So…the best month of the year has finally arrived in a hot New York minute bringing with it from the West for a visit, my fabulous little sister, my even more fabulous Mumsy and along with it…all three of our birthdays…yes that’s right, three birthdays, three women, one month!
We’ve got Mama That Girl setting the tone with a July, 7th arrival to the planet, followed secondly by lil’ sis at July 15th and lastly, Moi, two weeks late with complications, arriving precisely when I meant to on July 30th. The spread couldn’t have been planned any better!
I came out of the womb with a big “fuck you” after 28 hours of labor (my poor mother) and nearly died; peace out mom! I was kept in an incubator for a week before I decided to stop being stubborn and live. The irony and hilarity in this is that I nearly died because I swallowed my own fecal matter and breathed it into my lungs, nearly drowning in my own poo…basically I ate shit.
Person: “Eat Shit!”
Me: “Funny, I already have.”
Now, just incase you aren’t convinced that July is the best month ever formulated out of twelve, I have listed off a semi-unbiased collection of other great things about this month!
1. Mid-Summer BBQ’s! Forecast says: “The weather will definitely be warm.” No May wishy-washiness, June adjustments and dreaded August infernos; summer is prime!
2. July 4th! Hot Dogs, Beer, Fireworks, Friends…Can life get better!?
3. Pools, Beaches, Large Bodies of Water…bikinis!
4. Stars and Stripes…just saying!
5. Sunset at 9pm…coming out of work at six and still being able to chill in the sun for a couple hours!
6. Eating birthday cake all month long!! This one is bias.
7. Coronas!
8. Sunburns, Tans and Freckles!
9. Juillet 14th-French Independence day…I’m stretching but we set a Democratic example! ☺
10. Melting Ice Cream cones and...my birth!
So sit back and bask in the glow of summer warmth with a margarita in hand and revel in July-ness; may your month rock as much as mine will!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Whale Backs and Anchors
So…I’m chatting it up with one of my New York bestests and top five, my “bunny,” as I love to call her, about a conversation she overheard two guys having the previous night. Something along the lines of how in every crew of girls on a night out there is an anchor among them; the one who is probably packing 150 plus and wearing something she shouldn’t be, the one who no amounts of make-up can salvage, the one with insecurities and low self-esteem that tries to bring the group down and cock-blocks at any chance of an incoming male threatening to swoon away one of the flock…that isn’t herself. My bunny’s interpretation of the term, I quote, “A Broad-Back Brute.”
Ironically that same night I had an old, lost-touch-with-over-the-years-but-now-you-live-in-NY-lets-reconnect
can-I-visit-you-and make-you-baby-sit-me friend coming into town to stay with me for two nights. The kind of stingy ass girl from the woods who still tries to pass off glitter as makeup and thinks wearing a black t-shirt, army green cargo Capri pants, a neon green headband and platform flip-flops is dressing up for a New York club night. The girl who expects you to show her around and makes no plans of her own; she has no inkling to try and look presentable on a night out, yet expects you to manage getting her, her two out-of-town friends and their boyfriends into nightclubs all night because they want to go dancing! Needy leeches off your time; regardless of anything else you might have planned and talks to no one when I introduce her to my NY friends. Needy tries to make you feel guilty and brings down the group when you suggest things to do, because she doesn’t want to pay for liquor!
Now I’m usually pretty nice and try to work out these situations as sweetly as possible, but I realize there is no way I am getting Needy into a club, there is no way Needy will want to spend money on anything and you know…there is a time when a girl reaches her breaking point and That Girl comes out of me.
Needy…Get your self-in, buy your own drinks, or go sit on the pier with the other bums sipping a cheap-ass can of PBR that you might be able to afford! Who comes to NY on vacation with no money to spend!! Buy some heels!! Do your hair!! Whale back, broad back...Anchor!!
Maybe those boys had a point.
