Fear And Loathing At The Convenience Store

FLASHBACK — August '08:

It's 3:46 am and I'm on my way home from a relatively early night of poker when I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a raving case of the munchies.

"We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold..." — Hunter Thompson

Luckily, I live on Long Island, where there is conveniently located, roughly every 4 yards along any given stretch of highway, a 24-hour 7-11. I stop into the first one I spot. A taxi and an Entenmann's delivery truck are the only other vehicles in the parking lot, so I pull up right in front of the entrance and am about to sprint out when I realize I'm not wearing any shoes.

...ok, if you must know, a smoke break between games had turned into a round of Ultimate Frisbee in the dark on the front lawn and my socks had gotten wet so I removed them, and — as everyone knows — wearing sneakers without socks gives you the cooties, so I wisely decided to spend the rest of the evening barefoot.

However, I am now in dire circumstances. The risk must be dismissed and my task undertaken.

Of course, because I'm now so close to my ultimate destination I can almost smell it (actually, I probably could smell it — it being a 7-11 and all), it takes me about half an hour to get my laces unknotted and the damn things back on my feet. It appears hand-eye coordination is one of the first faculties to become affected in these sorts of situations.

Inside, it is glaringly bright and absolutely freezing. I assume heightened sensitivity to light and temperature are the next symptons to present themselves. I beat a determined path for the snack aisle. I am on a mission, and, for some reason, I am under the impression that only Fritos will do.

So, of course, at first glance, I don't see them anywhere.

"Ok, don't panic," I think. Or say out loud. There's no one else in the store, so who knows at this point. "They have to be here somewhere. Someone always brings them in when we have holiday parties at work, so you know they exist. And by that conclusion, they should, in all likelihood, be here somewhere." But what if that anonymous work-person had just stockpiled a whole bunch of bags before 7-11 discontinued carrying them — then what do I do? Are Dipsy-Doodles the same thing? No, they used to sell them in the cafeteria in high school; those things sucked...I wonder if that same old lady still works in the senior cafe...hey, was Mr. Barone gay? Did we ever find out? Whoa, stop! Focus! Task at hand!

I decide to apply some scientific principles to my search and methodically scrutinize each and every shelf, bag by bag, until, finally, I come upon them, second shelf from the bottom, hidden behind some Cheetos. Not even the good kind, but those mutant-looking crunchy ones. Gross.

The guy behind the counter rings up my purchase, and I manage to count out 3 singles and hand them over to him without incident when I notice he's wearing surgical gloves. The only reason I can presently fathom for this is that he's just brutally murdered the real 7-11 clerk in the back room and I've just happened to walk into the store right in the midst of it and interrupted the grisliness.

Either that, or he's been handling the chili cheese dogs. Those things are lethal.

Seconds or decades later, lying in bed with my hard-earned snack and my entire stack of Weetzie Bat books, I think to myself (or say out loud), "Man, I can't believe I haven't done this since college...have I ever been missing out!"

Oversight

I just realized I never posted anything yesterday, which means I must have actually been working while I was at work. Go figure. To remedy this inadvertant laxity, I will now post some stupid shit I've done at other times when I should have been working:

SSSSSSEQUELS!
Snakes On A Crane: In this action-packed sequel to the blockbuster hit, deadly snakes attack a construction site.
Snakes On A Lane: A local bowling alley is terrorized by deadly snakes. The tagline: "This Summer...They Will STRIKE!"
Snakes On David Blaine: Wherein all the deadly snakes DISAPPEAR!
Snakes In The Rain: A charming musical featuring deadly snakes.
Snakes In Disdain: Deadly snakes terrorize the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Williamsburg and Greenpoint.

POSSIBLE FOLLOW-UPS TO KATY PERRY'S SMASH HIT SINGLE "I KISSED A GIRL (AND I LIKED IT)"
"I Downloaded That New Radiohead Album (And I Liked It)"
"I Leased A Toyota Camry (And I Liked It)"
"I Went Parasailing In Key West (And I Liked It)"
"My Mom Bought Me An Emerald Bracelet For My Birthday (And I Thought It Was Pretty)"
"I Saw The New Coen Brothers Movie (But I Found It Disappointing)"
"I Kissed Another Girl (And I Still Liked It [But Not As Much As The First One])"
"I Tried That New Sushi Place On 34th And Madison (It Wasn't Bad)"

Things I Wish Could Really Happen

Every time I put on the Avatar 3-D glasses, I turn into one.

Chocolate donuts cure cancer.

I actually get paid to screw around on Twitter all day.

Punching obnoxious douchebags on the subway not only legal but encouraged as a behavioral deterrent.

All Twilight and Justin Beiber fans placed in internment camps for "re-programming."

My cat does the dishes and cleans the bathroom for me while I'm at work.

Republicans develop the capability to act rationally.

