East Village FAIL

Saturday I thought I'd have a little solo picnic-in-the-park outing. So I walked over to Tompkins Square, where the breadline is sadly increasing, but the usual array of old bums was fairly chipper. What irritated the fuck out of me - just as it did 15-20 years ago - were the young bums, junkies and posers, wearing leather jackets and pricey tattoos, walking large fluffy dogs. They sat or stood around with large lumpy backpacks, asking for change. How hip! Right about then the weather changed from sunny, clear and dry to cloudy, chilly and damp. I passed a police car, the officers chatting with the bums while the new playground lay locked up and unplayed with. I stood by the Temperance statue, grousing like the neighborhood crank that I am, in search of a free bench. I parked myself next to an inoffensive couple, away from the glaring yet skittish elderly folk, and plugged in my ipod to drown out the blaring of lesbian beat poetry from the park's stage. Vagina, vagina, vagina, and limericks galore. Cranky limericks. Then, my battery died.

Today in the Key Food were three new-in-town models anxiously huddled over the self-checkout with three boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats, looking blankly at the employee trying to help them scan bar codes.

While this isn't a neighborhood FAIL, this made me severely embarrased - I was chatted up by a decent-looking gentleman caught staring at my 'got pierogies' shirt. He was highly complimentary and not at all creepy; however, I knew that I had crummy hair and not a small bit of Neutrogena zit cream left on my face, and I was mortified. More like my Fail.

owwwwww

Now I understand why little kids scream. I am FAR too old for an ear infection, and even post-surgery it is making me completely miserable. More miserable than the surgery. Crap!

Merry Christmas!

Dear Asshole Artisanal Cheese Vendor on Avenue A at the Greenmarket,

If you offer samples to people, you can expect that some people won't like them. Especially when your cheese tastes like fermented Elmer's Glue. Don't glare at me with a frozen smile and try to blame me for wanting a "strong" cheese. Asshole.

Dear Bitchy Lady in the Laundry room,

Don't cut in front of me coming from the elevator with your cart. Don't take three washers at once. Don't accuse me of slamming a washer door. Don't try to manipulate me with tales of grief. And don't fuck with my laundry.

Dear Mom of Bitchy Lady in the Laundry room,

Yes, I will take down the picture of Jesus in the lobby. And put it up in my apartment, because Jesus loves me. And was Jewish.

Vibes, whatever.

I'm not much for crystals, vibes, auras, nonspecific positivity and whatnot. But when gleefully shredding old bills and papers (I love my paper shredder, it's like a big noisy confetti maker), I came across a small, smooth stone in a tiny grey suede bag. It was from the hotel in Toronto we stayed at during the Toronto Improv Festival, when I performed with Harsh. And, immediately, I remembered, that outside from checking out Toronto itself and seeing some shows (that I could've caught in the US, for the most part), I had a generally miserable and shitty time, from the endless train ride to the personality clashes and general lack of acceptance and enjoyment. Except for my $1.00 combat boots, some decent food and drink, and checking out the film set that is Toronto, what a fucking miserable trip that was.

I threw out the freaking tranquility stone without a second thought. I feel better already. Positivity, man.

It's not you, it's me.

If you want a really cool but nonprescribing shrink, I can recommend one, highly. She's very cool and yet takes no shit.

I just quit therapy today. This is a good thing, I'm convinced of that.

So much for "keeping it to myself for awhile." (That was the original plan. Until someone notices. I guess. If I tell my mom I'm finally "cured" she'll ask "Are you sure?" Then again, I'm really sick of her asking me if I'm cured. But I digress.)

In some form or another, I've been in therapy for 18 years off and on. Not Woody-Allenesque analysis, just the talky kind. Again, there were often breaks in between. There was the short-termers - the dear, sweet old lady I was convinced was the soul of evil living in the coolest apartment in the city; the burnt-out NYU doc who went medieval on a terribly fragile me for cancelling an appointment (he was reported to administration; do not fuck with even a fragile me). There was my first real doctor at Mt. Sinai, a hulking babyfaced Westerner who I'm surprised survived me; last I saw he was an ER shrink in the Bronx. There was the curmudgeouly but handsome psychiatrist on the Upper West Side; the hippie-ish psychotherapist who, for a few years, I followed to Westchester - eventually the train ride was the most thereapeutic part of the day. And there was the woman, before this one, who I reduced to tears, and then she "forgot" our next (last) appointment. I hope she's in retail now.

