All My Children

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet & current car)
Patches

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie)
Chunky Munkey Oreo

3. YOUR "FLY Guy/Girl" NAME: (first initial of first name, first three
letters of your last name),
A-FEL

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal),
Green Otter Baby

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Aubrey Dubuque

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first
2 letters of your first),
Felal

7. SUPERHERO NAME: ("The" + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink),
The Turquoise Ginger Ale

8. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers),
Carl Henry

9. STRIPPER NAME: ( the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent,
favorite candy),
Very Sexy Skittles

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother's & father's middle names ),
Jayne Arnold

11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 5th grade teacher's last name, a
major city that starts with the same letter)
Detweiller Detroit

12. SPY NAME: (your favorite season/holiday, flower).
Halloween Orchid

13. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you're wearing
right now + "ie" or "y")
Kiwi Flannelie

14. HIPPY NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree),
Eggs Oak

15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: ("The" + Your fave hobby/craft, fave
weather element + "Tour"),
The Bedazzling Raindrops Tour

Buy me this

...that is all.

The future of all my relationships

matt: lionel richie
alison: OMG
alison: why is it $30?!
alison: i want, i want
matt: embroidered by hand
matt: buy it
matt: it rules
alison: i might have to do that
emily___: it's beautiful and poetic
alison: but how best to showcase it?
alison: could i stick it out of the back pocket of my pants?
matt: imagine dropping that when a potential suitor struts by
alison: that hanky is what relationships should be based upon
matt: not "should be"... will be
alison: be still my heart!

Miss Lonelyhearts

I know I'm trying to be less "angry" and all, but it's Sunday, why the fuck not. Anyway, my beef of the day concerns people who get angry on public transportation.

Dear Angry Seatmate on the train or bus:

Please, please, pleasefortheloveofchrist shut your mouth. I know you're late for that pressing paint sale at K-Mart, but could you kindly stop complaining so loud that everyone around you is forced to watch you hissy, and no, I'm not even going to phrase it as a question. We're in an enclosed space, we can't help traffic, and I can't help thinking you would immediately start slamming my head against a wall or eat my face if we got stuck underground, so could you please stop speaking under your breath with all the curse words and terrible imagery? You make my innards quiver, and not in that good way I like.

Sincerely,
I'm the one staring at all the advertisements,
please don't look at me,
Alison

P.S. You know that feeling when you drink too much coffee and you feel like your throat is closing and you might just ralf everywhere? This is mostly an iced-coffee oriented phenomenon, for me. Feeling it.

WHO KNEW

HO-LEE SHIT

I have a whole new sense of respect for Joan Rivers.



Gwar? REALLY? Why was I not watching this when it was on?



And Pee Wee? That makes a little more sense, but STILL. MIND IS BLOWN.

Road hell

Shit.

Well, sorry it's been so long, but I won't bother with all the apologizing crap. I had things to do! It's been an eventful six weeks! It...I...meh, I've already run out of steam on this rant.

Anywho!

So, I bought a bike. And what a crazy trip it's been since my whirlwind purchase took place!

Last Sunday I simply toddled up to a street vendor, mildly intoxicated from some brunchy mimosas, wildly waving a wad of cash in my sweaty fist. I demanded bike options and test drives. After testing the first bike that was tall enough in a slow, methodical circle on the sidewalk, I quickly purchased it and began my trek home. (Yes, I only tried out one bike, then bought it immediately. I'm a rube, what can I say?)

It immediately became clear that I'm going to have to be become much more of a badass if I'm going to ride a bike in this city. Simply put, I'm a bit of a pansy, a wuss, a child without a pacifier. There's really no denying it: I didn't even make it all the way home. I was seriously purple-in-the-face halfway through my first ride, so out of breath that I just coasted over to the nearest subway stop and started climbing the stairs. It was a fluid, instinctual motion -- coast, stairs, mournful acknowledgment of failure.

However, I didn't allow my first shameful bike ride keep me benched. The idea of taking a leisurely bike jaunt was just too appealing -- riding on seldom used streets, enjoying the scenery and quickly escaping all the looky-loos that love to make squelchy kissy noises as I walk by.

Well, that hasn't quite happened yet. In reality, the actual experience has been more akin to the scene in Clueless where Dionne, Cher and Murray accidentally get on the freeway. Except, it's not the freeway, it's a busy Brooklyn street. And I'm not in the safety of a car, I'm just screaming into the wind, on a bike, four inches from passing cars, by myself, while my heart beats at the rate of a small, defenseless squirrel cornered by an angry mongoose. I might also add that I sweat like it's going out of style, so I'm completely drenched once I reach my destination. If nothing else, it keeps all the holler-ers off my ass!

However, hooray for not taking the bus, though! I'll get used to this bike thing -- I've just got to get a helmet and lose that horrible fear that I'll be picked off any moment now. Insurance be damned!

A promise is a promise is a promise

I promised I would tell about some of my other stories more in depth. Well, I'm no liar! At least, today I'm not.

So, I was at the thrift store in my neighborhood. It was my day off and I had a case of the "nothing-to-do's," so I toddled down to the nearest locale where I could submerge my my upper half in mite-infested clothes. If pressed, you could say I was on a mission. If lazy, you could say I had nothing better to do. Potato, patahto, if you ask me. I was there to get some dirty clothes, and that was the end of it.

I don't know about you, but a day off is a headache for me. No obligations? What to do? Where to start? How can I avoid spending money? I want to lay in bed - NO YOU DON'T, ALISON, GET OUT OF BED - but I'm lazy! - GET OUTSIDE! - but if I'm outside I have a manic desire to spend money I do not have! - WEATHER! - laziness!

