Placeholder

I just want you all to know that the reason I haven't posted anything this week is that I started a serious post the other day about love and it made me so sad I had to stop halfway through and order a pizza and binge-watch Les Revenants on Netflix instead. So yeah.

The Bitch Is Back.

So that last post wasn't a fluke; I've decided to restart the blog. For numerous reasons, but mainly because I'm an attention whore and it's cheaper than therapy. I'm going to try to post at least once a week, which is slightly less ambitious than my original goal of posting something ~EVERY SINGLE DAY!!~, so I might actually stick to it this time, but who knows — I'm unpredictable like that. It's what makes me fun!!

Anyway, I've experienced some pretty major life changes since last we spoke, so let the updating commence:

1. I don't live in Brooklyn anymore.

Surprising, I know, and it broke my heart to leave, but as a wise man once said, the rent is too damn high. I live in Washington Heights now, way up near the border of Inwood, or as some of us like to call it, Upstate Manhattan.

For real, y'all — my subway station is INSIDE A MOUNTAIN.

My place here costs almost $500 less a month than my old place in Park Slope. There's no exposed brick, but there's twice as much space and it's far more functional. I have a kitchen with cabinet doors on hinges that actually work, a freezer that defrosts itself, AND A DISHWASHER. It's in an elevator building with laundry in the basement, flowers bordering the front walkway, and an art deco entranceway. Did I mention the dishwasher? And I can paint the walls any crazy color I want, because oh yeah — I own this one.

Both of these spectacular items obtained courtesy of my awesome sister.

2. I no longer work for an engineering society.

Ironic, no, that now that I live in Manhattan I no longer work here? How I lost my job and gained this new one is a saga in itself, but suffice it to say I now work for an edtech company, in Brooklyn. And it is SO Brooklyn. Etsy headquarters are in the same office building, just a few floors down; West Elm is right across the street — the cobblestone street. We have a roof deck with ping pong tables and a killer view of the Manhattan Bridge:

There are beanbag chairs and exercise balls scattered amongst the cubicles and a designated quiet room filled with funky couches on which I frequently take naps during my lunch break. There's no dress code — I've worn jeans and sneakers every day since I've started; several of the guys in my department regularly roll in wearing flip-flops and shorts, like they're just stopping by on their way to the beach. There are free snacks and drinks. At my last job, "going downstairs for a snack" meant grabbing some Fritos from the vending machine. Here, it means visiting the "specialty mini-grocer" next door for some Garden Herb Triscuits and smoked salmon cream cheese. At my last job, my hours were 9:10 to 5:40 — not 9 to 5:30, but 9:10 to 5:40 — they were that specific and that strict about time. Here, my official hours are something like "anytime before 10 to sometime after 5, unless you're working from home, or whenever, really, as long as you let me know and the work gets done and it adds up to 40 hours at the end of the week." Did I mention the free snacks? As an added bonus, my boss is a fellow Star Wars nerd, and my debut assignment here consisted of copyediting a reading lesson for 4th-graders about Don Quixote at a puppet show with a monkey, so...so long porngineering.

I have very nice handwriting.

3. I got married.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Psych!!

Put A Ring On It

Memo To Any Potential Fiancé(s):

Please don’t buy me a ring.

Really.

Rings are useless. I’d prefer you put the money towards a down payment on a brownstone, or a Balinese vacation, or a lifetime supply of tattoos. Or donate it to charity. Or better yet: just save it.

If you must get a ring, don’t buy me a diamond.

Really.

This one’s non-negotiable. Diamonds are blood on your literal hands. They are vile, consumerist, and ostentatious. Least of these, they’re not even original. If you buy me a diamond, you don’t know me well enough to marry me.

If you insist on a ring, I prefer emeralds or pearls. Really.

I come cheap, but I’m high-value.

