Morning Shit List Awards

Bronze Medal

The person in front of me on Grand Boulevard who decided that it would be a good idea to drive 15 miles an hour, then STOP at a yellow light, thereby preventing me from making a right on a red (or a YELLOW) because there was a construction vehicle parked at Deli Boy. This cost me valuable time and pissed me off.



Silver Medal

The woman on 1010 WINS. Can I just say where in the world do they find these woman on the street people? Because they're always annoying.

Okay, SIDEBAR.

Support the war; don't support the war; all your choice and right to decide. Okay? Are we clear? So I am not anti-anti-war people. HOWEVER. When the war in Iraq initially started, 1010 WINS of course covered the protesting. And there was this woman, who I'm not kidding, said (in of course the most annoying Long Island accent ever): "My son joined the military. Why? So he could get an education. Now he has to go fight in a war? I don't think so!" As if that settled it, dammit! And can I just say what the fuck? Do you not HEAR what you are saying, lady? The United States Military is not Sallie Mae.

Yes, so this morning, 1010 WINS was discussing a crime in Queens somewhere, and this one woman was all, "In this neighborhood? No, it's not right. Not in this neighborhood. I already got my daughters."

??????

There are about 12,000 things wrong with that statement. Like, in another neighborhood, it would be right? And please, you live in Queens, not Walnut Grove. A little too close to the kitchen if you can't take the heat, you know? It's New York City. Although don't EVEN get me started on Queens people who act like they are not on Long Island, because I don't recall crossing any bridges to get to Queens. Pffft.

FURTHERmore, what does that MEAN, "I already got my daughters"??????? Because if there is one more thing I hate, it's women who act like being able to successfully catch a sperm entitles them to goddess status. No offense to motherhood, it's a beautiful thing, but come on. What do your daughters have to do with crime?



Gold Medal

One of the reasons I got so annoyed at Silver Medal Lady making the crime All About Her Daughters is that I was so angry about the crime itself. So these guys robbed this woman and glued her eyes and lips shut.

What.

The.

FUCK.

Listen up, Crime Boys! I doubt you're reading my blog, but Ima say it anyway. YOU are a couple of full-on pussies, and I hate you, and I think you should be charged with something much worse than whatever bullshit charge you end up on when--WHEN--they catch you. I will lobby so hard to lock you up it's not even funny. Then when you have dicks in your asses you can think about what feeling helpless is. And if that doesn't happen, I'll come after you myself with my Chinese mace! Because you suck, you fucking sadistic COWARDS.

Seriously. I know I have a Big Thing about feeling helpless and trapped. While watching "Kill Bill" with Javier, the whole "she gets dry" scene bugged me out tremendously, and I said to him, "I think that's what would have really really upset me the most." So he goes, "Really, the rape, not so much with the murder of you and your family?"

Fair point, but seriously, I have a big problem with not being able to fight back, and I can't even begin to fathom what that woman went through. The terror, the utter helplessness. I think these guys should be charged with hate crime, like in the same way you get in extra trouble for hate crime, you should get in extra trouble for being a sadistic fuck.

That is all. Seriously, Pussy Crime Boys. Come fuck with me, I dare you.




HAVE A NICE DAY EVERYONE!

Cut Me Some Slacks!

So I had a big wardrobe crisis this morning. See, last night I went to Javier's to cook dinner and stay over. But when I got there, "Oh no," I said, because I forgot to bring work clothes for today! It's only my first week back at a desk job. I haven't worked a desk job in over a year, and I haven't had to be "business casual" in almost five. Add this all up with the fact that not only am I not really a "business casual" type of girl to begin with, and you can see how the mistake happened.

The thing is, I could have just gone home and gotten an outfit for the next day, but yesterday was very draining and sad and full of tears, and getting out of my house really took some doing. And some tears. Which is another reason why I forgot to grab an outfit, and also the reason I didn't want to go back at that very moment. Like when someone dies onstage, but there's no curtain, so they spend a really long time dying dramatically, but then the effect is kind of ruined when they jump up in the dark to get offstage. Kind of like that.

