Tuesday, July 29, 2008

What I Learned on Saturday

I drank a 40 of beer while sitting at a bus stop this past weekend. Out of a plastic bag. It was without a doubt the greatest white trash moment I have ever had, and it was all thanks to Christine.

Actually, it was thanks to The Psychic. And Christine. But mainly The Psychic and her a) bad news (for Christine, who got her reading first), and b) lack of a credit card machine. You see, we went to see a psychic on Saturday night (Christine’s idea – she wanted to know what the future held for her and was apparently unwilling to wait and find out), and unfortunately, not all the news for Christine was good. No news of a soulmate for her, no news on the job front, but apparently LOTS of news on her past lives (say what?) and a firm warning from The Psychic that she had an emotional blockage that needed to be cleared. Pronto. This – of course – would cost more money. So off Christine went to find an ATM, and in I went (released from the hottest waiting room in the history of the world) to go in for my reading.

Note: I do not believe in psychics. However I am a fucking awesome friend, and I figured this would be entertaining if nothing else. Oh, and Christine promised me ice cream if I went. Sold.

As I sat down I made a point not to speak too much (because I didn’t want to give anything away, duh), but did mention that ‘We don’t really need to go into my past or present or anything – I already know about those – so can we just focus on the future?’ Hey, I didn’t want to waste time or money. Her response was ‘I don’t know what information I’ll get. Just sit back and relax.’ Okey dokey then.

The good news was she didn’t try to pull any past life crap on me (this means she either realized I wasn’t going to believe it anyway, or it means I’m brand new). Anyway, here’s a breakdown of what she told me, along with either my reactions or those of the people I’ve told about the reading (which is really the fun part about going to a psychic – people’s responses to what was said):

-People around me are very envious, and they talk about me behind my back.
Reaction: My mother’s take on this one was the best – ‘Hmmm, I would have said people were afraid of you, not envious.’ Gee, thanks Mom.

-I am a very strong person.
Reaction: This one goes to my boss (who thought it was hysterical that I went to a psychic by the way) – ‘I don’t think it takes a psychic to figure that out; I knew it within one minute of meeting you.’ Thanks…I think.

-I like to give advice and get annoyed when people don’t listen to me.
Reaction: Well duh, I could fix everyone’s life if they’d just step back and let me!

-I worry about those I care for.
Reaction: My mother and I both agreed this was true, and it is not something strangers often know about me (I’m generally seen as very laid back and don’t get worked up over stupid shit…well, I’m easily annoyed but never illogically paranoid, sad, etc.). Anyway, I thought this one was a good call on The Psychic’s part, since I do get very worried about the small group of people I love. I just couldn’t give a shit about anyone else.

-I try to take the problems of others on myself.
Reaction: As I said, I could fix everyone’s life if they’d just let me!

-I’m going to live to be between 87 and 90.
Reaction: A) Cool beans, and B) I’m pretty sure that’s a lie – I take horrible care of myself.

-My aura is lavender and red.
Reaction: I had no real reaction to this (since I didn’t know what the hell it meant and stupidly didn’t ask – my only question after she said this was ‘Is that because red is my favorite color?’ The answer to that was no). However, after getting home I googled auras and this is what I am: A lavender aura means I have imagination, I’m a visionary, a daydreamer, and etheric. A red aura means I’m powerful, energetic, competitive, sexual, and passionate. Hmmm…actually, I think those are pretty accurate. Moving on…

-My third eye is wide open.
Reaction: I DID ask what the hell that meant. According to The Psychic this means I’m very perceptive, imaginative, and I have a great deal of ‘self-mastery.’ Energy also flows through me freely, not getting blocked anywhere (unlike Christine). But yeah, I have no real response to this since I’m still not entirely sure what the hell she was talking about. Anyone know? Anyone?

-I’m a leader not a follower.
Reaction: No shit.

-Because I’m not a follower, I should work for myself, not for others.
Reaction: Yeah, I didn’t tell my boss this one. And while I’d love to work for myself, let’s just say I’m not quitting my job because a psychic told me to. (Oh, and I can’t believe she told me to quit my job!)

-I’m a winter person – my energy is at its highest during the winter months.
Reaction: That one’s dead on – I love wintertime (summer sucks); the cozy sweaters, the warm drinks, the not being HOT all the time.

And then she got into the good stuff…

-I have not been open to finding my soulmate in the past, but now I am ready.
Reaction: Really? Umm….really? My mother almost lost it when I told her this – you’d think she actually believed in this stuff (which she doesn’t…normally). Oh, and do we really have to call him my ‘soulmate’?

-I already know my soulmate, but don’t realize it (in fact, while I know him I may not have noticed him before). I will notice him in September.
Reaction: Huh? I really don’t think I know anyone who has the potential to be The One. Plus, September? That seems kind of soon, doesn’t it? Is that seriously all the single time I have left? And why am I acting like this could be true? (Note: Get a grip and calm down.)

-My soulmate’s first or last name starts with the letter A.
Reaction: I swear to fucking God, I don’t know anyone (male, single, cute) with a first or last name that starts with an A. No Adams, Andrews, Aarons, etc. Seriously. How is that even possible? (Although both Christine and my boss did joke that it was A-Rod, and I couldn’t stop laughing at that.)
Note: I just remembered that The Bartender (from last week’s post), his name starts with an A. Shoot me now.

-The relationship will move to the next level in January.
Reaction: Wow, that’s moving a little fast, isn’t it?

-I will have 3 kids, but only 2 pregnancies.
Reaction: 1) My mother LOVED this one – you’d think I’d actually told her I had gotten married and was already pregnant, and 2) Only 2 pregnancies but 3 kids? Hmmm. The Psychic asked me if twins run in the family, and I told her quite firmly that no, they did not. When she insisted quite adamantly that I would indeed have 3 kids, but only 2 pregnancies, I didn’t feel like arguing it with her, so I simply said ‘Well, that’s one less bout of labor, so I’m all for it!’ Still, 3 kids? I’m tired just thinking about it.