Tattoos are eligible for government subsidies and feel like the brush of butterfly wings against your skin.

A kind stranger leaves me a charming and spacious Park Slope apartment in their will.

Doing karaoke helps me lose 20 pounds.

Sucide Girls provides scholarships to the Pratt School of Fashion Design.

Survivor critiques considered high literary art.

Giant adult-sized castle bounces installed in all public parks.

"Business casual" = Halloween costumes every single day + unlimited wardrobe stipend.

Flying cars.

World peace.

Permission

Seriously, can I slap the Union Square "Free Hugs" people?

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

Aww...you like me! You really like me!

It is my pleasure to announce that I have been granted a Beautiful Blogger Award, and it's about damn time. No, I kid — I think it's awesome. Thank you, The Chicken's Consigliere (alias "TCHC" around these parts) for the honor. And congratulations to my faithful stalker, Dalia, on her honorable mention. :D

I am passing on the gift to:

Stolen Sentiments, a fellow musical muser and loyal follower of mine (thanks for hanging around!);

The Rebel Yell, the voice of my grrrls, The Long Island Roller Rebels;

The Sassy Curmudgeon, for being WICKED AWESOME and inspiring me to do this crazy thang;

Tom & Lorenzo, the most fabulous bitches on the Interwebz;

and precious li'l Kaits: it can't all be wedding cake. *mwa!*

And now the REALLY fun part:

"Name 7 tidbits people don’t know about you from reading your blog."

HAHAHA! Things people don't know about me? Like I'm not an attention-craving narcissist with no filter who's already revealed everything, whether you want to know it or not? Gee, what ELSE can I say about myself?? Ok, here goes...

1. My very first celebrity crush was on Johnny Depp.
And my affection still holds true to this day. I am a firm believer in doing things right the first time around — none of this New Kids On The Block crap for me.

2. I am terrified of inflatable holiday lawn ornaments.
You know, like those giant blow-up snowmen and Santas that you always see in front of car dealerships around Christmas time? When you pass by one at night, and they're just looming there and grinning in the dark with no one else around? Fucking creepy.

3. I was a Girl Scout until my senior year of high school.
There will be a separate post devoted entirely to this topic in the near future. Trust me, it's a gold mine.

4. My shoe size is 8 ½.
Um...yeah.

5. I don't know how to swim.
I had a hole in my eardrum when I was little and couldn't go underwater without earplugs, so I never learned. Oh yeah — and I have a hole in my eardrum and am partially deaf.

6. I lost my virginity at 22.
What can I say? I was a late bloomer.

7. I'm Tyler Durden.
No, I'm just kidding. I'm really Keyser Soze.

Thank you, all!

Her Last Name Is "Shallow" For A Reason...

What Parvati sounded like on last night's episode of Survivor:

"I wanted to win and Rob totally won! Ha ha ha! Can you believe it? That someone won and someone else didn't? I was like, what just happened? And then Russell made this speech that I didn't understand and he gave me the Immunity Idol and I was like, ok, I guess I'll use it! Ha ha ha! Because that's what you're supposed to do with it, right? I mean, I don't understand strategy, I just thought he was giving me a present because I'm pretty. And this next part — get ready for this — Jeff read a bunch of names off some little pieces of paper! It was so crazy! I was like, what just happened? And then this tall skinny guy whose name I don't know because he's, like, the only guy who doesn't flirt with me at camp (I know, right?!?) had to leave and Jeff used his magic wand to turn the fire invisible and then there were hot dogs. Ha ha ha! I have a lisp."

Reformation

I will never understand people who are all "America! Fuck yeah!" but against giving the government any money for anything.

I know I'm oversimplifying, but this is basically how I see it: I don't attend public schools or drive a car anymore, but schools and roads are essential to the functioning of this country, and I live in this country, and I want it to be a good one, so if my contribution helps, I don't mind supporting these things. You can't get all patriotically outraged that we're falling behind in the education rankings of the world and then complain that your school taxes are too high. As far as using the money properly, that's a different story. That's where voting and, you know, democracy, comes in. Get involved — do some research and let your representatives know how you want your money spent, instead of just robotically repeating that teachers get paid too much. Just remember that you can't please everybody, and the funding has to come from somewhere. Bake sales and car washes only cover so much.