I didn't necessarily plan it, although I'd been planning it awhile. She was terribly nice about it, more fair than I'd ever believed a therapist would be. "Perhaps you need to leave here, to put some of this stuff into practice." I think closure is overrated; I chose "goodbye for now" and was nice to know the keys to the sofa were always available. Which is a good feeling. I think if I was a twittering basket case, she'd perhaps have advocated against me returning to the light of day solo.

Anyway. I meant to say more, display all kinds of brilliant insight as to my mental evolution. Reflect, you know.

But right now I just can't sleep. For real.

Cranky post-fever observations.

1. "The Starter Wife" - Since when has being a divorcee, in and of itself, been fascinating, much less a plot point? What is this, 1953? Shut up, Debra Messing. Just shut up and stop smiling. Jeez.

2. How come when you're unshowered, borderline delirious, and exceedingly cranky (while looking slightly like a crazy person), the newsagent guys will still flirt with you? Moreover, I was buying a crocheting magazine, the most unsexy purchase ever.

3. I've got nothing. Sorry.

Wait - I do.

3. If you're a "friend" and not nearly as good to me as I am to you, then I don't need to include you in that category. Thanks for playing! (Chances are that if you are reading this, it doesn't apply to you.)

Passive-aggressive poopery.

I don't know about your office, but mine has a nicely equipped "poop stall." Everyone knows that the approved "poop stall" is the one furthest from the door, where you can retreat in solitude, outlast a few pee-ers, thumb through the Vagisil product warning and the back of the M&Ms label (all that fits into your purse; I don't have the man-balls sufficient to stride into the poop stall proudly with a copy of the Wall Street Journal tucked under my arm.) Our poop stall is outfitted like the others with a multitude of TP rolls, but also with a can of industrial-strength Country Breeze Lysol - my favorite! I like to shoot a tiny courtesy spray upwards in synch with the courtesy flush.

However, in the spirit of 21st century poop-upmanship and eco-whininess, someone has taken issue with the Lysol, herein and to wit:



Now, I don't usually carry a pen into the stall (unless it's in my bag with a roughly folded copy of "Diesel Sweeties" - shut up), but someone was clearly on a mission. Someone hates cans; someone hates Lysol; someone is afraid that the next banned-supertoxin is disguised under all those Country Breezes. I tell ya, someone had better lighten up, plz!

Lysol is our friend (and a character on a classic Chappelle's Show bit)!

I bet that person uses paper seat savers and groans when they detect poopery rather than just deal with life. I'd rather have a pleasant, germicidal Country Fresh experience, than you!

(submitted to passiveagressivenotes.com)

Not nearly as delicious.

How many things are wrong with this lunch?

"Seafood Bisque" from the Food Merchants deli down the street.

Ok.

First of all, "Seafood." Not clam, or crab, or lobster. Should give one pause, right? But it appears pink and bisquey.

Second. The reason it's probably pink is because of the massive amounts of cayenne pepper. Not the stomach-soother I was hoping form.

Third. Octopus.

When consuming lunch from a Midtown deli, one should not be confronted with tentacles.

I love octopus, but only from trusted sources. Not a bottomless pinkish vat at the Food Merchant.

I don't feel so hot.

What I learned at Family Court.

When boys fight, a great deal of it is about posturing and marking one's proverbial territory.

When girls fight, it's all about destruction.

Boys go for the body. Girls go for the face. Boys prefer fists. Girls prefer sharp objects. Boys will tangle. Girls will slash.

Why is this relevant, you may ask?

A ridiculous conflict

ON THE ONE HAND....Old Navy, like too many retailers, has pulled their fat clothes from their stores, because apparently fat people and size 16 pants take up too much freaking room in their stores. Or, we'd rather shop while eating pounds and pounds of chocolate chicken pot pies. Or something. At any rate, it's online or nothing.

