Love for the Loveless

A Good Nights Sleep

2009-01-30T10:59:00.003-05:00

In my 27 years on earth, I have woken up to some pretty fucked up scenes.

Ive woken up in the street, I’ve woken up in my parents front yard in a wig and a bathrobe, Ive woken up in the lost and found of airports in foreign cities. If you live long enough and drink hard enough, its almost inevitable that this happens to you. Often, I cant remember how I got there... but usually if I try hard enough, look around, and listen to the full police report, I can more or less piece together my evening.

This morning was a landmark moment for me. Try as I might, I can not for the life of me figure out what the hell I did last night. What kind of crazy night did I have to blackout to this degree, you ask? I had a few cocktails, came home around 10, made some tea and took an Ambien.

One fucking Ambien. A five fucking milligram Ambien. I have NEVER once blacked out like this before in my life. I remember more about the evening I drank so much I thought it was a good idea to snort a crushed Aspirin.

The last thing I remember was sitting down on the couch to watch the Daily Show. The next thing I remember is waking up at 4:00 am, fully clothed, in bed, COMPLETELY covered from head to toe in chocolate and marzipan (neither of which I was aware I had in the apartment). Confused as hell, I got up, stripped the sheets, took a shower, and did a load of laundry in the middle of the night. Then I went back to sleep.

When I woke up at 9:00 this morning (after several hours of restless sleep filled with sexual nightmares and profuse sweating out of only ONE of my armpits), I was still totally confused about the dessert orgy I had apparently decided to have. It was the oddest thing I had ever woken up to... that is, until I walked out into the living room.

Some time between taking the Ambien and waking up covered in candy, I had apparently 1) taken a vegetable peeler and used it to finely slice an entire block of cheese which I did not eat. 2) unplugged all of the wiring on the television speaker 3) called a guy I dated YEARS ago four times at 1:00 AM, each time for exactly 17 seconds according to my blackberry 4) read (or attempted to read, since I found the book on the kitchen table) Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, and best of all 4) probably made some misguided attempt to do the dishes, but possibly urinated in the dishwasher.

Apparently Ambien puts ME to sleep, but awakens the performance artist in me.

After several hours of cleaning, Ive mostly undone the damage of my sleep escapades, and am now crawling back into a freshly cleaned bed. So let this be a warning to you all: Ambien is the most dangerous drug known to man kind.

Eugoogoly

2009-01-16T12:34:00.002-05:00

The Heathcliffe story is this: When I was 17 and living with my 30-year-old-married-drug-addict-artist-boyfriend in his house on Venice beach, I wasn’t exactly what you might call "emotionally mature". Nor was I really what you might call "stable". I was, however, what you what you might call "high out of my f-ing mind at least 96% of the time".

To give you an idea of what constitutes being "high out of my f-ing mind at least 96% of the time", our one kitchen cabinet consisted of oil paints and thinner, and our other consisted of mason jars filled with every drug known to man. Neither cabinet had any food in it. When the drug cabinet was empty, we usually resorted to huffing the paint thinner. Those were good days.

Since our household was pretty much identical to every other house in Venice, and almost all of our neighbors were in the same constantly drug addled state as we were, it goes without saying that all of my friendships were pretty much identical to the relationship between Julianne Moore and Heather Graham in Boogie Nights.

Of all of these relationships, the only one that consisted of anything more than coked out declarations of undying love (my relationship with my boyfriend included) was my relationship with Heathcliffe. Heahcliffe was our next door neighbor and I met him when he attended our Summer Solstice Ecstasy Party. I was instantly in love. He was tall, dark, brooding and handsome, he brought a guitar and played us all some songs he had written while we were peaking. Maybe it was the Ecstasy, but it was some of the most beautiful music Ive ever heard... I distinctly remember the sand applauding him when he was finished playing.

Of course he was gay. And not, like, kind of gay, like full time job gay, like a day he didn’t sleep with a stranger didn’t count as a real day gay. Regardless, we spent every waking second together. While my boyfriend was out selling his art on the boardwalk (seriously), I was at Heathcliffe’s, being his "muse", as he put it.

Being a muse, in case you’ve never been one yourself, consists mostly of smoking pot, complaining about your relationship, napping on the sundeck and paying for lunch.

When things with my boyfriend (miraculously) didn’t work out, Heathcliffe and I got in my car and ran away to San Francisco together. We spent a couple of days living out of my car, openly laundry listing the things that were wrong with our lives. We didn’t have any money, so we charged gas, and mostly stole food. It was amazing.

