and I'm not just saying that. EVER.

Me on the other hand was never was the kind of girl to dream about her wedding growing up. Now that I am at the over-the-hill, I still do not dream of my future wedding. And no, it's not because I don't have a boyfriend right now. I HAD boyfriend and I can honestly say that I just I wasn't feelin' the wedding thang.

There is one thing that I do think about, and that is the song I will dance to with my future husband. Song choice is critical to me. It dictates who you are as a couple. Pick something too sentimental and people will laugh. Pick something too edgy, and well, people will laugh. (And by people, I mean me). The song could potentially be more important to me than the sacrament of marriage itself. I'm totally serial. I'd get married just for the song ... okay, and the money.

Even though I am unsure at this point who my respective spouse will be, my #1 choice is "Iris" by Goo Goo Dolls. "No Butterfly Kisses" or "This I Promise You" by N'Sync. ......(although "Givin' Up the Nappy Dugout" by Ice Cube is still in the running).

Now my friend got married in 2004 (she's my age). Considering she has been blessed with a friend with stellar musical taste (me) you would think she had plenty of good solid choices or at least someone to consult.

Right?

Wrong.

She danced with her husband.....wait for it..... yeah. "Heaven" by Bryan Adams. HEAVEN!! Now don't get me wrong, I love me a little Summer of '69 and Cuts Like a Knife, but come on. My innocence is lost. I can never appreciate the greatness that is Robin Hood Prince of Thieves again--

Oh. But wait.

It gets better.

Guess what song she danced to with her dad.

Seriously. Guess.

Give up?

"The Circle of Life" by Elton John.

[crickets]


Now although I was a "mature woman" at the time, you don't know how difficult it was to restrain myself from interrupting the whole thing with the Hakuna Matada dance. Really really really REALLY restrain myself. Like Hannibal Lector in that freaky looking mask restrained.

Is there a lesson to be learned from all this? Hmmm tough call, but I would say the lesson is that my dear friend has absolutely no taste in music and her husband has no balls.

On a brighter note, her wedding was one of the first times I ever barfed out of my nose, so for that, I will always be grateful.

Golf Pro's and Evil Ho's

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to my dude for my complete and utter temper tantrum on the golf course Sunday morning. The only excuse I can offer is, "PMS and golf do not mix." .... I was also horrifically hung-over.

It's just that I was at the end of my rope considering I spent a the better part of Saturday sitting in his living room with the blinds closed watching him play Wii. (I could only watch as I was suffering from minor shoulder dislocation thanks to NFL 08).

He also called me evil in the car on the way to the golf course then tried to be my friend.

Despite the rough patches, he later admitted he thought it was hilarious when I warned the foursome who were patiently waiting behind us "I wouldn't stand behind me if I were you, this fucking ball might go backwards."

So, contrary to my mantra the entire nine holes, which was something to the effect of "Hating this fucking game", I am not "Never playing this stupid game again." ... because I do love me some mini-golf.

Mother Nature is Vile.

I know it's a bit premature to write summer 2007's obituary, but Mother Nature hasn't exactly been making a stellar case against such a hasty and hateful action. The so-called hottest month of the year has done its best October impression as of late, washing out the last few remaining weekends of potential beach action that are left.

Overall it's been a spectacular summer, highlighted by weddings, cottages, patio's, beach trips, BBQs and a variety of other enjoyable outdoor activities. However, despite all the fun, I'm not ready to give it up just yet. I've heard several people comment that they're ready for fall and cooler weather, which, is utter sacrilege to me. Before you idiots know it, we'll be trapped in January hell and you'll all be pining away for the hot summer weather.

All I know is, September best be as hot as the devil's kitchen. So, Mother Nature, please, get your shit together or I may just go postal on your ass.