As for the rest of it…yeah, I don’t really remember what else she said (so I’m guessing it couldn’t have been that interesting). Anyway, since I hadn’t been in the room when Christine got her reading, I didn’t know it had been bad. All I did know at the time was when I was done with The Psychic, Christine had returned from her trip to the ATM with both money AND beer (not what I had been expecting). Apparently it was imperative that we start drinking – immediately. So immediately in fact, that Christine simply paid The Psychic for the reading she had already had, and refused to get her emotional blockage removed (it’s important to note that The Psychic said this would cost $100 – I fully supported keeping the money AND the emotional blockage as well). She then handed me my plastic bag of beer (this truly cracked me up), and told me we were going. Okay.

We made it about a block before stopping at a bus stop – not to take the bus, just to sit on the bench – and proceeded to drink our 40s on the street, while talking about our readings. This was actually really fun – the white trash drinking, the laughing about what she had told us, the speculating about what some of the stuff could mean, discussing the veracity of what she did say about us, etc.

But the weirdest part of the night? Turns out the first thing The Psychic said to Christine when she sat down for her reading was ‘You say things to people’s faces that most people never would.’ Bam! Even I’ll admit THAT was impressive. How the fuck did The Psychic call that? I mean, Christine’s biggest weakness and she hit it right on the head.

Anyway, I’m not saying I’m a believer or anything (no fucking way), but I thought that was pretty good. And in terms of Saturday night entertainment, The Psychic couldn’t have been beat – she provided us with conversational topics that (weirdly) fascinated everyone. We had the entire bar cracking up over Christine’s past lives hours later.

Anywho, that’s my Saturday night story. How was everyone else’s weekend? Do anything interesting?

Friday, July 25, 2008

A First Kiss

A few days ago I ended up in a conversation with some friends about each of our first kisses (I really can’t remember how we got on the topic, but the nostalgia factor was high and it was kind of fun to reminisce). And it got me thinking – how significant is a first kiss. Can it actually serve as an example (or even blueprint) to how we approach relationships and romance in the future? I ask this because one of my friends – who remembers her first kiss as being very romantic – has always had very good and romantic relationships; in fact, she’s the only one of the group who is married (happily it seems). While I on the other hand…

You know what, let’s break down my first kiss for you. However a disclaimer to begin: I’m not counting the cute little pecks I had with the neighbor boy when I was 6 – we had no idea what we were doing, and they were (obviously) in no way ‘adult’ kisses. What I’m talking about, for the purposes of this post (and theory), is my first remotely sexual (type) KISS. Which I guess for me happened in the 7th or 8th grade (shut up, no matter what you say everything before that was child’s play).

The scene – a party at my friend Viv’s house (a HUGE place with a game room in the basement). The crowd – all the ‘cool kids.’ I was there, and so was Dave. Dave was the king of our grade – he was Mr. Cool, all the guys looked up to him, and all the girls had crushes on him. Including, I’m embarrassed to admit, me.

Anyway, after playing a game of pool (I sucked then and I suck now), we somehow ended up under the pool table flirting. I was psyched to be the girl that he seemingly wanted (hey, at that age there’s cache in that), and when he suggested we wander upstairs to Viv’s room to ‘check it out,’ I was more than willing to go along.

Once upstairs he wasted no time in moving in for the kill. BAM! There he was, on my face, mouth WIDE open, doing a very adolescent and inexperienced (although I didn’t realize it at the time) version of the French kiss. It was…wet. I actually remember thinking, ‘Okay, so I guess this is it. I wonder how long we need to do this for?’

It turns out the answer to that question was: a long time. I’m talking over an hour of mouths wide open, tongues moving, a little hand movement, and sheer boredom on my part. I never once stopped thinking and lost myself in the moment (how could I?). In fact, after about 10 minutes I stopped trying to keep my eyes closed and opened them to see if there was anything interesting to look at to keep myself entertained – turns out the tv was on and I could see it over his shoulder; I’m not embarrassed to admit I watched it for as long as I could without getting caught. After some more time had passed I pondered the fact that my jaw was starting to ache from being held open for so long, and I also spent some time trying to figure out a way to detach him for a couple seconds so I could wipe my mouth (he was slobbering all over me).

At no point did I think the kiss was romantic.

But you know, even then I was analytical about it. I wasn’t disappointed because it wasn’t a fairy tale, I didn’t fancy myself as in love with him, I was just…realistic about the whole thing. It was what it was; he was a really cute, popular guy, I wanted to learn about kissing, and it wasn’t painful or bad or anything, it was just…strange. Kind of funny too (if a guy isn’t doing it for me, to this day my internal monologue at least keeps things interesting and lighthearted – if not hot).

After that night, Dave and I were kind of a couple (off and on) for the rest of the school year. Eventually his family moved away, and I never really saw or thought much about him again. But when we all talked about our first kisses last week, I was surprised to find I still remembered the night pretty well. And while I’ve certainly had more experienced men in my life since then (obviously), I found that my detachment, my matter-of-fact attitude about men and relationships and the…physical nature of relationships – well, it all started back then. I think.

I don’t know, I imagine a lot of this is just my personality – I’m not a crier, I’m not clingy, and I’ve always enjoyed space and my independence, so maybe my first kiss has nothing to do with the kind of relationships I look for and have today; but it’s a theory I’m working on and I wanted to throw out there all the same.

So what about you guys? Do you see a parallel between your first kiss and your love life now. Or ever? Does it just take the right person to snap you out of it (if, in fact, you ever needed to be ‘snapped out of it’)? Talk to me people.

Monday, July 21, 2008

The One Where I Avoid a Black Eye

I almost got my ass kicked over the weekend. Literally. And I have to say, as someone who has never actually been in a physical fight (verbal – oh hell yeah – but physical, not so much), it was a little…unnerving. Because I’m kind of a weakling. A super bitch to be sure, but physically – let me say this, I may be tall, but I’m pretty sure a 12-year-old boy could kick my ass. Or, let’s say, a REALLY pissed off 25-year-old girl.

The Story: So I went out on Saturday night (with Linda), and we went to a bar near my apartment after going to the movies – didn’t even try to get into Dark Knight, instead went to see Get Smart (mmmmm, Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson). And because it was hot as hell this weekend, and I needed to go somewhere air-conditioned before I melted, we hopped into a bar that I hadn’t been to in over 6 months. A) Because it was close by, and B) because it’s a cool fucking bar.