Yeah, you get the idea. It's all Sybilly in there.

SO I'M AT THE JUNK STORE. I casually pick up the largest pair of shoes in my eyeline, hoping they may possibly be my size. As I'm wrestling the shoe on to my foot, I look up to see an older, friendly-looking black lady dressed entirely in lime green standing over me.

Older lady: "Those shoes look great."

I'm flustered and doubled over on the ground, so I wobble upwards and say thanks.

Older lady: "I don't think I've seen you around here before. Are you new to the neighborhood?"

Now, at first, I thought this was a trick question, because the weekend before some bitchy woman in Bed-Stuy thought it would be funny to say "Welcome to the neighborhood!" to me and my similarly pasty friends. Needless to say, it was not sincere. I can't help gentrification, people! I wasn't the first whitey to move here and I won't be the last! SOWWY!

So, I say that yes, I am relatively new to the neighborhood. She asks me what I do, I say I'm a writer, and then the fun really begins. (And you thought this story was just about me getting lice! Boy, were you wrong!)

Geraldine (as we are now on a first name basis) quickly lets me know that we were meant to meet each other. She is a minister, a lady of god, and she needs someone to write her biography -- and girl, it is juicy!

First off, Geraldine is 61 years old, loves Jesus, and had one prayer her entire life: TO NOT GET OLD.

Well, her prayers worked out. This woman did not look a day over 35. It was totally crazy. Apparently, she'd found the fountain of youth and it was in a church or something.

She had also been married for forty years, had numerous affairs with doctors that drove Benzes (called her "menz," btdubs), and was completely devoted to being a strong-minded, take no shit wah-MAN. She went into exquisite detail over her first orgasm ("after two years of marriage! what the hell is that? i was all laying there, just letting him do his business, and then i was like, HELL naw!"), said I was a cute lil white girl, and had me cornered with a pile of dirty shoes for an hour and a half.

This woman was magic.

An annoying, take-my-whole-day-yapping kind of magic, but magic, nonetheless.

So, after recommending that I get highlights, change my entire wardrobe and come to her house for a silk jacket that would do wonders for my slouching (?), she waltzed me out of the store and into the street, whereupon she began to introduce me to complete strangers as her daughter and demand that they "respect me."

Yes, you heard me right. I wish I had footage of my face when she said this stuff.

The first group of people she approached were two teenage girls with babies, smoking on a corner. She approached them with a hearty "God bless!", then started in with the questioning.

"What should my white girl daughter do if men give her trouble?"

Both of them looked me up and down, and one replied that I should "cuss em out."

This was not the answer Geraldine desired. She had been coaching me on all this stuff about telling guys that hoot and holler that "Jesus loves you and SO DO I!", which I personally did not see getting me anywhere. She brushed off their answers, insisted that the girls be nice to me whenever they saw me around, and above all to "respect me."

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

I was finally able to get rid of Geraldine by coming up with some cockamamie story about taking care of a sick cat. I was really pulling it out of my ass. She was a nice lady! But a kwaaayzy, fountain-of-youth worshipping time monopolizer! I couldn't take the heat! I'm sowwy! Don't blame me, I'm just a cute white girl!

P.S. I had a suspicion this was all about getting me to go to her church. A sneaking one, at that. She hasn't called me yet (I gave her my number! I couldn't help it! She's a strong wo-man!) but I bet she will. Or, she better. My weekends are open!

All dogged up and ready to eat fur

Observations of recent note:

- I made an omelette the other day and it smelled like hot fur. Do you know what I'm talking about? Like, when your dog comes inside from being in the sun, and you hug him, and his fur smells...hot?

(You know what I'm talking about, don't even try to pretend you don't.)

Anyway, my omelette smelled like that. I know there's a mouse living under my stove, and after the last mouse killing incident (Long story short - don't ever get those glue strip things and put them under your stove because you will listen to mouse screaming FOR HOURS), I was somehow afraid that mouse-death-fur had tainted my food.

However, it didn't taste like burning fur, it just smelled like it. Happy ending!

- On another fur note, my dogs always come in from being outside in cold weather and smell like a honey ham. It smells delicious.

- I saw a woman with a "Fuck You You Fucking Fuck" shirt on. Needless to say, she's asking for it. However, I did covet the shirt. It would be a good pajama shirt.

- I'm all about nouns as verbs, such as "beached up and ready to party!" (A la Trinie Dalton) Other nouns as verbs that I'm looking to add to my daily dialogues include "computering" and "magicking."

- I'm currently working in an office lit completely by candles and oddly colored track lighting, dead flowers (on purpose!), little wire sculptures wrapped in string, rap videos on in the background and lots of art magazines laying around. I could get used to this. It's like my idea of a perfect freaky funeral. Or maybe just my perfect office? Whatever it is, I love it.

TURN-OFFS: The beach, having to pay for things, racist people, Orientals

So you should totally read this funny, awesome interview with Amy Sedaris in The Believer...only it's from three years ago. Yeah, I know, but whatever.

Enjoy!

How's your stump?

WELL!

I'm currently busy as a bee, working up a storm on some idotic letters at work (yawn!), but I gotz lotz 'n' lotz of faboo stories for to blog about very, very soon!

INCLUDING but not limited to!

- Posing as a prospective apartment seeker in order to have a "fake date" with someone who doesn't even know it is a date. (This blew up in my face, so it's a good one! He was gay. Of course.)