So...healthcare. I admit up front that I am no expert on the particulars of this reform, but I don't understand how people could possibly be against the concept. Perhaps this is biased of me, but based on my own personal example, again, here's how I see it: The retail cost of my medication is approximately $500/month. Do I need this medication to save my life? No, it's not that drastic. Do I need this medication to have any sort of a life? Yes. If I am to remain a mentally healthy, functioning member of society, you want me on my meds. You need me on my meds. Can I afford this medication on my own without insurance? Not even close, and for that, I am grateful to have a job that gives me coverage. But if it didn't and I wasn't on the medication? Well, I could get a higher-paying job, but that's kind of hard in this economy, especially when your concentration is perpetually clouded and you're also suicidal. I could keep this job and get a second one to supplement my income, but that's also kind of rough when you find it hard enough to get out of bed for the one you already have due to dizzying headaches and crushing depression. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it would be more of a drain on society if I were unemployed and catatonic, being completely supported by others, than if everyone chipped in a few extra bucks to help keep me and people like me medicated. I mean, I didn't ask for this to happen, and I didn't bring it on myself. I was born this way. I'm not asking for a handout — I want to work and support myself and contribute to society, but I can't...unless I'm taking these drugs.

I know it sounds a lot like welfare, another divisive issue. I realize the system is flawed and abused, but don't spite those who truly need it for the misdeeds of those who don't. At the very least, there needs to be some sort of interim program in place while working to improve and perfect the process. And to do that improving and perfecting? You need to get informed and involved.

If you want our country to be great, you have to make it so. We need to help each other out. Freedom isn't free.

You're The Man Now, Dog!

Guy on the 6 train this morning is taking up two seats, slouching spread-eagle, as if he's preparing for a Pap smear.

I fucking hate that.

The 6 train gets crowded pretty quickly, so in order to conserve some space, I inquire, "Excuse me, can I sit there?"

Guy gives me a look like I just asked him to shine my shoes and shifts approximately 3 inches to the left.

Oh, that is it. And you think you're gonna stare me down, too? Not a chance, douchebag — you know I am sitting there now.

I make sure to "accidentally" hit him with my bag as I squeeze in, and to "accidentally" elbow him when the train hits a bump. And I "accidentally" step on his foot when I get up for my stop, too. "Oh, sorry!" I exaggeratedly apologize. "I didn't mean to invade your space."

Smirking, I make my escape, luckily lost in the crush of people pushing for the doors — I don't doubt this guy would hit a girl.

Don't mess with me in the morning, people.

Yet Another Reason Why I Love My Brother, But Not In A Creepy Angelina Jolie Way

Seeking reassurance after some past boy trouble...

Me: "But I shouldn't even be upset, because I can do better than him, right?"
Him: "I could take a shit in a piece of Tupperware and you could carry that around and take it to the movies with you and it would be better than him."

...he always knows just the right things to say. :)

Standards

There was an ad on the side of my Facebook page this morning with the headline "Want A Boyfriend?" and a picture of this guy:


Actually, this is the reason why I don't want a boyfriend...

I Left My Head And My Heart On The Dance Floor

Ok, help me out — how many movie references am I missing in the Lady GaGa "Telephone" video? So far I've got:

Chicago
Who's That Girl?
Kill Bill
Natural Born Killers
Thelma & Louise

...anyone?

Great Moments In Girlhood

I think I may have been a little "confused" during my elementary school days...

When I was 5, I requested an R2-D2-shaped cake for my birthday party. The bakery called my mom twice to confirm that they had been given the right name and that this cake was indeed for a girl.

I had more Matchbox cars than Barbie dolls.

At school during recess, when all the girls would chase the boys and try to kiss them, I was the bodyguard for the boys. Even they were terrified of me.

One of my classrooms was set up in groups, with 4 desks to a group and seats randomly assigned, but you could opt to switch groups or stay where you were at the beginning of every month. I'm pretty sure I shared a group with the same 3 guys for 4 months straight before the teacher split us up because it was "unfair" to the other kids.

In second grade, I had a reputation for shin-kicking and shoe-throwing. These were mainly defensive tactics used against those who dared ridicule me for liking hockey, in general, and the New York Rangers, in particular. Remember — this was Islander territory, at the height of their grand '80s dynasty. But my allegiance never wavered, and it didn't hurt that I was actually more knowledgable about the game than my male classmates. [Confidential to Danny K.: I'm sorry I hurt your feelings and your knee, but goalies can score, and it's still 3 PERIODS to a hockey game, not 3 "halves."]

In fact, the hockey thing still persists: Several years ago, after a big family dinner at my grandparents' house, while all the female relatives were in the kitchen chatting and doing dishes, I was in the living room watching the game with the guys. When a fight inevitably broke out on-screen, I jumped off the couch and yelled, "Yeah! Kick his ass!"

My dad turned to my uncle and said with pride, "That's my little girl!"

BP2K6

Since the weather's starting to get warmer, I thought I'd share a fond summer memory with all y'all. Circa July 2006:

I get back from the gym around lunchtime and park my car around the corner on the next block over because our street's been barricaded off for today's block party. I expect there to be music blasting, people out on their lawns barbecuing, kids playing in the street, but except for the lack of parked cars — replaced by party tents and patio furniture — it could be any other dull suburban weekend. But I guess it's still early.