Croc-a-doodle-doo

I always say that if I could remove one product from the earth, it would be those stupid shoes with the wheels in them. Nothing pisses me off more than to see kids whizzing by me at Target. I used to want a pair but now these shoes are causing me to lose my patience with kids altogether. I think it's more the fact that sneakers are made to be worn to walk, run, play sports, etc., and roller blades are made to be worn outside for exercise. Never were the two supposed to meet, date and have babies. I'm dead serious when I say that if I could meet the motherfucker who invented these, I would put on a pair of my fabulous stilettos and kick him square in the crotch.

Now if I could remove two products from the Earth they would be Healy's (rollersneakers) and Crocs. Let me just clarify something first. Crocs don't bother me on small children. In fact, I think they're kind of cute on little Violet Affleck. But when my 45 year old coworker walks around the office in her electric blue Crocs, I have thoughts of feeding her to a Croc. My vision gets fuzzy, I get nauseous, and quite frankly, I go to a bad place. My mother told me she was going to get a pair to wear around the yard. I promptly responded that when I come home to visit they will disappear. Forever. I'm actually looking forward to colder weather so my eyes don't have to be assaulted by Crocs anymore. And then someone emailed me this:

WHAT. THE. FUCK?

There's really nothing I can say about this catastrophe. So help me God, if anyone I know gets a pair of Fuzzy Crocs, I'll be suggesting a trip to the zoo.

Geeks and Wizards = L.O.V.E.

I'm going to completely dork out right now and admit that I just told my old boss "FYI...the final Harry Potter book comes out next week and if he dies, I'm going to need to take a leave of absence."

Seriously, I'll be inconsolable.

My Dysfunctional /Functional Relationships

I think of myself as a dropped pot, crazy-glued back together. It's sometimes hard to feel so obviously broken, and then so obviously glued together, so I surround myself with people who are going through the same thing. I don't like my little crew to be infiltrated by an unblemished surface. Why do they go home early? Why are they so optimistic? Why are they so organized?

I'm a collector of broken people, almost everyone I have chosen to have around me is messed up in some way or another. I don't intentionally do this - its more about attraction than anything else ... If there is a bruised soul in the room, I'm drawn to it instantly. We meet, and then we talk and discover a little about each other ...because we really already know each other way too well, we pick at our scabs, make unrealistic criticisms about the majority and then drink till 6am.

I am aware I can be the "fuck everyone" free spirit, but I'm really more chained than most anyone realizes- which is a retarded irony. (Or at least I think that's ironic, but when I declare something ironic someone smarter tells me that I'm wrong .... and then I have to punch them in the face. )

However, sometimes I get too attached. I get twisted around and love triangled, and it sucks, but for some reason I like it this way. It redirects my attention. I can't feel anything else. It's like trying to hear a pin drop at a rock concert. No one is anchored to anything ... so, the organized chaos just keeps on going.

What I am trying to say is, I don't know if this is love because (from what I'm told) love isn't supposed to make you feel half dead. But it's truly a miracle to move away from it and be closer to it than ever ... and there is something to that which cannot be dismissed.

So leave me alone about him.

Don't you hate when your pets are cheap?

Actual IM conversation yesterday about my friend Kenny's new pitbull Franklin.


Reb: What’s franklin like?

Kenny: Well, he’s actually pretty frugal.

Reb: Your dog is frugal?

Kenny: Yes

Reb: Because he doesn’t spend much money?

Kenny: That’s right - he doesn’t spend much. Hardly any at all really.

Reb: Don’t you think he doesn’t spend money because he is a dog, and not because he is frugal?

Kenny: I don’t see what you mean.

Reb: He is a dog.

Kenny: Right.

Reb: Dogs don't spend money.

Kenny: No, he doesn’t spend MUCH money. Hardly any in fact. I can’t remember the last time
he even got out his wallet.

Reb: He has a wallet?

Kenny: Of course he has a wallet! Where would he keep his money?

Reb: Where does he keep his wallet?

Kenny: I’m not sure, I haven’t seen him take it out in a while. It isn’t polite to talk about money
with friends.

Reb: But it’s your dog.

Kenny: I know. He’s sensitive.

Reb: I thought you said he is frugal?

Kenny: He’s many things to many different people.