Instead, I was full of good intentions and ready to make a lovely yet healthy dinner. "Don't worry about it," I assured Javier. "I'll just figure out what I'm going to wear tonight, then tomorrow just go home and grab it. I've done it a billion times to go to Boulder Creek when I've forgotten my uniform. It's fine."

He continued to look concerned. Silly boy! Except for the fact that I of course did not at all remember to plan out my outfit in my head.

No problem though! I woke up full of good intentions. Possibly because last night I was talking about doing improv in the city years back, I was very confident in my ability to act quickly, with ease. No problem, picking out an outfit. All I had to do was go home, open my closet doors, and get dressed!

There were a couple of problems with this scenario, the most obvious one being that my clothes aren't really "hanging up in my closet," strictly speaking. They are more "all over my bed and the closet floor and random places." My room's actually been very lovely lately, but the new job is kicking my ass right now, with the adjustment to early mornings. Also, I'm moving to a different part of my house in like, a week, so I'm not as motivated to keep things up. Especially due to the aforementioned sadness and tears.

But the biggest reason that my room is a bit tornado-esque right now is more the result of the little detail that I don't exactly *have* business casual clothing to begin with.

Well, why would I, exactly! I've been dressing in a uniform and/or like a dirtbag for work for five years now! Anything that I wore back in the day is pretty useless, or "missing from storage" (blog to follow at some point). Maybe when I get a paycheck or two I'll buy some stuff out of necessity, but like...

I HATE IT.

I hate looking "corporate;" I feel like Claire on "Six Feet Under" when she starts singing to her pantyhose on her desk. And I know, I know, I have to be a grownup, but that doesn't mean I don't have to hate it. See, one of the reasons that I never minded wearing a uniform was that a uniform makes for a very level playing field. What are you gonna do, yada yada, focus on other things and move on with life. Ideally, with cute accessories!

And I adore costumes, as you know. What it says about me that I'd rather dress as a schoolgirl assassin than a respectable adult, I don't know, but there you have it. I love jeans, tshirts, cardigans, hippie skirts, fishnet, leather, soft soft cotton sundresses. I love variety!

But I canNOT rock the business casual. Seriously, give me any other type of outfit, and I'll be fine. But as I've discussed before, I just can't do the whole dressing up for work thing.

Now, some people can rock business casual like nobody's business, day in and day out. Javier, for example, was born for button-down shirts and "slacks." He goes off to work every day literally looking like a model. That look works for him.

It does not work for me, at least not on a daily basis. However, all was not lost. I had my black pants from Mandee that I wear to Boulder Creek, and they are nice and I could just pair them with a random shirt. Not perfect, but totally fine.

Except for the hole right under the zipper that I'd totally forgotten about because it is a non-issue at work thanks to my apron.

WHAT? I'm poor.

Not only did I have no black pants, but I had no black pantyhose, which seriously left me in a real bind. WHAT TO DO. I could NOT be late, and I could NOT have a panic attack. But...do you know those times, where it's like you keep getting this close to having a whole outfit, but then one vital piece is missing, so you have to start from scratch? And the panic mounts while your eyes get increasingly desperate. At one point, I tried on my Blossom dress --Doyle with a pair of wool slacks. You never know.

Finally, finally, I came across these brown pants that have been sitting in my closet (usually (and not literally)) for like, years now. Every now and then my mom is at like, Kohls or T.J. Maxx and decides to buy me grownup clothes because I wear something that she finds particularly horrifying. So I had these brown pants that were actually really cute; I just never could wear them before because they were too tight.

Not anymore!

SCORE.

Of course, I don't wear brown pants, so with the rest of my outfit I came up with in ten seconds, I still look more like the girl you'd find on a guitar player's couch somewhere smoking weed, but whatEVER, because I was DRESSED.

Did I make it to work on time? Yes I sure did! That was not the problem. The problem is--and will remain--that these pants suck.

Why? WHY! They should not suck! They have everything going for them, in terms of stuff that usually looks good on me. But like, I don't think I look fat or anything, but if you were to look at these pants on the hanger you would just assume, "Good ass pants." Meaning, fit into these pants and you are guaranteed an exceptionally cute ass for the whole day! They're those kind of pants! You know?

But no. They do nothing for me. I don't look bad, but it's like, eh, whatever. Adding to this obnoxiousness are the freaking pockets. WHY ARE THERE POCKETS IN WOMEN'S SLACKS?