- Being cornered by a female minister in a thrift store for an HOUR AND A HALF while she attempts to convince me to write her life story. Here's a taste: she told me about her first "o-face" in the first ten minutes (no joke!) and introduced me to complete strangers on the street and told them to "respect me." Crazytown!

- My life and times as a library worker. It looks like Fort Knox in here. Maybe that's just my impression. But it does.

- I saw Grindhouse and it was AMAZING!!!!! Also, this man was in the audience.



Read 'em and weep! Dee Snider! Twisted Sister!

Also, in the meantime until I get my act together and actually fill you in on all this, read up on A.M. Homes, my most favoritest author in the world. The title of the article is about the catharctic nature of vomiting - c'mon, y'know this woman is all up in my steez. I love her!

New fashion inspiration

Fashion is a fickle beast. One moment you've got a look going, the next it's just not good enough.

Thus, I have chosen a new style idol: Dottie from Pee Wee's Big Adventure.



You heard it here first! From here on out it's suspenders, ponytail, keds, maybe even puffy hair.

Also, after a recent viewing of Weird Science, I've decided the 80's-ness of my wardrobe could stand to be increased ten-fold. This is also a part of my plan.

Carry on!

If I were a serial killer...

What kind of serial killer would I be?

People dream about all kinds of things – money, fame, sex – you name it! Me? I think about what kind of serial killer I would be. It seems morbid, but really, who doesn’t see serial killers for the innovative and misunderstood souls they are? Aileen Wournos had a refreshing white trash appeal, and Jeffrey Dahmer did have some boyish good looks! Please, take a second to look past my bookish exterior to the raging degenerate within.

If I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t be slaying willy-nilly. I would be a totally methodical, clean killer. Like, classy – eating brains with three forks and never even reaching for a napkin to dab my blood-stained mouth. I’d be the seductive black widow, collecting and disposing of husbands with nary a care in the world. One week I’d be living the high life, eating Cinnabons by the box and living at the Regency, the next I’d be carting an oversized duffel bag while trolling around a truck stop. Being a serial killer means you never know what’s around the corner!

One example of my method: I would kill a guy and then stuff his body with clothes I’d been meaning to give to Goodwill. We’d sunbathe, brunch and hit the clubs Weekend at Bernie’s style (read: sunglasses and large, floppy hat) until I had a full-on man-harem. Whenever anyone questioned me about one of my entourage’s various stages of decomposition, I’d be all, “Jacque has a meth problem and a lazy eye, but does that mean he isn’t entitled to kick back on va-cay?” Problem solved!

And just think about the fashion options! Being a killer leaves a lot of pricey materials at your disposal. I could make snappy vest/pantaloon combos out of human skin and they’d always match. For accessories, I’d make elaborate belts out of braided hair or even a stylish pageboy wig for a change of pace. Hello, frugality! (In case you didn’t know, wigs are fucking expensive. This may seem like a more labor-intensive method, but trust me – you’re saving a lot of pennies out of this deal.)

Also, instead of buying one of those cheap-looking tooth necklaces in Chinatown, I could be wearing the real thing. I could even have a fancy umbrella or dandy cane with a shrunken head on the top. Seriously, you’ve got to use all the parts or you’re just being wasteful. Take it from the Indians on this one.

As for excuses, when anyone questions the stench coming from my apartment, I could totally play it off with my librarian-esque persona. “Little old me? Why, I’m too busy re-shelving soiled copies of Sex for One to kill anybody!”

Of course, this is all before the getting caught part. But this is all hypothetical, right?

P.S. Please stay out of my crawl space. It’s…crowded.

After practice we need to taaaaalk!

This video involves half a sip of wine cooler, a taped nose and a chihuahua purse.

Need I say more?



Relive Christmas with the Long Island mother that lives within each and every one of us. And don't fucking touch that tree!

I don't know who this guy is, BUT I LOVE HIM!

VidSquidWahwah

Jane Wiedlin and Sparks...aw, man. So amazing! So cute! And Jane Wiedlin in her little suit...Where do I get a little suit like that?



More Sparks. I love them too much, especially Ron Mael with his little Chaplin mustache. (Adorable!) I prefer the original video with the assembly line of Maels and all the pretty girls working in the factory, but, sadly, it wasn't on Youtube.

I heart Ira Glass

Seriously, what is not to love about him? "This American Life" is a phenomenon. I can't get enough. And the TV show? It looks AMAZING.

Go here to watch the trailer.

The Good Ship Luxury

Giiiiiiirl!

You may or may not have noticed my conspicuous absence from SnigWigs as of late. This is most likely due to the fact that I have been HATING MY LIFE due to the recent string of horrifying jobs I've been working. My temp agency seems determined to make my hard-hitting expose, Hold Still: This is Only Temporary, a reality in the very near future. Hello, grizzled journalism! (Please, be gentle. I'm soft and defenseless.)

Anyway, it all started about a week ago. I'd just finished working at another of my random reception jobs where I usually got to mess around all day and g-chat to my heart's content. I'd gotten used to having little to nothing asked of me, be it physical, mental, or emotional. I was a breathing houseplant, basically. Are you beginning to notice the past tense here? That's because this ship has motherfucking sailed. No more freedoms for this little lady! It's all button pushing and oceans of mascara tears from here on out.

You see, I'm now working deep in the trenches of luxury hell. After a short stint shifting boxes in a warehouse last Friday (read: me, in a dress, breaking down boxes and cursing my life as I pissedly toss Loreal promotional products into piles), I'm now working at a well-known jewelry company. However, it's not all trying on diamonds and giggling. (Can you believe it?)