Reb: What does that even mean?

Kenny: So frugal people can’t be sensitive? Fuck, you’re an asshole. Now, if you’ll excuse me,
Franklin and I are off to by a race car.

Reb: I thought you said he is frugal!

Kenny: Oh he is. I am the Spendy Spenderson. Franklin will be bitching the whole time about how we should get the least expensive race car possible.



Seriously.

The Infernal Black Screen of Existential Nothingness

Most of us registered our feelings about Sunday night’s big Sopranos finale on the disappointment scale somewhere between “total apathy” and “blind furry”, then went ahead and moved on with our lives. Inside Edition on the other hand, is clearly locked in a self-propagating state of disbelief. They have been dedicating a portion of every show so far this week to making sense of the confounding "Journey Scene", today delving into JFK-conspiracy levels of insanity by actually WALKING THROUGH the diner where the scene was shot, trying to re-create the moment before the the screen went black. They even went so far as to tracking down and trying to interview the background extra dude (who’s a pizza guy in real life) that may or may not have killed Tony.

For these people, ambiguity literally does not exist.

6/08/07 - We Shall Never Forget

Judge Michael Sauer is THE SHIT!! I never thought I would say it, but I have finally fallen madly in love and it feels fantastic. Can you blame me?

SHE WAS TAKEN BACK TO PRISON SCREAMING!!! SHE WILL NOW SERVE HER ENTIRE 45 DAY SENTENCE. IT WILL NOT BE REDUCED TO 23. SHE SCREAMED “ITS NOT RIGHT!” THEN SCREAMED “MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY!!!”

Excuse me for a minute.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ladies and gentlemen, if life were a movie, this would be the point when you turn to your friend and say “This is the best movie in the history of the world!”

A Solid Candidate For Photo of the Year

I serioulsy laughed for 10 minutes when I saw this picture. Judge Michael T. Sauer, henceforth known to all as the Patron Saint of Awesome.

God bless America!

Stanley Crunk

I know that I am obviously filled with bitter rage that the Sens have somehow made it to the Stanley Cup Finals ... but I want to know one thing ...What in the name of all that’s green & holy is this? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. I know Lil John likes to sport impressive custom made goblets to all the gangsta Miami clubs, but this is bordering on sacriledge. All I know, is that if someone is going to be drinking Cristal out of Lord Stanley’s cup - they better fucking know how to play the game.

I’d love to know how this photo came about, because all due "respect" - I don’t think that LJ typically hangs out in the sorts of places that the Cup tours through. Unless it was featured as the finale of a recent booty clap contest in Atlanta. Still, stranger things have happened. Alright - no they haven’t.

Just so you know...

Saturday night, I got into a cab with a cab driver who was clearly drunk.

What alarmed me the most, though, was not how he swerved from lane to lane with little regard of the vehicles he was cutting off. Not how he giggled and snorted so loudly on his cell phone headset. Not how he almost ran over a pedestrian .... who then chased us a block. What kinda shocks me is that I was too lazy to get out of the cab and get another one. I didn't even buckle my seatbelt. He may have even fallen asleep at the wheel and I had no idea. I just sipped on my Fanta and yawned like a baby lamb ..... and then gave him a $5 tip on a $12 fare.

I apparently can't even be bothered to save my own life.

What time is it?

Things I learned last night:

1. Yorkville is overrun with girls who are just a little bit overweight.

2. 2:00am is the new 4:00am.

3. Wine is good, but cheap whiskey is better.

4. Literally anything deep fried tastes good when drunk. Anything. Fry a pencil - I'll eat it and it will be delicious.

5. I love a good cab driver. I mean I downright love them. A cab driver that speeds up for yellow lights, takes all the right streets – I just want to be friends with them. Having a friend who is a good cab driver is like having a friend who is a gourmet chef. No difference.

6. Advertising cereal as solely a breakfast food was a terrible idea. Cereal is one of the greatest meals in the world. Cookie Crisp tried to get that message across, but pussied out. Cereal is going nowhere as a breakfast.

