The Jersey Tongue

Freaky Tuesday

2010-07-09T17:04:00.004-04:00

Nothing strikes the fear of G-d in me more than discovering it’s a windy day upon starting my morning commute in an easy breezy skirt. Tuesday morning was one such day, and as I was already running late, didn’t have time to run back home and change into less dangerous attire. With one hand pressed against my skirt to prevent any early morning peep shows, I bravely set out on my long 40-minute walk to work.

Five minutes later, a sudden gust of wind seemed to come to life beneath me for the sole purpose of lifting my skirt for all the men in suits walking toward me to see. And to make matters worse, I was wearing my most egregious pair of granny panties. I hadn’t done laundry in weeks, so I had no choice but to grab my old yellowed pair of panties, the cloth holding on to the waist band for dear life, the ones that could just possibly save my life if I were ever unfortunate enough to be hurtling toward the earth at a great speed, as they would surely fan out like a parachute, floating me safely to the ground.

I slammed my skirt down, making sure to grab it firmly by the sides so no sudden back wind could rush up and expose my booty. I silently congratulated myself on my quick reaction time, then froze as I caught a glance of myself in a store window: My poor choice of t-shirt selection that morning had resulted in a case of visible nipples. Instinctively, I reached up to cover my nips, which of course led to my skirt giving way. The wind lifted my skirt so high it grazed my chin, and the guys walking toward me hooted and hollered and gave thanks to the wind gods for blessing them that day ... until they saw the state of my panties. They quickly averted their eyes and put a little more gas in their step to get past me and my genormous panties that no doubt are still causing them to wake up at night in a cold sweat.

I was having similar glandular problems, as the 90-degree heat that day was causing me to sweat profusely. Salty sweat trickled into my eyes, rendering me virtually blind as I walked with one hand over my chest and one hand on my skirt. To make matters worse, the previous day I had gone into Macy's to buy a light foundation for my face. As I was making my purchase, the girl behind the counter alerted me to the fact that putting bronzing cream on my face was creating a shadow over my lip, causing me to look like I needed to set up shop next to the World’s Smallest Pony booth in the Albermarle Virginia County fair. To hide the faux 'stache, that morning I had put cover-up over my lip, which was dripping down my face and onto my nipple-exposing t-shirt.

By the time I finally got to my office, one look in the mirror had me almost turning back around. I had foundation and pit stains on my shirt, and the sweat from my walk had seeped through my skirt, exposing my granny panties. Luckily, I was the first one in; I grabbed the heating unit I keep under my desk that I run all throughout the summer and pumped it up to 11. For some reason unbeknownst to me, people in offices like to pretend they’re in the Arctic in July and August, so that when you finally step out into the sweltering summer heat after a long day of shivering and ice fishing, you develop pneumonia and die.

Luckily the heater saved the day. I was able to dry myself completely before anyone came in, so that the only embarrassments I had to deal with that day were the stains on my shirt and looking like a sideshow freak. To avoid being seen and exposing myself to any more innocent civilians, I stayed in for lunch and hailed a cab to take me home. About 5 minutes into the ride, the cabbie, a Russkie, suddenly turned around to face me and shouted, “Aunt Olga! I can't believe it's you! I thought you were still in Virginia!”

It's the Great Pumpkin, Boston

2009-11-17T12:20:00.002-05:00

It started out as a bright, beautiful sun-shiney day. My friends and I headed out to breakfast at Moogie's, a local eatery, in shorts and t-shirts, as it was an unusually hot day in late September.

I had just enough time to scarf down a muffin with my friends before I had to drive down to the Cape for the weekend. I was just about to head out the door, when there was an unearthly crash of thunder, followed by a torrential downpour. I looked down at my little white t-shirt.

"Oh crap."

Much laughter ensued. All of it coming from my so-called friends.

"This isn't funny, guys! My car is parked three blocks away and I need to go now! What the hell am I going to do?"

"Why don't you see if they have a trash bag?" my friend Mel suggested.

"Great idea."

I walked back to the cashier and, after much smirking, the cashier went in back and returned carrying a humongous bright orange jack-o-lantern trash bag.

"It's all we have."

I returned to the table, carrying the trash bag like it actually had a load of trash in it.

"What the …"

"I know. It's all they have. Or say they say!" I turned to look at the cashier, who was still smirking at me.

"So what are you going to do?"

"What can I do? It's either this bag or being the only contestant in a wet t-shirt contest."

I ripped a hole in the bag, slipped it over my head gingerly--apparently forgetting I was putting on five feet of orange plastic and not, in fact, an expensive Christian Dior gown--and marched to the door.

"Remember to be back by midnight before the spell wears off!"

I banged the door closed to more sounds of my friends rolling on the floor with laughter. Outside, a complete storm was raging. To make matters worse, the wind was so strong, it was blowing up the trash bag so that I actually looked like the Great Pumpkin Linus has been looking for all his life.

I turned the corner and started walking down Commonwealth Avenue, a major Boston street, to the various sounds of car honks and screams of, "Look at that idiot!"

I was not more than five steps away from my car, which I had parked on a side street, when I heard a squealing of tires followed by a sickening crunch. I turned around to see the result of what could only have been a car, momentarily stupefied by the sight of a human pumpkin walking around in the light of day, crashing into the car ahead of him who was pulling out onto the street.

I hurriedly jumped in my car before I landed on the ten o'clock news.

The following Monday, I got an unexpected call from Mel at work.

"What's up?"

"So one of my co-workers came up to me today. She was like, 'My boyfriend saw the strangest thing this weekend …' "

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes. Apparently her boyfriend got in to a fender bender because of you. I'm not going to say anything to her, but if I were you, I'd destroy all evidence and never speak of this again."

When I got home, I ran to my car and grabbed from my glove compartment the monstrous neon orange bag that now seemed to be smiling evilly at me, not unlike the small bestial-looking stone that that archeologist finds in the beginning of The Exorcist, I was now starting to notice. I quickly ran to the nearest trash bin, not realizing that my shoelace had come undone. I tripped, releasing the trash bag into the windy night. And in the distance, a loud scream followed by the distinct sound of tires squealing in the night ...

Baby I (don't) Like It Raw

2009-11-08T10:08:00.011-05:00

For my manager's birthday, on her request, our small department of four headed to Rawbert's, a cleverly named vegan raw food restaurant due to the owner's being named Robert, or "Rawbert," as the cafe's website says his equally-as-clever friends call him.

Upon stepping through the door, I crossed myself, said a little prayer, and figured at least I'd have something to cook the veggies with if I spontaneously burst into flames, having only hours earlier scarfed down an egg sandwich with about four slices of bacon and two sausage patties.

We were quickly greeted by a young orange waitress. If it hadn't been for everyone's height, I would've sworn we'd inadvertently stumbled upon Oompa Loompa land. All the waiters had bright orange faces, no doubt as a result from downing too many carrot juice shots. Say what you will about my rum swilling, at least I don't get mistaken for the Harvest Moon when I go out at night. A pirate, maybe, but I think we can all agree that getting mistaken for a drunken pirate is way cooler than getting mistaken for the moon, even a great big orangey one that happens once every four years during the fall equinox.

Upon receiving our menus, one thing that stood out was how every entree was wrapped in quotes. Diners had the option of choosing between such scrumptious delights as Guac and "Chips," Quesadillas with Jack "Cheese," Squash "Ravioli," and Spaghetti and "Meetballs." I appreciated how "meetballs" was written not only in quotes but incorrectly as well. Just in case an errant carnivore such as myself should happen to wander in and miss the quotes, the misspelling of meat would quickly confirm that what you were about to eat would taste terrible and nothing like an actual meatball and would, in all probability, cause you much digestive distress after eating such a monstrous aberration to the sanctity of cooked cow. Worse yet, every entree was accompanied by Buddhist-like deep thoughts, such as "How do I Awaken?" and "How am I Sensational?" I was tempted to write, "By eating slaughtered cows" in the margins.

I ordered the mocha "frappe" with cashew milk, which was a little concerning, as I hadn't known that cashews had teats. But it was the least intimidating item on the menu as far as I could tell--I mean, how badly could a bunch of orange vegans screw up a coffee drink?

Pretty badly, as it turned out. At first I thought I'd been served the runs in a cup. It was a gruesome brown color, the likes of which I hope to never see again. Froth bubbled up to the top, like some sort of witch's brew that might just turn me into a frog, or worse, a raw-food vegan. I held my nose and took a sip. Cashews, as it turns out, pump out really shitty milk.

Seeing as it was my manager's birthday, however, I had to be a good sport and down the foul concoction. I was nervous and uncomfortable, though, and to break the tension, I started babbling about the one comfort and light of my life, that which I can depend on even in my darkest of days to make me happy again ... yes, I started talking about bacon. I talked about the different varieties, how I needed it every day and how when I went to bed, I dreamed about it at night and counted the hours until I would see it again in the morning, how I yearned to smother it in chocolate ... I was talking about it so passionately it became borderline kinky. The lone vegan sitting to the right of us who was reading a book called--I kid you not--Green for Life, kept looking at me like I was talking about killing all the puppies and rainbows in the world.

As filling as my cup of fake coffee was, a fellow meat-loving coworker and I hightailed it out of lunch and hit up the Wendy's across the street, where we relished its ingenious new invention: the Baconator. As we exited the fast food chain--or, as I call it, church--I could've sworn I saw that lone vegan--eating his alfalfa sprouts and "nausage" patty--staring out the window at us enviously, salivating ever so slightly.

Some Like It Hot

2009-09-17T20:37:00.004-04:00

Some people like it hot, and I happen to be one of those some people. So much so that I decided to enter a hot pepper eating contest during my second year at college. To prepare, I bought jars of habanero peppers and ate as many as I could without passing out. My best friend and roommate Mel was constantly awoken to loud moaning and feet pacing back and forth across our dorm suite at odd hours of the night.

“Amy, is that you?” Mel asked, peeking her head out of her room. “Why are you holding a gallon of milk and a box of Saltines?”

Rather than concoct an elaborate story to explain away my midnight madness, I decided to confess my aspirations of becoming Boston’s first hot pepper eating champion. Now, I didn’t have any career plans and must have changed my major at least a dozen times, in fact, on the first day of classes, I drove to campus only to turn right back around when I couldn’t find a parking space, but the idea of becoming a hot pepper eating champion put a fire under my ass like I’d never experience again.

“And what is the grand prize for winning this thing? Money? Jewels? Brad Pitt?”

“A bottle of tequila.”

“Patron?”

“Cuervo Gold.”

“Oh, Amy.”

Of course, Mel had been with me the night of the appropriately named “tequila night” that occurred during our first week at Brandeis. Although we were mere freshmen, we boldly got behind the bar of our first frat house party and served upperclassmen drinks all night—for every one shot for them, we drank three. It seemed like a good ratio at the time, but then again, math was never my thing. During her first night on duty, our skittish RA was in a state of panic as she tried to take care of an entire hall of freshmen rolling on the floor in agony and puking in buckets. Worst of all, she was down a resident. They found me later that night in the infirmary, still holding a shot glass. I had registered a .1415 on the breathalyzer—and that was after I had stopped drinking for three hours. I wasn't able to eat so much as a margarita Jelly Belly without getting nauseous after that night.

Suffice to say, I was not in this thing for the bottle of tequila. I was in it for the glory. I couldn’t just eat the hot peppers in anonymous merriment; I had to be the best.

On the day of the contest, I was feeling confident. I walked into the taqueria with Mel and took a look around at my competition. My stomach dropped. It was me, a fat Jewish kid, and about 20 Hispanic men. I was in trouble.

“Do they have any parting gifts for the losers?” Mel whispered.

“Hey! I am in it to win it. Don’t be bringing me down.”

I took my seat next to the pasty white Jewish guy. In front of us was a plate and a giant glass of milk.

The Jewish kid perked up. “Hey! Washing down the peppers with milk will make this thing a lot easier!”

One down, 20 Hispanic men to go. “Uh … this is my first hot pepper eating contest, but I’m pretty sure you take a drink when you give up upon realizing the fire in your mouth is causing permanent damage.”

The kid looked at me with the fear of Moses in his eyes. Good. This wasn’t our Bubbe’s hot pepper eating contest.

Our first pepper was the rather tame jalapeno. I swallowed it easily and looked over to my Jewish friend. His eyes were bulging; he clutched his throat with one hand and took in huge gulps of milk with the other. I quickly covered my mouth, pretending to be in pain from the jalapeno to cover my smirk.

The peppers got increasingly hotter. We went through Scottish Bonnets, Hungarian Hots, Taiwanese Tongue Numbers (OK that last one I made up, but come on, how cool a name is that?) all the way until we reached the grand daddy of them all: the deadly habanero.
At this point, the contestants had dwindled down to seven, but I was no longer feeling confident. My head was pounding, the peppers were becoming blurry, and I could no longer feel my tongue or left pinkie. I ate one habanero, and then another, then another. Everyone kept pace with me. Finally, on my seventh habanero, I had to admit that I was beat.

“Hunh!” I grunted, lunging for my glass of milk. It toppled over.

“Hunh!” I looked at Mel in pure panic. She immediately ran over to me and whisked me out the door, like some kind of hot pepper EMT who had been helping people out of hot pepper eating contest situations all her life. We ran over to the nearest corner store and I made a beeline for the dairy aisle. After the cashier rang up the quart of milk, I grabbed it out of her hands, ripped the sucker open, and started chugging. The cashier put up her hands and started slowly backing away.

“I wath juth in a peppah eathin contheth,” I explained. She widened her eyes in horror.

Mel just shrugged her shoulders and aided me back home before the locals could grab their pitchforks and run me out of town.

I have never experienced such pain as I did that night. I paced around the suite until the next morning, going through an entire box of Saltines and two gallons of milk in the process. My mouth was still numb the next day, so I was unable to participate in class; instead I had to hand in an embarrassing note to all my professors explaining my situation.

“I am unable to answer questions in class today because of … does this say a, um, hot pepper eating contest?” My astronomy professor actually had to adjust her glasses.

I nodded my head in response.

She, in turn, shook her head in wonder. “Do you mind if I keep this note, dear? I’d like to use this in my upcoming salary negotiations.”

Give me the Loop, Give me the Loop!

2009-05-26T21:47:00.003-04:00

This Memorial Day weekend I flew down to Virginia to see my family. Because of my experience on the flight down, I can come to no other conclusion than I must have done something terrible to upset the airplane g-ds, something so horrendous as to leave me sentenced to a lifetime of crazy plane stories. As if my continuing to get on planes weren't crazy enough.

I had a connecting flight in NY that would have put me in Virginia at around 9:30 p.m. Thursday night. The time between flights was so tight that I was a little nervous I wouldn't make the connection. My nerves were temporarily calmed when we touched down in NY with an hour to spare, but I quickly became anxious again when half an hour passed and we were still lolling about on the runway. By the time we finally exited the plane, I had 20 minutes to get to my next flight.

Of course, the gate I needed to get to was on the opposite end of the airport and it was so big that one could possibly have taken a flight to the other end. I ran so fast I defied the laws of physics; sparks flew from my rubber flip-flops as I checked the boards to see if my flight had left without me (as they so often do). The first board I whizzed past read: Departure time 10 p.m. Even though my flight was supposed to leave at 8, I did not slow down my gait, thinking it a clever ruse by US Airways to lull me into a false sense of security, thereby keeping me off the flight and saving themselves the cost of free soda and pretzels. (This actually does make sense when you're in a panic.) The second board I whizzed past read: Departure time 11 p.m. The third read 11:20 p.m. It was like US Airways thought that by pushing back our departure time in 20 minute increments, nobody would notice that we wouldn't make it to Virginia until the following day.

We screamed, we cried--some of the angrier ones got vouchers--but in the end, we ate our stale Cinnabuns and read our crappy celebrity magazines (thank you, Lindsay Lohan for making up for Britney's upsetting lack of antics), and waited. There was nothing more we could do.

By the time we boarded at 11:30, we were the only flight left.

"Woohoo! Let's hope we're first in line for take off!" a guy in front joked. The plane started to move and we slowly, ever so slowly, did an entire loop around the aiport.

"Uh, folks, this is Captain Smith from the cockpit. Uh ... traffic control asked us to loop around the airport. We're not really sure why, but we're now first in line for take-off and should be departing shortly."

As if I weren't nervous enough that our flight was delayed due to plane maintenance, now I had the added stress of worrying about why we needed to do a lap around the runway (a last check to see if any parts would fall off?) and why on earth the pilots would admit that they had no idea why we would do such a thing. Lie to us! Tell us we have too much fuel and needed to burn some off! Tell us our pilot lost a contact and wanted to circle around to look for it! But for the love of all that's good and light, do not tell us you have no friggin' clue why our plane had to do an entire lap around a deserted airport. Freaks us the fuck out.

Lucky for me, though, the kid next to me threw up on himself just moments before take-off.
The proximity to the noxious fumes knocked me out for the duration of the flight.

When I came to, we had mercifully landed. It was 12:30 a.m. Since our plane was a small prop plane, we had to wait outside on the runway for them to bring us our carry-ons that had been stored below deck. Of course, mine was the last one off the belt. As I grabbed my bag and made a mad dash for freedom, I heard the pilots and flight attendant scream, "Have a good night!" behind me. They actually had the nerve to be upset with me for not kissing and hugging them goodbye and trying to make it to my family before Memorial Day had actually passed.

I turned around just long enough to scream back, "Good morning!" and vowed never again to travel on US Airways ... starting right after I've used that free voucher.

Time to Get Chill

2009-05-10T20:31:00.008-04:00

I recently watched an episode of The Real Housewives of New York, in which Kelly, some sort of cracked out socialite, schedules an appointment with someone and arrives 30 minutes late. In another, she arrives more than an hour late to her own party. Her own party! If anything, I'm around simply so no one walks off with a bottle of wine.

I've never understood people who are consistently late, as I go into a state of panic if I'm so much as one minute late to any type of event, be it a work meeting or my eleven-year-old nephew's birthday party. A couple of weekends ago, I had a flight to Virginia scheduled to depart at 7. I left work at 4, a good three hours before my departure, just so I wouldn't stress over the time.

Of course, the 4:00 bus turned into the 4:30 bus. I stepped on, and instead of seeing an ocean of empty seats, like I typically do being one of the first stops on the line, I saw no less than 10 old people with a various assortment of walking aids all scattered about in the back of bus, just to piss me off, I had no doubt.

I still had an hour and a half to get to the airport, though, so I tried to relax. The bus rolled to a stop at the next stop and the next ... and the next. And all the people getting on looked like they'd been AARP eligible for 20 years. I was confused. Where were they all going? Had I inadvertently stumbled onto the Wide World of Sports Bingo Tour bus?

I was getting nervous--and annoyed. My leg starting bouncing up and down at a faster rate than the bus was moving, and I was starting to sweat. If any of my fellow passengers hadn't needed bottle-thick eyeglasses, they might've thought I was on my way to the methadone clinic--a popular stop on my line.

To make matters worse, when one old person would get on, another would have to get off at the very next stop, a process that seemed to take a year to complete, due to all the walkers and canes in the way of the door. A sweet-looking old lady--she might've been 90--looked at me and remarked, "Wow, this bus is really full!" I was in no mood for chit chat, especially with a retired Capitain Obvious. I looked at her like she had just told me she wanted to take me out with her cane and returned to staring out the window, sighing, and tapping my foot violently. I felt like a complete jackass.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that I'm trying to make a flight and I'm really nervous I'm not going to make it."

"Oh, well what time is your flight?"

"Seven."

I looked down at my cell phone. It was 5 o'clock.

"Well," she said, patting my arm, "I'm sure you'll be okay."

Great. I thought. Grandma thinks I'm Looney Toons. But I had enough to worry about. When the bus finally rolled into the T station, where I would then have to jump on the train and then wait for a shuttle to take me to the airport, it was 5:30. I ran to an open cab.

"How much is it to the airport?" I screamed.

"Thirty bucks."

"I have a 20."

"Get in," the cabbie said. And we were off.

"Can you get me to the airport in half an hour?" I asked in a panic.

The cabbie took a look at the gridlock we were facing.

"I'll do my best. I know a shortcut!"

He slammed his foot on the accelerator and swerved violently to the right, riding the shoulder at 90 miles an hour before turning onto a residential street. I felt like I was in a scene right out of The Fast and the Furious, except for the fact I wasn't drag racing ... and I was in a smelly cab with a guy who looked like Rob Schneider on a bad day and not a Ferrari F355 next to a really hot Paul Walker ... okay, so it was nothing like the movie, but I felt like a bad ass just the same.

"Are you okay?!" the cabbie screamed to me behind his shoulder.

"Yes! Yes!" I screamed back as we came dangerously close to taking out a squirrel. "Do what you need to do!"

Ten minutes later, we came to a stop outside the United terminal.

The cabbie handed me a fistful of business cards, which I gladly took. This guy was so good I could probably call him to take me to DC and he'll make it in an hour, for fifty bucks.