An hour or so later, though, after I've showered, changed and read the paper, there's still nothing going on. Unless you count the people across the street blaring an instrumental lounge version of "Gangsta's Paradise" from the stereo of one of the trucks still parked in their driveway.

"Man, this sucks!" I complain to my brother. "Doesn't anyone on this block know how to party? What the hell did they do with the 20 bucks everyone paid? We don't even have one of those inflatable castle bounce things [which, by the way, are AWESOME]! I guess it's gonna be up to us to get something started."

His response is: "Hey, what would you do if I just started walking up and down the street buck-naked, making small talk with the neighbors, like there was nothing weird about it, and if anyone asked me what I was doing, I'd just be like, 'Man, I did so much acid last night I don't even know where I am!'?"

Well, I guess that's one way to start something...

A quick scan of the neighboring houses leads me to the conclusion that our set-up is definitely the lamest on the block. While everyone else has circus-size canopies and ping-pong tables set up on their lawns or matching white plastic patio chairs and picnic benches lined up neatly along the curb, my family's rocking a chaise lounge without a cushion relocated from the back deck, a folding beach chair my sister pulled out of the trunk of her Jeep, and the wooden park bench from off of our front porch. The only way we could look more ghetto would be if we had saved the old living room couches we threw out a few weeks ago and set those up on the lawn instead. And maybe if we were drinking 40s wrapped in brown paper bags instead of Mike's Hard Lemonade.

A few hours in, after the DJ has set up and people have started to slowly venture forth out of hibernation, there's a commotion on the corner: everyone's descending on these two guys pulling a giant cooler down the street on a little kid's wagon. "Are those Jello shots?" my sister asks excitedly, and faster than you can say "power of suggestion," we're running after the guys, too. My brother tries to box me out, citing my notoriously low tolerance for alcohol of late, but the way I figure, I'm already in my own yard, so if I get trashed and decide I want to sleep under a tree, at least no one will have to ditch their beer pong partner and leave the party to come pick me up from the park and drive me home with my head out the window, puking, like they did the last time. I mean, just hypothetically.

Turns out it's just ice cream, which I guess is still good...until you consider that every house on the block paid $20 for this shindig and this is what they decided to spend it on.

What would YOU do for a Klondike bar, motherfucker?! [to be read in the manner of Stephen Baldwin's character during the line-up scene in The Usual Suspects]

So now it's after dark, we've done a few laps [highlights: our end of the street is the deadest (lucky us), the castle bounce is around the corner on Johnson (bastards!), and no one but my brother was really into the idea of banding our side of the street together and calling them out, starting a neighborhood civil war], and the DJ is still playing disco and that god-awful baseball-metaphor Meatloaf song. "Let's request something," we decide. "Yeah, something actually good." Opinions on this vary from "Ice, Ice Baby" to "Ghostbusters" to "Riding Dirty." We decide to go with anything by Bob Marley, in honor of the kids smoking pot across the street.

The DJ waves us over. "So," we mock, "is this the most rockin' block party you've ever worked or what??"

"Bro, I want to kill myself," he replies.

"I could be on Fire Island right now with half-naked drunk chicks climbing into my booth, and instead I'm here." With boozy middle-aged suburban mothers apparently requesting the entire Billy Joel back catalog, I imply. Poor guy.

He never plays our song, though, so screw him.

"Next time, bro, I promise," he calls out as he's packing up.

Yeah, right — like we're actually going to do this again next year.

Local Train To Mordor Now Arriving On Track 16

Text message exchange with my sister-in-law:

Me: There's a guy with a giant walking stick on my train. Think it might be Gandalf.
Fly: YOU SHALL NOT PASS!!
Me: No, wait — he's black. YOU SHALL NOT PASS JAMAICA STATION!!

Seriously, why aren't there any black people in Middle-Earth? And are there female Orcs? Or are they all just hatched from mud like the Uruk-Hai? And did Galadriel and Elrond ever have a "thing" or is cross-breeding between the Rivendell Elves and the Lothlorien Elves frowned upon? These things are important, people!

Your Opinion Counts!

Me, just barely squeezing through closing elevator doors: "Well, there's my incentive to lose some weight."
Guy already on elevator, looking me over: "I don't think that's something you need to worry about."

Question: Should I be flattered or skeeved?

Make your voice heard!

Lift And Thrust, Baby!

You know you love these:

"The gas may or may not be breathable."

"...the radius of gyration of the member."

"Part 3: Hydrogen Bakeout"

"Table 5: Heavy Thumb Screws"

"Table 6: Practical Screw Lengths"

"Fig. QW-1: Head Screws"

"SC IX: For a butt weld joining two members having different thicknesses at the weld, t is the thinner of these two thicknesses. If a full penetration weld includes a fillet weld, the thickness of the throat of the fillet shall be included in t."