7. Why I’m not in throwing up and crying right now is beyond me.

Al Gore can take global warming and shove it up his ass

Fashion Anaylsis 101

A few friends of mine (who I also refer to as my fans) have been quite upset with my lack of blogging as of late. It's just that I have this little thing that supports my shopping habit ... it's called a job and it's keeping me really busy right now. However I'm going to stop drinking for a few evenings in order to free up some time and address the following picture of a transvestite hooker that a friend emailed me:

Let's discuss...

1) The white bra under a white dress. NO. NO. NO. I realize I'm notorious for wearing black, red, hot pink, lime green bra's under white tops but for normal chicks a nude bra is common sense. White under white??? Please. Not to mention this particular BRAZZIRE is something that only an 87 year old lactating grandmother would wear. Most bitches know better than this, so I'll move on. (Although I would like to know what surgeon did his tits)

2) The makeup: This guy is over the top even for a tranny streetwalker. The rule is the eyes OR lips ...not both.

3) Love the bag. Love the jacket.

4) The nude colored fishnets: If he's going to wear a skirt that short, he may as well just go all the way with bare legs. What's the point? It's not like he needs the fishnets to give the ensemble more edge.

5) The hair: It's so cliche. He'd be much more mysterious and wholesome with a darker color.

My comments may be bitchy but I don't feel bad.

He is beautiful. Words won't bring him down.

BFF: What's Yer Twenty?

It's strange... getting to work yesterday was almost TOO convenient. No shinsplints, no sweaty layers of sweaters and scarfs, no ingenuine smiles at strangers as I shove them out of my way trying to catch the train. Just people invading my personal space and touching me inappropriately, two things I've grown used to and have almost learned to enjoy on my daily commutes.

But perhaps my elation went a little overboard this morning when I boarded the northbound train. As I was reading the Metro (their political cartoons kill me) I caught glimpse of the girl standing next to me. God, she looks so familiar. Staring at people on the train can be dangerous territory. There's only so much side-glancing one can do before they end up with a mouthful of fist that is likely laden with various fecal-and-pube-ridden germs.

I turned back to my reading, but really -- I know this girl! I slowly shifted my gaze to my right. Oh my god... it's Marisa Palumbo! My best friend from middle school! "MARISA!" I shouted in my brain. "MARISA IT'S ME! REBECCA! MARISA, LOOK OVER HERE!" Silently, I returned to my paper, barely able to contain my exuberance. Marisa P. got me through some hard times in middle school. I had just come out of probably the most traumatic years of my life in elementary school (which, once again, I'd like to thank my parents for allowing their underdeveloped daughter to have a skater-boy haircut and a retainer at the same time .... especially when "Pat" was such a huge hit on SNL).

An artist's rendering of me in 7th Grade.

Our friendship came to a sad end the summer before high-school when my family moved, and I had to start 9th Grade the next year sans a best friend. I remember that day so well: The doorbell rang and we walked out front and started BAWLING. Just crying so hard ... even her Dad cried. We gave each other a farewell hug, and that was that: No more Marisa. We kept in touch for a couple of years, and then somehow fell out of touch.

Whenever I think of her now, I picture her as a successful wife and mother for some reason ...but I always wonder .... does she have kids? Is there an anonymous god-child out there I've never met? So you can imagine how overwhelmed I felt on the train when I thought THE Marisa Palumbo was standing next to me. Same long thick hair, heavy eyelids, skin tone, height, weight, everything. Even her fingernails were the same -- bitten to near extinction ... which I think I may have made-up because I really don't remember what her fingernails looked like.

OMG ... Had she seen me? Wouldn't she recognize me? Is it weird to ask a strange woman on the train "Excuse me, is your name Marisa P.? ..." as I slowly pull out the 14K Gold Best Friends half heart necklace with a sparkle in my eye. Then she would pull out her half of the necklace, and we would embrace and cry, then Montel would board the train and the entire car would clap and sing "This Little Light of Mine."