(I hate the word "slacks" by the way, but I'm trying to speak the business casual language. Must keep it real and all.)

Seriously though. I understand about useful pockets, for storage and things. But these pockets are nothing more than little, useless little wool (Cotton? Polyester? I don't know, whatever) pimples jutting out at the sides of these pants.

Now, look. I know my body, and that not everybody can wear every style, yada yada yada. And I'm very curvy, and prefer not to disrupt my natural body lines, because that's what flatters me personally. But honestly, I do not see how any single woman on the face of the earth would benefit from these stupid pockets. So the question is: Why are the pockets there? It must ostensibly take more work and material to put pockets on pants (slacks). Why not just not leave them out altogether?

We may never know. What I do know is that I definitely need Stanley Tucci to come and buy me clothes pretty soon, before I show up to work in a corset shirt and freaking culottes. I can't do this on my own. But I promise not to become a bitch like Anne Hathaway did. What crazy person would rather hang out with a mean lady at a stupid fancy ball than with her cool boyfriend and friends at an awesome dive bar?

So I think the only route I can take now, assuming Tucci doesn't actually come to my rescue, is to keep losing more weight and adopt that look of pinched defeat you see on women in offices so often. Give me enough time, and the look may create itself!

I'll keep you posted.



©2007

Serendipity Doo Dah

And how do you do it?
And make it seem effortless
When it's all the stupid things
So overwhelming to me
Like paying my bills
Or showing up for work early
Or laughing at your jokes

~ Rilo Kiley


Previously on My Life As A Blog:

1) I was terrible with directions.

2) I despised running errands.

3) I was blonde.


So you can imagine then, my trepidation at the prospect of finding a bank near my new job. I work in Farmingdale, and all I know is Wellwood Avenue. Although I don't know if "know" is the proper description, since it was only this morning (my sixth trip to the place) that I realized I had to pass over train tracks to get here.

But anyway, yesterday I am trying to find a branch of my bank, right? I hate going to the bank, but I still have to deposit my Boulder Creek checks. And I don't have an ATM card because I overdrew my account and they punished me. And I haven't gotten a new ATM card because:

a) not being able to touch my money while at a bar is not necessarily a bad thing

b) Please see 2).

c) Whenever I get a new ATM card after I inevitably overdraw my account, I get filled with ambivalence about whether to get debiting power on my card but:


i) I decide yes, that would be the grownup thing to do.

ii) Then they tell me I have to fill out forms.

iii) Please see 2).


But as fate would have it, I am now back at a desk job, and only work at Boulder Creek on the weekend now. Which means, no more cash on hand. ("Cash," mind you, should not be confused with "money.") I really needed to get an ATM card. And I really needed to deposit my Boulder check.

Adding to the urgency is the realization that my life is no longer my own, meaning that I once again have to run errands (when I so choose) with the other dregs of society who crowd up the supermarkets on nights and weekends. So I can't just go to the bank like, when I decide that maybe I should get out of bed before three on any given day. I have a day job again, so my skin is gray and I shuffle along with the other 'bots.

However, I go to -- you know what? Maybe I should not name my bank on the Internet. But I'll just say that it's not like a Chase or a Citibank, meaning it's hard to find. But according to the Internet, there was a branch located on "Conklin Street," which I discovered yesterday. Of course, yesterday I was tired and moody and the weather was gray and foreboding, so I decided not to mess around with trying to find this "Conklin Street," choosing the safety of my tiny microwaved lunch at my desk because I'm new and have no friends and even if I become friends with the people in my department, we have different lunchtimes awww.

I justified my passivity by assuring myself that since I don't have to work until ten on Fridays, I would get up early and go to the bank before work. HA! Seriously, I don't know how I keep convincing myself of such complete and utter ridiculousness!

What saved me from being guilt-ridden at my failure to accomplish such a small task as depositing a paycheck after I inevitably absolutely do not wake up "early" on Friday was, excitingly enough, thanks to heavy traffic this morning. It was just sitting there, the traffic, for no discernible reason, and it was pissing me off.

That is when I realized about the train tracks. There was a train passing, so people couldn't, you know, cross the tracks while that was happening.