Ironically that same night I had an old, lost-touch-with-over-the-years-but-now-you-live-in-NY-lets-reconnect
can-I-visit-you-and make-you-baby-sit-me friend coming into town to stay with me for two nights. The kind of stingy ass girl from the woods who still tries to pass off glitter as makeup and thinks wearing a black t-shirt, army green cargo Capri pants, a neon green headband and platform flip-flops is dressing up for a New York club night. The girl who expects you to show her around and makes no plans of her own; she has no inkling to try and look presentable on a night out, yet expects you to manage getting her, her two out-of-town friends and their boyfriends into nightclubs all night because they want to go dancing! Needy leeches off your time; regardless of anything else you might have planned and talks to no one when I introduce her to my NY friends. Needy tries to make you feel guilty and brings down the group when you suggest things to do, because she doesn’t want to pay for liquor!
Now I’m usually pretty nice and try to work out these situations as sweetly as possible, but I realize there is no way I am getting Needy into a club, there is no way Needy will want to spend money on anything and you know…there is a time when a girl reaches her breaking point and That Girl comes out of me.
Needy…Get your self-in, buy your own drinks, or go sit on the pier with the other bums sipping a cheap-ass can of PBR that you might be able to afford! Who comes to NY on vacation with no money to spend!! Buy some heels!! Do your hair!! Whale back, broad back...Anchor!!
Maybe those boys had a point.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
My Cat Shits Boo
So…I’m kind of a cat lady. No, not one of those old hags with a hump, cobweb hair, a crochet addiction and a full mantle display of dusty kitten china plates, who smells of stale urine and hobbles around a mess of seventeen cats, only eventually to get the ASPCA called on her. I’ve still got a few years to go for that status, but I get cats.
Really, I’m down with most fuzzy creatures and enjoy their company, until they become needy, attention whores that need frequent care. Hence, why I enjoy an animal that is self-sustainable, self-entertained, mysterious, kind of weird, gives you love when it feels like it, needs only good food, fresh water and a clean toilet; a laid back, low maintenance animal that behaves…like me.
I have a cat. I found him as a tiny wad of black fluff with a broken tail and spooky eyes, one blue, one green, underneath a car in an AMC movie theatre parking lot four years ago. Tiny, malnourished and covered in fleas, I took him home and named him Boo. It was a week before Halloween; I thought the name suited him.
Flash forward to present day NY and his four year old fat-ass is sprawled across the foot of my bed while I’m typing and he is giving me a look of “what’s your problem?” This is a common look from him. Most days Boo is a strange, normal cat that does normal cat things like shed black fur all over my white clothes, stick his butt in peoples faces, claw my couch into ornate shreds, and make all my friends sick with wonderful allergens, but there are days when his oddities are so hilarious and human-like that I realize I couldn’t miss a day without him, like the day I heard Boo grunting as he pooped.
Now, I have heard and read many funny man stories about public bathrooms with raging man grunts coming from next stall and about men reading the newspaper while dropping the kids off at the pool, but reality for me is, I’m not a grunter and I was under the impression that most females, in general, aren’t. So leaving the ideas of men and their heave-ho poos to be urban legend, I have happily proceeded in my life grunt-free…never to believe my cat would shatter my blissful ignorance completely.
I have a cat. I found him as a tiny wad of black fluff with a broken tail and spooky eyes, one blue, one green, underneath a car in an AMC movie theatre parking lot four years ago. Tiny, malnourished and covered in fleas, I took him home and named him Boo. It was a week before Halloween; I thought the name suited him.
Flash forward to present day NY and his four year old fat-ass is sprawled across the foot of my bed while I’m typing and he is giving me a look of “what’s your problem?” This is a common look from him. Most days Boo is a strange, normal cat that does normal cat things like shed black fur all over my white clothes, stick his butt in peoples faces, claw my couch into ornate shreds, and make all my friends sick with wonderful allergens, but there are days when his oddities are so hilarious and human-like that I realize I couldn’t miss a day without him, like the day I heard Boo grunting as he pooped.