I couldn't help myself. I slowly turned my head as the car approached Bloor, and "Marisa" turned to let someone by.

Oh sweet mercy. Oh God no.

Not standing profile anymore, the girl turned to me directly and I saw her face head on. .... it was not Marisa.

A little raincloud formed over my head, small cartoonish lightning striking above. Here I was, thinking my saddness would be temporarily lifted and my long lost friend was RIDING THE TRAIN next to me -- and alas, it's just some girl in a puffy coat going to work.

So no tearful reunions that morning. But Marisa Palumbo, if you're out there Googling yourself and you come across this, DEF get in touch. I'd love to know how you are.

And if you're the girl who rode next to me on the train: Stop biting your nails. It's massively repulsive.

A Little Friday Flavor

Nice body? Check.

Hot face? Check.

Messy hair with 5 'o clock shadow? Check.

Alcoholic chain smoker? Check.

Dead cold expression that says, "You are going to put me through community college and like it"? Check and check.

For some reason I feel like I know this man. Let's say, for example, he wasn't a multi-million dollar movie star BUT just your regular run of the mill dude who pumps gas. This is the Collin I know. And if we had met at the local dive-bar before he became famous, he would immediately have known that I was going to give him my undying devotion and an interest-free loan. I, in turn, would know that he was going to forget my birthday and steal my prescription medicine for his own recreation.

But seriously, just look at him. This is the guy who will sleep with your sister and tell you to stop being so sensitive about it.

So bad he's good, ladies. So bad he's good.

Best Cab Story EVER!!!!

My friend Tina e-mailed me with her awesomely-awesome taxi story about her experience returning home from 42nd Street to Brooklyn. It may seem long, but it DOES include a cabbie with a bloody nose... so I suggest setting aside some time to read this:

"You will not believe my cabbie story!!

After a harrowing trip to 42nd street yesterday afternoon, my coworker John and I decided to leave together at about 4 pm and split a cab to Brooklyn. He lives in Bayridge. We walked down 42nd towards the FDR and were lucky enough to catch a cab that was going off-duty to Brooklyn. I said I needed to go just over the bridge; John said he just needed to get into Brooklyn.

P.S. John's a bit odd...maybe a bit of a...loose cannon.

So we're driving along and John says he needs to go to Bayridge. The cabbie says "No, I'm going off duty to Coney Island. I have to give this cab to my partner." John says "No, you're not going to leave me 7 miles from my house." They argue and the cabbie points at John and says "You can't change your destination, I am not going to Bayridge!" John says "Don't point your fucking finger at me or I'll break it off!" They keep yelling and John grabs his finger and bends it backwards and says "I'll break your fucking finger off..." blah blah blah ..

The cabbie pushes him off and John fucking PUNCHES THE CABBIE IN THE FACE while we are driving. The guy slams on the brakes and John jumps out and opens my door for me to get out. And I'm like hell no, I don't even fucking know this guy and he just punched dude in the face! So I stay in and he says "fine" and walks away.

The cabbie is sort of shocked and keeps saying "I don't know why he punished me in my face! This never happen to me!!" And I'm sympathizing and explaining I don't really know John and I'm sorry and he's bleeding a little and does he need help. So we're going down the FDR and suddenly the guy's like "I'm out of control! I'm driving but I'm out of control!" Then he's like "What just happened? Where am I? Where are we going? I'm out of control! Out of control!"

(It was at this point I ask her why she didn't get out of the cab.)

"I was on the FDR! I couldn't get out!"

(Okay! Relax. Finish your story.)

"So he calls 911 and tells them what happened, but his English sucks and he's, you know, out of control. He hands the phone to me and asks me to talk to them and i'm just thinking "What the fuck?" We get in the lane to pull off and we're in it for a good 20 minutes, and the whole time he keeps asking where we're going and what happened and if I called 911 yet.

He keeps saying: "I'm driving but out of control! God sees, or else we'd be dead right now! He's driving the car or else we'd be in the water!"

