Freaking Awesome

I have 20/10 vision. It’s a shame my powers of observation don’t command the same perfection as my gift of sight. On my way in to work recently I noticed the door to the main entrance of the building was garnished with this sticker. I have been with the company a little over a year and my manager insists the bold RED sticker has been there the whole time. Talk about blind.

Lack of observational acuity aside, the sticker and what it represnts is freaking awesome.

Weekend Highlights

I haven’t puked in 25 years. That’s right. TWENTY-FIVE YEARS! That all changed today at 6-something in the morning. One minute I was lying in bed mentally replaying a scene from the movie Baby Mama. The next I was face down over the toilet bowl hemorrhaging bright orange projectile vomitus. Thanks Lexapro! This experience has indefinitely changed my view of Doritos and Cheetos. Okay, moving on from the stomach turning anecdote.

Friday night I was treated to a date with Alanis Morissette. Actually, 6,000 of us went on a date with her at Radio City Music Hall. She was fantabulous. My only gripe was that the concert was too short. When I saw Melissa Etheridge months ago she rocked it for a solid three hours. So when Alanis silenced her voice an hour and 45 minutes after hitting the stage my stomach ached a little. Hmm, maybe that was just the Lexapro kicking in.

Don't Drink and Run

I wrote this a few days ago, but Blogger was being a bitch.

My day started with a pain in my left knee. It was an unpleasant burning sensation. Still in bed, I rolled over, inspected the blood-stained scrape on said knee and was baffled as to how it got there. It took several minutes but after getting all the parts of my brain working together as a team I was able to solve the mystery through fragmented flashbacks.

Last night some co-workers and I hit the local watering hole after a shit day on the job. We watched some Olympics, we guffawed at length and, yah, we had some drinks. The latter, of course, goes without saying. We didn’t exactly go there to play Scrabble.

While walking to the subway from the bar a co-worker began chasing me with her cigarette. I have no inkling why. That part of my memory has not returned. Maybe she wanted me to hold it. Maybe she thought I had an irrational fear of cigarettes and that was her ill-conceived attempt to get me to confront my fear. Or maybe she wanted me to surrender my non-smoking ways and take a drag. Talk about peer pressure.

So there I was charging down the street, channeling my inner Flo Jo to elude the cigarette brandishing friend, when faux humiliation struck. The sidewalk maliciously turned on me. Retribution, I assumed, for spitting blood on it earlier in the day when I bit my tongue. It grabbed hold of my foot and tripped me. I face planted. Hard. When my hands, stomach and knees crashed into the ground I wrongfully assumed that was the end of the nosedive. Not so. The feigned mortification continued when my body slid roughly five feet. With hands and feet outstretched it was something akin to being on a Slip ‘N Slide or sliding head first into second base. I half expected an umpire to emerge from the parking garage across the street to emphatically declare me safe.

Whether I’m a victim of a fall or an observer they are most always good. And, dammit, that was a great fall, one that could have easily made its way into an SNL skit. So instead of embarrassment I found hilarity. Thank you Jose Cuervo!

Anyhoo, that explained the scrape on my knee. Now all I have to figure out is how I split my pants.

Here's a Tip

NEVER mix red wine, white wine and Vodka. I'm just sayin'.

Statues of Liberty on Parade

This year’s MLB All-Star Game was celebrated, in part, with 42 replicas of the Statue of Liberty. The exhibition, aptly named Statues on Parade, is baseball themed and can still be found throughout NYC. Somewhere in a dark alcove in my head a few brain cells collaborated and gave birth to the idea that it would be awesome to take a picture of all 42. Deliberately ignoring my well meaning penchant for abandoning projects midway, I embarked on the quest.

On day one I was all gusto. Gusto and I were bonafide BFFs. During the course of day two Gusto and I developed for one another a haughty contempt. By day three Gusto and I had terminated our affection for each other. It turned out that traipsing around midtown Manhattan in the punitive heat was not such a hot idea. A friend/co-worker along with her two cousins took pictures of ALL of them in ONE day. It was obvious who benefitted from my rift with Gusto. I tagged along with the group for a few hours before succumbing to waned interest. I did manage to photograph 21 of the statues. The BoSox statue would have been a nice addition to my collection but it was displayed in BFE (where it rightfully belongs...hehe).

Supposedly the statues will be removed later today and I cannot help but wonder if it would be worth the sore feet and humidity to try and capture the others. On second thought that would not be festive.

In a somewhat unrelated note, I love this billboard. Why? Because I love Jeter.

From The Where Are They Now? Files

Have you ever wondered what became of the Demon Dancing Baby from Ally McBeal? The one whose image spawned a barrage of humdrum screensavers and hackneyed t-shirts? Well, some 20+ years later she is all grown up and can be spotted dancing up a storm in corny internet ads on sites like IMDb and the weather.com.