ON THE OTHER HAND...some of that stuff is cute and super cheap, which is what I require in clothing at this moment.

What's a semi-fattie to do?

Blogs are for venting(whining)? Right? Huh?

Seriously, you guys!

Yes I know there were far worse troubles in the world today, great and small. But I am having a Most Annoying Day today.

1. Woke up too late to work out.
2. Left $20 in yesterday's suit pocket.
3. Fogged out all morning before a monthly client meeting. Minor office spat woke me up.
4. Monthly client meeting [boring contentious work issues here, that I can spare you.] Browsed at tacky yet girlacious bridal gowns on the way out.
5. Purchased a disappointing big salad at Pret (really I should know better, the chicken is spongy and the greens are weedy and no amount of honey mustard dressing will cure that.) Ate the Pret popcorn for lunch.
6. I'm dehydrated.
7. Race off to an audition (aka personal appointment) that I expected to take, oh, 30 minutes on a good day. Audition snapshot without glasses causes me to look retarded/cockeyed. Enjoy banter with "Nice Female Comedy Folks #1-3" and exchange potshots with "Undefined Male Comedy Friend #1."
8. After being out of my office for 1.5 hours I have apparently advanced barely at all in line. My feet hurt in wedgie heels. I have already told UMF#1 to fuck off, because deep down in my heart I know he was acting like a dick, even if he doesn't think so, because he's a dick, see how that works? (Note that I realize that writing slightly concealed blog posts about other's immature dickery kind of makes me an immature dick as well. So?)
9. Get called in, finally, to audition. Out of the 25 or so 20-35 year old males (yes, 35, I said it), I get called inside to audition with UMF#1 (see above).
10. Fuck. Shit. Channel barely suppresed rage into okay audition reaction shots.
11. Bid a cheery goodbye to NFCF#1, ignore UMF#1, and race to the elevator before conversation occurs.
12. Wander off towards the subway while sending panicked messages to the office. Nearly get blown over by the wind. Yeah, me. That's how bad the wind was, cause I ain't skinny.
13. In foot aching despair, flag down a cab by standing in the middle of Eighth Avenue.
14. Watch the driver develop rage in the Village while the meter leaps ever upward.
15. Back at work now, where I've signed on for the long long night to avoid bossly wrath and finish reports tonight. As a result, I am missing my own weekly standup comedy show. My. own. show.
16. Seriously regret choking down half a dirty-water dog. Ignore the dubiously old Diet Snapple on desk. Drink sludgy cold coffee and dig cookie shards out of desk drawer.
17. Moan. Whimper. Feh.
18. Still dehydrated.
19. Bad hair.
20. Indigestion.

You know, I'm not really an inept asshole.

Seriously. I'd rant some more but there'd be no stopping me at this point.

There are about three people in the world that I do not want to tell to go fuck themselves, either directly, indirectly or rather gently. The sentiment, however, would be the same.

Here's some balloons. You know what? I fucking hate balloons. There, a concrete reason to garner disapproval. Whisper, whisper, that bitch hates pretty pretty balloons! Damn!



I really hate Florida too: (from Slashdot, which I do not hate)

"In an attempt to defy the newly approved state science standards, Florida Senator Rhonda Storms has proposed a bill that would allow teachers to contradict the teaching of evolution. Her bill states that 'Every public school teacher in the state's K-12 school system shall have the affirmative right and freedom to objectively present scientific information relevant to the full range of scientific views regarding biological and chemical evolution in connection with teaching any prescribed curriculum regarding chemical or biological origins.' The bill's main focus is on protecting teachers who want to adopt alternative teaching plans from sanction, and to allow teachers the freedom to teach whatever they wish, even if it is in opposition to current standards."

You know who else I hate? "Margaret P. Jones", the highly successful stone cold liar. If I tell colorful tales of fiction about my 'past' will I get a book deal and an interview in the Times? Fuck you.

I smellll Bacon!