Of course, due to United's evil and confusing ways, although my boarding pass said my flight was with United, it was operated by US Air, my arch nemesis, so I needed to get to the US Air terminal. Which was all the way on the other side of the building. Damn it! I yelled as I broke into a run that would've put Forrest to shame. What seemed like days later, I was finally sitting at my gate, still huffing and puffing from my one-woman race through the airport. I looked down at my cell phone. It was 6 o'clock.

Seeing as I had so much time to kill, I took out my laptop and started Googling rehab centers for people with serious time management problems.

Swinger

2009-05-05T21:51:00.005-04:00

A little while ago, I was heading out to Virginia and had an early flight out in the morning, but figured I could indulge in one drink at the party next door before going to sleep. Six drinks later, I was in danger of going to sleep on my neighbor's floor. I'd somehow gotten involved in a political conversation, yet was so far gone I had forgotten what political even meant.

"So what is your opinion on the war in Iraq?" Chris, my cute neighbor asked me.

"Well, that's intereshting you athsk," I slurred, "whath an Iraq?"

Everyone laughed, and I laughed along, thinking Iraq must be an incredibly funny dude.

Chris pulled me aside and whispered, "Let's take a walk."

So we walked to the park across the street, or rather, Chris walked while I stumbled. He tried to grab me by the hand to help me along but something was in his way.

"What are you holding, there?"

"A drink!" I replied, holding my rum and coke up for emphasis—I unfortunately made my point all over his shirt.

"Here, let me take that," Chris said.

I jerked away violently, "No! Get your own, lush bag." I was smoothly transitioning from the stupid to belligerent phase.

"Hey, do you want me to push you?" Chris asked, pointing to a swing.

"Okay!"

But instead of sitting on the "big girl" swing, I took a dive into one of the baby swings. I somehow managed to fit both my muscular runner's legs into the baby-sized leg holes of the swing, but it was not comfortable. I tried to slither back out, but my legs were trapped.

"Help! I'm stuck!"

Chris leaped to my rescue, "What the hell did you do that for?"

"It looked like fun!" I screamed as Chris grabbed me under my arms and pulled with all his strength. It could've been pretty hot if I hadn't been so damn drunk.

Miraculously, he was able to get me out of the baby swing of torture. He set me gently on the ground and went in for a kiss. I kneed him in the groin.

"Fuck! That hurt!" he yelped.

I responded by repeatedly punching him in the stomach.

"Hey, hey!" he yelled, grabbing my hands and forcefully pinning them behind my back, "What are you doing?"

"I'm boxing!"

"But I don't want to box."

"Oh." There was no arguing with that logic.

Chris released my hands and I immediately grabbed my cell phone from my pocket.

"Want to see something funny?" I asked, waving my cell phone at him.

"Funnier than you getting stuck in the baby swing?"

I ignored him, tossing my cell phone into the dark, "Look! Time's flying!"

"But that's a cell phone—and Amy, you chucked that pretty far. It could be hiding in a bush somewhere!"

"You think my cell phone's spying on me?"

Chris didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Thankfully, I took the guesswork out of it for him. I crumpled to the ground, landing hard on his sandaled feet.

The next morning I woke up to the harsh cry of my alarm clock. My head was pounding, yet somehow I had to make it to the airport for a three-hour flight in the next hour. I pulled my hair up in a bun, slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door, bumping into a neighbor on my way out.

"Hey! I smell rum! Where's the party at?"

I headed back inside, sprayed myself with some perfume, and proceeded on my way.

Later that day, after I had successfully arrived in Virginia without being mistaken for a bar, I got a call from my friend, Mel.

"Hey, so rough night last night, huh?"

"Yeah, I don't remember much, though. I drank way too much. I am never..."

"Don't say you're never going to drink again, because you always say that when you have a hangover and you never mean it."

"Well I'm never going to drink so much I don't remember the night before, how about that?" I asked.

"So do you want me to fill you in on the highlights?"

"What do you mean?"

"I talked to Chris today—that poor boy was beaten, verbally abused, had a drink spilled on him, a sprained ankle, and, like an angel, carried you back to our place and then searched for your damn cell phone in the park for an hour until he found it. What the hell did you do to that boy?"

"I lost my cell phone?"

"Amy!"

"OK, OK, I suppose I have to thank him somehow. Hey, I just noticed today that my legs look like an elephant took a nap on them. They're all black and blue and kind of purply even—do you have any idea what that's all about?"

Mel gave a lame ass attempt at stifling a giggle.

"Apparently you jumped in the baby swing last night."

"Oh…Ow! No wonder! Well at least I was so drunk I didn't feel the pain."

Silence. "Amy, if you hadn't been drunk, you wouldn't have tried to jump in the baby swing."

There was no arguing with that logic.

After I got off the phone with Mel, I got the sudden fear that I had blown it with Chris. I knew I had to see whether Hallmark sold any so-sorry-I-kneed-you-in-the-groin-the-other-night cards and give a gift to right the many wrongs I did him the night before. I dialed Mel again.

"So what color shirt was Chris wearing last night? I was thinking about replacing it—what do you think?"

I could almost hear the wheels in Mel's head spinning wildly.

"I think if Chris is going to be spending time with you, your money would be better spent on getting him shin guards, a poncho, and a straight jacket."

"Straight jacket?"

"Anyone who'd want to spend time with you after a night like that has got to be crazy."

Seeing Spots

2009-04-20T15:53:00.002-04:00

A few days ago, I went to my doctor because I've had a red spot on my eye for a couple of weeks that I thought was due to allergies.

My doctor took one look at my eye and asked, "Do you wear sunglasses?"

"No--never. I hate carrying them around, how they slide down a sweaty nose, how I always seem to lose them..."

But before I could make my case against the typically unchallenged protective and stylish eye gear, she cut me short and said, "Well you need to start. That red spot is due to sun damage."

Unfortunately, the damage doesn't usually go away, but fortunately, it's only cosmetic (I'll just look like I have a perpetual case of dry eye I guess.) If I had known wearing sunglasses could prevent my eye from looking like the "before shot" of the beachball in the Ben Stein Murine Clear Eyes commercials, I would've worn two, maybe three pairs at a time.

So my first day out wearing sunglasses did not go as smoothly as hoped. During my lunch break yesterday, I went in and out of a lot of stores, and by the time I got to the CVS, my last stop, I was so agitated at having to keep taking off and putting on my glasses, that I decided to just leave the damn things on while I browsed through the store.

When I got back to the office, I rummaged through my bag, and noticed I had unintentionally bought a $17 tube of foot fungus cream. In a rush, I ran back out of the office, yelling to my boss and a random visitor that I had to go back to the store to return a box of Lamisil. The random visitor yelled out to go with Tinactin instead. I stopped in my tracks, confused as to who should be more embarrassed at that point.

When I got home that night, I still had my glasses on when I walked into my condo. My roommate took one look at me and started laughing. Apparently, the Rayban sunglasses I had bought in the mid-nineties no longer cut it in the cutting-edge, high fashion city in which I live. (Yes, the same city in which "Yankees Suck" t-shirts are the fastest-selling clothing item.)

When my roommate was able to collect herself, she informed me that, "Mickey Mouse called. He wants his sunglasses back."

So my mission today is to find a pair of glasses that less resemble ones that a loveable but fictional cartoon mouse might be styling. This time I think I'll keep my sunglasses off, lest I end up leaving the store with a bottle of Ex-Lax and a tube of hemroid cream. At least I'd be well protected.

My First Passover, or the Reason my Family is Now in AA

2009-04-08T19:34:00.002-04:00

In honor of the start of Passover, I thought I'd share my own experience of my first Seder dinner with my family. For those of you who don't know, Seder dinner happens on the first two nights of Passover, which lasts for eight days. Everyone at the table reads from a book called a haggadah, which tells the story of when the Israelites were enslaved by the Egyptians under the rule of the Pharaoh Ramses II.

During the Seder, four glasses of wine are served (grape juice for the kids--unless they're the sneaky type) to represent the four stages of the flight from Egypt. Now, in most Jewish households, the four glasses are reduced to four sips, because it's only symbolic anyway and well, four glasses is a hell of a lot of alcohol--even for religious purposes.

My mother has always been somewhat of a teetotaler, has always been greatly affected by liquor, even in small amounts, so it was with great surprise when, after taking the obligatory sip of wine, a familiar motherly voice shouted, "Damn it, if we're going to do this thing, we're going to do it right! Now everyone start chugging!"

Passover just got a lot more interesting.

A fifth glass of wine is poured for the prophet Elijah, in anticipation of his return, upon which the Messianic age will begin. The Messianic age is the time when the messiah returns to earth and restores peace and prosperity to earth. This sounds great in theory, but for those who aren't pure Jewish (such as myself), the whole peace and prosperity to the earth thing gets a bit overshadowed by the fact that we won't be here to enjoy it. Bummer.

Near the end of Seder dinner, the head of the household ceremoniously opens the front door to invite Elijah in so he can enjoy that glass of wine set out for him on the table. As tradition dictated, my father got up from the table and opened the front door, just out of eyesight from the dinner table. No sooner did he crack open the door, when we heard a loud "Whoosh!" blow past and hurried steps racing through the door.

"It's Elijah! It's Elijah! Oh man, why did he choose us? Only one of us is even Jewish!" my mom screamed. My six-year-old nephew dived for cover under the table and cried.

"Everyone settle down!" my dad bellowed, "It was the cat. I can't believe we left her outside this entire time. She's a wreck!"

Upon hearing the happy news, my mom said, "Well then, I guess Elijah won't be needing this!" and downed the fifth glass of wine.

After peace had been restored and more glasses of wine poured, my nephew set out in search of the afikomen--a piece of matzoh that is hidden at the start of the meal. When the afikomen is found, the "finder" (usually a kid) receives money from whoever at the table has a ten.

Of course, the adults at the table use afikomen time to kick back and relax--usually not with Elijah's cup of wine, but we were new to the whole Seder scene. After an hour had gone by, however, we began to get a little worried. "Hon, where the heck is the matzoh?" my mom asked my dad.

"I wish I could remember."

"Oh, you're useless!"

"Well, I'm not the one who insisted on drinking a bottle of wine! Excuse me if my afikomen-remembering-skills are down."

"Would someone please go help the poor boy," my mom sighed.

The hunt was on as me and my semi-drunk sisters searched every nook and cranny of my parent's mammoth 21 acre spread. Two hours and a hangover later, we still hadn't found the afikomen. We slowly, painfully, walked back to the table in defeat.

My sister slumped down in her chair. "Man we are so bad at Seder."

The cat jumped in her lap. "How's it goin', Elijah?" she joked. "Hey... what have you got in your mouth, cat?"

Seeing as she had found the elusive matzoh, my dad had no choice but to award the cat the prize money. She gladly accepted in catnip.

Pesach shalom!

The Realization of the Greatness

2009-04-02T19:47:00.007-04:00

Last weekend, my friends and I went to a bar called the Market, which, in retrospect, should have been an indication of the guys that we'd meet there. There was a dance floor, much to my relief, which we quickly made good use of. We were having a great time, just us girls, when I looked over my shoulder and saw that one of us was airborne. A guy had my friend high over his head, swinging her above the crowd.

"Put her down!" I yelled. "I saw you with that Long Island Iced Tea. You are way to intoxicated to be throwing people in the air like that!" Of course, he was also too drunk to hear a word I was saying, so I said a little prayer for my friend and went back to dancing. I had no choice! "Just Dance" was playing and I had to abide. Don't judge me.

No sooner had I just sung "what's goin' on on the floor?" along with the genius that is Lady Gaga, when a guy started dancing with me. He was cute, but short. He kind of reminded me of Little Mac, the boxer from that old Nintendo game, Punch Out:

In any case, I didn't have much of a choice but to dance with him--the guy was super strong (obviously all those matches with King Hippo had paid off for the little guy) and had a good grip around my waist. I shrugged and went with it for a while. He was actually a good dancer. He dipped and twirled me around like a pro. I was just about to tell him I needed to take a break and get a drink, when I felt myself being lifted off my feet and suddenly rocketed up over the masses.

"Shitballs!" I screamed. No, I am not making this up. Apparently, under extreme duress, I take to screaming like a ten-year-old playing dodge ball at recess.

No sooner had the strange choice of swear word left my lips, when I was thrown back down, so that my head was inches from the floor, and then violently lifted upright again, feet finally back on the floor where they belonged. Obviously these guys had been watching way too much Dirty Dancing.

"What the hell was that?" I yelled.

"My signature move."

"Yeah? Well, this is mine," I said as I started to walk away. I'd gotten maybe a step away when I felt myself being lifted off the ground again. Son of a ...

"Aah! Put me down! Put me down!" But it was too late. I was airborne once again. And I hate flying. Despite being scared out of my mind, I was pretty impressed that he could lift me so high. I'm not exactly the 100-pound lightweight I used to be--in fact, I'm not sure I ever was. I think I must've been born with a slice of birthday cake already in hand.

Despite my protests, I ended up dancing with this guy for a good hour or so, getting lifted off my feet no less than six times throughout. Afterward, he got my number and I went home, thankful to be off the Market.

I had just settled in for the night when my phone buzzed. It was Little Mac. "Come out to Marlborough St. There's an after hours going on and I want to see you," he'd texted.

It was 2 am and I was on the couch watching Zoolander with a huge bacon and pineapple pizza, some of which had landed on my nightie. There was a less-than-zero chance I'd be making it out for a party in my condition, so I ignored him.

Now what happened next I can only describe as pure booty call desperation, a move so strange I couldn't make it up if I tried. I received a text that I will never erase, for on my darkest of days, I will be able to look at this text ... and laugh my ass off:

"Every once in a while you run into the potential for greatness. Tonight is the realization of the greatness. You should be a part of it."

Not only is this text remarkable for what it's saying--whatever the hell that is; I still haven't cracked the code--but it was also perfectly spelled and punctuated. None of this "2nite is the reelzashen of gr8nes" crap--at two in the morning! And after who-knows-how-many Red Bulls and vodkas. What can I say? The copy editor in me was astounded.

Needless to say, I ignored the text, but I have to say--I appreciated the effort. I mean, how many girls can honestly say they had once run into the potential for greatness? Sure, I didn't realize the greatness, nor was I a part of it, but I'd had the chance, damn it, I'd had the chance.

Porno Turrets: The New Epidemic

2009-03-23T20:04:00.006-04:00

Last week, I went out with a guy who I can only assume had a hopefully rare case of porno Turrets. I think my first mistake was meeting him online. But when he called to ask me out, he seemed so charming I couldn't resist. He even told me about a couple of his own online dating disasters, one involving a girl who got so wasted she fell on the street and chipped a tooth. I told him about the guy whose nose started bleeding onto his dinner and didn't realize it until he bit into a fry--which he remarked tasted oddly like a nickel. We both had online dating battle scars and had our bars set prettay, prettay low--I might have my quirks but I am a girl who can handle her rum and keep all of her teeth intact.

We met at a favorite bar of mine in town--a bar I seem to take all my first dates to. It's gotten so bad in the past month with my flurry of dates that I'm starting to worry the waiter thinks I'm charging for them. When my date showed up, I breathed a sigh of relief. He was as cute as his picture and had a great smile. Our conversation started normally enough--the usual getting-to-know you stuff. We ordered some food and the talk turned toward favorite cuisines, and he mentioned how he hates brussel sprouts.

"Well, I have a recipe for brussel sprouts with bacon," I said. "I could definitely get you to start liking your veggies. Everything tastes better with bacon."

"Wow. My dad hates brussel sprouts too. If you could get me to like brussel sprouts, I'd do things to you," he said, staring me down. "My dad and I would both do things to you."

I looked at him blankly, not quite reconciling the meek, unassuming mini cabbage with the prospect of a threeway involving someone twice my age. Did he really just suggest a threesome with his dad?

"That was weird. I apologize."

"No worries," I replied, taking a huge swig of my rum and Coke. Okay, I thought to myself, he's nervous. He was trying to be funny and it just didn't work. I'll let that one slide.

I quickly turned the conversation to a more safe and, I hoped, less sexy subject than green leafy vegetables, asking him about his work and where he had gone to school.

"I went to school in Florida. Did you look at any other colleges before you decided on Brandeis?"

"Well, I looked at the University of Richmond, but got turned off by the campus. There was a girl's dorm on one end and a guy's dorm on the other, separated by a huge lake. It was too summer camp for me. I could just picture myself canoeing in the middle of the night trying to get to a frat party."

"Yeah," he replied. "Like, my vagina is throbbing. I need to get to the other side!"

Obviously I was going to need more rum to get me through this date. Did he really just say throbbing vagina? I looked around the room, now convinced I was being punked. Throwing out the v-word on a first date is bad enough, but putting the word throbbing before it is borderline criminal. I would have left right then and there, but we had just gotten the food and the calamari there is fabulous. A girl's gotta eat, right?

The rest of the conversation was peppered with other odd sexual innuendoes--masturbation somehow got thrown around during a conversation about an episode of Lost--and I was thankful when the check finally arrived. My date grabbed the check and threw down some cash.

"Well, the waiter was good, but he didn't give me a blowjob or anything."

Oh for the love of ... "Does the waitstaff usually give you a happy ending after a meal? What? You eat a lot of Thai?"

I was surprised when he laughed and didn't actually nod his head in agreement. He suddenly grabbed my hand.

"Hey, I had a lot of fun tonight. I want to see you again. What are you up to next week?"

His grip was so firm I couldn't make a dash for it. For a brief second, I contemplated hitting my head against the table in the hopes of chipping a tooth. In the end, I decided to give it to him straight in language he could understand.

"Well," I said. "I'm free, but my throbbing hooha is completely booked. Sorry."

How I Managed to Miss my Flight While Seated at my Gate

2009-03-11T21:02:00.002-04:00

I am the first to admit that I'm not a morning person. Otherwise stationary objects are magnetically attracted to me before noon: tables skid across floors into my knees, wall corners appear out of thin air to smack me in the shoulder, cupboard doors fly open and hit me in the face. It's like the laws of physics cease to apply before I've had my cup of coffee. I've also been known to make appearances at the breakfast table with my pajamas turned inside out and backwards, the hood of a sweatshirt like a make-shift bib around my neck.

So why I scheduled a 6 a.m. flight to Virginia to see my dear, sweet parents, I don't know. I can only assume that it was done BC (Before Coffee), and that my vision was too blurry at the time to make out the little "a" in "a.m." All I know is that no one should ever have to be up at 4 in the morning. If you're at all curious as to what it looks like, I'll save you some time: It looks incredibly dark and out-of-focus.

At first, I was excited: The airport is eerily quiet in the wee hours. I floated through security and got to my gate with tons of time to spare. I pulled out a magazine to pass the time. It was only when they called us to board half an hour later that I discovered I was in trouble--I had read only one sentence—on the front cover. Clearly, I had not gotten enough sleep. I drank another cup of coffee on the plane and prayed for the best.

When I arrived at Dulles for the last leg of my trip, I was over-tired and jittery. The coffee had only succeeded in accelerating my heart rate to a level where even cokeheads fear to tread. I looked around the chaotic room. For those who don't know, there are about 15 gates all lined up in a row in one gigantic room at Dulles Airport for shuttle service. There are constantly flights coming in and out at 15 minute intervals of each other, and attendants make minute-by-minute announcements and wave their hands wildly for late passengers like stock traders on Wall Street.

Since I had arrived more than an hour early, I decided to inspect the magazine stand, thinking I had tons of time to kill. When I exited the kiosque, still a good twenty minutes before my departure, the room had turned into a complete ghost town. I plopped down in front of my gate and watched some tumbleweed blow by. I figured, in my semiconscious state, that the twenty people still left scattered around the room were the rest of my flight and waited for the boarding announcement.

My eyes were so heavy, I had to hold them up with my fingers, watching as the hands on the clock kept getting closer and closer to my departure time. I was getting a little nervous, but apparently not nervous enough to exert the tremendous amount of effort it would've taken to get out of my seat and walk the two steps to ask an attendant about the status of my flight.

Even as the clock showed 10 a.m., the time of my take-off, I was confident that my flight was merely delayed, so I waited. I turned my gaze to the gate. To my relief, the flight still appeared on the screen, status unchanged. I blew out some air and continued to watch as the clock changed to 10:05, then 10:10. I turned again to the board and watched, horrified, as the flight status slowly clicked to "Departed" before my very tired eyes.

What? How could this be? I didn't even get a "last call to board" announcement! In a trance, I finally walked up to the counter.

"Um, has flight 203 really departed?"

The attendant looked at me like I had two heads growing out of my neck, each with only one eye and crazy purple hair.

"Are you AC? We've been calling your name on the loudspeaker! We even had someone going through all the rows looking for you!"

She turned to her computer screen and violently tapped away at the board. "I show that your flight from Boston got in early! I don't understand …"

"I don't know! Well, you see, I had to wake up really early, and I didn't get much sleep and I'm really, really tired … Can I just schedule another flight?"