Prior to her reemergence rumor had it she was fatally struck by a speeding car after stumbling out of an unnamed alcohol rehab facility. She was allegedly drunk at the time. In light of her recent booty shaking efforts said rumor has been squashed.




P.S. The background music was accidental. I was listening to that song in iTunes when I noticed the ad. Naturally I had to record serendipity at work.

I Got The Fever

There is a banana sized fever blister on my top lip. I baptized it Angie – after the Jolie variety – because I’m reminded of A.J.’s pouty mouth whenever I try to purse my lips. My pouty lip, however, is noticeably missing all vestige of sexiness. Forget bringing sexy back. The sexy defected to an undisclosed location. I’d take a picture of it but it’s cruel to scare small children. Just thought I’d share.

Wax Is Not Your Friend

This, acquired from one of those annoying chain e-mails, made me laugh out loud. The author’s identity is unknown so I’m unable to give her credit. Anyhoo, I hope you extract as much laughter as I did.

All hair removal methods have tricked women with their promises of easy, painless removal. The Epilady, scissors, razors, Nair and now...the wax. My night began as any other normal weeknight.

Come home, fix dinner, play with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours; maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet. So I headed to the site of my demise - the bathroom. It was one of those "cold wax" kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand, they get warm and you peel them apart and press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss. How can it be? I mean, I'm not a genius, but I am mechanically inclined enough to figure this out.

So I pull one of the thin strips out. It’s two strips facing each other stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together my genius kicks in so I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. Cold wax? Yeah, right! I lay the strip across my thigh, hold the skin around it tight and pull. It works! OK, so it wasn't the best feeling, but it wasn't too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire.

With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids, I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure, I apply the one strip across the right side of my bikini line, covering the right half of my hoo-hoo and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek. (Yes, it was a long strip.) I inhale deeply and brace myself. RRRRIIIPPP!!!! I'm blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!! OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!! Vision returning, I notice that I've only managed to pull off half the strip. CRAP!!! Another deep breath and RRIIPP!! Everything is swirly and spotted. I think I may pass out. Must...stay...conscious. Do I hear crashing drums? Breathe, breathe. . . OK, back to normal.

I want to see my trophy - a wax covered strip, the one that has caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip! There's no hair on it. Where is the hair? WHERE IS THE WAX??? Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair. The hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I am touching wax. CRAP! I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake. Remember, my foot is still propped up on the toilet. I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down. DANG!!! I hear the slamming of a cell door. Hoo-hoo?? Sealed shut! Butt?? Sealed shut! I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself, "Please don't let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off!" What can I do to melt the wax? Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!!! I'll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax-covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off, right??? WRONG!!!!!!!

I get in the tub. The water is slightly hotter than that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment. I sit. Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub...in scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn't melt cold wax. So, now I'm stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cement-epoxied myself to the porcelain!! God bless the man who had convinced me a few months ago to have a phone put in the bathroom!!!!! I call my friend, thinking surely she has waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone.

It's a very good conversation starter. "So, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub!" There is a slight pause. She doesn't know any secret tricks for removal but she does try to hide her laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located, "Are we talking cheeks or hoo-ha?" She's laughing out loud by now. I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box. YEAH!!!!! Right!! I should be the joke of someone else's night. While we go through various solutions. I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off.

By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I'm pretty sure I'm going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling for this event.

My friend is still talking with me when I finally see my saving grace. The lotion they give you to remove the excess wax.

What do I really have to lose at this point?

I rub some on and OH MY GOSH!!!!!!! The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It's sooo painful, but I really don't care. "IT WORKS!! It works!!" I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair…THE HAIR IS STILL THERE!!!! ALL OF IT!!!!

So I recklessly shave it off. Heck, I'm numb by now. Nothing hurts. I could have amputated my own leg at this point.

Next week I'm going to try hair color.

I'm No Imelda Marcos but...

Egads! And to think these are only the casual shoes.

Prisoner No More

On the outside it mirrored every other house in the tiny neighborhood. Two stories, a brown wooden gate and a concrete walkway blemished by random cracks in the structure. The inside, on the other hand, waxed unique. It was gorgeous, a veritable botanical garden strewn thick with every flower imaginable. Hummingbirds and butterflies were enchanted by the vibrant colors as was anyone who had the fortune of witnessing its magnificence.