• In order for me to gain entrance to my data entry cubicle (shudder), I must go through EIGHT locked doors, leave all my personal belongings at a security checkpoint, and be patted down.
• Any drinks I take with me into my work area cannot be taken out, in the event that anyone should try to smuggle a four pound gold chain to the outside within the unsuspicious confines of a Snapple bottle.
• Any time I have go to the bathroom, I am forced to awkwardly take my shoes off and have an armed security guard go over my entire body with a metal detecter.

The actual job is so boring that I won't even try to make light of it. It just sucks, plain and simple.

Today I was taken on a tour of the "showroom" area on the floor above production (where I work), and it made me realize just how horrific my situation is. Basically, I'm in the metaphorical bowels of the ship -- let's call it "Titanic," just for the sake of discussion.

There is a tangible class divide between my floor and the showroom. The people above me are basically all wearing "Heart of the Ocean" necklaces (Ah-LITERALLY), swimming in diamonds (MORE LITERALLY) and laughing the day away in front of their walls of windows. Meanwhile, I shovel metaphorical coal under fluorescent lights only to get a blister on my pointer finger from all the data I've hen-picked into the ancient DOS computer they've set me up on.

In other words, that's why I haven't been blogging. Amenz!

Mash Trash

According to a rather heated game of MASH last night (you know, the Mansion/Apartment/Squat?/House game favored by seventh graders in study hall), my future is looking pretty good, in a desolate, crazy way.

- I will live in a house, married to the ever swarthy and always sesual Ginuwine. (Yes!)

- I will be employed as the village idiot.

- My car will be a paper bag with a car drawn on it.

- My children will be tumors. (But I'm still having a baby shower, before they're removed.)

- I will live in a cacti forest with my pet alpaca.

- My income will be more yonies.

- My wedding dress will be made of sand.

- And I will be wearing my hair in the ever fashionable, always timeless, perm.

Work repartee

So, I'm sitting at my desk, minding my own business. (Wearing a headset, for those interested.) Typical temping day, blablahblah. Coffee, typing, trolling internet. The yoosh, to say the least.

A woman I haven't met approaches my desk and takes the key for the bathroom.

This, my friends, is the exchange that follows:

Middle-aged office lady, laughing: "You must be wondering why I have to take the bathroom key every fifteen minutes. You must think I'm pregnant or something!"

Me, bewildered by the forwardness of her statement, considering that I was, in fact, wondering why she went to the bathroom so much: "No, no! Hahaha! I don't care! 'Do whatcha gotta do,' right?"

[Awkward pause. ]

MAOL: "Well, you want to know the truth? [Me: Maybe, but I doubt that's what you're going to tell me.] I am so itchy. I try to stop, but I just have to keep going to the bathroom!"

Me, mouth agape, scary smile of awkwardness on my face, dear-in-headlights-eyes: "I'm...sorry...?"

MAOL: "Oh, no! Oh, nonononono! I'm so itchy on my back. I just go into the bathroom, strip naked and slather my body with lotion."

Me: "Oh, really." [Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh sheeeeeeit. What have I gotten myself into?]

MAOL: "...Yeah. So, just in case you were wondering why...That's why! I just didn't want you to think I was some sort of freak or something!"

Me: "Oh, heavens no!"

And...scene.

Dear Jay Howell:

...please date me!

Consider this a love letter sent into cyber space. I'm sorry to have to do it in this manner, but what can I say? You had me at "Let Me Tell You Where to Stick It." (And the accompanying, "Let Me Tell You Where NOT to Stick It.")

You see, Jay, I love a man that loves licking artifical bird life, wooded backgrounds and partying in a hearty manner. You also seem to love dogs, if your previous work is any indication. This is why we must be together. Forever.

Now don't go getting all "freaked out" on me. Let me talk you down here. If the one interview I read with you is correct, you seem like a pretty cool, mellow guy! It said you love quality beer and boners -- ME TOO. How are you not seeing the passion betwixt us? Because I can just see it floating in the air like little electromagnetic waves of lust. And just in time for Valentine's Day! (Whew, that was a close one!)

And now, more work of my beloved's.

(The picture quality below kind of blows, by the way. Just go to one of the links above and save yourself the eye damage of trying to see what the pictures are. Why do I put them up anyway? You tell me.)

Notice the woman's pained expression. ("Fuck Gary, it ain't gonna work!")

That tree is fucking bummed.

Instructions, if you should need them.

Amen!

Excuse me while I pee myself

BREAKING NEWS!

At this moment, I'm trying to maintain bladder control and keep my squealing to a minimum. "Why is Alison losing her shit, on a nearly literal level?," you may ask?

Well, PEE-WEE'S PLAYHOUSE: THE MOVIE is happening!

Simmer down. Yes, I know, I'm a little out of sorts too.

According to wiki,

"Reubens said the story would be about all of the characters from the television show finally leaving the playhouse and venturing off into Puppetland and beyond (the playhouse characters had never left the playhouse in the TV series, though various locations like Miss Yvonne's house were shown). The characters from the playhouse will be on an epic adventure to look for a missing character from the playhouse. Rumor has it that the missing character is the King of Cartoons (originally played by Gilbert Lewis and William H. Marshall). Reubens stated this will be a road movie similar to Pee-wee's Big Adventure."

Original characters returning? Lawrence Fishburne going back to the jheri curl? Tim Burton slated to direct? Conky making a career-saving return to the screen?!?