Since we didn’t have any money, we also didn’t have any drugs, which meant, for both of us, sobering up for the first time in well over three full months. An overly emotional gay guy and a hormonal adolescent girl going through withdrawal while living together in a Volkswagen bug... If one were given the task of visually depicting the phrase "rock bottom", Im pretty sure a picture from that week would be more than sufficient.

That was it for me. I bounced out of Venice and crawled back to NY within a week of returning from that road trip. Heathcliffe and I stayed in touch for a while after I moved, but eventually we lost touch. That was 1999, an Ive been trying to find him again ever since. He wasn’t of Friendster, or Myspace so my assumption was that he was either dead or had never really existed.

Finally, I found him on Facebook just this summer and wrote to him. I never heard back. Finally I got desperate and started emailing his friends on Facebook, one of whom was kind enough to inform me that he was dead.

I was crushed, of course. I was going to tell Big Big about it, but I assumed her response would be "Awww, that’s so sad! I know what loss feels like. I lost my Chanel purse once and I didn’t think I would ever love again." So instead I told my fiancé the story and he said "Oh, that’s really sad. Did you hear how much the market was down today?" Which I thought was insensitive until I told my father the news and he asked me "Are you talking about that cartoon cat?".

I thought was pretty much as insensitive as it could get until I told Alabaster the news and he said "That guy you lived in your car with? Of COURSE he’s dead. I still don’t understand why YOU aren’t."

Big Bigisms

2008-09-10T20:31:00.004-04:00

Sooo… due to (inexplicable) requests for me to open my blog back up to the public (requests from people including but not limited to my mom and dad, I might add), I have decided to do just that.

I haven’t written anything in a long time for a variety of reasons. Some personal, some political... all imaginary. Anyway, now it’s back and Ill probably contribute to it on a semi regular basis.

I’ve had a lot of misadventures since last I posted, but I cant share them with you all just quite yet because of... reasons. But rest assured, they will soon be available to you, and they’re at least 37% more ridiculous than my previous exploits.

What better way to get back into the blog writing spirit than to share with you some words of great and zen-like wisdom? And who better to turn to for this than my favorite fodder supplier, my sister Big Big.

Now, just to refresh your memories, Big Big is my baby sister. Alabaster gave her the name Big Big.It’s short for Big Big Moron. Though she is an intelligent girl, she says what are, by far, some of the stupidest fucking things ever said by anyone in the history of life on earth. Just so you know Im not exaggerating... the image above is of her right after she was "hit by an epiphany".

My lack of blogging has kept me from sharing with a wider audience some of her more recent Big Bigisms. Let me correct that right now.

On Father’s Day (aka, the only day of the year I cant get a date to save my life), Big Big picked me up in her giant BMW a mere half an hour late, and managed to double park her car in a way that both prevents other drivers from getting by AND pedestrians from passing her. I open the passenger side to see what looks a girl who was beaten within an inch of her life, deprived of sleep and makeup removal for a week, dipped in liquor and put behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle. The first thing she slurred at me was "you have to drive."

This was just as well, because to sit in the passenger seat, I would have had to remove the plastic Burger King tray that she had stolen because her take out order was too massive for the paper bags alone to support. The ride started off well enough, with her sleeping and snoring loudly, but eventually she regained consciousness as she always does.

Apparently, she was quite hungry when she woke up because she reached in to her giant Channel purse and pulled out a back of Chinese food take out ribs. I guess the bright red goo they marinate those in wasn’t quite tasty enough for Big Big, because she followed this by reaching back in to her purse and pulling out a bottle of BBQ sauce. Already knowing it was a mistake, I asked her "Big, are you eating ribs on the way to dinner?" Her response was "Because I felt like eating something... Which reminds me, I wanted to ask you... have you ever tried eating someone’s ass?" After careful consideration, I answered "No... and PLEASE tell me that’s not why you have BBQ sauce in your bag."

Eventually, talked turned to her budding relationship with her new boyfriend Stu. She was explaining how she felt uncomfortable because they were nearing that point in the relationship where they had to have 'the talk'. "I’m scared," Big told me "How do I go about having ‘the talk?’".I spent the next 20 minutes explaining to her different ways she could approach the subject, and aside from the occasional pause to devour a rib whole, she gave me her rapt attention. When I was done with my speech she asked me... "Ok, great, but... What if I forget?" "What if you forget which part?" "What if I forget to bring it up?"

Not really sure what type of response this warranted I said "Well, if you forget to bring it up, you probably didn’t care that much in the first place." She thought about this for several moments, and said "Remind me later I’m not wearing any underwear."