Now, I have heard and read many funny man stories about public bathrooms with raging man grunts coming from next stall and about men reading the newspaper while dropping the kids off at the pool, but reality for me is, I’m not a grunter and I was under the impression that most females, in general, aren’t. So leaving the ideas of men and their heave-ho poos to be urban legend, I have happily proceeded in my life grunt-free…never to believe my cat would shatter my blissful ignorance completely.
Whilst getting ready for work one day in my bathroom, doing girly things, putting on make-up,smelling nice…I heard a faint exhale and then a…”eeeeeeeeehhhhhhhehhhhhh
Now I know the man-grunt myth to be true not only for man, but also for his animal counterpart and since then, I line Boo’s box with newspaper and give him all the privacy he needs. So get down with your bad self Boo…you rock…you and your poo.
1st day off the streets
It's My BOO in a BOX!Monday, June 9, 2008
Please Fuck at a Decent Hour
To my upstairs neighbor and tenant of apartment 3A…please, please I beg you…cease the continual six a.m. sexual escapades that drive your lady friend into an orgasmic frenzy of screaming as if you are killing her every morning! Chances are, she is faking you into a state of bliss that causes you to make this a morning ritual and perform the same act EVERY MORNING!!
Maybe, you could even go one step further and nail your bed into the wall! You must be aware of the fact that below your bedroom another type of living space exists and is inhabited; this space would be where I in fact, sleep and am awoken night after night by the terrifying pleasure screams of your significant lay! Let me tell you, nothing is better than jolting out of a peaceful slumber to the hi-def sounds of you jack hammering your girlfriend’s head and bed frame into the wall! I would like to send her a sympathy helmet to protect her brain from the irreparable damage you are implementing on her skull!
Kudos to you neighbor for your repetitive ability to get your jollies off and attempt at hers…but just so you know my wailing six a.m. wake-up call is less than appreciated and I will be more than happy to return the favor in the near future! Shall we say 4:30 a.m.?
Maybe, you could even go one step further and nail your bed into the wall! You must be aware of the fact that below your bedroom another type of living space exists and is inhabited; this space would be where I in fact, sleep and am awoken night after night by the terrifying pleasure screams of your significant lay! Let me tell you, nothing is better than jolting out of a peaceful slumber to the hi-def sounds of you jack hammering your girlfriend’s head and bed frame into the wall! I would like to send her a sympathy helmet to protect her brain from the irreparable damage you are implementing on her skull!
Kudos to you neighbor for your repetitive ability to get your jollies off and attempt at hers…but just so you know my wailing six a.m. wake-up call is less than appreciated and I will be more than happy to return the favor in the near future! Shall we say 4:30 a.m.?
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Happy Hallmark Holiday # 7,084,329,384,957 It’s Mother’s Day!
So…another Hallmarked Holiday approaches and I have yet to spend my year’s savings on a pair of illegal crystallized carbon earrings or on fragrant, bottled liquid gold to validate my love for my mother. Isn’t her love for me supposed to be unconditional? Since when do I have to sell my kidney on the black market to afford a “decent” present to display my appreciation and love for her? When have meaningless material things replaced good ol’ fashioned homemade cards created out of love, sweat, tears, cardstock, crayons and glue sticks? What about those soft, colorful flowers created by hand out of intertwined pipe cleaner and tissue paper? Who cares about farmed roses that wilt in four days...pipe cleaner stands time!
In truth, I accidentally called Mom a Sunday too early and spouted “I miss you, I love you, I’ve been so busy, Happy Mum Day” sonnets, only to have her call me a few hours later that day laughing, calling me a dork and telling me that “Mother’s Day is next Sunday silly! Hahaha, I love you!” Yes...I suck as a daughter.
Now, having an extra week to decide on a love token because I’m an idiot, I perused sappy cards with gooey words and poems, I thought about 1-800-Flowers, I even took a gander online and thought to myself “What could I buy her that she doesn’t already have?” Then the buzzer went off in my head...EEEEEEEHHHH! All wrong answers; A gift should always just come from the heart, not be forced out of me by trick of clever marketing schemes. I had fallen victim to this hallmark day and an accompanying feeling of guilt at not sending my mother a happy, shiny gift.