"API RP 2201: Safe Hot Tapping Practices in the Petroleum Industry"

Erin Go Braless

I inadvertently wore a green sweater today, and now I'm worried that people will think I'm one of those dorks who dresses in theme for holidays. I'm hoping I can still retain a modicum of cool, however, since it's not Bedazzled. Thank heavens Banana Republic is classy like that.

Happy St. Hat Trick's Day everyone. May you find a shot of Goldschlager at the end of Reading Rainbow.

And Now For Something Completely Different

My political interests lean strongly toward social and global/environmental issues. They may not be the most sophisticated or thoroughly researched views, but I know what's important to me — keeping the planet and its inhabitants healthy, helping those in need, improving education and childcare, keeping religion out of government, keeping commercialization out of art, women's rights, gay rights, equal rights. And I usually support my causes on a personal level — organizations that I've considered carefully, that I find worthy of contributions, not neccessarily the "big names." So when I find one I believe in, whether or not it's already well-known, I try to spread the word however I can, in the hope of maximum impact. So that's my M.O. for making these appeals, just in case you were wondering.

So...I know I've posted links to aid organizations before, but this is my first "political" one:

QueerTheCensus.org

Check it out. If nothing else, you can get a free sticker out of it.

Eagerly Awaited

Since I know you've all been waiting with bated breath, here are my picks for the 2010 NCAA Tournament:

SWEET 16
Midwest:
Kansas (1)
Mich. St. (5)
Georgetown (3)
Ohio St. (2)

West:
Syracuse (1)
Butler (5)
Xavier (6)
Kansas St. (2)

East:
Kentucky (1)
Wisconsin (4)
New Mexico (3)
W. Virginia (2)

South:
Duke (1)
Utah St. (12)
Baylor (3)
Villanova (2)

ELITE 8
Midwest:
Kansas (1)
Ohio St. (2)

West:
Syracuse (1)
Kansas St. (2)

East:
Kentucky (1)
New Mexico (3)

South:
Duke (1)
Baylor (3)

FINAL 4
Midwest:
Kansas (1)

West:
Syracuse (1)

East:
Kentucky (1)

South:
Baylor (3)

CHAMPIONSHIP GAME
Syracuse (1) vs. Kentucky (1)

WINNER:
SYRACUSE

Total points scored: 160

Get A Damn Job

Via Twitter again:

negativeneil: I would rather pour salt in my urethra than write another cover letter. It's gotta be Kosher salt, though. I'm not a fucking maniac.

Have I mentioned that I love this man?

The Madness!

Via Twitter:

michaelianblack: I already regret my choice of Julliard to win the NCAA championship.
BeccaGo: @michaelianblack It could be worse — my pick was the DeVry Institute.

Bracketology, yo.

The Faithful

Long Island was hit yesterday with MONSOONAGEDDON 2010!!!, during which power was lost, trees were uprooted, basements were flooded and substantial property damage was sustained (fence posts and aluminum siding in particular prove to make excellent projectiles). And yet, just proving my point that roller derby fans are some of the craziest people on Earth, the Long Island Roller Rebels' season opener against the Jersey Shore Roller Girls was still sold out. You go, grrrls!

Of Crappy Pop Music And Sparkling Vampires

"Because the world is so corrupted, misspoken, unstable, exaggerated and unfair, one should trust only what one can experience with one's own senses...In a world of disorder and disaster and fraud, sometimes only beauty can be trusted. Only artistic excellence is incorruptible."

In short, this is why political impotence and incompetence will never surprise me, but I will NOT TOLERATE shit like Twilight and Taylor fuckin' Swift.

Of Cheap Plastic Crap And Sparkling Vampires

Last night I saw a Walmart commercial advertising the latest Twilight movie on DVD.

I thought the FCC had rules against obscenity.

I'm, Like, All Cultured And Shit

Transcript of an earlier e-mail conversation with my sister:

Her: "Hey, want to see Mary Stuart on Broadway?"
Me: "Who's Mary Stuart?"
Her: "Uh...she's like, this English chick who was in charge and stuff...?"
Me: "Oh! Mary, Queen of Scots! I'm retarded. I thought it was just a random name, like Billy Elliot."
Her: "She was Billy Elliot's dance teacher, actually."
Me: "Yeah, I heard it's a happy little musical. She goes dancing off to her execution."
Her: "On roller skates! No, wait — that's Xanadu.
Me: "And then she gets hit by a falling chandelier instead of a guillotine!"

Quick, someone get Andrew Lloyd Webber on the phone!

For Fellow Poker Aficianados: The Battle Of Wits Has Begun

Ok, riddle me this:

The game is No-Limit Texas Hold 'Em. Four players remain.