I've been reading alternative food blogs lately - vegan blogs, raw blogs and the like. I find them fascinating bits of lifestyle-y navel-gazing. Have too much time on your hands? Reduce all your food to juice and then tell me how little you crap. To be fair, some have appetizing, non-tortured and tasty looking food that I would consider ingesting and enjoying. But many are just, frankly, a little nuts. Unroasted nuts, of course.

Also, vegans are cheap as hell, apparently. On most of the sites, the recipes aren't free - Real compassionate, guys! Even better, they'll chat at length about the recipes, post some shiny healthy photos, and then sweetly suggest you buy their book, over and over again. Kind of like free porn teasers. Guess all that agave nectar is 'spensive!

Here's a fabulous quote:

Cashews are stimulating, not a good choice for just before bed. I forget the precise principle involved, but I always lie awake if I eat anything with cashews too late in the day. Wish I could think of a good substitute. Mmmm... cashews.

Life's just too short, man. Eat a freaking unroasted nut.

However, I did enter a veggie "meat" stick contest! Yum-yum!

In contrast, this is what I plan on eating this weekend:



Wow! Maybe I'm Lutheran!

Yum yum....NOT

Did you ever notice those large cookies sold at 'healthy' places (like GNC, the gym snack stand, etc)?

(Did you ever wonder if I sound like Andy Rooney? I don't.)

You know, the ones that are 'fruit juice sweetened,' "high fiber," and the newest one, "no trans fats"? The ones that taste vaguely of dust and pineapple, even if they are chocolate chip?

They come, apparently, as two 'servings.' Yep. One of those cookies is two servings. Each serving, 220 calories.

One of those dusty, unpleasantly chewy, heavy and vaguely fruity doorstops is 440 calories.

A delightful McDonald's Double Cheeseburger is 440 calories too.

Yum yum!

Rant-bo

Rambo gets a fine review in the NY Times.

- Should I want to see this movie?
- Should I want to see it more since the Times gave it a great review?
- Should I see it because I am guilty of 80s nostalgia, even though I never saw the other Rambo movies in the theater?
- Should I be bothered by the fact that I really want to go see it, I mean really, I do.
- Do you want to go see Rambo with me? I mean, I'm sure I can find a dude to go with me, but you know, people get busy.
- Should I be bothered by the fact that I want to see Rambo, but either alone or with a dude? And not with a chick friend?
- Does anyone really care about Sylvester Stallone and the fact that he took HGH to pump up for this movie?
- Should that lessen my possible enjoyment of Rambo?
- Mostly, I want to go with someone to share the medium popcorn, giant soda combo. I don't drink soda and I can never finish the popcorn. And even if you go with someone who doesn't want anything when you go to the snack counter, they end up eating your popcorn because it is tasty. Just saying.

Discuss.

Suck in your life.

Freaking evil.

I want this site to die. I want everything about it to die.

I am sure I have mentioned it before. I don't care if it is run by well meaning and sensible ladies somewhere. I don't care if it is run by a conglomeration of smug psychoanalysts or canny businessmen or both. I want it to curl up and die and take everything that it represents with it.

I want to find the woman who is sad enough to pay almost $100 (!) for unfashionable jeans that may make her look 5 pounds smaller, because moving around a tiny portion of body mass is certainly her key to spiritual fulfillment.

I want to take the ace bandage and clay 'detox' kit, that will presumably drain you of a tiny portion of body mass, wrap the bandages tightly around a smug psychoanalyst and choke them with the damp clay.

Being a woman of a certain age (I perversely love that phrase, but let's get into my contradictions some other time, I'm on a roll), I take this shit highly personally.

When you get four or five crows' feet, or maybe notice a bit of displaced flesh when you rise out of bed in the morning, high-waisted wide-leg jeans with pumps may seem like a good idea.

They're not. Snap out of it. I don't care if you have to dump some bourbon in your morning Folgers. Spend the $100 on quality booze rather than overpriced, tired lycra and inferior denim.

You will be better for it.