I think I've died and gone to heaven.

All I have to say is, this better not turn out anything like Big Top Pee-Wee, or there will be hell to pay. Hell.

Happy maker

Carlton is a dancing queen, and I LOVE IT!

I wish I had his moves.



See also: Carlton dancing to the Oprah theme (really getting spastic in this one.) Watch Viv and Uncle Phil's faces as they try to make him stop. It's obvious they've seen this from him before.



And "The Dance Contest," featuring "Boogaloo Shrimp." (Could there be a more appropriate name for him?) When he gets thrown into the wall it gets a little schmaltzy, but his expressions! GEEEE-NEEE-US. Also, Will's dancing kinda sucks.

Yowza! I just love how enthused Carlton always is to be doin' this thang.

Dear Tiny Infant Jesus

...Please get me one of these for my birthday, Christmas, Easter, President's Day or to let me know you have a big ol' crush on me. I need one. Badly. They're little alpacas! Made of alpacas! They make me cry alpaca tears in reverence to their cuteness! You can get them here.

Yours oh so kindly,

Alison

"You know what dog food tastes like? Do ya? It tastes just like it smells... delicious."

Guess who I saw?!!

No, no, no, not
Dave Chappelle --
even better!

I saw the real life,
in the flesh
Tyrone Biggums!


I shit you not, this guy was the living embodiment of everyone's favorite crackhead, complete with the red hat, blue hooded sweatshirt, white lips and ev-ray-thang. (Though his hat did have an American flag on it, and his lips may have just been extraordinarily chapped.)

I first noticed him because he shoved past me to get on the train while screaming, "Jam! Jam! Jam!" while frantically licking his lips. This, in itself, is not enough to make someone memorable to me. I see this shit all day, everyday.

What made little Tyrone Part Deuce (TPD from now on) memorable was his dancing, singing and general love for life. This man had a fire inside him, composed primarily of bleach and crack rock, that could not be extinguished by the cold weather, the whithering looks of his fellow train riders or the staring of frightened children. TPD was going to let his light shine!

It started when I saw him gesturing passionately in what I assumed was a conversation. However, it quickly became apparent that it wasn't two-sided, because of TPD's eye rolling and the fact that and no one around him was speaking. Then he started tapping his feet, singing all-gospel-like and throwing himself back and forth between the bars on the ceiling of the train. What'd I tell ya - on fi-ya!

Unfortunately, he got off pretty quickly, probably to go expend some more of that energy before it ran out.

If I'd seen him eat some dog food, it really would've made my day,
but beggers can't be choosers, y'know?

But what do I know?

What with Valentine's Day rolling around, and with me being a lazy bee-yootch right this second, please peruse this enlightening essay on Downies in love. Enjoy!

P.S. Also, you will quickly get addicted to One D. She tells it like it is, yo!

Headache

I yam SO SICK.

I even went home from work early, it was that bad. (I normally have a huge problem ever admitting that I'm sick at work.) I'm all stuffed up and congested, like in one of those Sudafed commercials, but not feeling any better after the medication part.

Anyway, I had many hours to peruse videos and entertain myself.

Some of my faves:

CSS - ALALA



Super bloody prom fight in reverse! This goes back to my New Year's resolution from last year to get in a fight, specifically a brawl. Didn't happen.

THE FLIRTS - DANGER



This video is kind of hilarious because the lead girl totally looks like a suburban mom with a Seinfeld mullet (complete with one of those teacher-style neckerchief necklaces with a huge bead on it.) The girls also share the same voice and can't lipsync for shit. I kinda think I dance like the lead girl - is this an embarrassing thing to admit? Ultimately, the song is too addictive to quit. I LOVE THE FLIRTS!

THE FLIRTS - HELPLESS



A "naval" themed Flirts song. I like the idea of the uniforms as costumes. It makes me think of the fashion show from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. Different lineup, better synchronization than the last video, don'tcha think? This band seriously dumped a member every six months, setting a future precedent for Destiny's Child. And doesn't the lead singer look like that actress from Weird Science? (The movie, not the TV show, obvs.)


MISSY ELLIOT - SOCK IT TO ME



...My reason for living.

Why bathe?

So, I just made a half-hearted attempt at taking a bath.

Why half-hearted? Because I just can't buy into this "bath" crap.

To all the bath enthusiasts out there: I ain't hatin'! I guess I'm just missing the point of the whole concept. I mean, you just...lay there? In chest-deep water? And this is supposed to be, like, a relaxing, sexy-fun experience, with scented oils and bubbles? Because all I ever seem to get is a grout-y tub filled with other people's pubes, a faucet stabbing me in the back, and a couple gallons of my own filth-water to "relax" in while all the grime rises to the top. Good times!

I fondly remember taking baths as a kid, but that was more fun because I was, you know, child-sized, which is inherently more tub-friendly. Now it's like stuffing a foot with no sock into a cowboy boot -- grunting, shoving, sometimes falling over from your efforts, and eventually coming to the sad realization that you're just not going to be able to pull this off in time for the rodeo. (Where was I? Oh yeah, baths.)

Anyway, by the time I get the water to the right temperature and get situated in a comfortable position, I feel like I hit a wall. "Now what?" I think in a panic. Yes, I've got my copy of "Valley of the Dolls," but I don't want to get it all soaking wet. The mandatory Sade is cooing all sexy-like from the boombox, and I've emptied a bottle of K-Mart "bubble suds" in the tub, but I'm already out of ideas of what do to with myself. Am I supposed to, like, seductively smoke a cigarette and contemplate life while staring moodily at a candle? Make little bubbles mounds on my boobs to maintain my modesty, in the event someone comes in through the padlocked door? Masturbate?