He calls his partner and talks to him in some chadian language that sounds like "Njofhoj jopfjpewk out of control! Jiojwiojio out of control out of control!" Finally he says "Forget it, I'll take you home, your time is important."

Anyway, he takes me somehow to the West Side Highway and somehow through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and leaves me in Red Hook, I have no idea where I am, and I find a guy in a DJ equipment truck who gives us directions to a street I can walk home from. I tell the directions to the driver and he says oh that's too far and I'm so exasperated I just get out and slam the door and start walking.

The DJ equipment guy honks and says he's going that way; he'll drive me. I take the ride since I have no idea where I am, I'm in the middle of warehouses and desolation. So he drives me for like half an hour and he's super nice (Nigel, from Trinidad, two kids) and he dropped me on Atlantic Ave. and I walked the rest of the way, getting home at about 7:30. THEN, John calls me to make sure I got home okay, and I was like uh...yeah. THANKS."

No, thanks to YOU, Tina for relaying your alarming and emotional journey.I really hope that John kid gets what he deserves in life, which is a swift kick in the crotch.

You're a Slave No More ...

Oh sweetie, I feel you. When you were taking a Bic to your head like Frida, you're allllmost there. Alllmost. But fear not, my beloved Brit! This is a good break. Its called a breakdown, and in the long run, you'll find it far more preferable to continuing on in your current roles as paycheck, vicarious source of self esteem, and doormat to all.

It boggles the mind to think of how much money those Britney Spears Mega Machine locks represented, how many times your users twisted them this way and that for profit, extending them, bleaching them, cutting them - all because market research suggested it. How many times did K-Fed run his dirty-digger fingers through them? Surely enough for the bundle to be considered hazardous material. Ewwwww.

But now they're gone. What a spectacular "fuck you" to society ... couldn't have done it better if I tried. Hopefully you're smart enough to understand the shearing as the metaphor its meant to be, and do the real shearing required to get any semblance of a life back. Leave your gut-sucking, white trash family, loser Fresno ex-hubby and money-grubbing manager behind like your over-dyed clippings of hair cast to the floor of a salon for some broom girl (or Perez Hilton) to pick up and sniff obsessively.

Now run ... run far away. In fact, run straight to Neil Strauss' house and tell him everything, so he can put it into one of his gorgeous biographies, and be sure to pick up some Kombuchi tea on your way there, because your liver fucking needs it. Oh, and while you're at it, please re-cover Joan Jett's "I love Rock and Roll" 'cause you were never really that hard-core in the first place, but something tells me you are now, you bald-as-fuck, carpet-munching, finger-flipping bitch.

I love you more than ever.

Actually, I never really liked you, but I do now.

Wintery Humiliation

The only good thing about these horrifc winter snow storms is the opportunity to witness moments such as these:

Victim #1

WHEN: 8:32am
WHERE: Queen Subway Station - Northbound Train
THE VICTIM: 5'10" male. Approximately 35. Brown hair. Glasses.
NATURE OF FALL: Victim rushed the doors as they were closing. Floor was slick. Full-on slippage followed. For a second, victim was airborne and totally parallel to the train floor. Landed on back.
POSSIBLE CAUSES: Converse shoes. Poor time management. Hubris.
I WAS LEFT FEELING: Anxious. Empty. Like I should call someone just to say 'I love you'

Victim #2

WHEN: 3:30pm
WHERE: Yonge Street - Outside Starbucks
THE VICTIM: 4'11" Female. Brown hair. Wanna-be Diva.
NATURE OF FALL: Victim pitched forward unexpectedly, knees sunk into a patch of snow that was suspiciously beige. Wee little hands clutching an extra long cigarette followed. Victim emitted a jagged peal of self-conscious laughter into her cell phone, a clear indication she was crying on the inside.
POSSIBLE CAUSES: Non-hemmed Citizens of Humanity jeans. Adorable little pointy shoes had style yet lacked traction.
I WAS LEFT FEELING: Gleeful. Then guilty. Then an oddly pleasurable combination of both...