Player 1 is first to act, second in chips, goes all in with A-J off-suit.
Player 2 is short stack, also goes all in, with pocket Aces.
Player 3 is third in chips, also goes all in, with a pair of Queens.
Player 4 is chip leader, calls Player 1 with K-9 suited.

Flop comes out Q-J-10; rainbow — no flush opportunites. So now:

Player 1 has a pair of Jacks.
Player 2 still has a pair of Aces.
Player 3 has trip Queens.
Player 4 has the straight.

The turn is a 4 and there's a 6 on the river — no change.

Player 4 wins the hand and the game, knocking out all three remaining opponents.

Question: Who comes in second — the next-best hand (Player 3, with three of a kind), second in chips pre-flop (Player 1), or the last to call all-in (Player 3, by position)?

Answer: Who cares? Player 4, the one who cleared house, was me.

All In A Day's Work

Morning:
Office facilities announcement: "We will be testing the fire alarm system shortly. Please disregard any flashing lights or sirens."

I really wish the "flashing lights and sirens" were a giant disco ball and one of those "party alarms" you hear at clubs.

"Attention please: Give it up for the Facilities Department! The roof is on FIRE! Lemme hear ya say, 'Whoomp, there it is!'"

Afternoon:
My mom called the office to ask if I remembered the formula for determining the circumference of a circle.

And I did.

I am a MATH WARRIOR!

Why I Don't Drink, or, How A Single Alcoholic Beverage Can Manage To Disrupt My Entire Existence

I believe I've mentioned before that I rarely drink, and that this is due to the fact that, for me, there is a very fine line between "happily buzzed" and "miserably vomiting," and that this line is usually crossed somewhere in the vicinity of a mere 2 or 3 alcoholic beverages. Yep, I'm that hard-core.

So last night I was at a bar and ordered my usual Coke to start off. However, as the evening wore on, I decided to attempt to be social and have a real drink. My go-to cocktails are Midori Sour and vodka & cranberry — Midori because it's bright green and tastes like Kool-Aid; vodka & cranberry because if you put in enough of the latter I can almost handle the taste of the alcohol without grimacing after every sip, and cranberry juice is supposed to be healthy or something, right? So this time I order a vodka & cranberry, and along with almost actually enjoying it, it adequately served its purpose of making me feel less awkward and alienated from the cool kids.

Then I went home, passed out with my contacts still in, my makeup still on, and my hair still smelling of cigarettes...

...and woke up late this morning to no hot water in my apartment.

Let me just tell you how smokin' hot and refreshed I look right now.

Don't give in to peer pressure, kids.

My Subway Subculture Initiation

So about 2 summers ago, I made the grand pilgrimage all the way from Long Island to Brooklyn to look at an apartment. On my way back home, I get on the Q at Church Ave. I'm only going a few stops, so I just grab onto a pole as the doors close. Distracted by the adorable giggling baby in the stroller to the right of me, I don't even notice this guy on my left until he gets up as if he's about to get off the train, but instead grabs onto the pole I'm leaning against and gets right in my face. He's balding with long hair, missing a tooth, wearing socks with sandals, and seems drunk, even though it's only 11 am.

"I like your tattoos," he says, smiling so wide he's almost leering, and leaning uncomfortably close to me.

"Thanks," I say before really thinking about it, "I have more" — my standard response to such compliments.

Bad move.

"I'd like to see them sometime," he says, stumbling and nearly falling on me with every lurch of the train. I just smile nervously and shift positions, but this doesn't stop my admirer. "Look," he says, conspiratorially, "I'm getting off at DeKalb, but I'd like to get to know you better. Maybe you can give me your phone number?"

Before he even gets the full sentence out, I tell him, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend," which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to flat-out hurt these psychos' feelings. But my white lie doesn't deter Mr. Flatbush Casanova.

"He doesn't have to know," he replies and winks at me.

Oh, gross.

"Sorry," I repeat, grateful that these bug-eye sunglasses are practically eating my face so no one can see the half-amused/half-repulsed look I'm giving this guy right now.

"Do you live together?" he asks.

God damn, he's persistent! "Yeah," I tell him, "yeah, we do," and I'm even starting to picture it now — my imaginary boyfriend and I, curled up on a couch in the apartment I just looked at, eating take-out, doing something cozy and domestic, like a jigsaw puzzle. There's even a cat purring by my feet.

"That's great," he says, still not backing off. "I wish you luck. Tell him he's a lucky guy."

And then — relief of reliefs — it's my stop. "I will," I call over my shoulder as I hastily exit to the platform. I don't even watch the gap.

Man, I think, cracking up by myself in the middle of the empty train station, why can't "normal" guys that I'm attracted to ever be that direct? It would make things so much easier. Because even though I'm more than a little creeped-out, I'm still, strangely, and embarassingly, a little bit flattered.

And I did take that apartment.

[NOTE: Had you been at DimeStories tonight, you could have heard this enchanting story live.]