I know I'm supposed to be enjoying this, but all I really want to do is get the hell out of there. So much planning goes into being able to STAY in the tub once you're there, but I keep finding reasons to get out. The volume's too loud, the candle's too burn-y, I've got to pee, these bubbles are giving me a UTI, I hate this song, what are you guys laughing at out there? I always need an excuse to get out of my self-imposed water jail and I'm left contemplating the appeal of the whole experience. And the thought of doing this with another person -- GOD, no! I'd sooner take a bath in a pool of urine.

In the meantime, I'll continue to take my scalding three-minute showers, and not a second longer. What can I say? That's just how I roll, yo!

P.S. There is a website devoted to bathtub artwork. Waaaht?

Shit Soundtrack

Color me Seinfeld, but I must get observational and whiny for a minute. Indulge me, won't you?

In general, my workplace is a quiet haven. There is a TV with CNN on around the clock, but I've learned to tune out The Situation Room and all other "infotainment" news aired on said network.

There is one notable exception to the relative quiet of the office: specifically, the women's restroom.

I'm sorry if I'm out of the loop on this one, but is it normal for there to be a piped-in "soft rock" radio station for a bathroom? I could understand if it was the entire office, but just the bathroom? I do not need to listen to Amy Grant while I pee, thankyouverymuch, and I find it hard to believe that I'm the only one that feels this way. Is it meant to cover up the soft plops of women making tiny bunny shits? Because it doesn't? Yeah, it really doesn't.

Whoever's brilliant idea this was, I have a bone to pick with you. I'd challenge you to a "meeting in the ladies' room," but I don't really think we'd be able to hear each other over Seal's touching rendition of "Kissed by a Rose."

(ed: He's really making a comeback with this whole Heidi Klum thing, huh? Just saying!)

IT HAPPENED TO MOI !!!

I GOT GRIFTED!

And it was soooo worth it!

For the two of you I haven't already told this to, allow me to elaborate, Sophia Petrillo style.

Picture it: Brooklyn. 2007. Last night. (6:30 PM, actually.)

It's colder than a witch's teat and I'm stumbling home with a half-dead orchid bigger than my head, wrapped in shredded paper bags that I found at the office. I received said orchid yesterday when the plant people came to remove it from my office after replacing it with a new and better orchid. (Each orchid costing a mere $185, by the way.) After fighting tooth and nail with my co-workers for the plant (actual story: passive aggressively wrote my name all over it before any one else could get to it), I slowly but surely make my way home with my delicate treasure.

So, I'm walking up to my door, and I hear a high pitched "Haaaaaaaaaay!", not unlike the "haaaays" often repeated in that joke about what a gay horse would eat. All of a sudden, I am moderately overwhelmed by the appearance of a "fabulous" little man in a fur cape (yes, cape) with a flashy camera the size of a toaster around his neck. He immediately grasped my arm (while I instinctively lunged backward) and says, "THANK GAWD for a friendly face! Am I in a mess of trouble or waaaaaaaht? It's so cold! I love your hair! I love your pin! What is with this neigh-bor-hood?!?"

(Now, I must mention that I live in kind of a "tough" area. Sadly, you'll be hard pressed to find any designer soap stores, Baby Gaps or gourmet gummy bear vendors in close proximity. We rough it out here. It's all rusty crack spoons and "keepin' it reeeeeal!" By flagrantly showcasing a camera like his in my 'hood, this guy was just asking to get his neck snapped.)

Needless to say, I usually ignore everyone in my neighborhood, but this little beaver-caped gnome piqued my interest. After coming to the conclusion that he wasn't going to razor me in the face, I honored his request that we go inside to talk about his "situation" (ed: yeeeeeah.), whereupon we went into the vestibule of my building. (With me insisting quietly the entire time that we were going "NO FURTHER, you hear me? NO FURTHER!") He proceeded to he to tell me his sob story about not being from around here, living in an ocean front villa in New Jersey with "all the queens you'd ever want to meet!" and leaving all of his earthly belongings in a gypsy cab. Also, can he have $15 to get home to said villa?

At this point, I think he could see my skepticism and started laying it on real thick. All of a sudden he was here for fashion week, he was friends with Richie Rich





and Amanda Lepore



and that he had access to the Heatherette show room. Did I mention his name was "Randuel"?

Randuel: What do you want? Do you want shoes! I'll get you shoes! You want Manolo Blahniks? You want gloves?!? (Mumbles to himself about how cold it is.) I KNOW! Alligator skin gloves! Oh my gawd, you will be so FASHION! But what do I know, I'm just the biggest queen, up shit creek, needing $15! (Whimpering at this point) What am I going to do without my Blackberry?!?

(Might I add, Randuel is laying across my shit nasty front steps at this point, in a state of melancholy that dirt couldn't even affect.)

Me: (Mumbling incoherently about how I need to go inside.)

Randuel, getting desperate and shrill: Here, hold my camera for ransom! (Holds it out, covering his glitter-masked eyes like he's going to cry.) You want my coat? You can have this coat!

Me, slightly interested: You mean your cape?...What kind of fur is that, by the way?

Randuel, seeming slightly suspicious that I might actually take his coat: It's beaver -- and it's DELICIOUS! (Pets the coat.) All I need is the $15, honey.