To be fair, my mother is less than impressed by extravagant crap gifts spouting fountains of golden love showers; she is beyond touched by the more meaningful and thought intensive displays.
So, I have decided to regress back to my youthful days of scrawling “I Love You Mom” across a sheet of crunchy, bright blue construction paper with pudgy fingers and a Crayola Marker. Along with this, adult me will (have) put together a compellation of digital photos and videos of us together over the past few years into a fun DVD format for her viewing pleasure…may she tear up and smile!
Of course…this will all be late and definitely will not arrive on time for an early, crisp spring morning, Sunday read, however I am confident that regardless, my Mother will still love me and all my inadequacies at calling too early and at sending a gift too late…after all it is the thought that ultimately counts…not the gift.
In truth, I accidentally called Mom a Sunday too early and spouted “I miss you, I love you, I’ve been so busy, Happy Mum Day” sonnets, only to have her call me a few hours later that day laughing, calling me a dork and telling me that “Mother’s Day is next Sunday silly! Hahaha, I love you!” Yes...I suck as a daughter.
Now, having an extra week to decide on a love token because I’m an idiot, I perused sappy cards with gooey words and poems, I thought about 1-800-Flowers, I even took a gander online and thought to myself “What could I buy her that she doesn’t already have?” Then the buzzer went off in my head...EEEEEEEHHHH! All wrong answers; A gift should always just come from the heart, not be forced out of me by trick of clever marketing schemes. I had fallen victim to this hallmark day and an accompanying feeling of guilt at not sending my mother a happy, shiny gift.
To be fair, my mother is less than impressed by extravagant crap gifts spouting fountains of golden love showers; she is beyond touched by the more meaningful and thought intensive displays.
So, I have decided to regress back to my youthful days of scrawling “I Love You Mom” across a sheet of crunchy, bright blue construction paper with pudgy fingers and a Crayola Marker. Along with this, adult me will (have) put together a compellation of digital photos and videos of us together over the past few years into a fun DVD format for her viewing pleasure…may she tear up and smile!
Of course…this will all be late and definitely will not arrive on time for an early, crisp spring morning, Sunday read, however I am confident that regardless, my Mother will still love me and all my inadequacies at calling too early and at sending a gift too late…after all it is the thought that ultimately counts…not the gift.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Yeah...I'm That Girl
There is a girl on the Manhattan bound 7 train. Mouth agape, her glazed over, spaced out gaze burns holes into a Jameson advertisement that reads, “Maybe people like Jameson because the ads give you something to stare at when you don’t know where to look.” It is apparent this ad facilitates just that, as her vacant stare registers nothing and she wanders off into her imagination somewhere to get tangled in a web of her own thoughts and grey matter. The headphones glued into her skull appear to be the only connection into her reality. This girl is me.
At that moment I was probably trying to brew up clever quips to dazzle readers with for my first blog, but when tuning back into the mainstream frequency to find the old man across from me giving me back the same blank, open-mouthed stare, I wiped the drool off my chin and realized this is the best I’ve got; a list of my oddities that fuel my purpose of this blog.
I am:
-That girl that loves to write A LOT…about nothing…like Seinfeld…in written form…with out cool characters…or a boyfriend with a name that rhymes with a male body part.
-That girl with too many scattered thoughts in her head to formulate one clear sentence that relates to a common topic.
-That girl that stays up late by mistake, always with the intention to get up early and ultimately fails every time...it is 3:57a.m right now.
-That girl who is fashionably late…most of the time…and sometimes fashionably dressed.
-That girl who blast her electronic, hard bassed music WAY too loud.
-That girl who talks about inappropriate subjects and the most inopportune moments.
-That girl that is hard on everyone and hardest on herself.
-That girl that swears entirely too much…you may still manage to take her home to Mom...sometime…well maybe never…I’m still single.