Yet Another Reason Why I Am Going To Hell

Priest presiding over my baby cousin's baptism: "Do you reject Satan, the father of sin and prince of darkness?"
Me, whispering to my sister: "...and Ozzie Osbourne, Prince of Darkness?"

Yes, sadly, this is exactly how mature I am.

Cat Power

Text messages sent to my sister by my cat from inside his carrier while traveling by train to Long Island:

"i think im beimg kidnapped. i'm stuck in this fukken bag agan. always with this fukken bag."
"i wish i cud rome free with the wind in my hare like my feral forfathers."
"my ansestors ate yors, u kno."
"were chanjing at jamayka now. i thot it wud be warmer. this cold jamayka sux."
"do u think this bum wud share hiz beer with me if i aksed him?"
"rebecky sed i shud stop complaining becuz ther are lotz of cats out ther who r less forchunate then me. i think thats bulshit."
"shes letting me lissen to her ipod tho. who iz this adum lambert fag?"
"wud it kil her to play a littel foghat?"
"ok were heer now. cum pik us up. ill be the one in the bag waring the hedfones."

Milestone

Profile Views (approximate): 1,000

Hell yeah, bitches! Woot! :D

And Baby Makes Three...Billion

I read the other day that Kate Gosselin is going to be on the next season of Dancing With The Stars (along with Buzz Aldrin, but that's a topic for an entirely different post), and, as the mere mention of her name is bound to do, it immediately threw me into a state of bilious rage. And not out of any misplaced adoration for Dancing With The Stars, mind you.

I hate this woman with the heat of a thousand fiery suns (rest assured, though — I hate her douchebag ex-husband even more). Her, and the "Octomom," and the Duggars from that "42 or However Many Kids And Counting" show that has to keep changing its name every season because the woman WILL. NOT. STOP. BREEDING.

First, let's qualify: I do not have children, and I do not plan on having any in the near future, which means I probably never will, since I am at an age where my fertility will soon be plummeting and there don't seem to be any prospective male donors on the horizon. However, I do love kids. In fact, I usually prefer them to adults. But I am not even close to having the means to financially support one right now, and I'm barely responsible enough to take care of a cat. So, to put it bluntly, shit's gotten real.

So, with the matter of my objectivity clarified and any romantic and/or militant notions now out of the way, let me lay out some of my objections to this whole mega-child thing:

1. You do not deserve a national audience just because your uterus is an assembly line.
Seriously, having a whole tribe of children does not make you special. Any woman, barring a medical condition, could have 10 kids if she tried. It's what we are DESIGNED to do. And the prevalence of fertility drugs and other "assisted reproduction" procedures, with their tendency toward multiple births, makes it an even easier feat to accomplish. Your achievement is not unique; it's just a choice.

2. This planet's not big enough for the two (trillion) of us.
It's no breaking news that the world is overpopulated. Sure, Earth is tough, she's taken a lot and still made it through, but a lot of our resources are finite. If we keep using more and more of them, they're bound to run out. What if technology can't keep up? And you can't deny that it's literally getting too crowded: if you don't believe me, Google some videos of "Japanese subway." Where are we going to keep putting these people? Maybe 6 or 8 or 20 more right now won't make a huge difference, but the more people keep reproducing at this exponential rate, the more it will eventually exacerbate the problem.

3. Brangelina's got the right idea.
I completely understand the desire to have a child of one's own, to create a life, that small miracle combining a piece of yourself and the one you love. Really — The Time Traveler's Wife and Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely" make me tear up every time I read/hear them. But it would seem one could stop at two or three, no? Especially when the cost and effort and uncertainty of fertility treatments are involved. Kate Gosselin has been on record claiming that after her twins were born, she and Jon were trying for "just one more"...and they "accidentally" had septuplets. It seems sort of selfish to me to bring so many children into the world when there are already so many who have fallen by the wayside. If you really want 16 kids, there are plenty out there that need good homes.

4. Children shouldn't be afterthoughts...
There's a line in "Eat Pray Love" (put your literary objections aside for just a moment) in which the author's sister tells her: "Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it's what you want before you commit." And I agree. But the trend lately seems to be get pregnant first, get married later. I'm not saying this is morally wrong or that one needs to be married to have kids, but the order does seem to suggest a lack of planning. Such unexpected "obstacles," rewarding as they may ultimately turn out to be, can often be difficult to overcome. I do applaud those couples who decide to keep their baby and stay together and really try to work it all out, but there are also plenty of people in similar situations that don't end up that way. Being a single parent is usually a struggle, for parent and child, and it's sometimes an unnecessary one. I will not even discuss the issue of abortion.

5. ...or accessories.
And again, continuing to have child after child just because YOU want them seems kind of selfish. Children deserve equal attention and care, and even though you may love them all equally, you can't tell me that when a parent's time and energy are split 19 ways that each offspring gets an equal share.