Now the reason I hadn’t been there in 6 months is because I had (briefly) dated one of the bartenders. And as with all my relationships, we’d broken up. Plus (as you all know) I have a bad track record with breakups – I tend to piss people off during the whole ‘ending the relationship’ thing, and they tend to take it out on me. So when I can, I avoid potentially awkward reunions.

Anyway, so we go into the place on Saturday, walk right up to the bar, and find seats (never happens!), and who should approach us? Why, The Bartender, of course. Only he was cool – he came over, reached across the bar, and gave me a huge hug. He even asked how I had been and didn’t seem to hate me at all. I was psyched. (Plus, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that The Bartender is hot as hell AND has the obligatory sexy Irish accent.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, the hug – so he lets go after the hug, asks us what we’re drinking (beer), and after getting us our beverages he wastes no time is turned to me and just blurting out, ‘So, are you single?’

Ummm, yes? Apparently that was the right answer, since he immediately informed us that our drinks were on him. Cool beans.

So I settled back with my beer after he left to, you know, work, and noticed this chick sitting a few seats away giving me the evil eye. At first I thought she might be a girlfriend or something, but I decided she couldn’t be because she looked too…desperate. Don’t get me wrong, she was cute (kind of Minka Kelly-ish), but she had a pathetic vibe to her. She just sat at the bar, doing nothing, and whenever The Bartender came by she immediately came to life. It was…weird. I kind of saw her as a groupie type.

I on the other hand couldn’t care less, and that (as we all know) is what truly draws men (at least in the beginning – don’t try too hard ladies). So around the 4th time The Bartender had come over to flirt – and actually ask me out, but shhhh, don’t tell anyone – I realized that Evil Eye had gone from being annoyed to looking like she was going to kill me.

I found her animosity made things awkward. For me, at least.

It should therefore come as no surprise that I was very relieved when she got up and went to the bathroom. Finally I was able to relax a little bit – in fact, I was so relaxed that I turned to the dude sitting next to me, nodded at Evil Eye’s empty seat, and asked ‘What is her problem?’

He didn’t even ask me what I was talking about; Evil Eye had been that obvious with her animosity. Chuckling a little, he said simply ‘Her boyfriend’s been hitting on you since you walked in. I'm pretty sure that’s her problem.’

‘What? Who? The Bartender?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at me like I was a little slow (sometimes I really can be).

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘I come here,’ he explained. ‘She’s always here – everyone knows.’

Ah shit. ‘But…’ I sputtered, kind of not wanting to believe that The Bartender would be so cruel as to hit on me right in front of his girlfriend. I mean, he would NEVER have pulled that shit on me when we were together. Of course, I never would have been so pathetic as to just hang out in the bar, alone, while he was WORKING. And speaking of pathetic, why was she blaming me? I clearly wasn’t the initiator here. And I wasn’t the one in a relationship! How was I supposed to know they were even together?! (I mean, before I asked that is.) But I digress.

Wait, I need to digress again – this is an important point to me – how could she LET him get away with this? Where’s the self-respect? People, if you show no respect for yourself, how can you expect others to treat you with respect? Think about it.

Now having said all that, it does appear (to give credit where credit is due) that Evil Eye’s wussiness only extended to her boyfriend. She wasn’t even a little bit scared of me. In fact, after about 45 minutes she finally just came up and said (I swear to God this is a direct quote) ‘I think you should leave now.’ She didn't say it in a nice way. And you know what? I left. Because she looked like she was ready to do me harm, and frankly I don’t want to get my ass kicked. For anyone, but especially NOT for a guy like The Bartender.

So quick wrap-up: Linda thought this whole thing was hysterical (she told everyone we know that I almost got beat up trying to steal some girl’s boyfriend – please keep in mind that I totally wasn’t trying to steal anything). I got home in one piece. I truly feel I shouldn’t have been the one in trouble there (hello, why wasn’t the misbehaving boyfriend getting threatened?). And I think I need to learn how to throw a punch – you know, just in case. So, um…does the thumb go on the inside or outside of the fist? Won’t it get hurt in either place?

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

My Friend, The Oddball

Today’s post is going to be about Christine. Yes, Christine – the friend that I probably hang out with the most. She’s also the one that probably (okay definitely) drives me nuts the most. But it occurred to me, as we were hanging out on Friday night, that she’s gotten kind of a bad rap around here. And I’m the first to admit that I’m the one who gave it to her. But in the interest of honesty, I have to say she does have her redeeming features. Christine’s just…an odd duck is all (which I’m willing to bet is one of the reasons I like her so much). She’s entirely too outspoken, she has absolutely no tact, she says hurtful things ALL the time, and she couldn’t be more judgmental if she tried. But she is also a great friend. We have so much fun together.

From the day I met Christine, she has stood by me – there I was, at a party with my (now ex) boyfriend, and I was all alone. As was his M.O., he took me to a party where he knew everyone (and I knew no one), and promptly disappeared. Now I don’t really mind being left on my own, but this was a habit of his that truly pissed me off. So, knowing that the best place to meet people and make inane conversation was always by the booze, I made my way over to the keg. And that’s where Christine was. Upon introducing myself, I learned that she already knew all about me (my ex was from a really small town – the same town Christine is from – and apparently everyone was talking about the new girl J was dating…awesome). Anyway we got to talking, and drinking, and it turned out we had a lot of fun together (I ditched my ex at that party, went to another party with Christine, and the evening didn’t end until she had been invited into a threesome with this couple I knew – I think you probably had to be there, but her reaction was very amusing).

Wait, where was I? Doesn’t matter, the point is we became friends a long time ago, and for whatever reason the two of us (normally) get along really well. And despite the road bumps along the way, she is one of those people I can always count on. When I was laid off last year, it was Christine who showed up at my door that night with food (score), a bottle of scotch (double score), and a bouquet of daisies (my favorite). She then promptly took me out and got me shitfaced. It was a shining Friend Moment.