"Yeah, honey, I'm putting you on the next one out. Leaves in three hours. Maybe we can get you a special name tag so that we don't miss you this time around."

Oh no. Now I was "special." I thought if I were I'd at least have an excuse. As it was, I had managed to miss my flight while sitting not three feet from my gate all because I'd chosen to stay up until midnight to watch a special edition of Most Outrageous TV Moments. I swear they put crack in those shows.

The thought of spending the entire day in the airport was draining to say the least. I dialed my dad, who had graciously offered to pick me up from the airport … in Virginia.

"Hi, Dad! How are you? Hey, listen, I uh, I kind of missed my flight."

"Oh no! Did your flight from Boston get delayed?"

"No, no, uh, we actually got in an hour early."

Silence. "OK, dear, I'll pick you up at Dulles."

I hung up the phone, suddenly realizing the immensity of what had happened: I'd finally lost the ability to shock my parents. This was not good.

As I was relating my tragic traveler's tale to my dad in the car, I suddenly remembered I had booked another flight.

"Hold on, Dad, I just need to call to let them know I won't be on this next one either, lest my name make it on some United black list."

"Hello, this is customer service, how can I help you?"

"Yes, this is AC. I wanted to let you know that I won't be needing the 1:00 flight out of Dulles after all."

Sound of furious typing. There must have been smoke coming out of that keyboard I tell you. "I don't understand, so how are you getting to Virginia?"

Oh, for the love of ... "I have a ride! I just wanted to let you know so you weren't expecting
me …"

"But I see that you arrived at Dulles an hour early? Why did you need to reschedule?"

"Well, see, I'm really just not a morning person, and last night I stayed up waaay too late because I'm addicted to this show, Most Outrageous … Wait, why am I explaining this to you? Can I please just cancel my reservation?"

"Do you still need your return flight back?"

"Yes! Yes! Don't cancel that! I'll be on that flight! I'm just really tired today..."

Click. Dial tone.

I stared at the phone in disbelief. My dad looked at me nervously. "I think we should call to confirm your flight before we head out next week What do you think?"

"I think I need to start taking the train."

The Good Guy Syndrome

2009-02-28T18:28:00.005-05:00

I have a huge problem: I'm dating a really nice guy.
It's terrible. He opens doors for me, shows affection, and always remembers my name.

On our first date, he reached for my hand while we were walking. I shook it.

"No, no. I want to hold your hand."

The words sounded funny coming from neither John nor Paul and without the back-up of George Harrison's hand clapping. Nevertheless, I obliged, offering up my right hand as a sacrifice to the dating gods.

It wasn't too long into the hand holding that I began to get antsy: How long do we have to do this? Should I be moving it around--massaging, caressing? My hand is getting really sweaty--is it OK to break away? Damn it, I must! My hand feels like it's covered in vegetable oil! And it's just sitting there, defenseless, in the dark, unable to move or cry out for help. I just ... need ... to...

"Give me my hand back!"

Well, at least it wasn't awkward. My date looked at me like he wanted to give the whole night back. But, like I said, he is such a nice guy, and seems to really like me, so he let it go--literally. The poor fool.

I've always had a thing for the "bad boys" and musicians, although I guess that's rather redundant. Maybe it's the thrill of the chase more than the badness factor, though. The guys who don't care are harder to catch, but once caught, the interest level plummets.

My mind keeps telling me I'm getting too old to keep going after just-for-fun and dead-end relationships and any relationships that involve hyphenations, but my emotions sometimes shout over these thoughts, and before I know it, I am back to my old ways, smiling at the guy on lead guitar with the cigarette dangling out of his mouth and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

Which brings me back to my nice guy situation. He neither plays an instrument (I will restrain myself from making a joke here), nor has a body-piercing of any kind, and always buckles his seatbelt for safety. He laughs when I tease him, but never teases me, and as much as I'd like to think there's nothing to tease me about, I know that's just not the case. I have an unfortunate Most Outrageous TV Moments addiction, and a tendency to wiggle my fingers a la Homer Simpson whenever I see pastries. But that is neither here nor there.

The point is, nice guys can sometimes be too nice--it lends itself to blandness. I mean, never cracking a joke at someone else's expense, or indulging in some gossip, or laughing at the people who make a mad dash for the T only to wipe-out in a humongous puddle--how fun is that? Even the Beatles, with all their "I Wanna Hold Your Hands" and "Michelle," my belles got crazy with a "Revolution" once in awhile.

Despite my hesitations, I'm not going to give up on our new relationship just yet, because, well, good guys are really hard to find and I'd be the fool not to give it a chance. And who knows? He might dump me when he finds out I canceled a date to watch a new episode of Most Outrageous TV Moments. Whatever the outcome, though, I know it's gonna be alright, alright.

Insane in the Plane

2009-02-21T10:19:00.002-05:00

As a little girl, I loved to fly. Hell, I even liked airports: the anticipation of going on vacation, the people-watching (and I'm from Jersey so you know there was plenty of opportunity there), and of course, the glorious fast-food stands that were your only chance at escaping United Airlines mystery meat of the night (they once served us chicken so small I started crying because I thought they'd killed Tweety Bird).

But actually boarding a plane was a magical experience for me. The beautiful people who would come and give me any kind of soda I asked for, the never-ending flow of peanuts, the thrill of takeoff, leaving all earthly frustrations 30,000 feet below for a suspended moment of time. Of course, that's all in the past now, the good old days when I believed in magic. Now the only thing I believe in when I fly is that there's not enough alcohol aboard to stop me from flipping out a la Twilight Zone man when we hit a little turbulence.

I'm not sure when the exact moment was that I began to fear flying, all I know is that it came about soon after I graduated from college, and that it came with a vengeance.

Unfortunately for my nerves, I love my family a great deal. Otherwise, I wouldn't do half the flying that I do today. It's almost as if my parents are testing my loyalty down there in Virginia, the ultimate measurement of love.

Of course I always get a ton of suggestions on how best to curb this fear from friends and random nosey strangers who feel more than educated on the subject, even as we fight for possession of the armrest of life, which everyone knows if squeezed really tightly while chanting, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," will prevent a plane from nose diving into the Atlantic Ocean. I've also averted almost certain crash landings by wearing my lucky opal earrings and counting backwards from 30 right after takeoff. And me, being the truly altruistic person that I am, I need no recognition for my heroism from others. Knowing I've saved hundreds, possibly thousands of lives is thanks enough for me.

The first suggestion I get to assuage my fear is to always to make full use of the cocktail cart, no matter if it's coming from my all-knowing Mom or the fat, balding lady who's taking up more than her fair share of the armrest. I did try this on a couple of occasions, but both turned out to be utter failures:

The first was on my way from Boston to Washington, D.C. to visit my family. I filled an empty Nantucket Nectars bottle with Absolut and added a splash of OJ to make it look authentic, seeing as my flight was at 8 in the morning and all.

My friend, Mel, had dropped me off at Logan, and, seeing how nervous I was getting out of the car, thought she would calm my fear by kindly informing me she was under no circumstances going to tell me what the airline I was flying used to be called. I should've just left it at that, but I figured if I was going to be sent off to certain death, I at least wanted to know who the executor was going to be. So as I'm closing the door and turning towards the airport of doom, I hear my wonderful, wonderful best of friends shout, "You're flying on the old Value Jet! Have a safe trip!" and I swear to you I heard the word "sucker" come out of that car before she zoomed off to the safety of I-93 during rush hour traffic.

I hadn't even hit the security check-point before I took out that bottle and downed it like I was actually drinking a bottle of Nantucket Nectars and not 7 ounces of vodka with a splash of juice for camouflage.

Afterwards, when I reached the security check-point, I had a little trouble understanding and communicating with the security guard who was trying to smoothly get me to take off my flip-flops before stepping through the metal-detector, because, as you well know, it is so very easy to smuggle a make-shift bomb in between the little piggy who went to market and the little piggy who stayed home.

"Miss, it would be very nice if you could take off your sandals."

I looked at the guard blankly, smiled, and proceeded on my way through the metal detector before I was stopped by the guard in a gruffer voice, "Miss, it would be REALLY nice of you if you would take off your shoes."

My flip-flops had quickly moved up the security-risk ranks of mere sandals to full-fledged shoes. This was serious. It suddenly occurred to me, even in my Nantucket Nectars induced state, that these were no polite requests to remove my flip-flops/sandals/shoes/heat-packing metal-toed military boots, but hidden threats to make it seem as if I had a choice in the matter. I may have been wearing flip-flops in Newark airport, but I was no beach bum fool.

I slowly took off one sandal, then the other, and rationally explained to the guard, "I am very thorry offither, I'm a little drunk tho I didn't underthtand you at first. I'll be on my way now." I then waltzed through the metal screener, retrieved my flip-flops, and proceeded to walk to my gate to the sounds of, "Was that English?" and "She must be a foreigner," floating behind me.

When I found my gate, I crashed down hard on an empty seat and slept off most of my morning pick-me-up. About an hour later, I woke up to the sound of a screeching mike and an over-the-top friendly Air Tran worker chirping, "Ladies and gentlemen, do we have a present for you! Your airplane has just rolled in, hot off the assembly line, and woo-hoo! I can still see the tags on the tires! Your plane is just a few days old, how about that? We will now be boarding all first-class passengers and people with disabilities."

If the nap hadn't sobered me up, then the announcement that we were all about to become involuntary guinea pigs for Air Tran Airlines certainly did the trick. When it was my time to board the plane, the ticket collector looked up at my panicked face and mumbled, "Good luck," while tearing my ticket and sending me off to almost certain death.

Before I even fully sat down, I pulled out a ten dollar bill from my wallet and gripped it in anticipation of yet another early morning cocktail, "Maybe a Bloody Mary," I thought, "That seems almost breakfast-y."

After take-off, the pilot made his usual announcements, and informed us we could now use our electronic devices. I pulled out my disc man and stared, horrified, as I watched the already-powered instrument of death spin around and around, mocking my increasing panic. I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed we were all about to fly tragically off-course, crashing into another plane as a result of a tiny blue Panasonic portable disc man and my little morning cocktail. Death by disc man. What a way to go.

I barely had time to absorb the immensity of the situation before the plane swung violently down, then up again. Holy crap! Damn my obsession with Dave Matthews and his catchy tunes!

I looked behind me and saw the flight attendants pulling out the drink cart, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least if we were going down, we were going down drunk. But just as a flight attendant made his way to our row, the pilot clicked on again, "I'm sorry folks, but because of severe turbulence on our route, I'm going to have to ask passengers and crew to remain seated for THE DURATION OF THE FLIGHT." I turned around to look at the flight attendant, ready to make my plea for just one drink, but they were all gone. They had packed up and shipped out before the pilot even finished talking. Damn bastards took the booze and ran. Looking back on it, I can plainly see that I should've shoved a couple of nips in my pocket for emergency use, but I was drunk so I hadn't thought of it.

Panicked, I reached for the sick bag in the seat in front of me. I figured I could put it over my head thereby decreasing my oxygen intake and creating a nice alcohol-free buzz. I also figured that by doing this, I risked looking like a complete jack-ass. I then made the kind of quick-second, life or death decision that only people in similar urgent situations can make: I decided to look like a jack-ass. I had just fit the bag nicely over my head, when I felt a sharp jab in my side. "Hey! What do you think you're doing? Get that bag off your head—you'll suffocate!"

I peeked my head out of the bag. It was the fat, balding woman who had shoveled a good dozen or so Oreo cookies in her mouth before takeoff. I wished I'd had some at that moment to shut her mouth, "Hey, mind your business. It's either this bag on my head or this head in your lap, puking up the scrambled eggs, bacon, and banana- strawberry smoothie I had for breakfast at 4 a.m. this morning. Now what's it gonna be?" I bluffed. I never had the smoothie.

The fat, balding woman made a "harumph" sound (if she had been from Jersey it would've sounded more like "fuck off"), opened a bag of Chips Ahoy and went back to eating. There were probably some really pissed off Jersians that day in Newark Airport, angrily buying beef jerky and Nutri-Grain bars due to the fat lady cleaning out the cookies.

I was just about to continue with my self-abuse when the seat belt sign flashed on and the pilots informed us that we were making our descent. I did a little dance in my seat, and guessed at our increased chances of surviving a crash as we cruised lower and lower to the ground. This also makes a great game to play with the kids for some family fun in the air.

When we finally landed, I jumped up, hit my head on the over-head and crashed back down into my seat. I then got up slowly, watching my head, and before exiting the plane, thanked the pilots for saving my life and bear-hugged the flight attendants until they told me I had to clear the aisle for the other passengers. They looked surprised but I could tell they were secretly happy I hadn't used the barf bag.

Scrabble is a Blood Sport

2009-02-18T20:11:00.004-05:00

My family banned the game of Parcheesi from our household when I was ten years old.
Now I can't tell you who won that last game we ever played, but I can tell you it was neither me nor my older sister, as she was blocking my game piece with two of her own. When I pointed out that by not moving her pieces she had no way of winning herself, she replied, "I don't care. I just don't want you to win."

I don't remember much after that, some harsh words were likely exchanged, zingers along the lines of "retard" and "poopeyface," possibly I put the smackdown on her, I don't know, but I do know that after that ill-fated game, my parents banished Parcheesi to the bowels of our basement, never to be played again. That game followed us around the country, bouncing around from house to house, most likely hoping that once enough time had elapsed, the incident we now refer to as "the Parcheesi block" would be forgiven and forgotten. It has been seventeen years since that day, my sister is now married with two beautiful children, and even mention the word "Parcheesi" in my family and the "poopeyfaces" and "boogerbutts" go flying.

I also don't remember winning so much as a game of Candyland against my father growing up--he'd laugh and point at me, (as I'd predictably be stuck in some gooey gumdrops) while skipping his piece merrily on to the glory that is Candy Castle. Come to think of it, gumdrops aren't even gooey--how lame. Not that I'm bitter or anything. My dad also used to take my younger sister and I to the putt-putt course whenever he was in the mood to kick some ass. Being five years old, not even having the walking thing down all that well, we'd inevitably hit the ball into a bunker.

"Oh! What a shame! Put the ball back on the tee, sweetheart, that's a two stroke penalty!"

"But Dad! That's not fair!"

"Those are the rules, kid! Hey! Stop your crying! There's no crying in putt-putt! Damn it, that's another one stroke penalty."

And my mom was no better. A game of Pictionary once brought my little sister to tears after teaming up with my mother:

"You call that a cherry?! That looks like a lemon with hair!"

"I'm sorry! I'm not an artist, OK?"

"Damn you! Now they're going to win because you can't draw a cherry! It's just a circle and a line for Christ's sake!"

My sister, who could draw neither a circle nor a line, flew from the table in tears, and we slowly packed up Pictionary and sent it off to live with Parcheesi in the basement, where its foster games Yahtzee and Life were already keeping it company.

When I was away at college, my little sister called me with some more bad news.

"Scrabble's out, dude."

"What? You mean it's banned?" It is a testament to my family's competitive nature that I could make sense out of those three words without any other background information.

"Yeah. I don't know what happened, dude. I think Dad and I were taking too long or something putting down the tiles. All I know is that one second, we were all waiting for Dad to put down his letters, and the next second, the game is in the air, tiles are flying everywhere--one fucking hit me in the eye--they're like fucking wood, man! And Mom didn't say a word--just stormed off to her room! It was ugly."

"Damn! Well what the hell is left?"

"Memory and Hi-Ho Cherry-O."

"Yikes--we might as well start doing shadow puppets on the wall."

"Uh ... actually, that was banned back in '88. Remember? Mom got pissed at Dad for not being able to put his hands together for a butterfly."

I sometimes wish my family would be able to play a friendly game of pool or Yahtzee or even Go Fish without it turning into a Dr. Phil special, but then I wonder how much fun would that be? A game of ping-pong with no profanity? Scrabble without a scuffle? We might as well just hold hands and sing "Kumbaya" until someone is impelled to shove a pencil in their ear. Scrabble just wouldn't be the same without a little blood on the board.

This Love Boat Don't Dock Here

2009-02-14T16:00:00.002-05:00

In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd share one from my past. A couple of years ago, I was "treated" to a Valentine's Day surprise: a three-hour tour around the Boston Harbor, complete with dinner, dancing, and loving couples gazing into each other's eyes as they rocked and swayed to "My Girl" while the only thing This Girl wanted to do was grab a life preserver and hurl herself off the boat.

I tried my best to look excited and even forced a smile when the crew took our picture before boarding. It reminded me of the snapshots amusement parks take of roller coaster riders right before they take the plunge. We didn't end up purchasing our photo at the end of the night, but I can only imagine the look of fear the camera caught in my eyes as the strains of "Mandy" wafted from the cabin.

We sat down at our table and helped ourselves to the cold, damp bread awaiting us, for what was probably a good day or so judging from its springing action as I chewed until my jaw ached. Our server came over to take our drink order. My date ordered the water.

"I'll have whatever's in a martini glass!" This was an emergency situation.

My date fiddled with his napkin, "So I wanted to get tickets for this other cruise, but it was too expensive. I hope this is OK?"
Huh? Was he really telling me I was getting the second-rate version of his dream Valentine's Day gift? I was on the Ponderosa of cruises, was sitting behind Door Number 3, smelly donkey braying into my ear, "Swim! Swim for your life! Please take me with you."

"Uh, yeah, this is great!"

The DJ told all us "crazy kids" to get out onto the dance floor and surprisingly his choice of "Venus," which I'm pretty sure Adam and Eve danced to on their first Valentine's Day, did not deter anyone from taking him up on his request. The dance floor was instantly flooded with giddy couples. I looked around for the ballot box to put in my vote for Prom Queen.

"Do you want to dance?"

I cringed. I just couldn't force myself to do it. I could not! It was not in my being. Oh why couldn't I at least pretend to be having a good time? Dear Lord, is this Michael Bolton?

"I'll take that as a 'No.' "

I felt like a complete jerk. And perhaps I am. When my date got up to use the restroom, I grabbed my cell phone and text messaged, "Shoot me now" to my best girl friend.

All around us, couples were holding hands and making lovey dovey faces at each other. They ate up the limp spinach and over-cooked salmon, drank up the cheap, bitter champagne (free with the package!), and closed their eyes as they danced to painfully bad music (I will grant that the pain was due mostly to my shoving a pencil up my ear when a Backstreet Boys ballad blasted from the speakers).

The server approached us again with the dessert list: cheesecake or chocolate cake. I ordered the cheesecake.

"Does this come with the package?"

I groaned audibly.

"Yes, sir, this is included."

"OK, then, I'll have the chocolate cake."

It was becoming obvious to me that my date was El Capitain Cheapo of this Love Boat Lite. I wanted off. Badly. So badly I asked a crew member exactly how cold the water would be this time of year.

My date I know had put a lot of thought into the idea and just wanted to make me happy. He figured I like boats, I like dancing, and by Golly, I like food, so what could be better than a combination of the three all condensed into one cookie-cutter romantic night?

It broke my heart when he asked me what would've made me happy, and I thought, anything, anything but this! If you didn't have much money to spend, then why did you take me out? A home-cooked dinner and a bottle of wine would've been much preferred, and cheaper for that matter. I was conscious of every cash bar drink I ordered. I was tempted to write a check for my portion of the package, but instead wound up writing him off.

It wasn't just because of this one night, but rather a culmination of things that unfortunately came to a head on what was supposed to be the most romantic of days. I didn't have it in me to break things off that night; I figured the day after Valentine's would be much better. It's possible though that the feeling iwas mutual. I sincerely hope this was the case, that we both sailed off into the sunset with no regrets, me with a very strong cocktail in hand.

Caviar Emptor

2009-02-07T16:29:00.008-05:00

It was so cold in Boston this week, people stopped abusing each other on the street and turned it on the weather.

"F%$* this weather!" a guy with salt-and-pepper hair wearing head-to-toe Bill Blass screamed as he passed me on the sidewalk.

Negative 20 degree temps have a way of turning the most courteous of people into drunken sailors like that. As for me, I was in my own hell, having switched out my warm toasty mittens for my flimsier gloves due to the influx of asshole drivers on the road recently. Sure enough, as we stepped onto the crosswalk, albeit not on a Walk sign--but screw that, walkers should get a free pass on days you can't feel your ass--a car honked loudly at us, upon which my middle finger shot up defiantly in the air. It's been on auto-pilot ever since the holidays, when a mom running a red--most likely to make it to the Christmas tree lighting festival going on that day--almost mowed me down. The soft glow of the tree lights illuminated my finger quite nicely, I must say.

Partly to get warm and partly because I'd been existing off of vending machine animal crackers for the past week, I ducked into Whole Foods. I love the free samples at Whole Foods, and that night, I hit the jackpot: a special Valentine's Day sampling throughout the whole store. I quickly forgot about the bread and milk I needed--whatever, rum was serving me just fine in my Cocoa Krispies--and started sniffing out the free food.