Later in the summer, Alabaster and I decided to go out to dinner with Big. The day before we tried to decide on a mutually agreeable restaurant, when Big informed us...

Big: It has to be somewhere Atkins friendly, because Im on Atkins as of today.
Alabaster: Ok, how about sushi, and you can have sashimi?
Big: Eww,no. I cant eat sushi. Water animals bug me out.
Me: Whats a water animal?
Big: You know, like fish.
Me: Big, that’s not a water animal...its an entirely different species of being.
Big: Well, what is a perfect acronym for fish if not water animal?
Me: What?!?
Alabaster: No, lets explore this... Big what qualifies as a water animal? Do seals? Do crabs? Does Kevin Costner in Waterworld? Does a wet puppy? Does a mermaid?
Big: Whatever. Im not eating sushi.

We select an Atkins friendly restaurant, and a mer e 15 minutes late, Big strolls in... pouring Pringles from the can into her mouth.
Me: What happened to Atkins?
Liz: It didn’t make me skinny. Besides, I don’t have to diet or go to the gym, I have a boyfriend. Anyway, theres this new book that just came out. I want to buy it, but it’s like, really expensive.
Alabaster: So, why don’t you just take it out of the library?
Big: No way! I have no idea what’s on those books!
Alabaster: What would be on a library book?
Big: Well, you know, like, when youre reading a book and you pick your nose, and then you use that finger to turn the page?
Me and Alabaster: stunned silence.
She then ordered a large bowl of rice, and a bowl of bread for dinner.

Finally, Big called me when I was in the Hamptons for the weekend...

Big: Im really scared.
Me: Why? Did you see a water animal?
Big No, you know how I eat in my sleep all the time?
Me: Um, no.
Big: Well, I do, and last night... I ate a Tide spot remover stick.
Me: well, if it was going to effect you it probably would have by now. But did you ever think about doing something about the fact that you sleep eat?
Big: No... I think its totally normal that I cant make it through the night on an empty stomach.
Me: Well, maybe you should keep healthy snacks by your bed than. Because even if whatever you eat next isn’t poisonous, itll probably be really caloric.
Big: No, I don’t have any food in the house that has chlorine in it.
Big’s Coworker: Big, what was that clients name from this morning?
Big: Oh, it was Hmmmm Blahblahblah.
Coworker: Excuse me?
Big: It was Hmmm Blahblahblah.
Coworker: What?
Big (very aggravated): Ugh, I cant pronounce his name so Im just mumbling.
Me: Big, do you need to go?
Big: No, whatever. So what’s even worse is I got a parking ticket last ngiht for NO reason.
Me: Well, where’d you park?
Big: Right in front of my building!
Me: You mean, in the taxi stand?
Big: No, there were, like, a million other cars parked right there!
Me: Were those other cars... Taxis?
Big: Oh...

I could go on, but frankly Im developing carpel tunnel from this. Ill leave you, as Big left Alabaster and me after dinner, with this parting thought.. "Awwww... I love when dogs pee!"

Pesach

2008-04-22T12:47:00.004-04:00

For far too long, I’ve neglected my blogging. I do, however, have an excellent excuse. I haven’t been able to write lately because of... reasons.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, let me say that this Passover weekend was completely inspirational. This was due largely to spending an extended period of time with my sister, Big Big.

As well we all know, Passover celebrates the day when the Angel of Death descended from heaven and slaughtered all the non Jewish babies! And also, to quote the haggadah, to celebrate the day when god “led us out of the house of bondage”. I don’t know how god did that... but my guess would be he agreed to pay our rent so we wouldn’t have to work there anymore.

After spending Passover with Big, it became clear that while the Angel of Death spared the Jewish babies, it would seem that the Angel of Brains may have skipped over a few Jewish households as well. To remind you, Big Big established herself as the star of the Seder last year by asking if Gefilte fish had fish in it. This year, she really outdid herself.

Before the Seder at my cousins house, Big Big and I decided to honor this holiday by making a pilgrimage to the holy land... Woodbury Commons. The car ride up was pretty much what you’d expect... Big drove her massive BMW at unheard of speeds while applying makeup, texting, and, of course, rapping.

The highlight of the day was when we went into Ralph Lauren, and Big walked up to an older, well dressed gentleman, got between him and the jacket he was looking at and said “Where’s the children’s section?”. After his shock wore off, he explained to Big “Um, I don’t work here”, to which Big responded by rolling her eyes in disgust and saying “Oh. My bad” as she wandered off to assault more customers.