Still, she is a weirdo (which, as I said, is one of the reasons I like her so much). And while that normally translates into good times, when things get bad with her they get…really bad. This has never been more in evidence than the past year and a half – in that time Christine has been fired twice, got offered a job and then promptly (after she’d told everyone) had the offer rescinded, she’s been dumped twice, and she was evicted by her asshole ex-roommate (after she refused to date him). Essentially, all of this kind of broke her. She just fell apart. And while I truly don’t blame her for that (I’m a bitch, but I’m not that big a bitch), it did make spending time with her…difficult. She was hard to be around – and as luck would have it I was the only person she could stand to talk to during this time. So I vented – to you fine people. I did not take it out on her (well, at least not until she royally pissed me off back in…December?…I’m not going back and finding that post and linking to it). Either way it’s been a tough stretch, but lately (I’m happy to say), she seems to be getting back to normal. She’s starting a new job in a couple weeks, she doesn’t seem nearly as depressed and negative now, and she’s been giving me my space (thank God). This makes the time when we do hang out much more enjoyable (not surprisingly). And this return to form has really reminded me just how much of a trip Christine can be. So without further ado, below you will find a taste of my friend Christine – these are all stories she told/opinions she gave while we were out drinking on Friday night – my strange friend who is truly an acquired taste. Enjoy:

-While waiting to start her job, Christine has been focusing on keeping busy. This translates into many things – daily yoga classes (I have a good story below on that), joining a weekly book group (these people are hardcore and apparently are all over the age of 45), cleaning out her closets (which it seems is much more involved than I ever imagined), and…fixing her dresser. Her Ikea dresser – which cost her about $100 6 years ago. You know, the kind that you get straight out of college, use until you can afford something nicer, and then fucking throw out. But oh no, not Christine. When she noticed that her dresser was literally falling apart – according to her the bottom kept dropping out, thereby dumping all her clothes onto the floor (which is, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you fine people, pretty inconvenient in a dresser) – she didn’t think ‘time for the trash heap,’ she thought ‘project!’

So, as she tells the story, she contacted her super. She needed, in her words, a ‘rolly thing.’ I would now give you the technical name for such an apparatus, but…well, I don’t know what they’re called either. It’s just one of those stand things that has 4 wheels on it so you can move heavy objects around.

Anyway, upon receiving a rolly thing from her super, Christine emptied her dresser out, somehow maneuvered her huge dresser (this bad boy is BIG – it’s wide and it goes up to her neck) onto it, and hit the streets. Of Harlem (yes, Christine is currently living in Harlem). But just in case this picture doesn’t strike you as odd enough, Christine decided to top off her look with a huge straw hat, because…(drumroll please) the ‘sun seemed really strong that day.’ Yeah, like I said – weirdo.

So Christine started wheeling her way down the street, ostensibly looking for a hardware store, with her dresser in tow (playing the part of, I don’t know, her dog or something). Apparently everyone she passed looked at her like she was nuts (they weren’t wrong). And upon finding herself a little corner hardware store, Christine deduced that she wouldn’t be able to fit her dresser inside the shop. So she went in, got the manager, and made him come out onto the street to look at her dresser. He was…confused as to what she needed from him. And when she explained that she wanted him to fix said dresser (on the street it seems), he looked at her – flabbergasted – and said, ‘But…it’s made of particle board! Can’t you just buy a new one?’ It seems the answer to that question was, ‘No.’

4 hours later, Christine took her new (fixed) dresser back to her apartment. On her trusty little rolly thing. And let me tell you something – she is damn proud of herself. In her eyes, she really accomplished something that day. And let me tell you, she is not even a little embarrassed by this story (no matter how much you laugh at her – trust me, I know).

Repeat after me – an odd duck.

-The yoga story – actually, it’s not really a story so much as a prime example of Christine being…well, Christine. OK you know what, this is really best told through a reenactment of our conversation (picture us sitting at the bar in our favorite neighborhood pub – we were both a little drunk at this point):

Christine: …And I’ve been taking 3 different yoga classes.
Redhead: Why?
Christine: Because it gives me something to do during the day while the rest of the world is working.
Redhead: Yeah, but yoga? Why?
Christine: I like it.
Redhead: Why?
Christine: Shut up. So anyway, my Friday yoga class is by far the hardest.
Redhead: What makes it so hard?
Christine: Well, I think it’s taught by a yogi…
Redhead: What exactly is a yogi?
Christine: I’m not sure. But this guy is clearly super good, because the class is made up entirely of yoga instructors, and so I’ve decided he’s a yogi.
Redhead: Huh. Why are you there?
Christine: Because there’s no rule saying I can’t be.
Redhead: But can you keep up?
Christine: No.
Redhead: Can you at least do most of the moves?
Christine: No.
Redhead: Huh. Okay, well do the other students – since they’re actually instructors too – help you out?
Christine: Oh no, they hate me.
Redhead: What do you mean they hate you?
Christine: Well, they all seem to know each other – they hang out before and after class, they talk about yoga, etc. etc. – and I think they’re a little pissed off that I’m crashing their party.
Redhead: But you said there’s no rule that you can’t be there.
Christine: There isn’t, but that doesn’t mean they have to want me there. And they’re mean! I fell over trying to do a handstand the other day, and someone laughed at me!
Redhead: In yoga? Are they allowed to do that? Doesn’t that go against EVERYTHING that yoga stands for?
Christine: Exactly! But to be fair, I really am bad.
Redhead: I don’t care, that’s just wrong! You need to stop going.
Christine: I can’t do that, I need to break them first.
Redhead: You need to ‘break’ your yoga class?
Christine: (Nodding her head) I have to win. They may hate me, they may be mean to me, but they can’t stop me from going and they can’t throw me out.
Redhead: I get that, but doesn’t it suck being there? This is supposed to be fun for you.
Christine: It kind of is. I just go in with a big dumb smile on my face, sit there acting oblivious, and try to do the moves without hurting anyone. I’m like a puppy. Who can be mean to a puppy?! Eventually they WILL like me.
Redhead: (At this point just doubled over in laughter) I…you know what? I can’t argue this – I think it’s genius. If you break them in the next two weeks, I’ll buy you dinner.

-Damn, this post is getting long – let’s keep this story short and sweet. So Christine and I were sitting in a bar on Friday (as I already stated), and without warning she blurts out, ‘East Coast guys have small dicks. I mean it, on the whole they all have huge egos and small dicks.’

Cue me, choking on my drink. As I quickly looked around, I found more than one shocked male in the vicinity (mind you we were in Manhattan, New York, aka East Coast Central, at the time). ‘Where the fuck did that come from?’