There was ice cream and cake and chocolate and cheese--all my favorite food groups. I took a cup of ice cream and stood there patiently as the guy serving it to me waxed poetic about the bold flavors of chocolate and coffee all merging into one beautiful creamy concoction of ... whatever, dude! Just give me the damn ice cream and no one gets hurt. It was like being on one of those "free" vacations you see advertised sometimes, where you have to sit through hours and hours of salespeople going on about timeshares before you're allowed to go into a sugar coma from too many pina coladas and burn yourself to a crisp in the sun.

Despite my tendency to swear like a sailor, I am too f#$ing polite. I also feel tremendous pressure to buy whatever it is I'm sampling as well. I was obviously Whole Foods' dream customer that day. I thought I could put one over on the woman serving caviar, casually asking where I could pick up a jar, making like I was a big caviar spender and not just a big mooch, thinking they must be over on the other side of the store with all the fish.

"Oh, they're right over there," she said, pointing to a shelf right behind me.

"Uh ... oh, uh ... great! Thanks." Damn. Foiled again. I couldn't even abandon the jars on another shelf further down the road as they had to be refrigerated.

I left the store with two pints of ice cream, hot pepper jelly, dark chocolate malt balls with raspberry filling, and two jars of caviar. No bread, no milk, yet not one, but two jars of caviar came home with me that night. Caviar! There's no buying caviar in a recession! Oh, these people are good. Thank goodness they weren't giving away any filet mignon or beluga caviar or I would've had to have taken out a loan to pay for my groceries. All this free food is hurting my wallet. Next time I'll play it safe and go to Stop & Shop, where the only temptation for me are the Cookie Monster cupcakes in the bakery section. Better a fat ass than a skinny wallet.

The Way of the Walk

2009-01-28T20:31:00.002-05:00

The woman walking in front of me has the polished, metropolitan look down: the well-tailored suit, all-purpose black handbag, her Jimmy Choo heels pound the pavement with an authoritative click and clack. She looks like any other young Boston professional on her way to work: stern and determined, looking ahead, but careful not to make eye contact with any passers-by because, as we Bostonians know, you just don't know who has the ability to turn you into stone nowadays.

We both stop at the intersection between Charles St. and Boylston—a particularly tricky one since there is no less than three lanes of traffic all trying to merge onto one and take out as many stragglers as possible. Ten points for getting anyone carrying Luis Vuitton luggage.
True Bostonians are undeterred by this. In fact, crossing the street is a finely-honed skill in the city, a sport unlike any other, a sort of Frogger for the sophisticate if you will.

We both look at the fiery red, blinking hand that's supposed to scare us into submission—a little hand I like to call "the tourist's bitch slap," as tourists are the only ones who seem to actually fear the hand. I look to my left at the approaching traffic. The two lanes closest to me are clear, the farthest is not. I quickly cross to the median, a city walker's version of a kid's "safe" in tag. Seconds later, the third lane is clear, and I dart across, stepping safely onto the sidewalk.

I look back to see what I once thought was a native Bostonian fearfully clutching her handbag for dear life every time she dared inch one of her Jimmy Choos on to the road. I almost want to run back to aid her across the street, like a seeing eye dog guiding the blind, but alas, I need to make good time.

My Charles/Boylston St. victory was short-lived, as I approach the Boylston/Arlington intersection. I stop at a blinking red hand, no doubt in a moment of guilt out of not helping the hapless woman still stuck on Charles and Boylston. Nevertheless, I stop at the light as about ten people whiz by me, one with a walker, one with a seeing eye dog, and all looking at me with disdain, like I'm a hick from Kansas, or worse, Canada.

I feel guilty, like I let the team down somehow. To add to my embarassment, the Jimmy Choo woman walks up next to me, gives me a snide look as if to say, "You risked your life to get across the street in good time and now look at you! You're at the same point that I am, wimpy country bumpkin that I am--eh?"

Desperately, in an attempt to redeem myself, I fling myself in to oncoming traffic, relying on my 6 years of Boston city-walking skills to guide me safely to the other side. I look to my right: a truck is barreling toward me, honking loudly, but not braking. I dart out of its way, feeling a whoosh behind me as the truck, making good time, rolls on its way. I seem to have drawn a crowd. No matter that they are simply waiting for the light to change. Ha! Amateurs. I'll show them who's a Bostonian.

My next challenge is a motorcycle--no wait, it's a motorcycle with a side-car! Dear Lord, do they still make those? I quickly take a step backward into the now truck-free lane; the motorcycle zips past me, the guy in the side-car gives me the thumbs up sign with his middle finger.

I take a step forward, only one lane to go! The people at the other end of the street are cheering me on, in their own way, meaning they aren't throwing things at me or yelling, "Loser!" really loudly.

The last lane is the trickiest of all. An elderly person is behind the wheel of a huge blue Buick. This could be rough--there's about zero chance the old man's going to see me with his bottle-thick glasses that barely reach the dashboard. It's like Mr. Magoo on wheels--he swerves to the left, swerves to the right; I am bobbing from one foot to the other, in an odd I'm-about-to-be-crushed-by-an-old-geezer dance, not knowing where the car's going to end up. Hopefully not over me.

I make a blind dash for it. Thank goodness I put on my sneakers this morning, or there definitely would be some high heel road kill left behind. Wheels screech. I smell burning rubber--I look down and realize it's from my sneakers hitting the pavement at an absurd speed. I lunge for the sidewalk and mercifully make contact without losing my balance. Victory is mine! I pump my fist in the air in triumph, then quickly lower it as I remember I'm in Boston and we don't show emotions here.

I look behind me--the woman with the Jimmy Choos is staring (glaring?) at me. It was all worth it. I wave at the woman with my middle finger. It's the Boston way.

A Brief History of Time ... in the Parking Garage

2009-01-27T21:06:00.002-05:00

The night started out well enough, as I'd gotten two free tickets to watch three mute blue men eat Captain Crunch and throw marshmallows at each other. Of course, some might argue you can do that for free anytime at the mental hospital down by Brigham Circle, but I'm a sucker for stadium seating.

My date had been bragging that he'd found garage parking for only $10 a few blocks away from the theatre. Not only that, but the garage was real classy: There were cards by each elevator indicating what level you were on.

"How cool is that? I don't even have to remember where I parked! The card does it for me." My date beamed, waving the card around like it could also turn his car into a Rolls and chauffer us around.

After the show, my date couldn't wait to return to the garage, where apparently the real performance was about to begin. The only problem was, he'd forgotten where the garage was.

"Well why don't you just look at the damn card? Doesn't it say what the address is?"

My date pulled out his "magical" card and shook his head. "Uh, no."

"Are you kidding me? I thought this card was the answer to world hunger, and it doesn't even tell you where you parked the damn car?" I was furious—and freezing. He'd chosen the coldest day of the year to lose the car.

"Maybe I can hitch a ride with one of the blue men. You think their car's blue, too?"

"Wait! This street looks familiar. Yes! This is it. Woohoo! What a perfect end to a perfect night."

My date gazed lovingly into my eyes as I fought off hypothermia. "Whatever, dude! Let's just get inside—I'm fucking freezing!"

We tried to open the lobby door, but it wouldn't budge. Neither would the one next to it. Even the revolving door wouldn't revolve. I looked inside the lobby, where a concierge was making a hand gesture at me.

"Hey! I think that man's giving us the finger! So much for your classy garage."

I gave the guy my own one-fingered salute and looked at my date, "What now?"

"I guess we'll have to go up where the cars come in."

We ran around the corner to the garage entrance and walked up the ramp, clinging to the walls like Spider Man as cars whizzed by, dangerously close to clipping us.

"Thank G-d I didn't have that extra donut for breakfast!" I screamed as the sideview mirror of a Land Rover grazed my arm.

Amazingly, we made it back up to the lobby unscratched, and as my date went to the machine to pay for the parking, I walked up to the concierge who had been so rude to us.

"Excuse me, but did you see us at the door a few minutes ago?"

"Well, I certainly saw one of your fingers quite clearly. I was waving at you to press the button so the doors would open."

"Button? But I thought that was for the handicapped!"

"We don't discriminate here. Everyone gets to push the button—well, everyone clever enough to crack the code, apparently."

"Well, there should be a sign or something! It was very confusing! We almost got killed going up the car entrance!"

"Isn't that a shame."

I glared at the concierge and returned to my date.

"What was that all about?"

"We were exchanging cake recipes. Let's get out of here. What's the card say?"

"Level 5!"

We walked the entirety of Level 5. Then we did another lap. In desperation, I even looked under a Hummer. My date looked at me like I really was handicapped. "Well, you have a VW Bug!"

"Ames, this isn't funny. Where the hell is my car?"

"Are you sure you're on this level?"

"Yes! Look at the card! That's what it says!"

Sure enough, I looked at a big blazing red 5 marked clearly on the card.

"Well, you can't argue with that. So where's the car?"

"I don't know!"

I frowned. "Have you considered the possibility that maybe your car doesn't want to be found?"

"Ames!"

"Sorry."

And then, in the distance, I spotted who is possibly the most under-rated worker in America: the parking lot attendant.

"Lost your car?"

"No sir, we just like to roam around parking garages with blank looks on our faces."

My date elbowed me hard.

"I can't find my Bug—the card here says it's on 5, but ..."

The attendant was already on his way. "I'll look around for it."

So we sat in the cold, dank dimly lit garage and waited for what seemed like hours. The only way time could've moved any slower was if we had been smoking joints while watching a pot of water boil.

I sidled up to my date, trying to keep warm. "Have a joint?"

"Ames, you don't smoke."

"Right."

Finally, the attendant pulled up to us again.

"Your car is on 3."

"Looks like someone put the card in the wrong damn box. Maybe next time we can just do it the old-fashioned way and actually look to see where we've parked, hmm?"

"Maybe next time someone can walk home!"

"Touche."

We were finally on our way home. My date stuck the already paid for time card in the machine so the gates would open. The machine promptly spit the card out.

"What the hell?"

He tried again to no avail. It was as if we had driven into a black hole, devoid of all that was goodness and light in the world. There seemed to be no escaping this parking garage.

The gate attendant came over and looked at the card.

"These things expire after 15 minutes."

"But we lost our car! We've been looking for it for hours! Can we please just get the hell out of here?"

"Certainly."

We sighed with relief.

"For twenty dollars."

My date took one look at my face and quickly coughed up the money. As soon as we exited the building, we heard the sound of an alarm and flashing lights.

"Drive! Just drive!" I yelled. There are probably still skid marks from where we had made our daring escape.

"So much for classy parking garages, huh?"

I looked back at the garage where the alarm lights were still flashing. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the car seat. It had been a good show—and the blue men were pretty entertaining, too.

The Wrestler? Fuggedaboudit

2009-01-25T18:58:00.005-05:00

On the last-minute advice of my younger sister to abort my mission to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button--a movie, she said, that is a glorified, depressing version of Forrest Gump--I instead went to see The Wrestler, a movie very much unlike Forrest Gump but most likely equally as depressing as that Button movie.

Well, depressing and really hard to look at. Not only was the movie shot in Keansburg, NJ, a town that puts the "ew" in New Jersey, but the wrestling scenes included everything from a staple gun to various oiled sterioid-filled bodies to a fork taking a chunk out of the wrestler's forehead. But nothing compared to the horror show that is Mickey Rourke's face. There's more leather on his mug than an entire fleet of Hell's Angels and dominatrixes combined. It was hard to reconcile with the memory of a sexy Mickey in 9 1/2 Weeks, but you could still see the remnants of that old sex symbol in his eyes, not unlike the performance of the Beast in Disney's Beauty and the Beast.

Marisa Tomei as an ageing pole dancer was pretty good, except she obviously didn't do her research on the pole. There wasn't a fairy spin, carousel, or butterfly spin in sight. Bitch has an Oscar nomination for that performance and hasn't paid her dues--I'm sitting here after a particularly grueling 2-hour pole dancing class with bruises up and down my legs and even, yes, even my toes, and I'm not even playing a stripper in a major motion picture. Shit ain't right.

To make matters worse, the writers pulled a Sopranos on us at the end of the movie. In the last scene, Mickey as Randy the Ram struggles to finish the match. At this point, he's already had a bypass and stumbles around the ring looking like he's about to keel over of a heart attack at any second. He climbs on top of the ropes and stretches his arms out like a diver to signal the start of his signature move, a giant leap onto his victim, who's inevitably lying in wait below to meet his end by human lycan, which I just discovered is a sort of werebeast, if you will.

Mickey/Randy the Ram/Werebeast takes a breath, jumps high into the air, and then, and then ... blackness falls over the screen. Like the Sopranos finale, I thought for a split second that the projector had malfunctioned right at the most pivotal scene. I turned back to shoot the stink eye at the teen working the projector, a rather ineffective move from the front-row of a pitch black theatre. But when I whipped my head back around, the credits were rolling down the screen, leaving me to wonder for the rest of my days what the hell happened to the Ram. As if I don't have enough on my mind wondering what became of Tony Soprano--maybe he got jumped by Randy? It's becoming something of a Jersey cliche to end shows in complete blackness, leaving the audience to make up their own ending. That's not creative--that's just a lot of fricking work. What the f#@ people? Must be something in the water.

Pole Position

2009-01-10T13:08:00.003-05:00

I was watching the Rock of Love Bus Tour the other day and feeling prettay, prettay good about myself, I must say. Unlike the hot messes fighting to add yet another STD to their medical history by becoming the next Mrs. Brett Michaels (who's missing the top half of his head as far as I can tell), I have never stripped on national television, inflated my boobs to surpass the size of my head, or stuck a shot glass anywhere other than my mouth. Not too shabby. Afterwards, as I headed out for my first pole dancing class, the irony was not lost on me.

I'm always up to try something new, especially when it comes fitness, as during the winter in Boston, my only form of exercise comes from hopping from one foot to another trying to keep warm while waiting for some form of transportation to get me to wherever it is I'm trying to go. Usually to the bar across the street, but every once in a while, I make an appearance at work.

I'd convinced a good friend of mine to join me, mostly so no one would think I was considering it as a career choice, although I'm guessing there probably aren't too many 30-year-olds just starting out in the biz. Although with the way this recession is going, you never know. It may only be a matter of time before we see "girls" greasing up the pole with Tiger Balm.

Understandably, some of my friends were a bit confused when I told them what I was up to. One even wrote, "What is pole dancing? Is that like some European traditional dance or something?" Of course, I'm guessing this was simply a ruse to get me to demonstrate my new moves, but I'm not falling for it. There's an old saying in Tennessee – I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee – that says, fool me once, shame on – shame on you. Fool me – you can't get fooled again, as George W would say.

I picked the worst pole in the bunch--the one front and center that I had to keep jumping off of to share with the instructor. I'm hoping to claim another pole for next class, which will probably be considered bad pseudo stripper form. I might actually get into the first fake stripper catfight ever to go down to my knowledge. Watch out Brett Michaels, you sexy bandanna-wearing, guy-liner loving mimbo, I am hopping off the 441 and on to your bus of love that I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to get all my shots to ride. Rock on.

Chick Flicks

2009-01-01T16:28:00.002-05:00

It was with great dismay that I found myself--for the second time in as many weeks--crying on my couch with a pint of ice cream watching the chick flick to trump all chick flicks: The Notebook. Except this time, I was drinking a glass of eggnog spiked with my dear friend, Sailor Jerry's. There must be some sort of rehab center I can check myself into for this--not for the rum swilling but The Notebook viewing. I can just see myself--flanked by Amy Winehouse and Courtney Love-- weeping over my chick-flick watching ways, while Amy and Courtney hand me tissues and secretly think how glad they are not to have to go through such a tough, demoralizing addiction such as mine.

I remember the good old days, when chick flicks used to be about friends and disease and dying--movies like Steel Magnolias, Beaches, and My Weekend at Bernie's. Now we have real tear-jerkers like Love, Actually and Something's Gotta Give to contend with. Give me a cancer-stricken Barbara Hershey caked with pounds of white powder over a woman finding love with her soulmate in Paris on her birthday any day of the week. There are just not enough Kleenex tissues in the box for that kind of romantic shit, damn it. I can't handle it.

Hopefully the new year will bring back the chick flicks of old, although the upcoming Bridal Wars does not look promising. Perhaps I'll just have to write my own--Beaches II--with an aging diabetes-stricken Bette Midler who befriends a party-going bachelor only to find out he's been dead for days ... Hey, at least I'll no longer have to explain away my puffy eyes at work the next morning by claiming to have imbibed too much rum.

My Two-hour Vacation on the 441

2008-12-19T23:57:00.004-05:00

I felt like I was gearing up for battle today as I faced the first Boston blizzard of the season. I silently nodded my head in solidarity with the other "soldiers" I passed on my way to work. Dressed in long puffy coats with fur-lined hoods and black boots, we looked like Eskimos on our way to fight ... whoever it is that Eskimos fight. I don't know, do the Russians give them any trouble?

In any case, by 2:30, the snow was coming down hard in the North Shore, and it had already been snowing in Boston for well over an hour before that time. I was the only dumbass in the office who had an hour+ commute--by bus no less--followed by a 30 minute walk. I wanted to at least navigate the blizzard by the light of day, so I figured I'd get a little mercy and be able to leave a couple hours early.

"Well, the company is still open, so you'll have to take vacation time."

"Huh?"

I couldn't believe it. Besides the fact that our governor announced a state of emergency today, asking that all non-essential employees stay home, I hadn't had anything to do for five hours, aside for checking boston.com for updated weather news every two seconds and PerezHilton.com for any sudden zany Britney Spears news, of which there has been a depressing lack of lately. Apparently, I'm more essential than I thought. Who knew that checking for comma splices and serial commas was actually some kind of fricking big deal. Certainly not Perez Hilton. His grammar is atrocious.

So I grudgingly agreed to take the vacation time to brave my way home through heavy snow blowing, at times, as fast as 40 miles per hour in my face every step of the way. "I'm on vacation!" I yelled as I slid on the sidewalk, stumbling off of it as the snow had already accumulated so that it was impossible to tell where the sidewalk ended and the road began. This was the worst vacation ever. I didn't even have a rum drink in my hand.

By the time I got home, three hours later, I was wet, cold, hungry, and cranky. As far as vacations went, this one blew. Luckily, I had a bottle of Sailor Jerry's on hand to rectify the situation. Technically I was no longer on vacation and now onto the weekend, but it felt good nonetheless. Only two-and-a-half months to go of this. Oh wait. I'm in Boston. Better make that five.

Rum Running

2008-11-16T12:55:00.007-05:00

As I was on my fourth Captain and Coke in the pool at the Outerbanks, straining to reach the straw, my only form of exercise that day, my older sister blurted out, "I think we should run a marathon."

Now, up to that point, I think I might have clocked about 2 miles total running that summer, mostly from tourists with maps. So why my sister thought I was up to that particular challenge, especially without knowing any steroids dealers, is beyond me.

"Lisa, I haven't run all summer," I said, throwing up my drink for emphasis. "I'm not about to run 24 miles."

"OK, well what about a half marathon?"

I thought about this for a second. Mostly to calculate what half of 24 was. "Nope. That's still 13 more miles than what I run now. Why are you into this all of a sudden anyway? You haven't been running much yourself this summer."

"I know. That's exactly it. If I have something to motivate me, like a race, I think I'd start running more. OK, well how about a 10K? That's only a little more than 6 miles."

Lucky for my sister, the Captain had finally started to kick in. After a few rum and cokes, I think I can do anything. Including fitting two legs into a baby swing in the park across the street at 2 a.m., which, of course, is a completely rhetorical example.

"OK! Let's do it!" I shouted, raising my glass in the air and straining my arm. Training had officially begun.

We had a month and a half until race day to get in shape. Unfortunately, I could only run after work due to my having to get up every morning at an hour usually only reserved for farmers and donut fryers, but as the days were getting shorter and darker, even that was out of the question. So I hit the gym. For two weeks straight, I used the elliptical, hoping it would be the equivalent of actually running outside. I attempted to train on the tread mill, but couldn't figure out how to run in place without holding onto the handrails and looking like a complete dork. Never mind that I was taking the risk of looking like a complete dork at the race, spinning my feet in an elliptical pattern while everyone else whizzed past me, one foot in front of the other.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself and my new exercise regimen. That is, until I remembered the trips to Vegas and New York I'd scheduled in the beginning of the summer. For the next two weeks, my exercise regimen consisted of rum punches poolside at Mandalay Bay and scorpion bowls at NY dive bars. I was now in danger of not only looking like a dork at the race, but sweating rum while I ran, which would be a grave waste of alcohol.

The day before the race, I felt like a kid who hadn't studied for the big test. My sister and I were extremely nervous, and I was tempted to see whether she'd be game for going shopping for a few hours, throwing some water on our faces, and coming back and telling everyone what great time we made. No one would have to know we'd meant paying for some fashionable dresses at the Anthropologie checkout rather than running a grueling 6.2 mile course.