This is the house in which I grew up. A healthy chunk of my childhood was spent incarcerated in it. My mother, a single parent, would lock me inside for days, sometimes weeks. Whenever she departed for work or some mystery destination the keys accompanied her. It was akin to being in prison as I was literally behind bars. The first floor doors and windows were outfitted with “decorative” white grilles (iron bars). This was not an uncommon practice in that part of the urban community. Short of breaking and hurdling out one of the second story windows there was no way out.

I was granted parole for school and church only. Summers were an exercise in intense anguish. School was suspended and church services were curtailed from one hour to 45 minutes. As trivial as it sounds those extra 15 minutes of freedom were precious.

Not astonishingly I lived everyday awash in a torrent of anger and loneliness. To add insult to fury I was an only child. Much time was spent sequestered in my room spilling hot tears onto both sides of my old, but much beloved pillow. When I was all cried out I would stave off the persistent loneliness with the fellowship of my television. On any given day I could easily squander 12 hours in front of the telly. As a matter of fact TV raised me. It also rescued me from the brink of insanity and saved me from flying off into a matricidal rage.

You know, it’s ironic. While my small circle of friends craved solitude away from pesky siblings I was busy drowning in it. I cannot emphasize enough how much I hated being alone. Absolutely hated it!

Autophobia haunted me into adulthood. But a curious thing happened recently. As I was strolling solo down Fifth Avenue snapping pictures of the Chrysler Building (yes, that's one of my photos)
an epiphanic moment struck. For the first time in my life I was beginning to realize that being alone was not a death sentence. It was feasible to spend time by myself and actually *gasp* enjoy it. Two Sundays ago I attended a Yankees game...by myself. The post-game outing entailed a trip to Times Square where I proceeded to take pictures...by myself. It was rather liberating.

It has always been my tendency to self-entertain, but I did it out of habit not want. With that said let me be realistic. This in no way means I will endeavor to spend every solitary moment alone. I am not totally hermitic so why on earth would I want to do that? It simply means that, for me, aloneness is no longer a prison. I am no longer its victim. And I am no longer the helpless child confined to a house of fear and loneliness.

Black Is the New White

I scribbled this on the train ride home yesterday after the woman sitting next to me scoffed because the color of my attire did not befit the heat.

The Sidewalk Squatters

Benjamin Franklin observed that only death and taxes are certain. That’s because he never met my neighbors. If he did his observation might have been more along the lines of, "...Nothing is certain but death and taxes and the fact that no matter what time of day you venture outside the neighbors are always congregated on the sidewalk."

These Sidewalk Squatters are forever sitting on the curb directly in front of the building. Even in the face of scorching temperatures and fierce thunderstorms. Instead of fleeing the elements like most able-minded people they cling to the sidewalk well-provisioned with handheld mini fans and umbrellas. Hmm, wonder what they will do for an encore during the winter months? At night when they retire indoors I can hear the sidewalk sighing with relief.

Going in and out of my building is never festive. They either stare at me like I’m a possum on the side of the road or they lure me into their web of marathon conversations about things in which I bear no interest.

With creative guile I devised a way to avoid the verbal diarrhea. Upon entering or exiting the building I place a timely call on my cell phone to a friend. If my useless wonderful friends are unavailable to play Operation Escape and Evade I do what comes naturally and talk to myself. The difference is I do so while talking into the cell phone.

"Uh huh. I hear what you’re saying," I’d say into the silent phone. "Oh, I totally agree. Michael Jackson should get his original nose back."

The strategy is a huge annoyance reducer. If not executed flawlessly I risk a full on assault on my aural receptors. One Saturday I prematurely ended a pretend conversation with myself and the chattiest of the squatters cornered me. My punishment came by way of a 20-minute conversation in which she pimped the BBQ joint down the street. With wild gesticulations and wide eyed enthusiasm she mentioned several times how the "ribs just melt in your mouth." Inevitably, with every utterance of those words I found myself longing for some M&M’s because they, as the slogan goes, melt in your mouth, not in your hands. For once I’ll behave like a mature adult and suppress a giggle at the slogan’s obvious double entendre.

It would be unjust to not point out that the Sidewalk Squatters are nice people. People with whom I’d be happy to engage in the occasional friendly banter provided it was brief. But since their definition of brief is contrary to that of every single dictionary on the planet I have to, by any means necessary, save my ears from being verbally mauled.

Anyhoo, I’m about to mosey down to the corner store to score an ice cold bottle of Peach Snapple. But first I must locate my cell phone a.k.a. my exit buddy.

Got Nuts?

After a particularly stress filled day recently I retreated to a wooden bench in a quiet part of the neighborhood. There I was instantly befriended by a rodent of the squirrel variety. Don’t start calling me the Squirrel Whisperer just yet. I suspect my fistful of unsalted cashews went into his decision solicit my attention. Mac, as I’ve nicknamed him, is cute and sprightly. Well, squirrels on the whole are sort of cute and sprightly, aren’t they?