Two falls in one day and that's not even including the killer drunken wipe-out's I saw last night at our company party .... Happy Valentine's Day to me!

Chop Stix

I was out for drinks with my friend last week and she was telling me about her cousin who is getting married at the end of the month .... Apparently, she and her cousin don't really see eye to eye and she was complaining about how her cousin had recently changed her Vietnamese name, Chin, to Ashley because it's a little more "common". My friend suspects that she only did this because she wants her name to "match" her husband-to-be's name ... Victor ... and I'm not even lying.

Seriously. Ashley and Victor. I know.

So, later that night I was telling the ex-boyfriend the story ... not that he would would even get it (he doesn't watch Y&R), but because I was buzzed and the only things I could retrieve from my memory happened within the previous two hours ..


Me: "So, her cousins name is Chin and she changed it to Ashley .... AND .... her fiancee's name's Victor! What is that?"


Ex B-Friend: "Dude, if I were Asian and my name were Chin I would totally change it to Chink."

Sometimes, I just love that fucker ...

First Class All The Way!

Because my ex-boyfriend is feral, he lacks certain manners. Table manners, primarily.

I suppose this is because he had a single Mom who was raising a litter of kids and therefore was extremely busy and worn thin. As a result she never had the time teach him how to use things like forks, knives and napkins. It could also be because he left home at 16, and he was forced off to "boarding" school, where he scraped with the other little wolves, sporting a wild crudeness which evolved into totally disgusting table behavior. Whatever the cause, he eats like a fucking animal.

Even at the finest restaurants, there is no use of a napkin. More often than not, there is no use of table utensils. He eats sushi with his fingers. He eats ribs like a caveman, diving in, wolfing the platter down in a manner which leaves sauce mittens on his hands all the way up to the wrist. I am appalled and say, "Do you want to borrow my napkin?" though I don't want to give it to him for fear of him returning it when finished. And with a barbeque sauce smile smeared across his cheeks and chin like Crusty the Clown, he says, "Nah, I'll clean up when I'm done."

Luckily, like a starving mutt, he finishes his food in under two minutes. He then excuses himself with his sauce mittens and clown face, and heads to the bathroom to clean up while the people sitting around us look in my direction with empathy .... for I am out on a date with a retarded boy.

MmmmmmmmmHmmmmmmmmmm

and he has most of his own teeth ....which is kind of a big deal ....

Issue of the Week ... so far

I've seriously had it with public transportation. Coupled with the fact that Mother Nature is a total whore, yesterday I fully waited 45 minutes for the streetcar in the freezing cold, while my waiting companions shared their verbal validation of the city's disrespect for particular ethnic groups. By the time the streetcar got there, they had mustered up such collective anger I'm suprised there wasn't a revolt ... against me ... because I'm white.

If you happen take the bus anytime after 9pm you'll notice that ALL the people on it are verfiably NOT in in a hurry due to the fact they are either:


a) Insane/Drunk /Homeless
b) 100 years old


Additionally, everytime I get onto the subway or streetcar, 9 times out of 10 I will be forced into some sort of verbal altercation with those who fall into category "a". And chances are, the cracked-out drunk guy that I just told to go fuck himself, is getting off at my stop.... .... because I live in the ghetto and I'm just lucky like that. F'n A!

Good-Bye, Sweet Valley High

When I was about 13, long before I developed some sort of adult attention defecit disorder and became too lazy to read anything but blogs and magazines, I used to suck down Young Adult books by the dozen. As I remember, my YA books were always about poor kids; Poor kids trying to fit in at rich schools. Poor kids living in boxcars and getting by on sheer luck. Poor kids keeping stiff upper lips after dad lost his job. (Ramona Quimby, I'm looking at you.) In one book, Papa Quimby took the family to a hamburger restaurant and it was as though Jesus Christ had descended to Earth and bought them a burger. Or that scatterbrain Booky (pronounced Boo-ky) whose family was so poor, she and her brother were on the school "lunch program" for welfare kids (which, I can only speculate, was the reason I thought SPAM sandwiches on stale bread sounded appealing). Even those Sweet Valley twins, Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield, lived in a "split level ranch house" which, in a suburb like Sweet Valley, was clearly only middle-class digs.

