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!