At the Seder, Big continued her streak of brilliance. First she told us the guy she’s dating, we’ll cal him Stu, had complimented her. “Stu told me I have a great ass... just like Kim Kardashian’s! No... wait... I told him that”.

Later in the evening, she retreated to my cousin’s porch to partake in the traditional Passover joint smoking. My mother walked out during this, and being the strict disciplinarian that she is, asked Big Big “Are you at least going to eat some of the chocolate cake I made after you finish that joint?” Big Big nodded. I took this opportunity to remind my mother that generally when you find your daughter doing drugs at a family holiday you’re supposed to reprimand her or give her some sort of warning. My mother processed this for a minute, turned to Big Big and said “You know... by the time you get back down stairs, there won’t be any ice cream left.”

For me, the icing on the unleavened cake was when I was driving home with my father and I mentioned to him that mom had been talking to me about her will a lot lately. I asked if there was something I should know, like maybe she was suffering from some horrible illness. My father, not wanting me to worry, explained “No, mom’s totally fine. I, however, could go at any minute. You should probably be prepared to grab the wheel.”

All in all, Passover went better than I expected. Fortunately for me, that’s the last major Jewish holiday of the year.

Big Big Birthday Bash

2008-01-15T21:44:00.002-05:00

Today, January 15th, is a very important day for the family Machiato... it is my sister Big Big's birthday. Or, as I think of it, the day everyone stopped paying attention to me. Or, as Big Big thinks of it, the 15th day of her month long self-involvement festival. It's a very big day... Woodbury Commons closes in order to celebrate, and a small shrine is erected at the Westchester Mall where people can go worship Big Big in effigy.

The first celebratory event I was forced to participate in was her models and bottles event at some club in midtown. Now, bear in mind that ig Big was the social chair of her jappy-jew sorority, so no birthday celebration would be complete without her 3,000 best friends, all of whom look and act exactly like her. I can't remember who any of them are aside from one named Becky... and thus I refer to all of them as Becky.

All the Becky's were at Big Big's party. There was Room Mate Becky, who is very nice, and then there was Blonde Becky who is very short and didn't stay very long, then there was Other Becky who I think is named Rachel.

Part two of the celebration was this evening when we went out for a family dinner. Big Big, who can spend $5,000 on a purse the size of an egg without batting an eye, has such a refined palette that the only foods she can eat are Chinese and McDonalds. Thus, her birthday dinner was at Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown. Famously, this is the restaurant where Big held her soup filled dumpling up to her ear to see if she could hear the ocean. Tonight she gave us a repeat performance.

On the candle shoved in an orange which passed for her birthday cake, Big wished for a boyfriend to buy her an i-touch.

This, although there is heavy competition, may be the dumbest thing she said tonight. Because... if she had a boyfriend she wouldn't need to wish for an i-touch she could just ASK for one... and a boyfriend isn't something you wish for, it's something you achieve by suppressing your scary creepy jappy side for the first few months of dating.

It's a skill most of have acquired... yet Big fails to understand why telling a guy what you're going to name your future children might not be the best thing to bring up on a first date. Or why asking a guy to rub your tummy until you fall asleep might be a bit intimate to request in a restaurant. Or that some might find it a bit off-putting if you ask them to put on surgical gloves before feeling you up. I knew she was in trouble when she explained she couldn't sleep with a guy she'd been dating for two months because she didn't know when last he'd been tested.

I assumed she meant the Series 7, but... no.

Big seemed to enjoy round two of her birthday celebration... that's her in the picture at the top displaying how she can "totally look totally Arabian!" The "Arabian" part being a clear indicator that her exposure to foreign politics is limited to the Disney version of Aladin.

J-Diet

2007-10-08T00:03:00.001-04:00

Now that my fast decline to Creepy Old Cat Lady is no longer being decelerated, I feel that I may soon have to return to my favorite diet.

Coming from giant fat people and a variety of eating disorders, it should come as no surprise that I have extensive experience with diets. Only one (aside from bulimia) has ever rendered halfway decent results, and thusly I plan on returning to this one immediatly.

My choice to opt for a rigid diet as opposed to just trying to eat well was prompted by a recent trip grocery shopping (or as Cowboy Sex Angel used to call it, Super Market Shopping!). Whenever I unpack a bag of groceries, Im forced to realize that I really only buy two categories of food: non-food and cry-for-help food.