Out Of The Mouths Of Babes

8-year-old cousin: "You live by yourself?"
Me: "Yep, just me."
8-year-old cousin: "You shouldn't live anywhere unless you have a husband."
Me: "Well, I've looked for one, but I haven't found any yet."
11-year-old cousin: "I know people."

The Party's Over...

My 2011 New Years Resolutions:

1. Spend more time at the toy store.
2. Marry Neil Lambert (subject to availability).
3. World Wide Web domination.

Stay safe, y'all!
See ya next year!!

Talk Technical To Me!

Bringing you up to date on how awesome my job is:

"...must encompass the complete length of the shaft when applied by hand."

"A plug shall not enter the hole when applied by hand without using excessive force."

"The hole shall be checked from both ends, if possible."

"The body heat of the inspector shall be considered."

"It shall not be possible to erect the gage in the hole without using excessive force."

"...the straightness of long shafts that have small diameters."


"Erection And Tensioning"

"(a) Size Control For Holes
(b) Size Control For Shafts"

"(a) Shaft Shape
(b) Shaft Orientation"

"Increased friction heat affects the energy required for pumping."

"(a) slack carrier erection
(b) tower mast erection"

"Open throat hooks shall be equipped with latches to bridge the throat opening."

"Total Monthly Flow" [ewww...]

"Minimum Thickness Of Fishplates" [I'm not sure if this one's really dirty, but I have a rather active imagination...]

"...the relative skew between the two towers." [not dirty, but C'MON!! LORD OF THE RINGS!!!]

"...operating within the creep regime." [This one reminded me of my last relationship...]

"Minimum Shaft Diameter"

"Diameter Of The Small Socket Hole"

"Head Values"

"Oil Buffer Strokes"

"plunger gripper"

"Allowable Gross Loads"

"Hole Orientation"

"...lazy guy thrust track."

Two Birds With One Craigslist Posting

I'm looking at another apartment tonight.
That has 2 bedrooms.
With the cute broker guy I met last week.

I wonder if he's looking for a new place, too...

Further Adventures In Strange Guys Hitting On Me

Tomorrow is my birthday. Last year on my birthday, this happened:

So it's my birthday and I got all dolled up and took myself to see a show. Coming home on the Q train, there's this drunk and/or insane guy who looks like a cross between an albino and someone with that disease where they can't grow any hair, like eyebrows or anything. He starts shouting, "Miss! Hey, miss!"

Please don't let him be talking to me, please don't let him be talking to me...

"Hey, miss! White girl!"

Damn it, he's talking to me.

I'm wearing open-toe heels, and when I make the mistake of shifting a fraction of an inch in his direction when the train hits a bump, he says, loud enough for the rest of the car to enjoy, "Those are some sexy shoes. Can I kiss your toes, baby?"

I'm trying to just ignore him, but he keeps repeating himself, and women all around me are trying not to laugh and murmuring, "Oh, you poor thing," so finally I shout, "Sorry, I've got someone." Even though I don't, and I'm actually kind of bummed about that. And why do I always feel the need to be polite to these lunatics?

"Ok, ok, I respect that," he says. "But I'm real good. I'm real good! I bet I could do it better for you than him!"

"Probably not," I tell him. "He has a foot fetish." [Based on actual events.]

Everyone around me bursts out laughing. My admirer is only momentarily thrown for a loop, but eventually bounces right back and keeps yelling shit and trying to get my attention until he finally gets off the train 2 stops later.

Once the doors close and he's gone, the other passengers all start looking around and shaking their heads and laughing under their breath. The girl in the seat next to me leans over and says, "That was good. How does that not creep you out?"

Lady, I want to tell her, I'm used to it.

Why I May Not Be Cut Out For eHarmony, or, What? It Can Reveal A Lot About A Person!

Today I got to the "ask your own questions" stage with one of my eHarmony matches. My first question:

"Would you rather fight a zombie or a giant spider?"

It's best to get the fundamentals out of the way right off the bat...

De-Laid Gratification

Twitter keeps acting like the last guy I slept with today: "Whoops! Something went wrong. Please try again."