‘So I was having sex with this guy a couple weeks ago,’ she went on to explain (at this point I think my head hit the bar), ‘and the condom fell off. Inside of me! I had to fish it out. And according some friends of mine, I’m not the only one this has happened to.’

Shocked. Speechless.

‘This prompted me to do a little more asking around’ she continued, ‘and it seems to be a uniquely East Coast male thing. No girls have had this problem with a Midwestern or West Coast boy.’

Me, still speechless.

‘Between all the girls I asked, I feel like I have a pretty good sample size here to make a hypothesis. So I’m comfortable calling this a scientific fact. East Coast guys have small dicks.’

Yes, she really does speak and say things like that. Now, I’m not going to get into my responses to her here (you know, once I’d regained the power of speech), but I will say this – I got us the hell out of there pretty soon after this bombshell; I was afraid for our lives. You just don’t imply that a bar full of men are inadequate, and then stick around. That’s a life lesson people.

-I also had another story about a guy (I think the small dicked one from above actually), sending her a dirty email but accidentally sending it to her brother instead, only I’m tired and need to get back to work. Long story short, Christine and her brother have very similar email addresses, her brother got an email that was clearly meant for her, he forwarded it on to her, and she feels she may never be able to face her family again. The end. Let me leave you with this though – Christine may be a pain in the ass, she may drive me nuts, and she may be needy as hell a lot of the time, but man does she make me laugh.

Oh, I also want to give a shout out to Josh Hamilton – the Home Run Derby was insane last night! Two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Jack Cobra, Ask And Ye Shall Receive

As it has been well documented around here (unfortunately), I have a bit of a…crush on Alex Rodriguez; I always have. Shut up. So – considering that I want in his pants – it should come as no surprise to anyone that it turns out he is a complete dog is real life (Madonna? What the fuck?). That’s right, I’m taking partial responsibility here; from the second I saw him (when he was drafted by Seattle), I was attracted to him. In other words: He was doomed from the start.

But (being me), that won’t stop me from having thoughts and opinions on the whole shitstorm that is A-Rod’s personal life right now. So let’s break things down, shall we?

1) First and foremost, I hope his wife metaphorically rips his balls off in this divorce (because she clearly didn’t – literally – rip them off when she should have).

Call it the bitch in me, but I say once you’re married cheating is a castrating offense. Too much? Yeah, well I don’t care. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – cheating is for the weak, it’s an incredibly hurtful thing to do, and it is 100% unforgivable (in my eyes at least); there are no good excuses people, so don’t even bother trying to come up with them.

Here are the rules (just so we’re clear): If you’re dating someone and find you want to be with someone else, go ahead (but end your relationship first) – hell, we’re all allowed to change our minds when we’re single (that’s why we’re single, we’re still in the ‘being selfish’ stage of our lives). But once you’ve done something crazy like, say, gone in front of all your family and friends to swear fidelity to someone for the rest of you life – well, I’m just going to say you’re shit out of luck if you find (at a later date) that you want to be with someone else. Sorry, keep it in your pants. (Can you tell I tend to see certain issues in terms of black and white? When it comes to this one topic, for me, gray areas don’t exist.)

So having laid out my philosophy on cheating here, it should come as no surprise to anyone that I want Mrs. A-Rod to make her husband hurt right now. A lot. And since hitting him in his wallet is probably as good a way as any to get A-Rod’s attention, well, all I will say is good luck Mrs. A-Rod. Godspeed.

2) A-Rod has the worst taste in women (strippers, strippers, muscular she-men, old chicks, and strippers).

Madonna? Seriously? I have so many thoughts on this. 1) She’s not pretty, she never was. What Madonna did have was sex appeal…about 20 years ago. That chick is 50 now, and newsflash – she looks it. However, she is creepily muscular and we all know A-Rod is into that (shudder), so…um, Mazel Tov. 2) Am I the only one who thinks she’s weird as hell? Anyone? Anyone? 3) Hey, did I mention she’s 50? Cool, I just wanted to make sure. 4) Oh yeah, and she’s married.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s move on to the strippers. Umm…yeah – I’ve never gotten the whole ‘I want to sleep with a stripper’ thing. Sure, I get why guys like looking at strippers (hello, naked), but sleeping with one? I don’t know – guys out there, you want to explain this one to me? Let me just say this about the whole topic: From my point of view, his penchant for strippers wouldn’t keep me from enjoying him for a night; it would however keep me from ever wanting more than one night (sorry big guy).

On a side note, the funniest thing I’ve read about A-Rod and his shenanigans recently came from the Boston Herald – let’s have them take it from here:

Houlihan said A-Rod had a couple of shots of tequila and a few Sex on the Beach cocktails, then they went back to A-Rod’s room at the Ritz-Carlton and had sex.

Wow, I don’t care how turned on I am – a man ordering (and then actually drinking) a Sex on the Beach (without irony I’m assuming) would completely kill the mood. And my respect for him. And my need for his dick.

3) But even though I hope Mrs. A-Rod takes her hubby to the cleaners, I do want her to remember that they have kids, and he is their father. So back off in the badmouthing and let him see the kids.

Mrs. A-Rod needs to let A-Rod see his kids (update: it seems like she may be allowing that this weekend…so there you go), and she needs to make her lawyers back off with the public badmouthing. Let me say this much – unless a person is physically or verbally abusive, they should be free to see their kids. Period. And as for the badmouthing…let me tell you a little story. When I was in high school, I used to babysit for a woman down the street. She was going through a divorce and I honestly don’t remember all the details, but I do remember that it was contentious. And she brought it home with her. All the time. She would bitch to me about her ex (in front of her kids). She would get on the phone and bitch to her friends about him (in front of her kids). Hell, she even bitched TO her kids about him! He. Was. Their. Father. This still drives me nuts, all these years later. And you know what – her behavior wasn’t unusual; you see this a lot with divorcing couples.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is you have to be able to separate things in your mind. You may be hurt, pissed, and vindictive towards your ex, but if you have kids, keep it away from them. Just because someone was a shitty spouse, doesn’t mean they were a shitty parent. One of the hardest but most basic truths to being a parent (from what I understand – I've seen some darn good examples in my time) is that it’s a selfless job. Your kids come before yourself, and you need to think of them first.