We woke up early that morning, as the race started at 8:30 and it would take an hour to get into the city. We had been told we couldn't use an ipod during the race, so, being law abiding runners, left ours at home. Of course, the 5,000 other runners that were there either didn't get the memo, or were blatant criminals, as they all were humming along to their ipods as we waited to start the race. How I was going to be able to get through 6 miles without Rihanna's help was beyond me. Besides that, I hated running in front of other people, let alone 5,000. I was already feel cramped and crowded and the race hadn't even started.

"Are you sure you don't want to get a drink somewhere instead?" I asked my sister as she looked around nervously.

"Amy, it's 8:30 in the morning."

"It's OK as long as there's OJ in it."

But it was too late. People were starting to move, albeit it very, very slowly. I was officially running a 10k without ever having run 6 miles in my life. I couldn't believe that people were actually starting off walking. I sped up to get past the dead weight, running along the shoulder of the track and quickly jumping back in when the grass ended, cutting people off and getting flipped the bird. This wasn't so different than driving, I thought.

I stayed to the outer sides of the course, as it was easier to maneuver past people. That is, until I hit the first water station. I couldn't understand at first why everyone started slowing down and moving to my side until it was too late. I was instantly flooded by incredibly thirsty people who had run an apparently really dehydrating one mile. Empty plastic cups started flying in my direction, bouncing off my head and onto the ground. The experience was not unlike playing Mario Kart, as I simultaneously dodged and side-stepped Dixie Cups, all the while trying to make good time.

It wasn't until around mile 4 that I finally found my groove. I had managed to get past all the walkers and was now sailing at what I guessed was a good 1 to 2 miles per hour. I sped to get past one grunter ahead of me. Not having an ipod meant I had to listen to all the grunts, moans, and unnecessarily loud breathing of the 5,000 people running next to me. Unfortunately, my timing was off, and right as I was pulling up next to him, he turned his head to spit, which lodged itself on my arm, annoyingly keeping pace with me for an entire mile.

I then heard the wail of sirens behind me. We quickly ran to the side of the road as no less than 15 ambulances and police cars drove past us at a disturbingly slow rate. At least five minutes must've gone by before the cavalcade managed to get past us. I just hoped no one had gotten poked in the eye by an errant Dixie Cup. After a few more minutes, I was at the mile-5 marker and people were calling out numbers. "50:45!" I heard a voice ring out. I was confused. Was that the time since we had started the race? I had expected to finish in more than an hour, but I then realized that I could actually do much better.

The last mile was, of course, uphill, and really painful, mostly due to the 50's music they were subjecting us to at the finish line. I'm not sure why the organizers thought the Everley Brothers would get us pumped to finish that last mile. All I can think of is that they were hoping it would motivate us to finish as fast as we could in order to beat the DJ.

When I crossed the finish line, I immediately set out to find my sister, who I hadn't seen since mile 1. I figured she'd finished an hour ahead of me and was tired of waiting for my slow ass. We had been told there were booths set out at the end of the race for families and friends to find each other, but what they neglected to tell us was that they were another mile from the finish line. I sprinted past event organizers and Marines trying to hand me water and take my picture.

"Hey! She's still running!" I heard a voice call out behind me. They must have thought I was a "special" runner.

When I finally found our designated booth, Lisa was nowhere to be seen. Great, I thought. She'd gotten bored and left. I called my brother-in-law, who instantly answered the phone with a "Congratulations!"

"Thanks. Do you know where Lisa is? I don't see her anywhere."

"She should be there. She finished 3 minutes ahead of you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was tracking you both. You finished in an hour and seven seconds."

I couldn't believe it. My weeks of rumming and no running had put me ahead of about 3,500 other runners. Forget Wheaties; rum is the new breakfast of champions. Hopefully, I will be getting a call soon with an offer to put my face on a bottle of Captain Morgan's.

When I finally found Lisa, she was already making plans for our next race.

"I think we should do half marathon next year, what do you think?"

"Absolutely," I said. "I think we should start training now."

"Now? Amy, I'm exhausted."

"Oh, quit your whining. The bar is right across the street."

The Not-So-Friendly Skies

2008-10-07T20:08:00.005-04:00

I've always been a nervous flyer, but my flight coming back from Vegas Sunday night took me to a new level from nervous nelly to bona fide freak.

With the help of a prescribed Valium, I was actually able to doze off shortly after we'd finished our ascent and the pilot told us we could expect a relatively smooth ride. I guess, in retrospect, you could call it a smooth ride in relation, to say, riding shotgun with a drunk Hilton at the wheel down Hollywood Boulevard, but that's about it. Seconds after I drifted off, the plane lurched violently to the left and then dipped low enough to the point I had to look out the window to make sure we still had enough room in between us and the ground.

I quickly wrapped both my arms around the armrest hoping to steady myself (and, secretly, the plane), but realized I was shaking too violently to even sit still. I'd completely lost control of my body. My mouth went dry, and I downed the water bottle I'd grudgingly paid two bucks for at the start of the flight. It was like I'd swallowed sand. I ran to the back of the plane where the flight attendants were sitting and threw open the curtain.

"Water!" I gasped, holding two dollar bills. The flight attendants handed me another water bottle and I quickly took my seat again and downed the bottle in less than a second. I ran back with more money and asked for more water. I got even more agitated realizing I could've enjoyed a couple of rum cocktails with all the money I was spending on water. After the attendants handed me yet another bottle, I just stood there, shaking like a leaf, and told them I couldn't sit down.

"You have to take your seat. Just take deep breaths," one of the attendants told me.

As my teeth were chattering a mile a minute, the deep breath thing was virtually impossible. I reluctantly walked back to my seat, hitting the head of pretty much everyone along the way, as I had to grip each seat down the aisle due to my excessive shaking. At this point, I was pretty sure I was known as the freak in row 12. I seriously contemplated spreading out on the aisle, convinced I just needed to lie down, but thankfully was able to restrain myself. I'm pretty sure I might've been escorted out in handcuffs had I tried it.

Luckily, I was allowed to visit my friend in first class for a few moments, and she was able to calm me down to the point where I wasn't in danger of getting into a fistfight with the guy sitting in front of me due to overzealous kicking of his seat.

Aside from being extremely embarrassed, I was OK. I'd never had a panic attack, but I'm guessing that's just what I'd experienced. At least I wasn't able to check myself into the ER this time.

Last Stop Crazyland

2008-09-28T11:52:00.002-04:00

Sadly, it’s been a while since I’ve done anything more entertaining than ride the bus, but hopefully that will change with my upcoming trips. As it is, that’s all I’ve got for now.

So the new bus driver on the night shift is always on time, which of course is great for my Insider Edition-watching ways, but it appears he’s got a crazy switch that turns on whenever his peace is disturbed, as if he’s got some kind of a double-life as a zen master while he’s up there plowing through pot holes and cutting off old ladies at 80 miles per hour. I’m not sure why anyone would think that driving a bus during rush-hour Boston traffic would be a peaceful career option, but I guess that comes with the crazy switch.

At least once every night, he’ll pull the bus over on the side of the road due to some inevitable loud talkers in the back—always kids--and walk up to the offenders, scolding them about how they shouldn’t be “rocking his boat.” I pretend to be listening to my ipod when these episodes happen, but I always turn the volume way down so I can hear his little tirades, and I swear to goodness he actually told them not to “rock his boat.” I say kudos to the kids for not mentioning that he’s not, in fact, at the helms of a boat, but a clunky bus that makes more noise than those kids could ever dream of making, even after several trips to the Taco Bell.

Now every day, before the last stop, the bell will ring. We all know that you don’t have to ring the bell before the last stop, that of course the bus is going to stop anyway and that ringing the bell is just a waste of time, but the handicapped guy sitting in back row doesn’t know this, and every bus driver up until now has just ignored it. Not “don’t-rock-the-boat” Ernie, though. I couldn’t believe it when he yelled out the first time that it happened.

“You don’t have to ring the bell! It’s the last stop!”

I turned around, and, sure enough, saw the handicapped guy sitting behind me. He threw up his hands as if to say, “What did I do?” and all I could do was shrug back. I was tempted to fill Ernie in on the small little thing that the guy he was yelling at for being mentally challenged, was, in fact, mentally challenged, but chickened out, as I didn’t want his wrath turned on me. This week, however, after the inevitable ringing of the bell, Ernie called the handicapped guy up to the front of the bus once we had reached the stop.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, motioning with his fingers. I really, really wanted to stay and find out what on earth Ernie could’ve been “talking” to him about, since the handicapped guy couldn’t actually speak, but only motion with his hands, and only that with limited success, but, alas, I had to rush home to watch my shows.

The next day, when the bell rang again, I waited nervously for Ernie’s bark, but it never came. Maybe his conversation, which I can only imagine went something like, “Don’t ring the bell,” followed by drinking motions and shrugging on the part of the handicapped guy, clued Ernie in that he just had to deal with the situation. I sat back in my seat, relieved that at least this had been finally worked out.

I quickly came on the defensive again, however, upon exiting the bus, after a brief chat with Ernie about his plans for the weekend.

“Have a great time in Virginia, Ernie!”

“Yeah, I will. Do you want me to call you while I’m there?”

I froze. What on earth made him think I wanted him to call me? My inappropriate-date-asking bus driver count is officially up to four. I somehow managed to laugh it off and eluded giving him my phone number without setting off his crazy switch on me, but I’m not sure how I’ll be able to keep this up for an indefinite amount of time. I think handicapped guy has got it right—he may even be a genius in disguise—if shrugging shoulders and drinking motions will get people to leave you the hell alone, I am totally jumping on that bus.

Buses, Cabs, and Rowing Machines

2008-09-03T22:42:00.005-04:00

I "woke up" at 4am last Saturday so I could make a 6am flight to Virginia to see my parents. I once swore never again to fly out that early, as I'd missed a flight while sitting at the gate due to the obscenely early hour and me not being much of a morning person. At least not without the help of a pot of coffee and a few Red Bulls. Nevertheless, I walked out to the front of my building--in complete darkness, by the way; I had no idea 4 in the morning was so f*ing dark--to meet my cab to take me to the airport. I was looking forward to getting a little nap in on the ride over but, alas, that was not to be. An overly made up middle-aged lady with luggage was standing outside the building, putting her bags into my cab.

"You don't mind if I give her a ride too?" the driver asked.

What was I going to do? Tell the bitch to walk? I grudgingly shook my head and got into the cab, bracing myself for the inevitable dreaded small talk.

She wasted no time, handing me her phone and ordering me to dial a number.

"Here. Dial this number for me!"

I'm not sure if she thought I was the cab driver's assistant--the only one in existence to my knowledge--or maybe she had arthritis, but at the time, in my sleepy state, the request seemed perfectly logical, albeit really annoying. A guy answered the phone with more orders for me.

"What's your apartment number, lady?" the guy barked.

I leaned over to the lady sitting next to me. "What's your apartment number?"

"Who wants to know?!"

Oh, for crying out loud ... "The guy you asked me to call!"

"Oh."

After a few more awkward relayed messages, I was finally taken off phone detail and silently prayed that she would not be on my flight. She wasn't, but a two-year-old, with apparently the same fear of flying I have, was. The baby cried the entire duration of the trip. It was the first time I've ever been grateful for having a crying baby on my plane and not some high-maintenance woman turning me into her personal assistant. It's all about perspective, people.

On a completely unrelated topic, there's this guy who's a dead-ringer for Stephen Colbert, complete with glasses, suit, briefcase, and Oxford shoes, who's been coming to the gym every night to work out. I hadn't realized it before, but it's really fricking weird to see someone working out in a suit. What's weirder is that he's not even really using the machine properly. He sits down on the rowing machine, directly in front of me, and does these odd stretching motions for about ten minutes, then hops off to lift weights. I could probably bench press the guy he's so scrawny, but he's on the Nautilus machine, pumping 10 lbs. of weight like he's fricking Hulk Hogan. I don't know why, but it really creeps me out. Not as much as the handicapped guy on the bus, but still.

Speaking of the bus, I had a great run of not being hit on any bus drivers, but that run was broken today. There's a new driver working the afternoon detail. I love him--he's right on time and has a lead foot that gets me to Boston with more than enough time for me to watch Inside Edition. Today, as I was getting on the bus, I made the mistake of making eye contact.

"Where you headed?" the driver chirped.

"Haymarket," I answered and, for some reason, all I can think of is that I must've been giddy just thinking about watching a full episode of Inside Edition, and I'm still kicking myself for saying it, but I stupidly, stupidly added, "I go all the way!" (As in all the way to Boston, people.)

"Amen to that!" he responded.

I am now officially part of the problem.

Vendors and Mangoes and Scorpions, oh my.

2008-08-09T19:51:00.000-04:00

The only time I remember even having a tattoo is in the summer. Inevitably, as I’m out and about in a tank top, revealing the small black scorpion on the back of my shoulder, some moron will swipe me and say, “Hey! You got a bug on you! Heh. Heh.”

Despite my Scorpio nature, I restrain myself from taking a swipe at their face and saying, “Hey! You got something on you! Oh. That’s just your face.”

Today, as I was at the fruit market, one of the vendors yelled out, “Hey! Are you a Sagittarius!”
I pretended not to hear. And who knew? Perhaps there was someone standing next to me with an archer on her back.

Alas, apparently men who make a living yelling at tourists and Asians for touching the fruit are not easily deterred. “Hey! Are you a Sagittarius!”

Oh for the love of … I turned around. “No! Scorpio! This is a scorpion!”

Everyone turned to see who the fruit vendor was awkwardly trying to pick up. I was sick to my stomach. I mean, how cliché can you get? A guy asking what your sign is in the produce section? I felt like I was in a Lifetime special.

Luckily, a hapless Asian woman feeling the tomatoes rescued me from more embarrassment.
“Hey! Hey you! NO touching the tomatoes! You try it, you buy it, you cheap bastids!”

I sprinted away with only a lonely bag of mangoes. I’d really been eyeing those peaches and nectarines, too. Whoever said shopping at the farmer’s market was a good deal obviously never had a scorpion tattooed on her back.

Playing Nice

2008-08-03T09:58:00.002-04:00

This week I played poker at my neighbors’—there were three guys there I hadn’t met before, but they quickly introduced themselves as Tony, Jimmy, and Bulldog. They hailed from Revere and Worcester and regaled us with quaint, amusing stories from their childhood, dodging bullets and drive-bys.

“That’s just how it is there. You have to be tough,” Bulldog informed me.

Since my only “brush” with violence was hearing what might have been a gunshot driving down a road near Detroit with my family, I kept my mouth shut. Especially since when we heard the shot, my mom yelled, “Duck!” at my sister and I, and my first response was, “Where?”

They seemed proud of their past, so when I related a story to a friend sitting next to me about my close encounter with death last weekend due to a friend of mine taking me to a restaurant in Dorchester, I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed I wasn’t saying anything they didn’t already know themselves. As usual, I assumed wrong.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jimmy cut in, interrupting my story. “Don’t dump on Dot! I’ve got buddies there.”

“Dot” is the native’s term of endearment for Dorchester, a city in Boston that has more crime than LA has drunk driving celebrities. There are certain areas of Dorchester that are nice; you just have to dodge bullets to get there. I kid; I kid. You’ll actually be dodging knives. There are way more stabbings than shootings there.

I dropped the subject, realizing it was OK for them to make fun of their towns, but as an outsider, I had to keep quiet and pretend like Dorchester was next on my vacation destination list.

Tony deftly changed the subject, “So did you hear about that moron move the Giants made with trading Shockey? You know what they say about Jersians …”

“… You don’t mess with them,” I smiled. Evilly.

Tony quickly got my gist and we all played in a moment of awkward silence until I finally touched on the one subject and city we could all agree on.

“So how about that Shia LaBeouf, huh? Damn stars driving drunk. You couldn’t pay me to drive in LA …”

Faking It

2008-07-23T22:50:00.007-04:00

As my best friend, whose moving vehicle I once jumped out of to get to the hospital for imagined toxic shock system can confirm, I have been known to check myself into the ER unecessarily from time to time. My first clue that I was just freaking out should've been the fact that I was able to run to the hospital, but in my panicked state, that little nugget of wisdom escaped me. I ran up to the front desk, out of breath.

"What are you here for?" a bored-sounding nurse asked.

"I ... I think I'm dying!"

"Well then. Take a seat. We'll call you when we're ready."

One hour later I realized that the shakes that had, ironically, incited me to risk my life to get to the ER had subsided, and that I was perfectly fine. But once you check yourself in, there's no going back. No matter how hard you might try to convince a nurse that you're OK, once you sign those admission papers, someone needs to at least poke you a little before you can go home. So I waited another two hours until a bored-looking doctor finally came in to check on me. These people obviously did not fully grasp the concept of the emergency part of emergency room. All I'm saying is that a little sense of urgency would've been nice.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, looking at his nails.

"Um ... I think I may have toxic shock system. You see, my toe has this cut that hasn't healed, in like, a week, and tonight I got the shakes for no good reason at all and ..." Even I, actually saying the words out loud, realized the ridiculousness of it all. The doctor seemed to be amused by my self-diagnosis.

"Well, I'll examine you and see what's shaking. Ha!" I managed a weak laugh and prayed I wouldn't be charged extra for the comedy routine.

The doctor's "examination" turned out to be me breathing in and out deeply and a light up my nose. I was happy that nothing was wrong with me, well, in the physical sense at least; however, my friend was hoping that after three hours of waiting in the hospital for my lame ass, they'd find something that required meds.

That, of course, was nothing compared to the day I thought I had appendicitis. Despite what you may be thinking, I am not a hypochondriac. I just have an unfortunate WebMD habit. I was sitting at my desk at work when I suddenly felt a sharp shooting pain in my lower abdomen. I immediately logged on to WebMD, which of course I had bookmarked. Hmm ... a sharp pain in the lower-right abdomen (type, type, type) that is preceded by a dull ache a little farther up (typity, typity, typity) in conjuction with nausea (more furious typing) ... Aha! Appendicitis! Son of a bitch. And it's Friday too. Oh well, this shouldn't take long. I mean, how long can it take to remove an appendix? Two, three hours? I got up from my desk and calmly told a coworker that I had to go but would be back soon.

"Where are you going?"

"The ER."

"The ER!"

"Yes. I have appendicitis. Don't worry, though. I should be back in a few hours to finish that report." And off I went, leaving a very puzzled-looking marketing manager in my wake.

When I got to the ER, I filled out the paperwork--something that at that point I could've done with my eyes closed--and waited. And waited. Two hours later, a young nurse came to take my blood. With a needle that looked like it had been custom-made for Shaquille O'Neal.

"You going to stick me with that?"

"That's the plan."

"Well I'm going to need some juice and cookies. Apple juice is preferable, thank you. Oh, and I'll take animal crackers over graham. Unless they're the cinnamon kind."

The nurse looked at me like I had just requested a neat martini with a twist of lime and a back rub. "Oh you're not even getting water after this, honey. You might need to get more tests done and that would upset the results."

What?! No cookies! This was a sham. "But I have low blood pressure! I'll faint! You know what? I'm actually feeling pretty good right now. Heh. All a big misunderstanding. I think I'll just ... Ahh!" The bitch plunged the needle deep into my arm as I was getting up to leave, and I swear she was smiling as I jerked and twisted on the table, convinced that I had been done in by Mass General Hospital.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, my pain had subsided. Once again, I found myself, abandoned on the side of the hall on a stretcher no less, in the ER with no emergency to speak of. I was beginning to think I needed to check myself into the mental ward instead. An hour later, a cute doctor came to check me out. And not in a good way. He pushed and prodded and told me what I already knew--probably wasn't appendicitis if I wasn't feeling any pain. Aside from the sharp pain of embarrassment, that is. Relieved, I said I'd be on my way now. But alas, that was not to be.

"Oh no. We need to wheel you up to get an ultrasound. Just to be safe."

Safe? I had just been attacked by a psycho vampire nurse looking to suck me dry. I had no patience for safe.

Before I could get a word in, two male nurses had grabbed my stretcher and started rolling me, feet first, up to the fifth floor and into a dark room where they dropped me off behind a curtain.
The nurse at the station asked where I was feeling pain, and even though I really wasn't feeling anything at that point, I decided since I was already there, why not check out that dull ache I'd had for years I always thought was a tumor. Never let it be said I don't get my money's worth at the ER.

Eight hours after I'd first checked into the hospital, I was finally, mercifully released with a clean bill of health, and I noticed I'd gotten a text from my boyfriend asking me what I was up to. I was very tempted to tell him I had just been at the hospital getting an ultrasound, but restrained myself as I didn't want to have to go back to the ER for causing my boyfriend to go into cardiac arrest. I am an evil person just for thinking such a thing, I know. I should probably have that checked out.