Non-food consistes of Single Jewish Girl staples such as miso soup packets, celery, non-fat yogurt and diet soda. I usully get a good two to three bags of that stuff; food that allows you to go through the motions of eating without actually having to consume anything. Then I get a bag or two of cry-for-help food, which is essentially the stuff you eat when you get back from a horrible date or have had a bit too much to drink and youre having a I-want-to-destroy-my-body-so-Ill-have-an-explanation-for-why-no-one-loves-me. This consists of... pretty much all the food I was raised on: ice cream, mac and cheese, deep fried lard wrapped in bacon dipped in sugar, etc. It gets hidden behind the non-food in the fridge incase people come over.

It’s depressing to purchase these items, and more importantly it’s expensive. Thus... my decision to return to my favorite all-time diet. It’s way cooler than Atkins and South Beach combined, and it's twice as effective. I call it The J-diet!

It’s a real breakthrough, and I ultimately plan on writing a book about it just as soon as I’m emaciated enough for the jacket photo.

What’s so amazing and unique about The J-diet is that you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want... just so long as someone on J-date buys it for you! Sound too good to be true? It isn’t. I went on the J-diet for 6 months and lost 30 pounds! This was back when I worked at Bergdorfs.A sample day on the J-diet looked like this...

Breakfast: leftover rock shrimp tempura from Nobu. Lunch: French onion soup during lunch date at Rue 57. Snack: 3 dirty martinis at Fredericks. Dinner: spring rolls and dumplings at TAO. Dessert: a CFO from Darrien. God, this diet is brilliant AND delicious!

The reason for my imminent return to this cheap and healthy way of life is threefold: A) I see now that I’m going to die alone and don’t want to die alone AND fat. B) I’m totally jealous of Alabaster and his insane weight loss, and most importantly C) people have been calling me fat A LOT lately. Like, more so than usual. Here are some of the more vicious examples...

My sister, referring to me, informed me “no one buys the cow when they can get the mild for free.” OUCH!! Obviously, she thinks I’m fat. Fat as a cow! It’s not like she said, I don’t know... no one buys the bean pole when they get the beans for free! Then she made a desperate attempt to backtrack and say she didn’t MEAN to imply that I was fat... merely that I was a huge slut that no one would ever marry, but I told her the damage was done, and there was no point in trying to make it sound like a compliment at this point.

Some waiter this week had the nerve to say to me “would you be interested in seeing the dessert tray?” That DICK! He may as well have said “Do you want to see a tray of lard and sugar? I bet you do, Fatty Fattenstein.”

Other atrocities this week have included being told... I’m “too much”, that I “haven’t changed a bit since High School”, that I “seem like a man-eater"... and perhaps the worst of all.. that I have “a lot on my plate right now”.

I hear you LOUD and CLEAR guys... it's Diet Coke and toothpast from here on out.

Playing Favorites

2007-09-21T17:22:00.001-04:00

Every since this years Rosh Hashanah celebration, I’ve been creating a Greatest Hits reel in my head. It was motivated mostly by Big Big.

Now, we all know Big Big says some ridiculously stupid shit, but spending an extended period of time with her often necessitates taking some time alone to reflect on the zen-like nature of her idiocy.

It was at Rosh Hashanah that Big topped herself and gave me a new all time favorite Big quote. It’s this...

“Is Gefilte fish made of fish?”

This is one of the ones that requires a bit of reflection. Obviously, its a ridiculous question. It’s called Gefilte Fish. I mean, it says fish right in the name.

So one has to wonder, what could have possibly confused her? Was she thrown off by misnomers she had encountered in her past? Like the way Snoop Dogg isn’t really a dog? Was that a traumatic realization for her perhaps? Causing her to question everything she thought she knew about the world?

Secondly, it wasn’t even “Is Gefilte fish fish?” It was is it MADE of fish. Inferring that it couldn't just be fish, but rather the result of some complex manipulation of the fish. Perhaps the titular “gefilte-ing”?

Thirdly, she asked this to a total fucking stranger, not even a family member who wouldn't have been quite as baffled. Instead she asked my cousins friend whom she had never even met before.

Therefore, the reason for my selection of this quote is three fold. Previously, the title was held by her contribution to a conversation about the potential of life on other planets, which was an extremely reflective “I’m not saying I don’t believe in UFOs. I’m just saying.... I couldn’t possibly care less.”

Ultimately, all this got me thinking about the quintessential quotes of everyone else I know, and I have been compiling them ever since. Things that were not just funny and/or ridiculous, but that really captured the essence of the speakers personality. Thus far the winners are.....

My mom: I called her up one day a couple of years ago and said to her “Mom, I need my passport... I’m going to Argentina with a 42 guy I met on the internet last week.” and she said “Absolutely not! You CAN’T go!.... without travel Scrabble! I’ll buy you one and you can take it on the plane with you and you guys can play together!”