So Mrs. A-Rod – let Alex see the kids, and tell your legal team to tone it down a bit. I get that you want to destroy him in the court of public opinion, but think of your damn children – they will hear these stories and comments one day. Maybe not now, but trust me they will in the future. And claiming that you’re taking the high road, when your lawyers are doing nothing but talking shit, doesn’t work for me. You chose your representation (and from what I’ve heard you chose people who like to play dirty), so you’re responsible for them. My advice: Tell them to tone it down and keep it in the courtroom.

4) I have the worst taste in men (yes, again it’s all about me).

Yeah, even with the cheating shit, and the horrible taste in women madness (A-Rod, you really, truly, and honestly have the looks and money to do better), I’d still do Alex Rodriguez. It’s like I’ve said in the past – I can’t help myself. I have terrible taste in men, and there’s something about that man in particular that makes me want to see him naked. And touch him. Naked.

This is my problem with men; it’s not that I think all men are assholes – I generally get along better with men than I do with women actually – but I think (and am usually right) that every man I find attractive/sexy/insanely doable is…well, they’re assholes most of the time. It’s like I have a weird radar thingamabob about this. So as I said earlier, A-Rod had practically no chance at being a nice guy – I’ve wanted him for too long.

In related news, I’m still single.

5) A-Rod, call me.

Yeah, yeah – I’m only human! Sure he cheated on his wife (bad boy), and sure he has creepy taste in women, and sure he sounds like he’s kind of an asshole, but he’s SO pretty! And since I have these annoying things called morals, I haven’t actually been able to consider A-Rod realistically for a long time (he was married – I don’t poach). But now that he’s on his way to being single…what?! Are you surprised? I don’t want to marry or even date the guy, but I would definitely…well, you know.

So with that, the moral of this piece is A-Rod is a dick, his wife is pissed (and has every right to be), I hope he gets hosed in court (although I’m sure he’ll do just fine no matter what), he should still be able to see his kids, I have bad taste in men, and because of that I’d still sleep with him even after saying all of the above.

Of course he wouldn’t sleep with me – I’m not beefy or (shockingly) slutty enough. So there you go Jack. My thoughts on A-Rod – ugly but, as always, true.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Brain, Meet Mouth

I am a complete spaz – this is an important note to make before I jump into a quick recap of my 4th of July weekend (nothing really interesting happened – welcome to my life). Not because I acted like more of a spaz than usual over the weekend (I actually didn’t), but because I acted like a complete freak yesterday and need to share that BEFORE going into my uninteresting weekend…do you people ever wonder why you bother coming here to read this shit?

OK, so I’m leaving work yesterday and paying no attention to the world around me when I step onto the elevator and find myself alone, in an enclosed space, with the boss of my boss’s boss (still following me?). Now under normal circumstances this isn’t a bad thing (I handle people pretty well generally), but yesterday…not so much. So there I was, standing in an elevator with a woman who fully has the power to fire me, and I could think of NOTHING to say. So I smiled politely and pretended to rifle through my purse. Boss Woman, being a fully functioning adult, decided to pick up the conversational slack and said ‘There are never enough hours in the day.’

Good, good – I could work with that. ‘No, there never are’ I said back, a nice innocuous answer to a nice innocuous question. Perfect, now stop talking. Ah fuck, what are the odds that I was going to do that. Nope, I followed up ‘No, there never are’ with a pause – like I was thinking (although obviously I was doing nothing of the sort) – and then: ‘Well, except on the weekends!’


WHAT?! What does that even mean?! What the hell? WHY would I have said that? Oh shit…maybe I should just acknowledge that what I said made NO sense. I mean, people do stupid shit like this all the time, right? Of course they do…because I fucking MOCK and HATE them for it. Goddamnit! OK, don’t say anything – that way I won’t make it worse. Only…if I keep my mouth shut, then she might think I don’t KNOW that what I just said was stupid; which would be so fucking stupid!

And while all this was going on in my head, outwardly in that elevator there was…nothing. She said nothing. I said nothing – I didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I just went back to rifling through my purse like I hadn’t just made one of the most random and illogical comments ever. In the history of the whole world. And then…


The elevator doors opened, and I realized I had run out of time - time to say something, anything, that would make her rethink the (rather glaring) evidence that I was apparently lacking a brain (not that I truly believe I was capable of convincing her at that point that this was true – my brain was clearly on vacation). So, we parted ways. Walking out onto the street, she turned left to walk uptown, I turned right to get to the subway, and…that was it.

It (surprisingly) took me a whole half block before I started laughing. I am SUCH a freak! What the fuck had I been talking about? And how did I not acknowledge that what I had said made no sense? Did she actually think that I THOUGHT that comment had made sense? And what had happened to my puny little brain in there? Oh good God.

So there I was, walking to the subway, talking to no one, and…well, I was laughing. Yes, I was the chick walking down the street, laughing for no discernable reason (although in all fairness, I also laugh at myself – and others – when I/they trip, fall, etc.; I’m the kind of person who laughs at embarrassing things). And, I’m still kind of laughing when I write this now.

Immediately upon getting to my apartment, I a) called my sister, b) called my mother, c) called Christine, d) called John, and e) told my cat (shut up), ALL about what I had done. I relayed the story to everyone, and it cracked everyone up (well, not my cat – she seemed pretty uninterested actually). And when I was in a meeting with my boss this morning, I told her too. She started laughing and didn’t stop until there were tears in her eyes.

So…cheers. It takes a special kind of stupid to make that bad an impression on a person (and then tell EVERYONE all about it so they can be laughed at), and it turns out – I’m that kind of stupid. Go me.

OK, I’m tired now and don’t feel like going into my weekend (maybe tomorrow). One highlight to tide you all over: Christine and I were out on Saturday night – just relaxing at a neighborhood bar having a drink – when this guy came up and started chatting with me. So we’re just sitting there having a marginally interesting conversation, and this dude’s friend (obviously VERY drunk), came up to us and yelled (mind you, this was more a lounge type bar and not really a yelling type bar) ‘What’s up bitch! You’re looking hawt!’ Yeah, THIS is my life. Needless to say I ended the conversation shortly thereafter (I wish I could have heard the exchange between those two guys after I left though – the guy I had been speaking to looked pissed), and since I’m in a place right now where I’m doing the single girl, ‘I refuse to settle’ thing…that’s it. That’s the whole story. My life has become a series of ‘I was talking to this guy and then [blank] happened and we stopped talking and that’s it’ stories. Cool, huh?