You see, I love kids. I really do. And they don't ask to be brought into this world. The least we can do is give them every advantage and the best possible circumstances under which to grow up when they get here.

Your Honor, I rest my case.

This Is How Sad My Life Is

I am legitimately upset that I mistook tonight for the premiere of America's Next Top Model Cycle 14 when it's really next Wednesday. I blame faulty intel.

School Daze

I don't know why I just remembered this, but it made me burst out laughing at my desk and now my co-workers think I have Tourette's, so I figured I might as well share the memorable vignette with the Interwebz:

Once upon a time, in a place called "high school," I had a particularly obnoxious American history teacher who, in the manner of a true professional educator, would commonly use phrases like "S.O.L" and "retarded" during her lessons. This did not endear her to her students, the way trying to be "hip" might have for other teachers, because she was also a sanctimonious bitch.

Anyway, among this woman's many other annoying personality traits was an utter loathing of germs. She would actually interrupt the class to yell at us if — God forbid! — we sneezed into our hands at our desks: "That is disgusting and unsanitary! Why do you think I keep a box of tissues up here on my desk [this being the era before the emergence of omnipresent hand sanitizers]? Nobody else wants your diseases!"

So, one day a particularly ingenious classmate felt a sneeze coming on, leaped out of his chair, knocking all his books on the floor, made a mad dash for the tissue box...

...and ended up not making it in time and sneezing all over the wicked witch's desk.

I don't remember the rest of the story because after that part the whole class was in hysterics for a good portion of the remaining period.

And they all lived happily ever after. The End. :D

Run It, Run It

Now that my Olympic fever has broken, I figured I'd share some of my own tales of athletic adventure.

Just don't expect anything as exciting as curling.

Running runs in my family. My grandpa could go for miles on the beach, practically every day, well into his 70s. My brother ran cross-country for years and still does, recreationally. And I'm pretty sure my uncle still holds track records at my high school. Two years ago, my sister ran the New York City Marathon. As if it weren't enough that she's a model-esque rock star who talks to famous people, she can now add "ultra-athlete" to her resume. Told you she was my hero. :)

Now, I'm the kind of gal who will break into tears over a particularly moving television commercial, so you can imagine how inspiring it was to just be standing there on the sidelines in Central Park, watching runners from all over the world crossing the finish line, never mind my baby sister. I was so proud and so pumped that I decided right there, "I'm gonna do this someday."

Unfortunately, I've been slacking a bit on carrying on the family tradition.

All through elementary school, when I weighed approximately 12 and a half pounds and was of unnatural-for-an-8-year-old height with legs up to my chin, I was unstoppable. Forget tomboy, I was one of the boys. I ruled gym class. I owned the playground. I could sprint like nobody's business. Then, right around the ripe old age of 12, I just stopped. Junior high peer pressure and insecurity were the likely culprits, and beating the boys at dodgeball took a backseat to being popular. Which never really happened anyway.

Bad trade.

So recently I've decided I need to start getting out of the house more, never mind lose about 20 pounds. I live only 3 blocks from Prospect Park, and the loop around the perimeter is almost exaclty a 5K, so I've started running again. And what I mean by "running" is "jogging until I get winded then strolling through the park for 20 minutes." I've got no discipline. So as an incentive, I joined the New York Road Runners. The real draw of this for me is that if you run in 9 of their qualifying races and volunteer at one, you are automatically entered in the next year's NYC Marathon. I am so doing this.

Of course, my sister already belongs to the Road Runners and yesterday was our first race together — a 4-miler in Prospect Park, my home territory. Hearing more experienced runners chatting afterwards about how hilly the course was made me feel a little smug: I "run" this difficult path on a regular basis — take that! But the best part for me, now that I finally have an iPod again, was the soundtrack. It's so much easier to keep a regular pace if you have a beat to follow, especially if that beat belongs to Stone Temple Pilots' "Sex Type Thing."

But here's the really astounding part: I neither planned nor expected to run the whole race straight through (I know my limits), and I had the iPod on shuffle — totally random — but somehow, every time I was about to slow down and start walking, Lady Gaga came on. Seriously — right after the first mile, when the uphill was really getting steep: "Paparazzi." After the second water station, when I was tempted to slow down and really take a drink: "Bad Romance." And on the home stretch: "Pokerface." Those are also the only 3 Gaga songs I have on my playlist right now. It was like fate! And there's nothing more fun than sailing on an endorphin high, panting "Ra ra ra ah ah, roma ro ma ma" or "'Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin!" out loud, and watching everyone who passes you give you weird looks.

Thank you, Cleveland!

Also: 53 minutes. All before I usually even wake up on a weekend. :) And I am now officially on my way to running the 2012 NYC Marathon.

...if the world doesn't end by then.