Alabaster: This was a tough one. Yesterdays “Carmela, you are the bees knees! The knees, of course, are notorious for being the fattest part of the bee.” was a real contender. As was when I tried on an outfit for this date I was really excited about and asked him what he thought and he said “It says Take Me! Take Me! Take Me.... to the circus.” But the prize ultimately went to when I told him I was depressed because I had severely low self esteem, and he told me “You have a lot of self esteem. Actually a surprising amount for someone... like you.”

A friend from school, after a date: “I forget what he said he did for a living. It definitely had the word hedge in it.... I think he was a gardner?”

Jenny: “You spend way too much time thinking about how much you hate Anoosh’s ex-wife. And it’s ALL time you could be spending obsessing about your weight.”

That’s the short list. Im always adding more.

Incidentally, I should add that the gefilte fish comment was the moronic icing on the cake of Big Big’s vapidity that day, since she had spent the entire week up until then stalking Alabaster and me, asking us “How does one sucker an investment banker into dating her against his will?” But no matter how many times we said “threeway”, she just kept asking. I’m actually a little worried she may be going deaf.

Put Me In Labor Day

2007-08-31T11:42:00.001-04:00

The Brooklyn Labor Day Party of 2004 was not my idea. It’s actually quite repetitive to mention that it wasn’t my idea, since none of the Brooklyn parties were my idea. I was dead against each and every one of them.

Against the trips to Costco, where we spent hundreds of dollars for the privilege of attempting to wrestle bulk containers of tortilla chips out of the pale, bony fingers of the Hassid wives who had laid claim to the unleavened bread section of the store.

Against the Friendster invites passed along to maybe fifteen of Bootsy’s friends, all three of my friends and all five hundred and sixty three of Crazy Ho’s friends.

Against Crazy Ho printing out invitations and passing them out to the people hanging out on the stoops of the neighboring areas. Indiscriminately to seven foot tall, 400 pound black guys with “Thugz 4 Life” tattooed on their inner lips, to 18 year old Puerto Rican transvestites, oddly dressed in outfits eerily similar to the one Crazy Ho would be wearing herself, smelly Hasid's who would cross the street to avoid being handed the invitation from the hand of a woman who was not their wife, and then cat call her from across the street, assorted hipsters hanging out at the BQE Bar or the local Laundromat where they were making sure their trucker hats were perfectly laundered, to the Soprano wannabes playing poker on the astro turf lawn of their social club.

I was against all of it. Especially the Put me in Labor Day Party. Aside from the name, I was actually expected to wear underwear or a bikini to host this cast of characters in my own home. Why did I agree to this obvious disaster you ask? Well, for one, you couldn't really say no to Crazy Ho without risking being suffocated in your sleep, two, her argument was that my bedroom looked like the Wall St. chapter of an AA meeting 6 nights out of 7 anyway so it wasn't like I could pretend I didn't like to party and three, it was summer and I was unemployed. What else was I really going to do with my time?

Labor Day that year fell right after my triumphant return from Europe. I was crazy about talking to EVERYBODY since I had basically been restricted to speaking to my family and Alabaster for a month straight... meaning that unless I wanted to talk about food, Prada or how hot our bellboys ass was... I was silent.

As a result, I had invited maybe a dozen potential hookups that I had met since Id been back in the US, plus an old hook up from before I had left. Put Me in Labor may have been a perfect theme for that party in fact, despite my total lack of desire to be there.

The Put Me in Labor Day party also marked the premier of the massive sand pit we had created in our back yard. We had taken it upon ourselves upon moving in to fill the 8 by 8 backyard area with sand, a barbecue pit and tiki torches, much to the chagrin of our conservative Italian neighbors who favored the far more subtle plastic saint collection for their yards. When we created it it looked pretty decent, but by the end of the Labor Day party it looked more like Jones Beach... filled with cigarette butts and used condoms and smelling faintly but unmistakably of urine.

To be honest, I remember very little of the party itself. Perhaps it’s because it was so very long ago.... or perhaps it was that entire bottle of Malibu I downed before the first guest arrived. What I do remember seems pretty consistent with what Brooklyn parties usually entailed....

Crazy Ho’s underaged sister and a gaggle of her friends showed up and finished the first keg almost entirely on their own, after which the surviving member of Nada Surf (you remember them, yes? One hit wonders from the late nineties?) showed up. They were in their 40’s by then and apparently had been reduced to showing up at and party where drunken underage girls were assembled en mass.

Due to the fact that I was wearing underwear and nothing else, I had so much to drink, smoke and snort that by the time my guests arrived I was in perfect shape to vomit on their shoes.