-The girl with infinite belief that I can create and accomplish anything in my life…work in progress.
-That girl who will not only tell you ‘you have something in your teeth,’ but will help you pick it out if need be.
-That girl who loves cats…and astrology…what’s your sign? It’s totally relevant!!
-That girl that loves foreign men yet hates that they are notoriously shitty tippers…and that they eventually always leave the country…to live…permanently.
-That girl that hates drinking so much…yet works in a bar…as a bartender…serving drinks...to myself.
-That girl that finds it hilarious that no one ever talks on the subway, yet shifts uncomfortably when someone stares or flashes me a toothy grin.
-That girl who will say, talk, write, comment on just about ANY topic regardless of its subject matter...I have a lot to say...stay tuned.
-That girl, who uses untidy, poorly constructed short sentences and worse overall syntax and diction to formulate masterpieces worthy of this blog…that I heart…very much.
You have probably run into me before, or at least a version of said-type female. That girl that caused you to lean over to a friend and whisper or sparked a ‘note-to-self’ moment, then you roll your eyes, tilt your head and say “Oh, your one of those girls!”
It’s OK. I’m guilty of the same act, but never without admitting that I can frequently be labeled in the same category; Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you That Girl…in this case…which I will often refer to as…myself.
I am a walking, self-inflicted, contradiction. I am the polar opposite of myself a.k.a. a tad strain of schizophrenic…maybe. But, what the hell, it keeps life interesting and I always seem to have great stories to tell.
At that moment I was probably trying to brew up clever quips to dazzle readers with for my first blog, but when tuning back into the mainstream frequency to find the old man across from me giving me back the same blank, open-mouthed stare, I wiped the drool off my chin and realized this is the best I’ve got; a list of my oddities that fuel my purpose of this blog.
I am:
-That girl that loves to write A LOT…about nothing…like Seinfeld…in written form…with out cool characters…or a boyfriend with a name that rhymes with a male body part.
-That girl with too many scattered thoughts in her head to formulate one clear sentence that relates to a common topic.
-That girl that stays up late by mistake, always with the intention to get up early and ultimately fails every time...it is 3:57a.m right now.
-That girl who is fashionably late…most of the time…and sometimes fashionably dressed.
-That girl who blast her electronic, hard bassed music WAY too loud.
-That girl who talks about inappropriate subjects and the most inopportune moments.
-That girl that is hard on everyone and hardest on herself.
-That girl that swears entirely too much…you may still manage to take her home to Mom...sometime…well maybe never…I’m still single.
-The girl with infinite belief that I can create and accomplish anything in my life…work in progress.
-That girl who will not only tell you ‘you have something in your teeth,’ but will help you pick it out if need be.
-That girl who loves cats…and astrology…what’s your sign? It’s totally relevant!!
-That girl that loves foreign men yet hates that they are notoriously shitty tippers…and that they eventually always leave the country…to live…permanently.
-That girl that hates drinking so much…yet works in a bar…as a bartender…serving drinks...to myself.
-That girl that finds it hilarious that no one ever talks on the subway, yet shifts uncomfortably when someone stares or flashes me a toothy grin.
-That girl who will say, talk, write, comment on just about ANY topic regardless of its subject matter...I have a lot to say...stay tuned.
-That girl, who uses untidy, poorly constructed short sentences and worse overall syntax and diction to formulate masterpieces worthy of this blog…that I heart…very much.
You have probably run into me before, or at least a version of said-type female. That girl that caused you to lean over to a friend and whisper or sparked a ‘note-to-self’ moment, then you roll your eyes, tilt your head and say “Oh, your one of those girls!”
It’s OK. I’m guilty of the same act, but never without admitting that I can frequently be labeled in the same category; Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you That Girl…in this case…which I will often refer to as…myself.
I am a walking, self-inflicted, contradiction. I am the polar opposite of myself a.k.a. a tad strain of schizophrenic…maybe. But, what the hell, it keeps life interesting and I always seem to have great stories to tell.
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