Here is the exhaustive list of everything Randuel promised me:

a. a seat at fashion week, + 2 standing positions
b. snake skin gloves
c. manolo blahniks
d. his beaver cape
e. camera
f. a blackberry
g. access to a secret 411 code for all the phone numbers I could ever wish to have (ed: waaaht?)

Basically, anything he could think of to get me to give him this money.

When I finally broke down and gave him the money (Yeah, what would you do in this situation?), he made me write out an extensive IOU and swore that he'd "get me back!" and that I'd saved his life.

Needless to say, he hasn't called me yet and my hands are cold and clammy, awaiting those alligator gloves!

SEE YOU AT FASHION WEEK!

True story.

P.S. The orchid's dead, my hands are still cold and he hasn't called. GOD DAMMIT.

Who wants cake?!?

Answer: me

C.R.E.A.M.

Greetings from Temp-town, population, ME!

You can usually find me sitting behind a reception desk, calculating my take-home pay, braiding my hair, or memorizing the lyrics to such seminal works as Ludacris' "What's Your Fantasy?". (You wish I was joking.)

Even though I function as little more than a decorative houseplant at most of my jobs, I still manage to find a little time in my staring-into-space-schedule to get a little thinking done on the job.

Thus, I present, for your consideration:
"My Typical Day in Temp Town"

8:00 - Arrive at temp office - status: barely conscious.

8:05 - Settle into uncomfortable chair, read about LiLo's (Lindsay Lohan, for those not in the know, natch) latest cootch exploits. Oh, Lilo!

9:27 - Pray I won't get sent anywhere for the day, but that means no money. This is kind of a double-edged sword, because both concepts kind of blow.

9:43 - Bored, kind of stir crazy in that itchy sort of way. Don't want to sit down any more, tired of reading about celebabies. End up getting sent to some office, somewhere. Crap.

10:00 - Arrive at office. Ask for directions to kitchen and bathroom. And when's my break, by the way? Get coffee, stuff pockets with tea bags.

10:40 - Snoop through drawers. Use lotion, observe surrounding photos, religious bric-a-brac and inspirational quotes. Occasionally answer phone, but this is rare.

11:02 - Check myspace, e-mail, new york times and gawker continuously. Repeat.

1:19 - Finally go to lunch. By this point have chewed all the gum in my purse because was so hungry. Buy chips at a bodega because I can't afford $9 midtown sandwich. Cry.

1:52 - Go to Sephora and try on every kind of makeup within reach for lack of anything else to do on lunch break. Return to office looking kind of whore-ish.

2:47 - Someone inevitably tries to teach me "the correct way" to lick envelopes. Am incapable of informing them that I'm only here for one day, and that I don't need any "lessons," thank you.

3:04 - Scavenge for food left from corporate meetings. (Usually leftover pasta salad, a few pieces of pineapple, and a sandwich ripped in half.) Never know if I'm allowed to eat this, so usually stuff all of it in my purse and eat it in quick bursts from under my desk, into my mouth. Subsequently, feel like hobo.

4:37 - At this point, have left myspace comments for everyone I've ever known, as am bored to tears.

5:15 - Braid hair into Princess Leia buns. Can I go home yet?

5:21 - Clandestinely sneak out of office, taking all the tea bags I can carry with me.


....And that's my usual day, except I'm somewhere different every single time.

(Psst! Just between you and me? Temping can actually be kind of fun, once you get past the boredom. It's pretty freeing when you don't ever have to know where "Josh from Accounts Payable" sits or how to make an Excel chart. I'm here for one day! What do I know?)

Livin' on the street!

...So, you hear a lot of crazy shit on the streets of New York, on the subway, in your building, whatever.

When I first moved here I just assumed that there was an unusually large schizophrenic population wandering the streets, but I've come to realize that people here just don't have any sort of mental muzzle to keep all their thoughts from wandering out of their mouths. Seriously, I have never lived ANYWHERE before where it was so acceptable to routinely talk to yourself in public and say the most offensive, inane shit out loud.

When I say talk to yourself in public, I mean exactly that. Everyone does it! If it's a simple, "Well, fuck you, too!" under their breath, or a pep talk before a meeting, or a conversation with yourself about what you'd like for lunch today -- people just don't hold back! And this isn't even considering all of the actual two-way conversations I overhear daily.

A recent contribution:

Business man on the street: "....and if I wanna get new vocal chords, I'm GONNA get new fucking vocal chords!"
Woman: "But, what --"
Business man, cutting her off: "Eh eh eh eh eh! I'm getting new chords. End of story!"

Very gay man on train: "God! By the time we get to Brooklyn, giraffes will be lactating!"
(Do they not already?)

Verbal diahrrea, that's all I gotta say.

If it tastes good, who cares what's inside?

I am currently OBSESSED with Shaye Saint John.



If you haven't heard of her, here's the synopsis.

"Meet Shaye Saint John. Legend has it she was horribly injured in an auto accident which took both her arms and legs, as well as disfiguring her face. She now resembles a mutilated doll with rubber appendages and a wig mask. She's a singer and an actress living with two filmmakers who make dozens of short films about the 'record holder for having the most problems.' Whether she's truly the victim of circumstance or the work of a mad puppeteer, her music and films stand on their own."

Whatever the story is, she makes her cash monies by looking like a cross between Baby Jane, a mop and one of those overgrown dolls you practice CPR on. But her videos? GENIUS! Never really any point, but I give her credit for trying.

24/7 REDUX



She's obsessed with Marsha Brady, too. (ed. LOVE LOVE LOVE)

Check out her website. Entertainment for HOURS.

www.shayesaintjohn.com

Am I a fatty?