So fucking unsatisfying...

In All The Wrong Places

So, in a moment of weakness, I joined eHarmony last night, and the first thing they did was bill me for the incorrect membership package and overcharge me by $60.

If this is a sign of things to come, I swear to fuckin' God...

Seeking

I've decided instead of being all whiny and emo about my romantic situation to do something a little more proactive about it. So...

Edgy but goofy single white female; 35, 5'9", 38B; short reddish hair, big blue eyes, hipster glasses, painted toenails. Outspoken and opinionated; witty, sarcastic, and hilarious. Editor by day; sexy villainess by night; karaoke champ on the weekends. Reader, writer, roller skater. Love fast food, foreign films and fancy dresses.

In search of someone tall and talented, well-read and well-spoken; a sweet and sexy scrawny rebel librarian type. Cool hair, pretty eyes, nice smile; fun and smart with a warped sense of humor (absolute MUST). Sexually adventurous; socially and politically conscious. Be nice to the waiter. Hold my hand on the subway. Wave at little kids. Know I have a weakness for younger men.

Brooklyn/NYC area, please. No chest hair necessary. Tattoos preferred but not required. Excellent kissers only.

Spread the word, ladies. And surprise me, gentlemen. ;)

Transformation, Ink

So...my tattoo.

Due to its location, it's usually hidden from view, but it's rather extensive. I hadn't planned it to be. It's grown over the years, for various reasons.

It started out as a simple crescent moon on the back of my left shoulder. My first word was "moon," and the Moon is a symbol of the Divine Feminine, so it's special to me. There were only two problems:

I picked the design off the wall.

And I got it done with a boyfriend.

Anyone with any tattoo experience whatsoever will tell you that these are both very bad ideas. The first issue came to light almost immediately — the coloring came out differently than I had expected. This is undeniably a rookie mistake. Because, as you know, the background on the wall is white, and skin is, you know, not. Even the whitest white girls like me don't have pure white skin, and the bright yellow I had been drawn to on the wall now looked more of an orangey-pink. Color me an unsatisfied customer.

Issue #2: The boyfriend. Aren't they always an issue? Even I knew enough to never EVER tattoo someone's name on your body, but I hadn't counted on the negative associations my artwork still conjured up after the boyfriend and I miserably and viciously broke up. One night, in a particularly volcanic fury, I decided to cover over the tormenting reminder with another tattoo. Unfortunately, what I decided to cover it up with was a rather hideous tribal sun ('cause it was BLACK! That'll show him the depths of my hatred! [Not that he ever even saw it...]). The pieces of the original that still showed through were inked over in peacock blue; however, my inept artist fucked this up royally, and I now looked like a pen had exploded on my back. Fantastic.

Lesson #3: Never get a tattoo on the spur of the moment. Especially in a judgement-impaired fit of retribution.

So, after living with this monstrosity for a few years, I finally came into some cash and decided to fix it somehow. My original plan was to have it removed and start over, putting something else in it's place. See, I still wanted a tattoo in that spot, just not an awful amateur piece of crap that still brought up bad memories of the ex-boyfriend. This plan was quickly nixed when the new artist I spoke to explained that because of the size and the dark color, laser surgery wasn't guaranteed to remove it completely. He elaborated that it would take at least more than one session to even attempt it, which would be a major expense and most likely leave a substantial scar. Dang. What he suggested instead was to just incorporate it into a bigger piece so it would be less noticeable.

This appealed to me.

Shortly thereafter, I was doodling during my accounting class when I happened upon a really cool idea for a design. I brought the actual page ripped from my notebook, with my homework assignment written on the back, to the artist with whom I had previously spoken, and asked him what he thought.

After a few seconds of thoughtful studying, he nodded and said, "I can do something with this."

And so it began.