So but I also happened to see in my travels that there happened to be a "Conklin Street" right there in front of my eyes! Not only that, but it started right there, so there was only one way I could go!

It seemed pretty foolproof, even for me. And I had delicious wine last night (the Yellow Tail shiraz-grenache is lovely), and didn't eat much or drink beer, so I lost three pounds! And the sun was out, and normally I'm not a fan, but after all of the grayness of the week, I was ready for it. Also I'm sad about something that I won't get into right now, and I felt like going out and being a responsible citizen would make me feel accomplished. I mean, I'd even worn a jacket today! Normally that doesn't happen till at least halfway through December.

Responsible! So I start driving, and the first thing that mocked my positivity was the following exchange in my brain:

"I made the right choice; it's sunny and nice and I can get away from the office and listen to some music."

"Yeah, I'm definitely not feeling 1010 WINS right now."

"My iPod is totally what I need right now."

"My iPod is on my desk back at work."

SIGH.

So the radio was on my nerves with its unimaginative Christmas songs, and ubiquitous Rob Thomas, and Z100 being crappy and making me mad at the youth of America for liking such shitty music. So I listened to Jay-Z on Hot 97, who sometimes is good, but sometimes just sounds like he's drunk at four in the morning and keeps forgetting that he's already told you a hundred times how much money he has, and like, you don't care to begin with. Seriously, Jay-Z -- enunciation is your friend!

Meanwhile, the clock is ticking (not literally, that would really get to me), and I only get 45 minutes for lunch. So I'm like, well that's sad to drive all the way down Conklin Street for nothing. But THEN I get distracted by the next song, 'cause it sounds like some rapper is all really enthusiastic about wanting ice cream, and I'm thinking, well that's nice that he is extolling youthful joys, until I realize he's singing about going down on a woman and like ENOUGH with those songs, they are seriously gross and unnecessary. And stop referring to my vagina as a "peach." In my opinion, there is no bigger sign that a person is terrible in bed than their talking about it every ding-dong second of the day. You know?

ANYWAY. So I'm getting filled with indignation at the song and I decide that I really need to go back to work now. No check, no ATM card. Just a terrible "song" apparently called "Peaches and Cream." Bad day.

But THEN lo and behold, as I make an ill-advised three-point turn in a single-lane, solid-double-yellow-lined street, I realize, I am totally blocking this dude trying to get out of the parking lot. I try to give him a thank-you wave™Seinfeld, but sort of just hit myself in the face instead, because I am very distracted.

The man was leaving my bank.

There it was! I didn't recognize it, all fancy and old-fashioned. But of course, I had passed the entrance. Throwing all caution and better judgment to the wind, I make a right turn. Might not seem like such a big deal but not only am I me, but I've lived in Levittown. Making a right turn can lead to a hypnotizing night of getting lost and distracted by all the cute and funny street names.

But so I make a right, and WHOA! "(Judi's Bank) Walk-Up and Drive-Thru." On a sign! With an arrow. I drove in and parked, very, VERY proud of myself. I was even going to go ahead and get an ATM card!

No I wasn't. But I couldn't anyway, because this weird little place didn't have any doors! Not for the public, anyway. It was like a McDonald's Express, only a bank! Fascinating. I sort of just stand there like a dolt, not knowing what to do. There is a lady talking to a chick in a sweatshirt about Binghamton, and this chick is bumming me out, 'cause she is talking about how she would totally "have went" to Binghamton, but she's an Education Major, and they don't have that, or she would "have went." But she loves Hofstra. I don't think this chick and I could hang.

Anyway, then I deposit my check, and it feels like when you buy 40s at the sketchy gas station 'cause no one else will sell them after 2 a.m. on Saturday/Sunday.

How weird and cute and charming, this tiny little kiosk bank! I think as I go back to my car. Too bad I can't get an ATM card there due to the "limited services available." Oh well.

And then I look up, and I see...a bank. My bank. My grownup, full-sized bank.

I--what--HUH???

Ohhhhhhh.

That explained so much! How the bank had followed me onto the other street, for example. And how it had changed in size. And how it was no longer facing the busy street where I found it to begin with.

Mystery? Solved.

Check? Deposited.