I was sexiled from my own bedroom by my future roommate Teeny, who used it to hook up with some hot foreigner, as is her way.

My friend Gabby decided it would be in her best interest to go down on some total stranger in our second floor stairwell.... that was the day our upstairs neighbor decided to move out. (In our defense, when we moved in, she did say to us “the last girls who lived her were crack heads, so anything you guys do short of smoking crack will be an improvement”... and we knew a challenge when we heard one).

Sometime around three in the morning the cops showed up, and knowing that we had an apartment full of illegal drugs, underage girls we were plying with liquor, a bowl full of roofies punch and Im pretty sure a ring set up for midget wrestling, I decided to go out and talk to them. I have NO idea what it was I said, but I do know that it ended with one of them coming inside and doing a shot of tequila off of me.

Alabaster deciding he was “just drunk enough” to drive home, then stopping at the stop sign at the end of our block for an hour waiting for it to turn green.

Waking up on the couch the next morning next to some guy from Texas who was now wearing my underwear.

In retrospect, it was actually a pretty awesome party. My liver has almost completely recovered from it, too! And you’ll be happy to know, no one was actually “put in labor” at our Labor Day party.... although to be fair that may have had something to do with our Post Labor Day Scrambled Eggs and Emergency Contraception Brunch the following Tuesday.

The Old Man and the C.

2007-08-21T11:25:00.001-04:00

Flipping through an old folder of papers from college, which I do on occasion when I feel nostalgic, I came across a term paper I wrote for this class I took, Great American Literature. The assignment was to write a response to your favorite work we had read during the semester, which in my case was Ernest Hemingways “The Sun Also Rises”. My essay was entitled “The Old Man and the C”.

The ten page essay is essentially a blog about this mid-40’s ibanker coke addict I was “dating” at the time, except since it was a scholarly endeavor, I used ALL of my big words. My justification was that Hemingway was basically an early Bret East-Ellis, and this novel withstood the test of time because it was about the ennui of the jaded upper classes. Really, it was just a way to turn a valid writing assignment into an opportunity to discus my sordid sex life.

Horrifically, I got an A. Theres a note at the end of the paper that says “Grade: A. Please see me.” I remember the meeting with that professor well... she told me I was a talented writer, albeit an insane one, and that she was required by law to ask me if intervention by student services was necessary. Bear in mind that this was the year that 3 or 4 undergrads at NYU had committed suicide before midterms. I assured her I was fine.

She told me my paper was fine as a rhetorical argument, but wanted to make sure it was largely fictional. I assured her it was.

She asked if there was any link between the essay and the week before, when I showed up to class half an hour late wearing stripper heals, a leather mini skirt and a tee-shirt from The Four Seasons, sat down for five minutes, got a nosebleed and left. I assured her the two were entirely unrelated.

Of all the As I’ve “earned” I think that one was my second favorite. My first favorite was the A I got for the “Interaction with Mythology” project I did for my projects class, for which I got a Phoenix tattoo on the back of neck. In all fairness, the professor was feeling a bit generous with the grades that semester, since he had been MIA for half of it while he recovered from his messy divorce, turning the class of 15 undergrad women over to his friend who took us to a field, got us drunk, and asked for advice on his love life.

To be fair, doing “real” work while at NYU was a bit of a challenge in and of itself. The one year I was foolish enough o take advantage of student housing, I was shoved in a tiny cell with a 400 hundred pound pre med students who did nothing with her days but eat Costco sized containers of Oreos, and fuck men she met online. I KNEW filling out the “interests” section of the housing forms was a bad idea.

It’s little wonder I was reduced to glorified blogs living with this girl... she had it in for me for no apparent reason and would constantly play mind games with me. Shes do things like steal stuff I could never prove shed stolen because I’d sound crazy for accusing her. Like shed steal my clothing... I mean, my clothing doesnt even fit ME, how could I accuse her? One of my skirts would have been a necklace on her.

Ultimately, I ended up seeking refuge at my then-boyfriends apartment in Williamsburg. While it was better than staying in the dorm, it wasn’t much better since his two room mates also hated me, and were just as passive-agressive about showing it. With them it was all subtle glares and general avoidance. Not one for passive aggression myself, I responded maturely by waiting for them to leave the apartment before going into their bedrooms and using their clothing as toilet paper.

In the end, the entire thing became fodder for my third favorite A paper “The Unbearable Lightness of Brooklyn”. Ahh NYU... why did I ever have to graduate?