Anyhoo, on Friday Mac and I sat down under a shady tree to an entrée of cashews I provided. Unfortunately, as we dined in companionable silence I noticed that he brought his own nuts. Can you say ewwwwww?!!



P.S. Syd, this is not your kind of squirrel. ;)

What the Freak?!

Huh? I'm guessing the proceeds benefit retarded kids. Talk about awkward wording.

Oh lookie, they forgot to apostrophize the word children. How retarded!

Nah, I'm Just Kidding

I love new relationships. Everything is fresh and imbued with excitement and promise. Yours truly is engaged in such a relationship. This may in part explain why my woe is me, the world is doomed to hell mentality has suddenly been replaced by a semi-optimistic outlook on life.

Now my powers of clairvoyance may be a little rusty but I sense a healthy long-lasting relationship in our future. Not unexpectedly this woman is brilliant and funny. C’mon let’s face it, no one wants to willingly fraternize with the dumb and the humorless except maybe the dumb and humorless. I am impressed by her proficiency for active listening and the way she is supportive and genuinely interested in learning all the infinite minutiae that make me both sane and crazy. My issues, all bazillion and one of them, leave her unfazed. She totally gets me and that really blows my hair back. This she to whom I am referring is not a lover but my super cool, new therapist.

However, as my piss-poor luck would have it she is based in New York City and I in Baltimore, Maryland. Recently I’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel as far as shrinks go and am not about to let distance hinder my quest for a decent shrink. So like any good psychotic patient I drive 200 miles one way twice a week to see her. That’s 800 miles a week for those who, like me, are impaired mathematically. I will skip the part where I describe the hellacious commute. The fact that it is 800 miles should be enough to convey the horror and the lunacy. Nah, I’m just kidding. Not about finding a super cool, new therapist but the part about driving to NYC for our sessions. That would be utterly ri-gosh-damn-diculous.

Besides, the entire world knows of my hatred for driving. The contempt derives from the awareness that my “skills” in that department make Steve Wonder grateful he is bereft of sight. I harbor little shame in publicly admitting my ineptness behind the wheel. The individual who should be ashamed is the hygienically challenged guy who administered the driving test. He was the imbecile who deemed it a good idea to unleash me onto the roadways with a license after only five or so lessons.

You know the wang doodle ahead of you in traffic that you go to great lengths to avoid because (s)he’s merging at the speed of snail? The one who for one reason or another irritates you on such a profound level you angrily pound the horn, emphatically flip the bird and/or swear like you just discovered a parking ticket on your bloody car?* I am that person.

Then there is also the minor matter of me being directionally and geographically retarded. Give me a map, compass, GPS, guide dog and a yellow brick road to follow and watch as I struggle to navigate my way out of a paper bag. Even when I know where I’m going I never know where I’m going. It’s simultaneously pathetic and funny. That is, funny to those not sharing the road with me. Much like my driving I digress.

Rather than drive 800 miles weekly to see my super cool, new therapist I take the train. A round trip to NYC from Baltimore via Amtrak is in the ballpark of $138-$155. Egads! Exorbitant? Hell yes! But after deliberating my level of f*cked up-ness I conclude it’s a small sum to cough up for ditching some of the emotional baggage I’ve been schlepping around since, you know, birth. The trip one-way spans three hours and is just long enough to render the ennui excruciating. But that’s what laptops and Gilmore Girls DVDs are for, right? Nah, I’m just kidding. Not about finding a super cool, new therapist but the part about taking Amtrak 12 hours a week to rendezvous with her.

Actually, I am no longer a resident of Maryland. As of April I am proud to call myself a New Yorker once again. So now that my super cool, new therapist and I are merely a borough away only 90 minutes separate us. A jiffy compared to the fabricated aforementioned options. Nah, I’m just kidding again. Not about moving to New York but the part about the 90-minute travel time. Truthfully, 30 minutes via subway is all that it takes.

For identity preservation purposes she will be referred to as Elayne simply because she reminds me of Elayne Boosler.

Is anyone shocked that I took the scenic route in getting to my point? I didn’t think so. To summarize using clear and concise language - indeed, with intense concentration I am capable of wielding the English language in such a fashion - here is the bottom line. Two months ago I moved back to New York after a seven-year absence where I found a super cool, new therapist. We meet twice a week and getting to her is a quick 30-minute subway ride away provided the trains are running smoothly. This time, ladies and jelly spoons, I’m not kidding.



*Weeks ago I was slapped with a parking ticket. I was two minutes late in moving my car for the street-cleaning truck. The whole “alternate side of the street parking” thing is the bane of my existence.