ATM card? Still don't have one, but I got to stay guilt-free about it for another day.

And though I still didn't have my iPod, the radio remained mercifully cunnilingus-free on my trip home. All in all, meaning that today was a good day after all.

(You see what I did there?)




©2007

Runaway Twain

I've had a knack from way back of breaking the rules once I learned the game.
~Mimi


As many of you know, I'm not so much a fan of "authority," or "structure," or "rules." I am a people pleaser, and I do try to be a good person, but I don't like to be micromanaged.

Plus, I grew up in a pretty strict school where I learned early on that the smartest policy was "Don't ask." Don't you hate those people, who ruin it for everyone by asking? "Can we do this?" "Is it okay if we do that?" And of course, the most obnoxious cretins of all: "Don't we have any homework?"

NO. You just don't ask. You follow the explicit rules, but interpret the rest for yourself. Otherwise you end up getting told "no" to everything, to the point where you rebel in a stupid way, like wearing a turtleneck and a "stylish" blue oxford shirt on picture day, and then you get in trouble. While looking stupid. Totally not worth it.

So I really don't know what in the world my junior-year English teacher was thinking when he gave me creative license in the important project on Huckleberry Finn. I really don't.

See, I was famous in my school for not only being a crackhead, but for being a crackhead who wrote raps for any given reason. I'd written an epic rap about Shannon's love life in eighth grade, and from then on in, "Get creative" equaled "I wrote a rap." Specifically, about tubeworms for Oceanography.

And Mr. Johnson, my English teacher, knew this. He knew me. I loved him dearly, because he was awesome, but he had to know that if he said to be creative that he deserved whatever he got.

I was not alone in the project. Mr. Johnson had divided the class up and given each group in the class questions about Huckleberry Finn that basically met each student on his or her English ability. Which might sound bitchy when I say that I was in the top group, but a) it's relevant to the story, b) I only WISH I could have participated in some bottom-feeding math or science group rather than pretend I had any skill in those subjects whatsoever, and c) Really, few things compare to the financial and societal desperation of English majors, who are basically all Career Students, 'cause it's our big life skill, school.

So but yes, I was in the top group, along with Dare, a serious, very capable girl who ended up valedictorian, and Bethany, who before she awesomely scandalized herself by dancing at the (GASP) prom and not being allowed to graduate with the class, was quite the teacher's pet -- good at school, nice and respectful. So maybe Mr. Johnson was thinking that those two would balance me out and keep me serious and studious.

He should never have underestimated my powers of crackheadedness.

The questions he gave our group were very deep and philosophical, because we were very smart and serious students, you see. I don't remember exactly what the questions themselves were, but I do remember that rather than address the deep, serious questions in a thoughtful, thought-provoking, well-researched paper? We got sarcastic. We made a newsletter, because when I wasn't writing raps in school, I was creating newsletters. And man, was this newsletter obnoxious. Basically, we used every aspect of a "newspaper," and did it in old-tymey style.

The newsletter was actually good, and did answer the questions. But it was definitely obnoxious, like I'm sure Mr. Johnson wasn't expecting to see his questions answered in Aunt Polly's Peach Pie recipe, or the gossip column discussing whether Tom and Becky were still together. But that is what happened.

What also happened is that we were not satisfied with simply creating a sarcastic newsletter. We had to dress up in full hoedown gear and throw the newsletter out to everyone, while shouting "Extra! Extra!" and just in general enjoying the excuse to be really loud, something I've never grown tired of.

So it was enjoyable, dressing up and yelling with two of the quietest girls in school during English class.

But it was not over.

"Press play when I give you the nod," I commanded my bewildered teacher.

Dare, Bethany, and I left the classroom. And I gave the nod. And bippity boppity bluegrass music starts playing.

And then we did an interpretive dance.

Not to be gross, but I seriously don't know how I kept from peeing in my pants that day, I seriously don't. We kept dancing -- pretending to be a river, pretending to be a raft. It was amazing. Because it had nothing at all to do with anything, it was more just like...dude, creative license! Why NOT do an interpretive dance?

So dance we did. And we ended up getting an A. To quote Mr. Johnson, "It wasn't what I was expecting, but what can I say? You got the job done."

Life metaphor?











©2007