I've added different shades of blue and green to the tribal, to make it Earth-colored. I've replicated that design on the back of my right shoulder, in shades of red and yellow, for the Sun. Between them at the base of my neck is a blue and silver moon. Beneath all three is a row of red and orange flames. Below that there is mirror image scrollwork in purple, yellow and green, resembling wings. And at the base of my spine are two emerald green eyes.

My moon. The Pagan trinity. The duality of fire and flame of creativity. The Gemini element of Air; the ability of flight. The gift of vision; the Emerald birthstone of May; the Gemini sign of the Twins. A powerful Phoenix rising from the ashes of my mistakes. Plus the tiger lily and ankh on my right arm, for the Chinese zodiac Year of the Tiger and the Egyptian heiroglyph for eternal life. My version of spirituality written on my body.

And it looks really pretty. :)

Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

"Why am I in love with a gay man?!"
"At least you're not in love with someone you've never even met."
"At least you have a shot!"
"But he doesn't even know who I am!"
"GAY!"
"Ok, fine, you win."

How It All Ended

I once had a boyfriend who owned a Jeep. He was pretty proud of it, especially of the fact that the top and the doors could come off. During the summer, we'd drive everywhere that way. It was exhilarating, slicing through the open air like that at 60 mph, but also a little terrifying. And somewhat uncomfortable: even on a hot day, the wind would make you wish you'd brought a jacket and would whip your hair into one giant tangled knot no matter how you tried to hold it back. The exhilaration and the terror, the fluctuation in temperature, the helplessness and the mess were also a pretty good metaphor for our relationship as a whole.

After all, this was the same boyfriend who was "straight-edge" when we met and, on principle, would refuse to kiss me if I had had so much as a single beer at a party — the same boyfriend who later became a bartender. The same boyfriend who saw no problem with inviting his ex-girlfriend out to the movies with us, yet steadfastly refused to participate in any event involving my family. The same boyfriend who would high-five his drunken friends, in my presence, when they'd crudely congratulate each other on "scoring," but who also managed to imply, every time we were together, that I was lousy in bed.

Looking back, it’s hard to recall what motivated me to stay.

Our final showdown occurred at a Friendly's, of all places, in the parking lot, in the Jeep. It was winter now, so the roof and doors were firmly in place, and the enclosure only intensified every insult and accusation hurled. Finally — FINALLY — I reached my breaking point. Midsentence, I grabbed my purse, unbuckled my seat belt, and reached for the door.

"If you leave this car right now I will never speak to you again!" he shouted.

"Good!" I yelled back.

As I swung the door open and climbed down he called out, mockingly, "Well, it was nice knowing you!"

Icy now, I turned back to face him and replied, "No, it wasn't."

Slammed the door.

And left.

I had to walk home alone, about a mile, in the dark and the cold, but every biting breath of frozen air that filled my lungs felt like my first, and I thought, finally — FINALLY — this is freedom.

And that's when it all began.

Facebook Hates Me

But I will not let it break me.

I signed on this morning and immediately, up there in the corner with the event invites and friend suggestions, pops up a box with a picture that gives me butterflies and the direction: "Reconnect with him. Send him a message."

The "him" in this case is a boy I had been kind of fascinated with for a while and with whom I had hooked up this summer, upon which occasion I promptly fell head-over-heels, giddy-teenager-esque in love, as I am wont to do when it comes to beautiful and unusual, heart-meltingly sweet, sexually ambiguous 26-year-olds who also happen to be spectacular kissers. A week later he moved halfway across the country and I haven't seen or heard from him since.

So, masochist that I am, I decide, "Ok, sure, I'll just click on his page and see what he's up to." I am then promptly greeted with a picture of him with a girl. On the beach. And she's cuter than me. And probably younger, too.

God damn it.

It's not like I had expected him to be pining away with love for me or anything. I mean, "we" only lasted about one (glorious) week, and it was ages ago. In fact, I had been pretty succesful these last 6 months, after a brief period of pining and self-pity, and — ok, fine — maybe a few ill-advised drunken texts, at forgetting all about him (which is why I hadn't just deleted him from my friends and avoided this whole thing, as some of you are surely going to point out). But I probably could have gone without being confronted with hard evidence reminding me that I've been erased from memory. Which I would have if the Facebook gods hadn't tricked me into it.