*All of the above also applies to the Quacker Factory and Denim & Co. If you are awake at stupid hours and enjoy staring slackjawed at Home Shopping Hostesses, you will know of what I speak. However, even QVC doesn't seem so sad in comparison; just weirdly earnest. And at least you can embrace your inner tunic for about $40. The only thing I hate worse than burying yourself alive is being ripped off in the process.

maybe baby

Putting my binky where my mouth is, so to speak. I just signed up with an agency to investigate adoptions. I'm not promising anything. I am putting off major purchases for awhile though. Better to pay down my debt then get a sweet new Mac which, although not as drooly, is only half as cuddly. And binkys ain't cheap.

If you want to dissolve into a warmish puddle of tears go browse the NYC kid adoption site. Like one of those stray pet sites but way more serious. As in, they are severely traumatized yet adorable children with a positive light straining over them. ("Kayla is nine and loves the Spice Girls! She takes medications to deal with her moderate psychiatric disorders....has four siblings in other placements she would like to remain close with...reads at a first-grade level and really progressing with her speech and anger issues.")

Adoption websites are almost overwhelming. Ads for 'prospective parents' (not the adoptive parents but the parents giving up the babies can't help but give a faint anti-choice whiff to the pages. Means well, one would hope, but it is enough to make me uneasy about my pro-choiceness. I don't want someone talked out of doing what would be best for them so that I can blot drool from a tiny chin.

I'm a tiny bit obsessed with drool in case you couldn't tell. I'm a drooler. Watch me fall asleep in your vehicle and you will know this. I guess I'm surreptitiously looking for a family resemblance from the get-go.

The blogosphere is daunting. It's almost too much. From loans and financing to immigration to cross-cultural hair care.

A word of advice....

Ladies, you'll feel me on this one.

If you're running to the gym at the crack of dawn, make sure that you pull normal tights out of your underwear drawer and not Spanx.

Ouch.

Happy New Year, one and all!

Information, please.

The most uselessly generic phrase in the English language is "Take care of yourself." Meant figuratively, it's usually a kiss-off bye-bye when you're walking away from someone you'd rather not have run into. Meant literally, as when said to someone who's sick, it's a paradox. On the one hand, no shit. On the other hand, if the sick person (who happens to be a type A control freak asshole) knew how to do that, they wouldn't need you to tell them to. So as such, without elaboration, "Take care of yourself" means nothing to me. I mean, the generic 'me.'

Seriously, how does one do that?

Shower-rific

Held out till about 7 PM at which point I was invited to a lovely friend's home for snacking and TV watching, prematurely (but enjoyably) breaking my No Humans vow.

(Actually my Ex crashed on the sofa this morning - but I did vacate the premises for many hours. And does he really count? Let's call him Leftover Eating Furniture Adjunct.)

Hit the supermarket at an ungodly hour in search of turkey legs (my smoker is calling me) to no avail. Did run into my uncle who was far too chipper for 8 AM. Got some turkey breast (I had a friend in college who was embarrassed by the term 'chicken breast.' She's a doctor now. But anyway) and blueberries (unrelated to said t.b.) at the market. Shampooed my livingroom rug after an infuriating Quest for Mops (found a snazzy Italian one at the hardware store. Yes I am the kind of compulsive slob who buys extra mop heads when buying the mop.) Made a 'dry rub' and jammed the turkey into a Ziploc with some of it and gave some to Ex who will dump it on pasta with some oil. Weirdo. Started cleaning my linen closet. Chatted long distance while throwing out enormous little-used tubs of face mask and cocoa butter (I have no idea what I was thinking. Ever buy beauty products for no reason?) Found two cans of Solarcaine, two bottles of aloe gel and neon bright bandaids - one of which I am wearing for one of my post-show injuries. It's blue. The band aid, not the injury.

Recycled. Hydrated. Showered. CLR-d my shower head.

Hyper much? This is my idea of 'relaxing.'

On another note "Flight of the Conchords" was freaking hilarious.

Somebody pass the Xanax.

Oh, and I had a Shake Shack Concrete (with pie in it) for breakfast while strolling thru Madison Square Park. Nice!