Dirty Karaoke

2008-06-28T09:31:00.004-04:00

This week I was asked out by my morning commute bus driver. This is the third bus driver to ask me out in as many months. At first, I was flattered, but then I started thinking .... Wait. I actually seem attainable to these guys! What on earth would make them think that? Because I ride the bus every day? Might as well stop at the Starbucks along the way for a quick coffee date? This just cannot continue. It cannot. Time to get a bike.

So I think I broke karaoke's cardinal rule on Thursday night: Leave no man behind. Or is that the Army's? In any case, I was brought up "on stage," which was more like a slightly elevated section that didn't have quite as many beer puddles as the rest of the room, to sing Dirty Diana. Now, I don't know the lyrics to the song, I don't even know how it's supposed to sound like aside from the refrain, so I don't know what possessed me from agreeing to it in the first place. All I can think is that I was still on a high from my performance of my fellow Jersian's Livin' on a Prayer. Not getting booed off the stage or hit with any flying objects is a success in my book.

As soon as I grab the microphone and look at the screen, I knew I was in trouble. The lyrics were all there for the taking, but the music was throwing me off. How is this damn song supposed to go again? The last time I'd heard it was on MTV ... right after an episode of Remote Control. And the neon green test tube shot I'd downed moments before was not helping to jog my memory much either. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, and although I miraculously refrained from going into any awkward Ashlee Simpson ho-downs, I did something even worse: I left my friend on stage to work her way through the evil song I now know to avoid like neon green test tube shots.

Luckily, she's very pretty and a guy from the audience was quick to rush to her rescue to suffer through the rest of the song with her. I felt horrible. Like probably the rest of the people in the bar who'd been subjected to the song. Actually, to be honest, I don't think anyone was paying much attention anyway. They were too busy dodging what I hoped was water that kept dripping from the ceiling at two-minute intervals.

Unbelievably, we were not to be deterred. After the song finally, mercifully ended, we went right back into the fire with a little Bryan Adams. The "Summer of '69" totally redeemed us. To the only dry couple left in the place, anyway.

The Bus Blues

2008-06-22T09:40:00.005-04:00

It's no secret that I hate the bus. For the past few months, I've dealt with having to sit next to smelly smoker people, smelly nondeodorant users (I've discovered I actually "prefer" BO to smoke) and listen to a woman file her nails for half an hour and a man with an unfortunate phlegm problem and an apparent ignorance of Kleenex snort the entire one-hour trip to the North Shore. I've even barely escaped a would-be crime on my bus driver by an angry Revere man over an abandoned Starbucks coffee cup.

But none of that compares with having to wait fifteen, twenty, sometimes even more than thirty minutes past the scheduled time my bus is supposed to pick me up every day after work. It's a weird feeling to want something that you have a miserable experience on on a regular basis, but after a long day at work, and facing an already long commute, those extra minutes of waiting time seem like an eternity.

My regular bus driver had a two-week long vacation, during which the bus came on time. Once, it was late by five minutes, and the bus driver apologized for her delay as I stepped on the bus.

"Are you kidding me? This is early as far as I'm concerned." I was giddy just thinking about how I'd be able to catch all of The Insider when I got home.

But my regular bus driver came back last week, and every day since then, it's been back to being obscenely late. This time, however, I knew that things could be different. The other bus drivers had spoiled me, and I was now accustomed to a life of luxury being picked up at 5:21 on the dot and getting home to watch my entertainment shows.

So, while I was waiting for the bus, I called the MBTA and made a formal complaint. I hated doing it because I personally like my regular bus driver, but things just couldn't continue as they were. If Deborah Norville had something to say, damn it, I was a gonna do everything in my power to make sure I got to hear it.

The next day, I decided to walk to the next stop while I waited, figuring it was a nice day and I might as well get a little exercise while my bus took its sweet time getting to me.

What seemed like an hour later, the bus pulled up to the stop, and I stepped on. The bus driver, looking at me like I had just insulted his momma, said, "What? You trying to throw me off?!"

My heart dropped to the floor. Oh Lord, I thought, he knew I had called the authorities on him! He thinks I'm trying to get him fired! Crap. It's a long walk to Boston.

"Uh ... uh ... what do you mean?!" I fired back. Since I couldn't feign sleep this time, I figured ignorance was the way to go.

"You're not at your usual stop! You trying to throw me off my schedule?" he laughed.

My heart started beating again. "Oh! Ha! What? A girl can't try out new stops?"

We continued our usual banter, and I took a seat. In my relief, I'd forgotten all about being upset that the driver was really late. Of course, when I got home and realized I'd missed The Insider yet again, I got all riled up and put in another formal complaint against the driver. I'm sure I'll be in great shape this summer with all the walking I'll be doing.

Never Underestimate the Power of the ...

2008-06-03T21:42:00.004-04:00

So, the handicapped guy on the bus is really starting to creep me out. I know it’s not a very PC thing to say, and maybe not even legal, but the dude is giving me the heebee jeebies.
He’s tried talking to me once or twice before, and all I can do is smile and nod because I have no idea what he’s saying. Last week, he was smiling and pointing at me and then making drinking motions with his hand. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to ask me out for drinks or he found out about the flask of rum I keep in the pocket of my kate spade handbag. You know, for emergencies.

So a couple days ago, he gets on and decides to spread out along the row of seats in the front because we’re the only ones on the bus. That would’ve been fine, except he lies down facing me instead of the front of the bus. It reminded me of the time my sister and I were sleeping on the beach and looked up to find a row of about ten people on beach chairs all lined up facing us, backs turned to the ocean. Creeped us the fuck out.

I feigned sleep yet again—my only defense on the 441—and hoped that I would not wake up to a nightmare. Luckily, my flask was still there when I reached my stop.

Sex and the City

2008-05-31T11:08:00.004-04:00

In an odd twist of fate, I found myself in an estrogen cluster-fuck last night at the premiere of the Sex and the City movie. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a twist of fate as me dropping the ball and not getting tickets for my friend and her crew whose idea it was to go to see SATC on opening night in the first place. As usual, the drama started before I even got to the theatre. It was all just a horrible case of miscommunication. She thought I was getting tickets for everyone, and I thought everyone was getting their own. Of course, by the time we sorted it out, it was too late, the movie was sold out, she and her friends found themselves sexless in the city, and me and my two girl friends, whose arms I twisted to brave the estrogen party I knew was coming that night, were in a theatre with about a million other women and wannabe women. There were Charlottes, Carries, Mirandas, Samanthas, and even a Stanford or two, all desperate to get a little Sex back in their lives. When the lights went down, the whole theatre erupted in applause. And then again when the catchy little theme song filled the room. If this kept up, I was definitely going to have to duck out and join the boyfriends at Iron Man across the hall.

Despite my reservations, the movie was actually pretty good. I laughed as much, if not more, as when I was at home watching the TV show. One scene in particular with Charlotte in Mexico and an unfortunate absence of bathrooms almost had me rolling on the floor. Miranda was even crankier than usual, and Carrie was the same punny Carrie with the same Big issues she’s had for twenty-some years now. But it was Samantha who stole the show. That diva must have kicked some gay writer ass to get all of the best one-liners in the movie.

In the end, the girls (with one exception) wound up pretty much in the same spots they’d been in when the series ended. As much as I love the girls (and their shoes), there is absolutely nowhere else the writers can take us with them. The core of the series was about a group of single women in NY trying to find love. And they finally found it. End of story. Did ya hear that, Darren Star? END of story. THE END. And if you could pass the message along to Indie Jones while you're at it, that'd be great.

Match.com on, You've Gotta be Kidding Me

2008-05-08T20:49:00.004-04:00

So Match.com claims to have about six hundred men in my age group and location who are ready to date available, super cute women such as myself. This statistic is a bit misleading, however, when you factor in the number of men who are gay, emotionally unavailable, and/or just plain weird, all of whom I’ve dated. Taking these factors into consideration, what we have left is about 50-100 guys who all love the Red Sox, beer, and going to Southie for a wicked pissah of a time.

Now, I have nothing against gay men. I just don’t want to date them. But this is an impossible situation to avoid if you’re on Match. There must be some kind of find-a-beard cabal in this city that has infiltrated the online dating community because I swear I have met just about as many gay men on Match as straight (and I’m not even counting the guy who waxes his eyebrows and highlights his hair as gay). I finally got a clue after a month and a half of dating one guy that he might bat for the other team (go Sox!) when he stared at my good friend’s boyfriend all through dinner. Well, that and he complimented my new Coach bag for having a really great lining. Yeah. ‘Cause that’s what all the men are talking about at the bar during guys’ night out over a Bud. Purse lining.

The emotionally unavailable men are just as fun. They’re the ones who have baggage from the past: an ex-girlfriend they just broke up with, being teased as a child, a mother who put him in a harness until the age of thirteen because he kept wandering off whenever they’d go outside … yes, I’ve dated them all too; in fact, just a few days ago. I had a wonderful date with a guy who was cute, charming, smart, had great taste in music, not to mention a doctor. We talked for hours, I met his friends, we kissed goodnight—I was on cloud nine just thinking about all the free medical advice I was going to get without having to rush to the hospital for self-diagnosed appendicitis with every gas pain I felt. But, alas, it was not meant to be, as the next day he said he “forgot” to tell me about this “pretty rough” break up of his … I’ll spare the details, but it did kind of make me want to pull out the world’s smallest violin and play it just for him. Seriously. Where did all these weenie men come from? If they’re not gay, they’re weeping over a lost girlfriend who most likely broke up with them because they were too damn emotional.

The weird ones are probably my favorite group of Match men. I once had a guy whose nose started to bleed over a bowl of fries while were at dinner. And then proceeded to eat the fries. Another guy was talking about some chick flick—I think it might’ve been Steel Magnolias—and then started weeping at the table. Wait. He might need to go in the emotionally unavailable group. No, on second thought, his problem was that he was too emotionally available.

So today I got an e-mail from a really sweet-sounding, intelligent, cute, professional ... woman. If this isn’t a sign from the heavens that I need to end my membership, I don’t know what is.

No Sleep Til Boston

2008-03-27T21:00:00.005-04:00

So after a long day of work, including a half-hour meeting regarding the correct punctuation of the ellipsis...I'm sorry, I just need to ..cut loose here . . . . woohoo! I am out-of-control! Yeah! .....
Sorry. I hope no one was offended by my horrendous disregard of proper ellipsis usage. In any case, I was exhausted at the end of the day and looking forward to my usual hour-long, end-of-day nap on the bus back to Boston.

But that was not to be. First of all, the driver made me a little self-conscious by calling me out on my bus-napping ways.

"Hello there! You looking forward to your nap? I'll try not to be too loud tonight!"

This was followed by much guffawing. (I've never used this word before but it seems oddly appropriate in this instance. Yes, yes he was most definitely guffawing, if you can believe it. He was guffawing at his own joke! What an ass.) This, in turn, was followed by awkward small talk about the miracles of Lasik surgery. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad the guy could see what he was doing, but I really could've done without the details about payment options and eye-correcting layaway plans.

He then made his usual stop at the Starbucks, but this time, instead of picking people up, he sent some poor guy out to get him a mocha grande. He did ask if I minded, but what was I supposed to say? No, you ass, you cannot get your caffeine fix. You must drive me, half-asleep, into a telephone pole? So I sat and smoldered in silence for ten minutes while my fellow saint of a passenger ran inside to get the driver some coffee. Well, almost saint of a passenger. Bastard didn't get me any.

Luckily, the driver's new coffee-fetching buddy served as a nice distraction so I could finally get some sleep. Until ten minutes later when he got off the bus and a Hispanic man speaking no English got on. The driver and the guy jabbered away in Spanish for a bit, ending in the driver and the man stepping off the bus to do some bilingual direction-pointing. Apparently, the Hispanic man was satisfied with whatever the driver had to say, and they both got back on the bus. It seemed to me that more people were spending their time off the bus than on. I couldn't wait until it was my turn.

We were on our way once more. Until, of course, after another ten minutes when the Hispanic passenger had to get off the bus. This, of course, was immediately followed by the driver accompanying the man off the bus, more direction-pointing, and, this time, an almost fist fight.

After the driver pointed the guy on his way and got back on the bus, I heard a gruff voice shout, "Hey! You don't litter in Revere!" Of course, with his accent, it sounded more like, "Hey! You done littah in Reveah!"

The driver had left his damn coffee cup outside. He got off the bus again.

"I put it down while I was giving that guy directions," he told the scary-looking meathead. And then, when he was walking back to the bus, "You should mind your own business."

Oh good gravy. I couldn't even feign sleep this time as the scary-looking man started running after the driver, fists in the air.

"Oh, you're a tough guy? You're a tough guy?" The driver screamed behind him as he jumped onto the bus, slamming the door shut.

The scary man pounded on the door, motioning for the driver to step outside as we sped off at mach 3. I was petrified. I was the only one on the bus. Now I would most certainly have to make small talk with the driver.

"You see that? You see that? What a tough guy! I would've taken him out, too, but I didn't want to make a bad first impression on you."

I was confused. What on earth made him think I cared about him making any kind of impression on me? I just wanted a nap.

He babbled on for the rest of the then forty-minute trip back to Boston. I have to hand it to him, though, he smoothly transitioned from talking about the inherent evil in some people, referencing a teenager who recently killed a young relative, to asking me out for a cannolli in the North End. I told him I'd sleep on it.

Cowboy Mouth

2008-03-12T21:34:00.006-04:00

I woke up this morning not able to feel my face, as it was rocked off the previous night by a band called Cowboy Mouth. I was unfamiliar with the band before the show, except for through the magic of iTunes, which allowed me to preview their music in 30-second bits (yes, I was too cheap to actually buy the album). I really wasn't too impressed--they sounded fine, but not rock-your-face-off, oh-my-goodness-my-head-is-going-to-explode-and-I'm-going-to-like-it great, which of course is what I look for in a band. That, apparently, and a really bad band name. I'm not sure what they were going for when they picked that name out, but it makes me think more Brokeback than rocker cowboys.

But a friend of mine, whose taste in music I trust, said they play an amazing show, so off I went to the Paradise last night with low expectations. Before the show, we got a bite to eat, and my friend told me about the last time he saw Cowboy Mouth. He was dating a girl at the time and some jerk pushed her. My friend, who I always thought of as rather even-tempered, even almost Ghandi-like, punched the guy in the face in honor of his girl (well, he kind of grazed his cheek, he said. Whatever. It was still noble). Chaos ensued. The bouncers were just about to bounce him out, when one of the members of the band yelled out that they had the wrong guy, that my friend was just protecting his girl, and so the jerk was booted and my friend got to enjoy the show. I still wasn't sure I'd like their music, but I was damn sure at this point I liked the band.

They were good ole boys (and one girl) from New Orleans. The frontman/drummer was like Jack Black on about twenty cases of Red Bull. And maybe a pitcher of coffee. He beat the drums like they had just offended his momma. He had everyone in the place jumping up and down for the whole show, and when one of us slacked off a little and was kind of just bobbing back and forth, he ran up to the balcony, confronted the offender, and said he'd take the whole band back to New Orleans if he didn't see everyone hanging from that balcony when he got back to the stage. We complied.

It felt almost like I imagine a Revival to be. He kept telling us to go crazy and "let it all out." I didn't realize until about ten minutes into the show that the "all out" part was gallons of sweat. At various points, he'd tell us to come a little closer, a little closer, but I didn't want to get too close lest I get hit in the sweat cross-fire. I did, however, come close to getting hit by a drum stick--twice. He threw about three or four of them into the crowd, forgetting maybe the very high poke-your-eye-out potential that drum sticks have when flung at high speeds through the air. I'm just glad I had an alert friend with me or I'd have me a nice eye patch to go along with my rum swilling. Aargh.

I was really annoyed that my friend neglected to tell me about the "Red Spoon" song before the show, a song during which everyone gets to flick a (plastic) red spoon at the band. I usually never miss an opportunity to throw things at people.

He kind of lost me at the end when he told us about how they were going to be on Live With Regis and Kelly the next morning, and then proceeded to sing a song dedicated to Kelly Ripa. The lyrics, however, quickly redeemed them: "Kelly Ripa, if you were a lollipop, I'd lick ya/Kelly Ripa, head of a Mom, but the body of a Strippa. Yee-haw!" You just don't find poetry like that nowadays. Except, of course, on iTunes, for free (in 30-second intervals).

Hear No Evil

2008-02-25T20:16:00.008-05:00

Even though I am really thankful to be working again, I get home most nights so tired I can't even stay up to watch Millionaire Matchmaker anymore, which is really too bad because that disgusting, money-grubbing bitch made me feel so much better about myself.

I've just started my third week, and already it feels like ages ago since I was temping, which is a good thing. A few days before I'd gotten the job offer, I was temping at a Jewish philanthropic organization, putting stickers on party hats. No, I'm not making this up. The manager handed to me what seemed like hundreds of shiny yellow plastic construction hats, red fireman hats, black pirate hats, and a roll of stickers and told me to go to town. She was actually jealous that I was getting, and I quote, "all the fun," like I was going to don one of those bad boys and whoop it up all over the city like the Village People might have if they'd only been a little more Jewish and philanthropic.

The really scary part of it was that I started taking it seriously. I'd put a yellow sticker on the yellow hat, and instantly reprimand myself. "No--you fool! No one will ever be able to see a yellow sticker on a yellow hat! Grab the red one; it will really stand out against the yellow."
It was as if I thought I'd be showcasing my collection on Project Runway and would have to explain my motivation for placing three Happy Birthday stickers on the pirate hat instead of one in front of an angry Nina Garcia and Michael Kors (who obviously would've taken the simplistic approach and just added one).

To add to my increasing insanity, a little puff of a Polish woman with a so-thick-you-could-touch-it accent was buzzing around my cubicle all day, scolding the accountant, a slight, bespectacled, obscenely pale man with glasses, named Eugene.

"Yu-gene," she'd start, "why you don' do za numbers right? You need do like zis."
And then, five minutes later, "Yu-gene, I know you know how do zis, so why you don' do?" And then again, "Yu-gene . . . " This went on for six hours. For one crazy moment, I actually thought that giving Eugene a pirate hat would cheer him up. I couldn't understand why Eugene was so complacent. Not once did he talk back or express any agitation. I was more upset for Eugene than he was.

And then, at the end of the day, I finally got my answer. I went to turn in my timesheet to the manager.

"Oh no, sweetie, you need to turn that in to Eugene. You have to make sure you have his attention, though. Make sure you're looking right at him and speak slowly so he can read your lips. Eugene's deaf."

An (Almost) Super Bowl Smack Down

2008-02-04T20:09:00.002-05:00

Last night, as I was cheering on the Giants deep in the heart of Patriots Nation and receiving more than a few death rays from everyone in the bar, my conservative friend leaned over to me and whispered, "Now you know what it's like being a Republican in this city."

And it was true. Just as she once bravely walked into a voting booth at the last presidential election wearing a huge elephant T-shirt amongst a sea of donkeys, so I confidently stepped into a Boston bar during the Super Bowl, proudly wearing my Big Blue hat at the risk of certain death, or at least not being served alcohol.

Strangely enough, my only supporter in the crowd was an Eagles fan who was tired of hearing about the "mythical" Patriots, as if they were born of unicorns and capable of striking down the Giants with bolts of lightning on the field. I wasn't about to reject the one person in the place who didn't want to kill me, so I smiled and tolerated her Eagles-loving ways for a few minutes.
It was either entertaining her or one of the locals who had a Patriots helmet tattooed to his forehead.

Even though the situation looked bleak after the Patriots scored their last touchdown in the fourth quarter with only a couple of minutes to spare, I had complete confidence in my team. When the Giants won, a silence enveloped the bar that was quickly broken by my triumphant squeals. I immediately grabbed the phone to offer my congratulations and thanks to my dad, whose sacrifice to his personal hygiene by wearing his lucky blue socks for two weeks straight to secure a Giants win will sadly go unrecognized by the general public.

"Congratulations, Dad!"

"Shut up!"

"Heh?"

I turned my head and saw the biggest, reddest-faced Patriots fan in the joint all up in our grill. He was screaming at my Republican friend who hadn't been rooting for either team to win. She quickly pointed an accusing finger my way, "But she's the one with the hat!"

"I don't care! I'm talking to you!" the angry man sneered.

Little did he know that living in a hostile, liberal state for years had grown her some big, elephant balls. Still, I feared for the briefest of moments that I'd have to excuse myself from my conversation with my dad to whip some Boston butt.

Thankfully, the red-faced man's girlfriend came to his rescue and dragged him away from what would have been an even more humiliating defeat at the hands of a spunky blonde and pink corduroy jeans-wearing brunette.

Even though I've been living in Boston for quite some time now, I still was not prepared for the Patriots fans' reaction to the game. The newscasters covered the event as if it were a funeral. People at work were dressed all in black--a pathetic few refused to take off their Patriots jackets as they sat and typed up financial reports at their desks. One woman from Foxboro they highlighted on the six o'clock news was bawling her eyes out. "I can't believe they lost!" she cried. "Now what do we have to look forward to here? Our beefed up police squad and the new manager at Stop & Shop! That's it!"