Fucking Facebook.

I bet they even did it on purpose. I bet if I look at the date the picture was posted (which I won't because I am not an Internet stalker, I am not an Internet stalker, I am not an Internet stalker...), it'll be like, yesterday, and the evil overlords over at Facebook HQ probably noticed immediately and were all, "Ok, NOW! It's go time! Let's get her!"

And I can't even vent about it on Facebook, as I usually would, because he might see it and think I'm some kind of obsessive freak (which I am not, I am not, I am not...) and then my friends would try to cheer me up with well-intended sympathy that'll just make me think about it more, and so on and so forth...

DAMN YOU, FACEBOOK! I WILL NOT SUCCUMB TO YOUR TREACHERY!!!

...but I still haven't deleted him.

8 Simple Rules For Answering My Personal Ad

After several disastrous, soul-corroding attempts, I have vowed to never post an ad to an online dating site ever again. For those of you still bravely and blindly pressing on, allow me to provide a brief summary of the ordeals I've endured through my vast and completely aggravating experience.

1. Don't be old enough to be my dad.

Hope may spring eternal, but I am under no obligation to indulge that hope. If I took the time to specify an age range, it's there for a reason. If that range is, say, 29-39, and you're, like, 28 or 41, I'll let you slide. But if you're 56, and you have the gall to even start off your reply with, "I know I'm too old for you, but...," please, don't bother. I am not here to propel anyone's mid-life crisis; you're just wasting both of our time. Same goes if you are young enough to be my son: I am admittedly a rather ferocious cougar, but if you're 22, still live at home, address me as "shorty," and use the word (and I use that term loosely) "chillax," I may have to slap you.

2. Don't be confrontational. Or a douche.

If my Match.com profile mentions I'm a die-hard Mavs fan, poking fun at Dirk's lack of defensive skills is acceptable. However, if my quirky Craigslist ad says I'm seeking "a skinny boy with glasses and tattoos," it is not acceptable to respond "Excuse me but I am a MAN not a boy and I'd never be dumb enough to put something permanent on my body but to each his own." What, exactly, are you expecting to accomplish by insulting me and confirming in a single sentence that we have nothing in common? I mean, I know I'm a hot little number, but I purposely did not post in the "casual encounters" section, and I somehow doubt that I am so tempting you're willing to overlook our completely divergent personalities just to go to a movie. There's also a reason I've never been religious — I don't approve of preachers.

3. Don't send me porn.

I will tolerate topless pics if you are standing on a beach with a surfboard or showing me a chest tattoo [see "a skinny boy with glasses and tattoos"]. I will not tolerate topless pics of you flexing in front of your car or that you took of yourself in the mirror with your face blurred out, no matter how tight your abs. And there is NO WAY I will stand for a cock shot, especially by way of introduction when there's not even a message attached. I mean, really? Has this approach ever worked for anyone, ever? And if you're just trying to be offensive, well, sorry, honey, but I've seen one before. And it was bigger than yours.

4. Speak English.

This is an actual reply that I actually received:

"I read u n like u. You look very smart n it is good for girls like to talk with u 646xxxxxxx"

Ah, yes, the irony of telling someone they look smart...like that. Folks, I am an editor. I proofread for a living. And I weep for the future.

I'm not asking everyone to live up to my professional standards, but if I have to decipher your response like it's some encrypted clue out of The DaVinci Code, you're probably not going to make it to Round 2. I know capitalization is kind of lax on the Interwebz, but at least punctuate your sentences so I know where they end and can puzzle some sort of sense out of them. And I know I'm guilty of some occasional acronym abuse myself — BTW, IMO, FWIW, DIAGF (look up that last one — it’s awesome), and, yeah, ok, sometimes I write "gonna" and "wanna." But "and," "are," and "you" are only 3 letters each. C'mon now, people.