That's why, when browsing the site of a local publishing agent, I was really surprised by the volume of rich-kid lit. I don't know what happened to all the poor kids, but now it's all about brand names, naughty missent text messages, and throw-downs at debutante balls. I do remember a racy Babysitters Club special in which Stacy and Mallory went to Surf City, New Jersey - but it wasn't anything like this passage from the book "Psyche In A Dress" currently available in the Young Readers section:

The next night we ate avocados, oranges and honey in Orpheus's candlelit cavern deep in the canyon. I wore strapless pale lace and tulle and lilies in my hair.
"Tell me" he said. "Tell me a story"
This in itself was an aphrodisiac.
My throat opened like a flower.


I don't know if I'm disturbed, or just jealous that I never got to read anything close to this titillating. I suspect the latter. I have pretty much always been a perv - which would explain why Samantha Fox's song "Touch Me" really spoke to me at the ripe age of 11.

In case you are not versed on the inspiring musical creations of Samantha Fox, here is a little taster from "Touch Me."

Hot and cold emotion confusing my brain
I could not decide between pleasure and pain.
Like a tramp in the night I was begging for you
To treat my body like you wanted to.

(moan, moan)

Touch me , touch me
I want to feel your body
Your heart beat next to mine
Touch me - Touch me now!
Cuz I want your body all the time

(moan, moan)

So, I apparently could have used a little avocado and honey back in my pre-teen days.

Okay, now too.

Gilmore Grief

Lorelai Gilmore has broken a lot of hearts. Max Medina and Digger (delightful companions both) were pretty much tossed aside for no good reason other than Lorelai's ditzy immaturity. And yet that didn't trouble me at all, because she was so charming and because I wanted her with Luke anyways, regardless of how sexy Chris was. This season, however, things are different.

I don't like Christopher. I never have. I hate the fact that they sent her back to him, and that they got married so hastily. I hate what a whiner he is. But this new Lorelai, this charmless Lorelai from whom forced banter awkwardly springs forth, can't get away with crushing him in order to fix her fuck-up with Luke as she might have in the past. There's Rory and Gigi. There's the fact that she actually said I do. But most importantly, there's the fact that after seven years now, I have the distinct feeling that she hasn't learned anything or changed at all. Which makes me really not like her. It makes me think that Luke could probably do better.

So...fix it please, new writing team members. Luke and Lorelai need to be together by the time the series ends (sooner rather than later? We all know this season's numbers haven't been great...) and if at all possible, I don't want to feel dirty about it.

A Little Food for Thought

Why is it the government knows exactly where one cow with mad-cow-disease is located among the millions and millions of cows , but haven't a clue as to where thousands of illegal immigrants and terrorists cells are located? I propose the Department of Agriculture should be put in charge of immigration. Thoughts?

Let The Record Show ...

...I successfully spent almost thirty hours this weekend lying in the same spot on my couch for two days straight. Well, minus the time I spent sleeping in my bed.

Of course, something like this is not accomplished all by oneself.
Thanks goes out to Nuala for joining me in my cave of slack Sunday, and doing as she always does, accompanying and promoting my self-indulgent sloth.

It was an invigorating two days.

Holla.

Election '08

Obama Takes First Step Toward Running in ’08
From the NY Times

WASHINGTON – Senator Barack Obama took his first step into the Democratic presidential race today by opening an exploratory committee to raise money and begin building a campaign designed “to change our politics.” He said he would make a formal declaration Feb. 10 in Illinois.

Looks like it could be a showdown between Hilary and Barack for the Democratic Party nomination. Personally, I think Hilary should be put to sleep, so it's clear who I think should win. So, who do you think has a better shot? The black man, or the woman? Personally, I think a black man will be president before a woman. Only because women menstruate, and you know what they say about menstruation ... bears can smell it.