I know I shouldn't be taking such joy at my fellow neighbors' depression, but it's hard not to when you've been dealing with the arrogance of Boston sports fans all season long. Come to think of it, maybe the Patriots are mythical after all. What is that Greek story about hubris again...

I Hate Re-runs

2008-01-30T20:47:00.003-05:00

I couldn't believe my luck yesterday. My incredibly bad luck. I was riding the bus again to my second interview up north when the same foul-mouthed pregnant lady I was pressed up against last week hopped on board and plopped herself down across from me. I quickly closed my eyes, feigning sleep. It would've worked too if it hadn't been for a girl sitting next to me with a scratch-off ticket problem.

"My husband bought 300 tickets--he figures we have to win something with so many tickets."

"How much did that cost?"

"Six hundred dollars."

That opened my eyes so wide the pregnant lady immediately went straight into a rant about the incredible cost of having a baby ($100 sneakers not included). What is wrong with these people? Maybe if they weren't buying baby shoes laced with gold and $600 scratch-off tickets they wouldn't have to take the bus.

When I reached my stop, the girl was still scratching. I wished her luck and hopped off the bus, thankful that the hundredth ticket or so had lulled her into a silent trance, saving me from any more inane bus conversations. I had a good hour to kill before the interview. I found a cute cafe that served the best egg bacon and cheese sandwich I've ever had. I must've gotten a little too into it, because when I looked at the time after I licked off the last bit of melted butter from my fingers, forty minutes had passed. I had just enough time to make it to my interview.

I had walked the same route just a week earlier, so I was confident I'd have no trouble finding the place again. Why I had this confidence I have no idea. I once got lost for two hours running along the beach. It's a straight line. So of course I managed to stray off course and was only able to find my way again thanks to a very friendly school crossing guard. I looked down at my cell phone. I had only ten minutes to get to my interview, and I knew I had about a twenty minute walk ahead of me.

It was like that time I'd missed my flight while sitting at the gate all over again. I just couldn't be late to this interview. I quickly put my two-inch heel, backless loafers to work: I raced down the uneven, ice-covered streets, praying I wouldn't lose a loafer--or a leg--in the process. I can only imagine what a sight I must've been in my wool suit and long, beautiful white coat, running down the sidewalk like I was in some kind of corporate Olympics.

I made it just in time. Of course, my face was flushed and I was dripping sweat underneath my heavy suit, and my hair had an interesting tousled look, but I had made it. I might not have gotten the job due to my heavy panting at the start of the interview, but damn it, that egg bacon and cheese sandwich was worth it. Mmm... so buttery.

Into the Great Beyond

2008-01-23T19:37:00.001-05:00

The only thing more painful than temping is not temping. For the past two days I have been interviewing for jobs outside the city. With a car, the commute would be a leisurely thirty minutes or so, without a car, aka “my way,” the commute is a painful thirty days, or so it seems when wedged between a smelly homeless man and a foul-mouthed pregnant woman on the number 441 bus to the North Shore.

Of course, being the paranoid person that I am (and also one who has missed her fair share of flights), I left myself three hours to make the hour-long trip up north. I settled into the mostly empty bus, and two others, one homeless with an essence of smoked fish about him, and the other a pregnant lady who liked to end everything with “Sheeit” sat down next to me.

The bus driver appeared to be aiming for every pothole and pile of snow along the way, making for a fun, pin ball-like experience for me and my bus mates. When the woman next to me started a conversation about how she prayed her baby’s $100 sneakers would not be stolen like her last baby’s, I did my own praying that my three-hour tour would not end up like a certain other goofy sailor's. I mean, what newborn needs a pair of expensive kicks? Where is this baby going? And who on this planet would steal a baby’s sneakers? Twice? Sheeit.
Thankfully, we did not run into any tropical storms along the way up north, and I did not find myself stranded on a desert island with a maniac bus driver, fishy homeless man, and pregnant lady with her millionaire baby’s $100 sneakers.

I had about an hour and a half to kill before my interview, so I thought I’d find a nice sit-down café. Now, this town is a very beautiful place, it just doesn’t have a lot going on in town. I walked a mile in my heels before I came across a cute, small shop named, no doubt in a moment of brilliance, “The Little Shop”.

I was in desperate need of some caffeine, so I ordered a coffee to go, since the little shop was too little for such things as tables and chairs. I had basically walked into a miniaturized 7-11 and would not have been surprised if a Munchkin jumped behind the counter to take my order. The cashier asked how I’d like my coffee.

“I’d like a dark roast, please. French if you have it.”

My order was met with a blank, uncomprehending stare. “We got regular and decaf.”

If my face wasn’t already red from the cold, it certainly got there at that moment. I had just asked for French roast coffee in a model-sized store that sold chili dogs and pizza bagels.

Once I got my regular coffee and was sufficiently embarrassed, I walked back outside and found myself the lone walker amongst a sea of cars. The only ones who weren’t driving were very small carrying large backpacks, or were running very fast, in what may have been $100 sneakers. This was obviously not a place where one took the bus to get to.

Despite my little adventure, the interview went well and I made it back to the city just in time for my next interview, which was at 8:30 this morning in Canton, a good two-hour trip via shuttles, trains, buses, and taxis. Although it was a long commute, it was thankfully uneventful save for my Lebanese cab driver proposing marriage. It actually might not be such a bad deal. At least I wouldn’t have to take the bus again. Sheeit.

Apocalypse Pretty Soon

2008-01-07T15:36:00.000-05:00

Last week it was so cold in Boston that I was actually thinking about taking a trip to Canada to warm up. I’m getting to the point where I would love to move to a place that doesn’t use “layer” as a verb. But that’s exactly what I was doing a few days ago: By the time I was done dressing I looked like Kenny from South Park. It was bad enough that the hood I was wearing left me with no peripheral vision, but it was also pushing down my knit hat over my eyes. In Boston, it’s not safe crossing the street when you have full vision, let alone none. I not only looked like Kenny, but was in jeopardy of being killed like Kenny as well.

Nevertheless, this blog ain’t payin’ the bills, so I boldly pushed open the door to the outside world, ready to face the sub-zero temperatures. What I was not ready for was the hurricane-force wind that pushed me back inside. This was not good. In Boston, one should really be allowed to call in cold. Since that is not yet an option, I had to suck it up and pray that I would not get blown over the bridge I had to cross to get to work lest I be forced to doggie paddle the rest of the way there. On my trek, I passed a girl wearing a skirt and heels and whose legs seemed an odd shade of blue. I couldn’t believe it. There I was looking like Sir Ernest Shackleton leading an Arctic expedition while some chick walking in the same negative-ten-degree weather I was looked like she was trying out to be the next Pussycat Doll. She probably would’ve made it too if it hadn’t been for those blue legs of hers.

I quickly forgot about the poor, poorly-dressed girl with the Smurf legs as I faced the inevitable crossing-of-the-busy-road. I could barely see in front of me, and could see to the left or right only by turning my entire body from side to side. This doesn’t seem so bad until one considers how much movement gets slowed down by huge, puffy, Michelin Man coats. It took a good five seconds for me to swivel to my left and then to my right, in an odd, penguin-like movement, leaving more than enough time for me to meet my demise by Mack truck, or worse, bike messenger (those suckers pedal fast). I was, however, at a crosswalk, which to a Bostonian driver means nothing except the possibility of taking out an ill-informed tourist or two who thinks that one can actually cross at a crosswalk. I was hoping those same tourists would be behind the wheel that day, being the types who actually stop at crosswalks as well. Who needs to gamble in Vegas when you’ve got walking in Boston to get your adrenaline flowing?

No sooner did I stick a trembling foot onto the road, when a car sped up and whizzed by me, horn blaring. I instinctively jumped back and flipped my would-be murderer the bird, which wasn’t very effective in my woolen mitten.

Of course, this week the forecasters predict it’s going to be in the upper 50s, possibly even reaching the 60 degree mark tomorrow afternoon, reminding me of a Lewis Black bit:

“I was in Boston, Massachusetts, and in four days I experienced five seasons. It was 30, it was 60, it was 90, then it was 12, on the last day there was thunder, there was lightning, and there was snow… TOGETHER! And I hadn't done drugs, cause when you're lyin' in bed and you hear thunder outside, and you get up to look, you have an expectation. And it's not snow with lightning behind it. That's fucked up. They don't even write about that weather in the Bible. I imagine if a prophet had seen that kind of crap, after he wiped the poop out of his pants, he'd a told us about it!"

I have seen the type of weather Black has ranted about, and while I haven’t yet soiled my pants because of it, I am convinced that this can only be the coming of the apocalypse. Either that or it’s a sign (just for me) that I really need to move to warmer climes.

New Year's Heave

2008-01-02T22:34:00.000-05:00

On New Year's Eve, I went to a house party hosted by a good friend of mine, who shall remain Belle-less, I mean nameless. We were all sitting around and chatting, having fun playing cards. My friend was having fun pouring us drinks and then spilling them. She would fill up those huge, red Dixie cups to the rim with nice champagne and then hand us a cup, which was really nice of her except she would forget to wait for our hand to take it. Needless to say, by the end of the night, I was on drunk detail, helping my friend out while Mr. Belvedere (vodka) worked his evil ways on her. I didn't really think too much of it--I mean, I only did what any friend would do, and I didn'teven get anything on my shirt. All in all, a pretty successful night.

Last night, though, I got a surprise phone call from the concierge: my friend had flowers delivered to me for coming to her aid. I excitedly walked to my building's front desk to retrieve them. The flowers were beautiful: a combination of pussywillows, bluebells, irises, and white roses. The concierge told me that he had had to beat away women from them with his night stick all day. I told the concierge I approved of violence against women only in this case. There were two such women who happened to be standing by the concierge station at that moment. One of the older-looking women practically swooned when she saw the flowers and started gushing, "Oh! How beautiful! What's the wonderful occasion?"

I took a look at her perfectly coiffed hair, Luis Vuitton purse and Chanel suit. Oh shit. "Oh this? This is a little thank you gift from my friend."

"What a lovely friend you have. That's a gorgeous bouquet--you must have done something great to deserve those flowers?"

I nodded in agreement, "Yes, yes, I most certainly did. My friend got a little tipsy on New Year's. I was on vomit detail all night. I guess she was appreciative her house didn't smell like puke the next day."

The women looked at each other in horror. I just hoped they didn't live in the same building as me. I had thought about lying to them, but I just couldn't do it what with it being the new year and resolutions and what not. I don't need to start out the year with that kind of karma. Getting on your hands and knees and cleaning up other people's messes probably isn't the best way to start out a new year either, but hey, at least I came out smelling like roses.

Temp-er, Temp-er

2007-12-10T22:30:00.000-05:00

The magical thing about temping is that it can be both incredibly boring and interesting at the same time. Today was one of those magical times, starting before I even walked through the door. The company, an investment banking firm, is on the
9th floor, so I confidently walked in the elevator and pressed the number nine button. Contrary to elevator button pressing logic, it did not light up. Of course, I took this as a sign that I've been eating way too many Christmas cookies and decided to get my fat ass off the elevator and take the stairs. When I got to the 9th floor, I pulled hard on the door handle: it did not budge. Panicked, I ran down to the next floor and tried the door. It too was locked.

Visions of explorers, hundreds of years from now, exploring this secret, dormant stairwell and coming upon the really cute bones of a girl clenching a venti caramel frappuccino Starbucks cup in her hand raced through my head. "What a pig," I could imagine them saying to the camera crew. Weirdly enough, the thought of anyone discovering my excessive sweet-coffee-drinking ways was more of an incentive for me to dash down the stairs in search of an open door than the thought of asphyxiation. Thank you, Starbucks! I owe you my life.

Ten minutes later, I had finally gotten settled in to my very important position answering phones at the front desk. I could breathe easy--even if incredibly dull, this job would be a piece of cake. I leaned back in my chair for a nap, only to be woken up seconds later by loud screams coming from the manager's office:
"Aah! I told you to let me know when a fax comes in!"

The door burst open and a very angry looking sales assistant stormed out. "All faxes go to Dave! There's no need to tell you about the faxes!"

"Don't give me that! Don't even start! Just do what I tell you to do!"

No sooner had I avoided almost certain death by stairwell then I was thrown right in the middle of a war zone.

Carl, the manager, not to be outdone, stomped out of his office. He was coming straight for me. I ducked under the desk.

"What are you doing down there?"

Damn. Busted. "Uh... just looking for a pen I'd dropped. Found it!"

"Amy, that's a piece of old gum. Listen, I'm sorry you had to be witness to that. Marlene's leaving tomorrow because of stuff she's pulled here, and apparently she thinks her responsibilities have already ended."

Huh? Was this guy really bitching about his (former) assistant in front of me? A sounding board for executive whining was not on my temp job responsibility list. What an ass.

Luckily, things quieted down enough for me to continue that nap for some time after that. Until Dave showed up to work. Dave was one of those loud, fast-talking financial advisors that had an answer and a (bad) wise-crack for everything. Dave apparently was also one of those guys who lives under rocks. He caught sight of a big gift basket on one of the other advisors' desks and it was all he could talk about for the next hour.

"Well would you look at this! Who sent this?" (Look at the card, Dave.) "Marlene, who sent this?" I was really hoping Marlene would tell him it was the office fairy, but unfortunately Marlene was one of those professional, non-smart-ass types.

Dave then called the person who had sent the basket. "Hey! We got this basket here and I wanted to know how I could order me some baskets to send to my clients." (Look at the label on the basket, Dave. It will tell you the name of the company.) I looked around for that damn non existent pen again so I could shove it up my ear.

Another two hours of silent bliss passed until the excitement of the basket wore off.

"Shit balls! I can't believe those sons of bitches! This is fucked up! Son of a bitch!"

Dave burst out of his office in a flurry of curses; at first I thought that someone had removed the gift basket from the office. Dave grabbed his coat from the closet, pulling the hanger with it. "I'm going home! This is fucked up!" And with that, he walked out the door. It was two o'clock.

Despite my desire to follow Dave out in a blaze of glory, I dutifully finished out the rest of the day. I have never been so refreshed. Of course, I realized as soon as I got home that I'd left my cell phone there. Sadly, I'll have to return tomorrow for the phone in the off-chance that someone should happen to call. I only hope that I make it out of there alive.

Gym Rats

2007-12-02T16:40:00.001-05:00

After a long hiatus, I've recently started frequenting the gym again. And suddenly I remember why I stopped going in the first place: There are a lot of people out there who do not follow proper gym etiquette and/or are just plain weird. I usually try to go either early in the morning or an hour before closing so as to avoid the large crowds, but it seems those are the precise hours that the weird people come out. I also get embarrassed by the excessive amount of sweat that pours off me when I work out. If I so much as lift a finger, sweat goes flying across the room. That and my face breaks out into red and white stripes, causing me to look like I'm going to pass out from a stroke at any second. After a while you just get tired of people coming up to you and saying, "Excuse me, but it looks like you're going to pass out. A tight ass is not worth dying over." Really? Because I thought the whole point of getting healthy was to keel over and die. Nice try, but you're not getting this machine.

This, however, is not as bad as hearing an over-abundance of grunting coming from the person working out next to you. When it is so loud that it drowns out Kelly Clarkson's infectious tunes, it is way too loud.

Of course, even this is not as bad as the person who brings their cell phone to the gym with them. The following conversations are loud and obnoxious and interspersed with many huffs and puffs. I can't even imagine being the person at the other end of that call: "Wait, why are you breathing so hard? Are you watching porn, dude? What? You're working out? Do you want me to call back later?" To which the annoying gym rat cell phone answerer responds, "No! (Huff.) Don't be silly. (Puff.) This is a perfect time to call. Burns more calories this way. Now let's talk about something really personal and private in really loud voices so we can annoy this girl working out next to me. (Grunt.)"

Yesterday, I was on the elliptical machine and a girl jumped on the one next to me. We were the only two people in the gym. Rows and rows of unused ellipticals, far, far away from me were there for her taking, but she chose to plant herself next to me. I am firmly convinced that this was a strategic maneuver so that she could further annoy me by not using the machine properly. I'm not sure what she was doing, but it involved much turning of the pages of the novel she was trying to read, the dropping off the novel she was trying to read, and abrupt stops and starts on the machine. At no time was she in constant motion. I wanted to give her a good push--you know, to get her going, but restrained myself for fear she would then start grunting loudly.

The worst is when you get to the gym and there are no open machines. I usually kill some time doing free weights as I keep a watchful eye on things. Of course, these are the days when everyone has filled up on Red Bull and run for hours. I then face the choice of either continuing with the free weights until my arms fall off, or looking like a jerk and confronting one of the exercisers about their ellipticial-hogging ways. Needless to say, I always end up going the jerk route. I figure if you're going to look like a jerk, might as well look like a jerk with a tight ass.

The Good Samaritan

2007-11-19T23:25:00.000-05:00

As I was walking into town today, I heard a loud “Whomp!” and looked down to see a man splayed out on the sidewalk as if he were about to do cement angels.
The weird thing was that there was no puddle, no ice, no banana peel in sight. What the hell had he slipped on? As I walked toward him, I noticed that he wasn’t making any effort to get up. He had a stunned look on his face as if he too were wondering what the hell he had tripped over to get him to that point. Either that or he was just really, really drunk. I looked around pretending that I didn’t see him, hoping that I wouldn’t trip over him in the process. I am a bad, bad person.

I then came upon one of those Salvation Army Santa Clauses, holding the bright red tin can and jingling his bells. He looked at me; I looked at him. I reached into my pocket, jingled some change, and WALKED MERRILY ON MY WAY. At this point I am pretty sure both Kris Kringle and Hanukkah Harry have a special (hit) list just for me.

Next, a harried-looking woman approached me on the street. “Excuse me…"

I shook my head and continued on my very important quest to find oatmeal raisin cookie ingredients. The situation was bleak. On a scale of 1 to 10 on the evil-o-meter, I was definitely pushing an 8. I had to redeem myself quickly lest I am finally forced to admit that I am no longer an angelic Jersey Girl but a bonafide Boston Bitch.

While I was checking out of the supermarket, I saw my chance. The girl in front of me was about to walk out of the store without putting her cart away.

“Um, excuse me miss!” I yelled after her. She turned around. “Is this cart yours?”

She looked at me blankly. “Um, I don’t know!”

“Well that’s interesting.” Apparently this girl had some sort of supermarket amnesia.
Even though I was not responsible for that cart, I took that sucker and wheeled it back where it belonged. Despite what you may be thinking, there was no trumpets or fanfare, no partying in the streets, no nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize. But that didn’t matter to me, because I had acted selflessly, jumping in to save some poor, over-worked and under-paid grocery store worker from having to put the cart away themself. I no longer felt like a bad, bad person. Of course, some may argue that because I did this to make myself feel better, I was not truly acting selflessly, but I can live with that.

On my way back home, I came upon the Salvation Army guy again. We locked eyes. I reached into my pocket and pulled out everything I got…three pennies and a nickel. I threw it all into the bucket, pennies and all. He nodded at me and I continued on my way. Mother Theresa has nothing on me.

This One's a Turkey

2007-11-19T12:34:00.000-05:00

So my birthday has come and gone, and so far, all my parts are still in place, and I have not received any literature from AARP. So far, so good!

In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I'd write about some fun turkey facts I found last year on the University of Illinois Extension School website(www.urbanext.uiuc.edu/turkey/facts.html). I added some fun "facts" of my own in italics. Happy Turkey Day!

Forty-five million turkeys are eaten each Thanksgiving.

Twenty-two million turkeys are eaten each Christmas.

Nineteen million turkeys are eaten each Easter.

Turkeys love the summer.

Wild turkeys can fly for short distances up to 55 miles per hour.

Wild turkeys can run 20 miles per hour.

Turkeys' heads change colors when they become excited.

Turkeys can see movement almost a hundred yards away.

Turkeys are super heroes.

Gobbling turkeys can be heard a mile away on a quiet day.

Days are not so quiet when a turkey is within a mile of you.

Wild turkeys spend the night in trees. They especially like oak trees.

And oak trees especially like wild turkeys.

Turkey breeding has caused turkey breasts to grow so large that the turkeys fall over.

Turkey breeders laugh a lot.

Israelis eat the most turkeys.....28 pounds per person.

Turkeys are anti-Semites.

Turkeys are related to pheasants.

Turkeys wonder why Americans don't try their equally delicious cousins on Thanksgiving.

Since 1947, the National Turkey Federation has presented a live turkey and two dressed turkeys to the President. The President does not eat the live turkey. He "pardons" it and allows it to live out its days on a historical farm.

George W hopes "Flyer" and "Fryer Turkey" will remember this at the polls.

Lessons from The Wu-Tang

2007-11-16T12:19:00.000-05:00

For two days straight, I have been subjected to music I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. There I am, on the bus trying to read, innocently minding my own business, when some young girl sits down next to me with her ipod on full blast. Not only that, but she is listening to The Backstreet Boys (don’t ask me how I know this). I turn to look at her, hoping she will notice the disgust on my face, but she is bopping her head around a la Stevie Wonder, eyes closed, fingers snapping to Larger Than Life (don’t ask me how I know this).