Pointers for some added pet peeves:

* There are 3 periods in an ellipsis, 4 if it's ending the sentence. Not 27...not 14...just 3.
* Quotation marks only go around quotations, or words that are "special." Don't use them for emphasis, like "this," because saying you're very "sincere" is kind of oxymoronic.
* Extraneous apostrophe's are not you're friend's.
* Don't end every sentence with "haha" or "LOL," especially if the sentence that precedes it isn't funny. Saying "I make great lasagna. Maybe you can try it sometime LOL!" makes me think your recipe contains mushrooms. Magic ones.

5. Don't send out form letters.

For a fun experiment, try this: Post an ad online. Read the responses. Post a different but similar ad on the same site a week later. Read the responses. Count how many are from the same guys and are word-for-word, exactly the same. Wonder if they even bothered to read what you wrote or look at your picture, or if they just spend way too much time sitting there feverishly refreshing the screen, mass-mailing to every new girl that pops up, and thinking, hey, it's gotta work eventually, right?!?

6. Tell me something.

"whats up sexy call me 718-xxx-xxxx" is not going to win my heart or any points for creativity. How do I know you're not a serial killer? Or a phone sex line? Or that guy down the hall who's always blaring "Birthday Sex" at 2 in the morning? Or a Republican? At least try to spark my interest. Trust me, I am no spoiled princess demanding to be pampered for nothing in return. I'm a hardcore, hot-blooded feminista. I’m all for equality and girls being assertive and making the first move and paying for the date if it was their idea and initiating sex, but now you're just being lazy.

7. But not your life story.

It is not necessary, in an initial reply, to tell me: if your parents are still married; the names and breeds of all the pets you've ever owned; where you hope to be in 5 years, career- and family-wise, and how you plan to attain those goals; your views on gay couples and adoption; the name of every trendy restaurant you've been to in the last 6 months and what you ordered there; that you think a woman looks most beautiful in the throes of an orgasm; how many people you've responded to before me who didn't even have the courtesy to say "No, thank you, I'm not interested;" whether or not you are circumcised. It is particularly unnecessary to tell me all of these things at once.

8. Don't be a Nigerian scammer.

My favorite response of all time, completely unedited:

"Hello Princess Lady.
Wow I cant believed that such a pretty looking lady like you would be on here, I Most confess on what I saw, I was carried away when I get a look at your sexy, attractive and Adorable Lips in your Picture [NOTE: You can't see my lips in the picture — see my profile pic], I was very Impressed on what I saw.You are such a pack of beauty, your eye's is Adorable and I wish that you where very Closed to me, Well to be honest with you am a new member in this site.As i said i dont mind relocating to you cause i know i will have so much love to share with you and u will have for me aswell...So I dont know much about things in this site, well you are the only lady that I just meet Here and am very happy and you really made my day. Well you ask me where am from. Well am from West Africa, But i just move to north carolina .... Well i'm my spare time, i took my son to
the beach, and went for shopping, and we are two children of my folks.my Dad passed away in a car accident and i have my mum is west africa...mum is from west africa and dad is a native of America,i hope you are not very ecthic [NOTE: I don't even know what that word was trying to be] about my distance to you cuz i believe that anything can happen to love, to me distance is not an issue to me. I can relocate when I find my right lady Well my hobbies. i like reading, dancing, sport, and my favorite type of food are Italian food, Mexican food sea food Well you can come to my Yahoo instant messenger so that we can get to talk better And know more each other, and we can share pics there. Well add, me on my yahoo instant Messenger right now (toffycute009 or send me an Email right now toffycute009@yahoo.com) Or you can just give me you Yahoo Instant
Messenger ID also, or your email address.
Hope you will love to know my son soon,
Well I’ll be very happy to hear from you once again.
Thanks
Toffy.."

Happy hunting, comrades. :)