Recently (ten minutes ago), as I perused the internet while awaiting my day of servitude to come to an end, I came across a listing on Paper's website concerning the best doughnut places in New York.

I was disturbed to realize that I have eaten doughnuts at all but one of these establishments. Now, I've only lived in New York a few months, but the fact that I have somehow managed to eat doughnuts all over the city -- in between working, having a social life, washing my hair, etc. -- distresses me in a way I cannot explain. How and why have I been to all these places? I can admit that the Doughnut Plant is one of the finer doughnut establishments I have ever perused, but still! Come now! Am I doughnut connoisseur? Or merely a fatty in training?

Don't answer that.

Whatcha doin' Fri-Sat-Sun?

Well, another week draws to a close, and I gots to get some plans for the weekend. Here are some options:



This movie poster looks pretty hokey, but I think the camp factor will be OFF THE CHARTS! (Which means, right up my alley.) Plus, there's a lot of moustache showing, some horse stuff maybe? I don't know, the visuals look cool. Sounds pretty similar to that one movie -- you know the one I'm talking about -- "the spaghetti western?" The one with all the ramen? You know what I'm talking about.

Tomorrow I'm going to see Juiceboxxx -- always a good time!

"Thunder Jam III"



I love the sweat pants, what can I say?

The first time I saw J-boxxx perform in Iowa City it was in a basement in the "Yellow Ghetto," the sole Mexican looking domicile in all of Iowa City, and called as such because it's yellow and kinda ghetto looking and it's made of stucco or something. Anyway, I thought he was some weird roadie that was kinda hanging on the side, being a skinny little dork guy, and then all of a sudden he just grabs the mike, takes his shirt off and starts rhyming like crazy! He was all standing on shit, hanging from rafters, and I think he even dirty-ground (past tense of grind-ed) with my friend Christ-y.

So, yes. That's on the agenda for tomorrow.

See you there?!?

News from the bottom of a hole

So, I don't know why it's taken so long, but I've finally jumped on this whole "American version" of The Office.



I know, I know, it's been out for a while now, and I'm just catching on. (I'm still working on that "toothpaste" concept as well, just in case you were wondering.) I derided it forever, saying it couldn't possibly be better than the British version. No throwing around the slang I have no idea how to use! No Paki jokes! And worst of all, no more Scotch-egg-biting by my favorite obese imaginary friend, Keith. Sadness!

Well, somehow a DVD of said show ended up on my coffee table, I was absentminded enough to put it in while in my catatonic "drool state," and the rest was history. Whip me with the shame stick, I stand corrected! And how, in no particular order, some things I enjoy about said show.

Number 1 fave: CREED BRATTON



O-M-F-ing-G. Creed Bratton MAKES this show for me. In addition to being the "spooky old guy" in the office, he is essentially playing a cameo role, since he really is Creed Bratton, former member of the Grass Roots, druggie dude and card-carrying weirdo. Wiki that shit!

• "Creed is a taciturn quality assurance representative at the Scranton branch of the Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company. He lives in Toronto, spending three nights a week there in order to milk the welfare state. The remainder of the week, he sleeps in his cubicle, using the office water cooler to bathe.
• Creed spent time in an iron lung as a teenager, and was a member of the rock band The Grass Roots.
• He has concentration problems due to his drug use during his rock career and is unfamiliar with many of his co-workers, regularly forgetting their names and personality traits.
• Creed has four toes on his right foot and enjoys arcade-style shooting games. He lost his toe because his parents bound his feet as a young child.
• He snacks on nutritious, fragrant mung bean sprouts, which he keeps stashed in his desk on a damp paper towel, though he admits "they smell like death." (ed. note: LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT)
• Creed says that he made love to many women during the 1960s (outdoors, in the mud and rain), and could possibly have made love to a man, but "there'd be no way of knowing."

How could you not love a guy like this? People, HE WASHES WITH THE WATER COOLER! This is a quality character we've got here! With the possible exception of my number 2 fave...

DWIGHT SCHRUTE



Oh, Dwight, my sweet, potato-shay-ped man child. Where do I begin my love letter to you and your hateful, small-minded ways?

Dwight triumphs over British Office's Gareth in many capacities, mostly because of the fact that he belongs to the highly mythologized nerd/dork hybrid, characterized by odd habits, an authority complex, extreme immaturity, and a strange aversion to cleanliness -- one rarely seen past the age of 14.

My first experience with this type of "nork" was a kid named Ephram that I went to middle school with. (With a name like Ephram, need I say more?) He always wore a khaki boy scout uniform, never washed his hair, had those middle-aged man gold aviator style glasses, pulled his socks up to his thighs and wore shorts 365 days a year. He never really said much, so I just assumed that he was the quiet, smart loner type, wise in ways I wouldn't understand and maybe kinda funny in a weird way.

Well, I quickly learned the error of my ways when we were paired to work together on a project. He always carried his big back pack because he "didn't believe in lockers," not because he had any inkling of wisdom buried squirrel-nut style in his oily, dandruffed head. He didn't help with the project, was obsessed with gaining more rank in "the scouts" and was only interested in muttering out his various comments concerning the lunch ladies and their monopoly on selling picnic cookies at lunch. Basically, he was the sort of person that would be entertaining on TV, but not in real life.

Enter, Dwight.

This annoying, pedantic little man makes my TV dreams come true with his ignorant ramblings, self-aggrandizing speeches and affinity for beet farming. In short, I can only say, I DIG DWIGHT! (In theory, and with a "third wall" between us.)