At this point, I’m really annoyed. I have read the same damn sentence tweny times, and I’d really like to move on. I oh-so-subtly stick a finger in my right ear, not to drown out the noise, which at volume 11 was a futile effort, but to show this girl how her music was affecting my Freakonomics reading pleasure.

I sneaked another look in her direction, but she was either oblivious to my suffering, or a real jack ass, because I swear the music level went up a notch, if it’s even possible to go up past 11.

The next day, another girl with another ipod sat down next to me, ipod blasting. Apparently this is no longer a rare annoyance but a full-blown epidemic. This girl, a pale, white thing with frizzy hair and unflattering glasses (meow!) was playing—and I swear I’m not making this up—The Wu-Tang Clan.

This time I looked at the girl not in disgust, but in pure amazement. There was no way that this plain Jane girl with the Buddy Holly glasses, who looked to be barely 24, was listening to Wu-Tang. Was she trying to intimidate me? Oh hellz no! She was messing with the wrong biotch. I would show her who’s a punk. I would grab hold of that frizzy, mousy brown hair…

Light tap on the shoulder. “Um, excuse me, would you mind turning it down a bit? It’s a little loud.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry,” she whispered, and turned down the music.

I could now hear crickets chirping outside. Aw yeah, this is what I’m tawkin’ about, biotch--you don't mess wit me! ‘Cause when I come I bring the ruckus, famous Ames ain’t nuttin’ to fuck wit.

The Final Countdown

2007-11-11T23:05:00.003-05:00

The countdown is on: only one more week of life in my twenties. I have to say, the general public is doing a fantastic job of helping me through the transition. Just the other day, I was walking through Boston Common and got called “ma’am” not once, but twice. I actually looked around both times, as if surely they must have been addressing some old grandma behind me on a walker, but no, they were staring straight at me, smiling and holding out some petition they wanted me to sign. I told them that sadly my old arthritic hands could no longer hold a pen, otherwise I would be glad to help out the young whipper snappers.

The week before, I had stopped into my former office to meet up with a friend, and introduced myself to the young woman who had replaced me. She looked at me and said, “Wow, I thought the person before me was young like me.” I was shocked. Just how old did this bitch think I was? Maybe I need to stop sunning on my deck all summer. But damn it, how else am I going to enjoy my pina coladas? Pina coladas are meant to be enjoyed lying half-naked in the hot sun. That’s just the way it is, and if that’s so wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

In a city where the average age is twenty-six, I’ve had some time to get used to the idea that I’m ancient. The funny thing is though, I don’t feel like I’m about to turn thirty. Twenty-nine, maybe, but not thirty.

When I turned the ripe-old age of twenty-one, my best friend gave me a birthday card that read, “Old friends are the best friends.” Having had twenty-one drinks to go along with my twenty-one years that night (Just kidding! It was only twenty), I completely misinterpreted the card and thought that my bitch of a best friend was telling me I was old. I started crying and wailing, “I am old!” at which point, my friends threw me in a cold shower and I promptly passed out. The one good thing about passing out in the bath tub is that you're one step ahead of the game the next morning.

I guess the point is that age is subjective. It’s true that you’re only as old as you feel. I mean, look at Hugh Hefner. The man is like 100 and he’s surrounded by beautiful blondes, partying it up every other day of the week. I only hope that I can make it that long and that I will look and feel as good when I’m that age. If not, I always have my pina coladas. Funny how a little coconut, pineapple, and rum can delude you into thinking life is good like that.

And Another Lostie Bites the Dust

2007-11-07T23:14:00.000-05:00

Daniel Dae Kim, otherwise known as “Jin” to Lost fans, is now the fourth Lost cast member to be arrested for a traffic violation. Six other Lost actors have been cited. Citizens of Hawaii, I implore you to start posting signs alerting drivers to the impending danger on your roads:

Oh yeah, and Jin, you are such a goner. The three others who were arrested before you? Libby and Ana Lucia died from bullet wounds and Mr. Eko from the smoke monster. I have to say, you were really nice to look at, but the sub-titles were getting pretty annoying.

Me and my Buddy Phil Collins

2007-11-04T21:57:00.001-05:00

So recently a friend of mine was trying to sell two extra tickets he had to a Genesis concert. Now, I will admit, Genesis and sexy Brit Phil Collins had once invisibly touched me...when I was twelve years old, but the magic has worn off a bit since their Su-su-sudio days (did anyone ever figure out what the hell a sudio is by the way?).

I didn't want the tix, but I wanted to help him out, so I texted my ex boyfriend in the hopes that he might want to buy them. Sadly, he had work to do so couldn't go. Now why going to see an over-the-hill eighties band that performed such hits as "Abacab" and "The Carpet Crawlers" does not serve as a legitimate excuse to skip out of work, I don't know. We are in a Land of Confusion indeed.

So the following week, my ex texted me to ask how the concert was. I hadn't actually gone, but decided to have some fun with it, because, well, he is my ex and any chance one has to fuck with one's ex must be exercised at all times. I texted him back, saying, "concert was gr8. Phil invited me backstage! Partied like rock star all nite." To which I got in reply, "Really? What's his poison?" I couldn't believe he had actually bought it. I thought that Phil looked like a whiskey kind of guy, so I answered, "Blue Label. I was drinking Cristal." I mean if I'm going to be fake drinking, I might as well go all out, right?

I didn't get a response for a couple of days, so I decided to take the joke one step further. I emailed my ex a couple of photos from my after-hours craziness with Phil. The first picture (and my personal favorite), with the caption "Me, Phil, and a bottle of Cristal":

Notice how I was able to subtly transpose an image of myself onto another (larger) woman's body, and how convincingly the bottle of Cristal floats in the air.

The second picture I actually had a friend of mine Photoshop. The caption read, "Things got a little out-of-control after polishing off the alcohol...":

I waited giddily for his response. I couldn't wait to read his reaction to believing I had actually been whooping it up with Mr. Collins. Finally, I saw the email I'd been waiting for in my inbox. So what does my brilliant ex respond with?

"I totally thought that "reallivemoms.com" was an advertisement for MILF porn."

Heh?? After a few more email exchanges, I finally figured out that he had skipped my email entirely and responded to a link advertising creating online family photo albums--one of those hotmail ad inserts that shows up at the bottom of email messages sometimes (Make your little one a shining star! Shine on!.

Big bummer. Not only did he not get the joke, but, more disturbingly, he misinterpreted an ad for creating an online baby photo album for cougar porn. The problem with practical jokes is that they only work on people who have a clue. (Not that I'm bitter or anything.) Luckily, I had some Genesis' tunes on my ipod to lift my spirits. It did the trick. I turned the volume as high as it'd go and let The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway rip (did anyone ever figure out what the hell that lamb was doing on Broadway in the first place by the way?)

How to Make Time Stand Still

2007-11-03T01:14:00.000-04:00

Technorati Profile
For the past two days I’ve been temping for a company and I can’t even tell you what I’ve been doing. I think it has something to do with copying and pasting text from one Word document to another Word document, but I could have that backwards. What I do know is that time actually slowed down to a point where I became so alarmed that I was contemplating calling whoever watches over the Greenwich Mean Time to alert them to the situation. It was like I had been cast in a horror movie: a freakish cross between Ground Hog Day and Office Space that had no beginning, middle, or end in sight.

The office was a sea of cubicles as far as the eye could see. If the tediousness of the job didn’t actually drive me to the loony bin, the soft, yellow-green glow of the flourescent lights certainly made me think I was already in one. I felt like a rat in a maze trying to find the person I was supposed to report to. Whenever I wandered into the wrong cubicle, someone would kindly give me directions to “the white cubicle at the end of the hall,” of which there were twenty.

I tried to go into my happy place, but the inane office chatter kept bringing me back to reality. Unfortunately, I had an unwitting hand in my own undoing for my fondness of McDonald’s and the chocolatey goodness that is their milkshakes. Oh sweet, sweet nectar you are my heaven and hell. Being the conscientious temp that I am, I threw the bag out in the trash can located in the break room. Apparently, that was some sort of friggin’ big deal. I heard no less than three separate conversations about the presence of my McDonald’s bag in the trash for the next TWO HOURS:

“Heeeey…so who went to the Micky Dee’s? Someone need a little afternoon pick-me-up?”

“Whoa ho ho! McDonald’s! The Mick to the D! Who needed the fast food fix?”

“Someone went to McDonald’s I see… Funny, no one appears to be going into cardiac arrest…”

I slouched down low in my chair. It was like the owner of the McDonald’s bag had become a modern-day mystery to rival that of the Bermuda Triangle, crop circles, and Donald Trump's hair. I wasn’t sure what would happen if someone were to discover my deep, dark Chicken Selects loving secret, but I was sure it would involve a lot more discussion and my time was devoted exclusively to whatever the hell it was I was supposed to be doing.

Five thirty could not come fast enough. Despite my thoughts to the contrary, I did not shove a pencil up my ear at any time during my shifts. I did feel somewhat satisfied that I discovered the secret to stopping time; the only hitch now is finding out how to stop time in a place that doesn’t involve monkey work, cubicles, and controversial lunches.

It's Tool Time!

2007-10-31T23:36:00.003-04:00

I think that I must look like a fun project to lame-ass men, because all the tools in the tool kit seem to gravitate towards me. After several months, I finally broke my involuntary resolution not to go out with men and agreed to meet up with a guy I’d just met for a few drinks.

Of course, I missed a few red flags along the way, the first being his website I came across when I accidentally googled his first and last name. The website was selling his services as a motivational speaker, or rather, “word artist” as I believe he asked to be called (since when did "motivational speaker" become politcally incorrect?). Unfortunately, I had pumped my volume setting up to “11” when I opened up the page—porno muzak blared from my speakers, and both couples who had just taken a seat next to me in the coffee shop suddenly remembered they all had appointments far, far away from me. Great. Where was I going to find another Starbucks in town? Even worse, gems such as “Happiness is not chance, but a choice” littered the page. If he was a word artist, then he was a really bad one. Like so bad they could have created a Museum of Bad Word Art that just displayed his website. I know, I know, I’m such the word art snob.

Despite this, I boldly set out to meet the man I was pretty sure I was not going to like. A girl’s got to drink, right? In his website profile, he compared himself to an amusement park ride—something about how experiencing him was the same as riding a roller coaster—so I made sure not to eat anything before-hand as I didn’t want to do a repeat performance of that time I took a spin on Space Mountain right after lunch. Let me tell you, those people below me were none too pleased I chose to have a sausage with all the fixins that day.

Our conversation started as most do: very awkwardly and with lots of “umms” and “likes” and “oh-fuck-I-shouldn’t-have-admitted-I-watch-Oprahs” sprinkled throughout. Things were actually pretty OK until he started to tell a story.
“Now before I begin,” he said, (rather dramatically), “I want to tell you that I label everyone for the benefit of the listener. For instance, if I were to tell you a story about my friend Bob, you’d forget his name immediately afterwards. But if Bob was one of my four best friends, who I call the four horsemen, I would call him "the horseman" when talking about him so that you would remember him better.”

I sat up straighter in my chair. “The four horsemen? Like of the apocalypse? Why do I need to remember his name anyway? Is there going to be a pop quiz later? Do I need to run out and get a #2 pencil?”

Ignoring my questions, my date went into a story about one of his four horsemen; he must have referenced this horseman at least 100 times throughout the story. I tried to keep a straight face whenever he mentioned his friend, the horseman, but I couldn’t help a little smile creeping out every now and then. I’m sure I looked constipated.

After another painful conversation about how he was going to save the world by becoming a lawyer, it was finally time to go. This guy had actually made me look forward to taking Boston’s public transit. As I sat on the T, gazing out the window and reflecting on yet another lame date, I began to cheer up at the story I could surely tell about it. And, in the spirit of the guy who has a label for everyone, I have decided to label my date “Tool” to make it easier on you, my dear reader, so that you may remember him long after the four horsemen of the apocalypse have destroyed all of mankind, and hopefully all word art as well.

Happy Whore-oween!

2007-10-30T23:56:00.000-04:00

Somehow, the porn industry has gotten ahold of what used to be a children’s holiday. Searching the net for a costume leaves me with little choice but to shell out a lot of money for not a lot of fabric. Now the naughty cat, the naughty pirate, the naughty devil I can understand, but the naughty nun? The naughty angel? The naughty…Amish woman? I might as well go to the downtown pimp and ho shop and save myself the shipping and handling.

I finally came across a costume that looked both cute and cool: the evil nurse from Kill Bill Volume I. It even came with a little white eye patch--I had to have it! It only came in three sizes: small, medium, and large. I ordered the small with some hesitation as the small claimed to fit anyone from a size 2 to size 8. Two weeks later, my costume arrived in the mail. I excitedly pulled from the box what looked to be an over-sized T-shirt.

‘Hmm, that’s strange,’ I thought to myself, ‘From the picture it looked like she was wearing a dress.' Packing peanuts went flying as I tried in vain to find the non-existent matching skirt. There was no getting around it: that T-shirt was my entire outfit.

‘Well, it can’t be that bad. Maybe it looks more revealing than it actually is.’ I quickly slipped the shirt over my head and looked in the mirror. The presence of my butt cheeks quickly confirmed that the outfit was indeed as revealing as it looked.

As I was going to a good friend’s house party and not, thankfully, going out about the town, I went to The Gap and bought a pair of white, boy-cut underwear and called it a night. It wasn’t until I decided to play a round of pool at the party when the shortness of the outfit actually came into play. Unbelievably, I couldn’t figure out why a crowd of guys would suddenly appear to watch whenever I had a particularly hard shot across the table I had to lean into. One of the guys’ girlfriends quickly filled me in.

I shudder to think what the onslaught of recent celebrity bad behavior will add to this year’s ho down. I can just imagine some chick walking into the party as Lindsay Lohan, wearing only a string bikini and shades, or perhaps Britney Spears’ a la the too-tight short-shorts and bustier she wore to the MTV Video Music Awards, or, horror upon horrors, her over-exposed vajayjay, which seems to be becoming more of a star than the pop princess herself.

I’m not sure exactly how and when Halloween became such a whore fest, but I for one would like to bring it back to the innocent days of my youth, where I could throw a simple sheet over my head, walk out blindly into the pitch dark, throw out everything I had been taught and take candy from strangers. Remember how fun that was? No? Well can we at least bring back the popcorn balls people? I need something to distract myself from the fact that my “naughty” costume is riding up my ass.

Stealing Booty

2007-10-30T09:09:00.003-04:00

Stealing Booty

Unfortunately for me, I had the bad luck of being a teenager before the word "bootylicious" became part of the American lexicon.

I first discovered I had an ample rear end when my older sister, after suffering a particularly hard loss of "Candyland" to me, said, "You have a big butt."

Of course, being five, the news didn't bother me. My sisters liked to use my bottom as a head rest when watching TV, and I only had to pretend penitence when being punished for stealing cookies out of the cookie jar: my bum conveniently functioned as a protective barrier against spankings.

It wasn't until I was in my teens that having a bubble butt became the source of embarrassment. I started to run 4 miles a day in a feeble attempt to lose the bulge, but my butt stubbornly kept pace. I could feel it jiggling behind me, swaying up and down and side to side; despite my attempts to lose it in a cloud of dust, my booty was actually enjoying the ride.

I wore loose-fitting dresses in an effort to disguise my disformity, but it was like trying to hide the Empire State Building by throwing a washcloth over it. I became an expert at walking with my butt to the walls in school, although when I side-swiped a trash can outside the chem lab with my left butt cheek, I decided that my "drastic" situation called for a drastic measure, lest I inadvertently make my HS a dumping ground to rival that of the Meadowlands.

I soon made an appointment with a local cosmetic surgeon to liposuction the fat out of my butt. He told me that once the fat cells were removed, they would never grow back. I took one last, hard look at my rear end, turned to the doctor, and said, "Do you have anything you could give me for a sore neck?" After he supplied me with some Tylenol, I gave him the go-ahead to sculpt my butt into something less resembling a bubble.

On the day of my surgery, the doctor and his assistant had me undress and marked my butt up with lines and arrows that reminded me of one of John Madden's light-pen diagrams. The anesthesiologist inserted the needle into the back of my hand (a very uncomfortable and weird place for a needle to be, in my opinion), and I promptly succombed to the drugs.

When I awoke, I was freezing. My body trembled, as if in mourning for my ass. Even though I was black and blue and had six more weeks of recovery before I would fully be able to enjoy my new bum, I felt as if a weight had been lifted off of me. Indeed, the doctor most likely sucked up about 8-10 pounds worth of fat from each cheek, if not a ton.

Now, ten years later, as I sit typing on my still small but shapely derriere, I can honestly say I have no regrets. In fact, my self-confidence soared as a result of the surgery. No longer was I self-conscious--I proudly walked in a straight line as opposed to the odd side-step of my youth.

Of course, butt augmentation is at an all-time high now, and what once was considered an embarrassing feature is now a valued asset, but I finally learned to love my body, and that to me, is worth all the booty in the world. I've learned that beauty is subjective, and that there is no ideal, as it constantly changes. Beauty is cyclical: what goes around, comes around.

I'm now excitedly awaiting the time when jiggly underarms become all the rage. Until then, I will raise my arm, jiggly underside and all, and defiantly give the one-finger-salute to anyone who has a problem with my body, because it is mine, and it is beautiful.

Boston: You Can Visit, But Don't Expect Us To Like It

2007-10-30T09:09:00.002-04:00

It seems that whenever I am entertaining an out-of-town guest, some asshole does something incredibly rude to perpetuate the myth that Boston is a hostile territory.*
For instance, today when I was having lunch with one of my oldest and dearest friends from Bombay, Vik, our waitress handed me the bill--while I was taking a bite of my sandwich.

“Uh, we actually aren’t done yet,” I said through a mouthful of hamburger (my mom would have been so ashamed), “We wanted a coffee as well.”

Our waitress quickly ran in back and brought out two mugs of what looked to be milk with a splash of coffee. She then brought us the check, which Vik kindly paid for: a thirty dollar bill that she paid for with two twenties.

“Do you want change?” our waitress asked.

I nervously glanced at my friend, who could be rather outspoken at times. To her credit, she did not respond with, “I’d like a change of attitude, you greedy whore,” but rather with a polite, but shocked, “Of course!”

Vik, kind person that she is, then went into her luggage to retrieve a gift for me.

“What are you doing?!” the waitress snapped.

I again nervously glanced at my friend. I could actually see the steam rising out of her head.

“I’m getting a present out of my luggage for my friend! Do you mind?”

To which the waitress retorted, “This isn’t your home!”

At this point, I was sure we were being punked. I looked around for cameras and Ashton Kutcher’s smiling, doofy face, but alas, all I saw were two pissed off chicks.
Vik, enraged, took back the tip she had left on the table.

The waitress laughed. “Oh, like I care about five dollars?” This waitress was obviously not familiar with Ben or Jerry and their tasty ice cream. Five dollars could get you a whole pint!

Unbelievably, we managed to make it out of there alive, although the lunch had been spoiled. It’s been about eight hours since I ate there, and so far, so good. I’m going to hold out hope that we did not receive any special cream in our coffee.

On another occasion, I was entertaining two friends from New York at a local bar. It was during the seventh game of the World Series: Marlins versus Yankees. My friends had no sooner expressed how much they were enjoying the bar, when a loud chorus of “Yankees suck! Yankees suck!” filled the air. The bartenders were passing out free shots to everyone and effigies of Derek Jeter were being burned at the stake; my friends looked on in stunned silence. The Marlins had just beaten the Yankees, and Red Sox fans always enjoy it when the Yankees get a beating, even if it isn’t by their hands.

“We hate this bar,” my friends muttered not two seconds after they were about to buy the joint.

“Heh, heh,” I nervously laughed. “You wouldn’t have by any chance driven into the city?”

My friends looked at each other in confusion, “Yes, why?”

“Oh dear. Does your car have NY plates?”

Confusion giving way to mounting fear. “Yes! Of course! We live in New York!”

I clutched at my heart. “Did you park in a garage?”

Now sheer panic. “No! We found street parking! We’re New Yorkers, what, like we’re going to pay to park? Fuggedaboudit!”

“Well, you can sure fuggedaboud finding your car in one piece. That poor car is going to look like Britney Spears got a hold of it by the time you reach it. Never underestimate how much Bostonians hate the Yankees.”

Luckily, they got away with only a few minor key scratches, but it could have been much, much worse. Now whenever my friends visit from out of town, I preface their visits by playing up the city’s sometimes rude behavior, like it’s a fun tourist attraction: Behold! The crankiest city on earth! If you want a coffee with a smile you can just fuggedaboudit. Now get the hell out of my blog!

*Author’s note: This is true only if one is a Yankees fan.