More tomorrow. Maybe the day after.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Guys Will Not Understand This Post

I bet people point and laugh at me.

Okay, let me start this out by saying – as I said in the title of this post – that some people (ahem, men) aren’t going to understand what the fuck I’m complaining about here. That’s fine – those people can bite me. I’m having a girl moment and need to vent (and fuck it, that’s what this blog is for), so bear with me or bail out now people.

I don’t know where to begin…let’s start with my body in general – I’m fine with it. I am not the girl to bitch about her thighs (my legs are nice), her stomach (it’s flat), her arms (mine are scrawny as hell but I’ve made peace with them), or her butt (I’d like mine to be a little bigger, but that’s life). I do not complain about my body – I know how annoying that is since I’ve had to listen to every girl I know do it pretty much forever.

But as I just said, generally speaking I’m not like other girls in that way. I know that my body is nothing to complain about. Only…there’s really only one part of my body that I DO have issues with. And for my longtime readers, you’ve actually heard me mention it before (and no matter what you think I was NEVER bragging about it). I have…huge boobs. There, I said it. I just do. And you know what? Right now, after this past weekend, I’m not okay with it. I need a moment to feel like a fucking circus freak….


You know what, it’s fine. Really, it’s fine. I just need to keep everything in perspective – I have my health. I think. (I haven’t been to the doctor recently, but everything seems to be working.) I’m not dating a complete douchebag for the first time in a while. (I’m not really dating anyone though, so that’s…something.) My job is going fine (or at least I haven’t gotten in a fight with anyone today, yet). And um…yeah.


The thing is, it doesn’t make any fucking sense! I mean, when I graduated from a B-cup to a C-cup in the 8th grade, I got over it – the sheer joy on the face of every boy I met helped. And when I finally gave in and got that first D-cup in my early 20’s (the Cs just weren’t doing their job anymore), I’ll concede that I really only sulked for a few days before admitting to myself that the new bras DID fit better. But right now I’m just…fucking baffled. What the fuck is going on with me? Shouldn’t I be DONE growing at this point in my life?

Okay, the story: So I went home to visit my parents this past weekend because I had no other plans on Saturday (shut up), and I’d allowed my mother to guilt me onto a train. Upon arriving in NJ my mother’s first words to me were: You’re pants are too big – have you lost weight?

Actually, I think I have. I don’t own a scale so I’m not entirely sure, but all of my clothes have been looking and feeling a little loose lately (it sucks when you’re not being taken out to dinner every night anymore). So with that, we did what so many people in NJ do – we went to the mall (ostensibly to buy me some new clothes).

Now, I HATE shopping – I have about a ½ hour time limit on my goodwill before I get cranky and refuse to try on one more thing – so this was not my idea of a fun way to pass the afternoon. But my mother promised me a manicure/pedicure if I went along and ‘let’ her buy me some new things, so of course I gave in (I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m not stupid).

Turns out, I had somehow managed to drop down a size – something I’m not all that psyched about (I like being thin, but right now I’m kind of verging on skinny…well, some parts of me are anyway). However, the new sundress I got did help perk up my spirits for a bit. Then it came time to remind me what shopping is really all about – it is a way to destroy my will.

Enter: The Fancy Bra Store.

It seems that there’s a new bra store in the mall near my parents’ house, and it’s one of those fancy places that doesn’t have a bra under $90 anywhere in the vicinity. They also insist on measuring you right when you walk in the door and then picking out your underwear for you (because why should you be trusted to do that for yourself?). You know – a spirit killing/leave your dignity at the door kind of place.

Anyway, I’ll admit that I kind of thought the Fancy Bra Store was a good idea at first – I needed some new bras, and I am (ahem) a kind of unusual size up top, and that can be hard to shop for. Plus, as I’ve mentioned here before, places like Victoria’s Secret are of no use to me since they’re run by a bunch of morons who think that even D-cups need to be padded! But I digress.

So we went into the Fancy Bra Shop and a saleswoman came up to me, asked me what I was looking for, and then took me into the back so she could measure me. After that joyous experience she went off to pick out some bras – I sat down and waited for her. Upon her return she handed me a stack of things and told me to put the first one on, and then wait for her because she had to ‘check the fit.’

Oh happy day.

On went the first one – a 32-D because that’s what the initial measurement said (and that’s what I wear…or rather…um…). Um…

Saleswoman: (Knock, knock) Are you ready? Can I come in?
Redhead: (Shrugging, looking confused – maybe even a little shell shocked) Sure.
Saleswoman: (Enters, looks at me, comes over and adjusts the straps a bit, frown, POKES a bit, and then…) Hmmm, it’s too small.
Redhead: (Desperately) Only a little.
Saleswoman: (Now definitive) We need to go up a size. Let me go out and find some 32-DDs for you.
Redhead: (Stunned silence)


My mother came back to reassure me, the women who were in the other dressing rooms joined in when it became clear that I was having a nervy b, and the saleswoman rushed back with pretty lacy bras that she promised me I could ‘still wear.’ They all tried to tell me that I had a lovely body. They said I looked fine and not at all like a circus freak.

They were really very nice actually.

As you can tell, the pick-me-up didn’t entirely work.

Anyway, I eventually pulled myself together enough to choose three bras (that came to a grand total of $300 by the way), and I even let my parents pay for them (this is all THEIR fault anyway). But after that I just found myself…confused. I mean, ‘How did this happen?’ I asked my mother. ‘How did I go down a dress size and UP a cup size? That doesn’t even make freaking sense! Now the woman in the next dressing room who’s a 40-DD – THAT makes sense. This…’

‘You look fine,’ my mother said. Again.

And maybe I do, I don’t know – I feel like I can’t be objective about the situation right now. I know I don’t look ridiculous, but the thing is that it doesn’t matter how I ACTUALLY look at this point, because I feel…self-conscious. Totally flawed. Probably like every other girl does almost every single day (we’re all deeply, deeply insecure as it turns out). Still, I’m not like that. Normally.

Aaannnnddddd with that, I’m done. (FYI, this post was horribly embarrassing to write, but I do feel a little better after getting all of this off my…um, chest. I think.) Anyway, have a good weekend everyone – even though it’s only Wednesday – are ya’ll doing anything fun for the 4th?

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

I Am A Freak of Nature – But More on that Tomorrow

Let’s skip the apologies regarding my recent inactivity on the blogfront and just jump right in, okey dokey kiddies? Good:

-I officially am a 14 year old in an adult’s body – I am now obsessed with a series of books (The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson) and can talk about nothing else. I read the first 8 books in the series over the course of 3 days (the 9th one comes out today – I already have it on order at Barnes & Noble and am picking it up after work), and my 23-year-old assistant can’t stop mocking me. I just think she’s full of jealousity (a Georgiaism) and it she doesn’t relax soon she’s going to have a nervy b.

Okay, I’ll shut up now.

-Speaking of assistants, this guy that I interviewed for my assistant’s position walked by the other day, and my boss turned to me and said ‘It’s a good thing we didn’t hire him’ (he works for another part of the company), ‘You would have eaten him alive.’ That’s a direct quote! And I don’t get it – I’m freaking nice to the people I work with! Why are they all convinced I’m the devil? What is wrong with these people? Can’t they see I’m a fucking saint?!

Yes, I am in a weird mood today.

-The last two weeks have been nuts – I’ve gone to 2 Yanks games, done a 5K (okay, I walked it – shut up, I may be incompetent, but I’m not a quitter!), had 2 birthday dinners that I was required to attend, went home to visit the parents for a weekend (so I’m a momma’s girl – bite me), went on one hideous blind date that I can’t even bring myself to talk about, and lost my cell phone in another state. And during ALL THAT, I only got really truly drunk once. How the fuck did I pull that off?

Unfortunately, the drunk story isn’t even that interesting (but that won't stop me from sharing it!): So I went out with some old co-workers for margaritas, chips, salsa, and guacamole (mmmm, avocados…) last week and, as with any really good Mexican food experience, drank roughly my body weight in tequila and ate essentially the same amount in chips. It was fun! (I also got to really catch up on old office gossip, which I hate to admit is much more fun when you find out the place is falling apart without you there…which it is. Score!) Needless to say, when I woke up the next morning I legitimately believed I was going to die. Turns out I was as hungover as a hungover dumbass can be. Fucking tequila. Anyway, had to go into work that day (who gets that drunk in the middle of the week, you ask? Ummm….me), and it took my assistant all of 1 minute in my presence before she realized something had to be done. One large glass of water with Alka Seltzer in it and a really buttery toasted bagel later, and I was almost human. Tasted like shit (the Alka Seltzer, not the bagel), but I have to admit my assistant was right – it’s not a bad hangover cure.

There was no point to that story – I just wanted to share.

-Went out for Linda’s birthday on Saturday (wait, 2 Saturday’s ago, not this past Saturday), and damn – my life is weird. Long story short I found myself sitting in a restaurant with 20 of Linda’s nearest and dearest friends. Of these 20 people there was:
1) her new fiancé, aka The Dude Who Once Asked Me Out And My Only Response Was to Laugh in His Face,
2) the married friend of hers who insisted on hitting on me even when his wife was standing only a few feet away,
3) the REALLY hot (but only 21 and therefore off-limits – hey, I have no morals but even I won’t go there) friend of her younger brother who was randomly (what the fuck – was something in the air that night or something?) hitting on me too, and
4) several of Linda’s female friends – aka The Bitch Squad. These chicks decided long ago that they hated me (I don’t know why), and have been nothing but insufferable ever since. The only bright side to this is that I can be a bigger bitch than anyone if need be, and as it turned out – I need be. I put up with about 1 minute of their cattiness before snapping. Final assessment: Those ladies are amateurs, but I wish they would just calm the fuck down and leave me alone for once; it’s exhausting to have to smack (metaphorically of course) those chippies down every five minutes when I’m just trying to enjoy myself (and avoid the wandering eyes, hands, etc. of all their boyfriends/husbands).

-Every few months I start to feel the urge to get a tattoo. Now I generally don’t trust my decision-making abilities enough to make many (okay, any) permanent/irreversible steps in my life (duh, I have commitment issues), so the tattoo has never happened. But assuming I ever did go temporarily insane and actually went through with the ink, where would I put it? (I already know what I would get, so that’s a decision I have successfully made – yes, I am such a grown up!)

Now, it couldn’t be anywhere my father would see (he’d lose it), and I refuse to get an infamous ‘tramp stamp’ on my lower back either. So…where would work? Ah fuck, there aren’t any places on the body you people can suggest that I haven’t already thought of – I don’t know why I’m even bringing this up.

God I’m tired today.

-Does anyone else find that when they’re hungry but unwilling (ie. too lazy) to leave the house to feed themselves, looking at a cookbook and/or watching the Food Network tends to be a viable alternative? I mean sure, it’s not the same as actually eating, but for the very, very, very lazy…it works.

-NY in the summertime…smells.

-The MTA must be run by a bunch of incompetents – I HATE the subway (especially in the summertime and especially going up to Yankee Stadium). Hey geniuses, if you know there are going to be roughly 60,000 people heading into the Bronx around 7pm on a Monday night, maybe it would be a good idea to get some 4 trains fucking RUNNING up there.

Oh, and 1 or 2 trains going back into Manhattan after the game wouldn’t be too bad either. You know, if it’s not too much trouble. Fuckers.

-There was a dude on the subway today who was wearing shorts, had no hair on his legs (I guess he shaves, I don’t know), but DID have hair on the back of his knees. And it was skeeving me out! I mean, how does that even happen? Does hair grow on the back of the knees? What is with some people?!

-Ronaldo – the dude whose picture I’ve been posting here recently – has a girlfriend with cellulite. A lot of fucking cellulite. What the fuck? How is this even possible?

-Oh, and on that note – another post will be coming tomorrow detailing the absolutely hideous and truly upsetting shopping trip I took part in this past weekend. Let me say this much now though: As someone who generally has no major body issues to speak of, I now have a BIG one that is pissing me off! I am a freak of nature and it is…upsetting me.

And with that, ta ta for now (or TTFN as Georgia would say)! I swear I’m going to grow up soon. Promise.