The Last Supper

2007-07-28T14:52:00.000-04:00

After reflecting on my cross country spree, I thought it would be wise to remind myself why it is that I opted at 17 to run screaming into the night rather than attend a local college like so many of my friends. Nothing serves as a faster reminder than some quality time with the family Machiato.

I went home last night for what I imagine to the untrained eye may have looked like a pork eating contest, but was in fact a family dinner at P.F. Changs.

Everyone was there; me, Big Big in her finest oversized Juicy sweatsuit covered in dog hair, my mom with her freshly polished diamond choke chain that she wears a as a ring, and my dad who inexplicably wasn’t wearing all black for the first time in several years, and seemed to be enjoying his new found role as my sisters “best best friend in the world” (a title previously held by our dog, Jack).

The evening started out well, with Big Big ordering for the entire table, adjusting each dish to her specific tastes (extra oil, more sauce, a side of salt for dipping) and then assuring the waiter “we may be annoying, but we tip well so don’t spit in our food”.

When the appetizers came, Big Big was displeased with the first bite he took, so she did what anyone would do... she spit her food out, rooted around in the chewed mass to find the object of her dissatisfaction, and then gave it to my father to chew for himself to see if he concurred with her findings. He did, and thus the offending item was placed in the center of the table, gallows style, for everyone to view with disdain.

This was followed by my mother showing off her freshly shined diamond ring, flanked on either side by... what else? Slightly smaller diamond rings. I suggested that she just have a mold made of her finger and than have a diamond overlay created that she could wear at all times, and we could all call her “Diamond Finger.” Horrifically, she seemed to think it was a phenomenal idea.

About that time the entrees came out. Big Big served herself and explained that no one could take food off her plate because she had already decided in which order she was going to eat everything, and removing any one food might inadvertently ruin her whole meal.

Then she told us about a guy she's going on a date with... a nice Indian boy from Derma.... except we eventually realized that by “Indian” she meant Iranian, and by “Derma” she meant Tehran.

Then she told us about her new job and her new boss, a recently divorced new dad whose schedule with this son she has already memorized. You can only imagine the joy it brings my parents to have raised two daughters who can recite a shared custody schedule by heart.

Eventually all nine dishes had been consumed and our terrified waiter brought over fortune cookies which Big Big handed out and forced everyone to read aloud (my mother was convinced her fortune was “December” until we explained that she had to read the reverse side).

Then I stole some Ambien from my fathers suicide stash and called it a night. A lovely evening was had by all.

East Meets West

2007-07-27T14:13:00.000-04:00

You know the saying “a picture’s worth a thousand words”? Well, this picture is the entirety of my first novel. Let me tell you a little bit about it....

It’s entitled “East Meets West” and it was painted by my ex-boyfriend Brett as we road tripped across the country, low these many 8 years ago. He painted it in addition to shooting a video (the DVD of which I’m watching as I type) to chronicle our trip.

Being a naturally creative soul myself, I also opted to commemorate the experience in the less formal format of assorted scars and the occasional flashback.

In the upper left hand corner you’ll see the faint outline of the New York City skyline. This was painted when Brett first came to New York, a week before my high school graduation. He had never been to the city before, and spent his days in Manhattan while I finished up classes.

My family, perennially understanding folks that they are, dealt very well with the 30 year old stoner artist house guest. My mother met Brett.... baked brownies and openly wept, while my father mumbled something rather noncommittal about pressing statutory rape charges under his breath and retired to the basement to polish his gun, and Big Big said, and I quote “You are the most disgusting person on earth.” Although she failed to qualify whether it was directed at me, Brett, or both of us as a unified group.

Towards the right on the bottom, you’ll notice a small creak in a wooded area. This was stop one on our cross country adventure. We left the night of my senior prom, which I opted out of attending. We went to Pennsylvania, where Bretts neighbors Brady and Jessica were visiting family and celebrating Brady’s 21st birthday (which I thought was, like, just about when women went through menopause). While my classmates danced the night away to Mambo Number 5, I got hammered in some bar in small town Pennsylvania white some drunken blonde told me how much she wanted to make out with me before vomiting on my platforms.

Just above that is stop number two. The white dome structure that kind of looks like the capital building? Thats the town hall in No-teeth-marry-your-cousin, Alabama, home to Bretts father. Knowing Brett I assumed his father would be... well, Timothy Leary, pretty much, and his mom would be an alien. Amazingly, his dad was actually one of these salt-of-the-earth Steinbeck novel types. He seemed just as baffled by Brett as I was, although he fact that he was dating a 17 year old was pretty much par for the course in that part of town. We stayed there for a few days. Brett spent his days in the town painting, while I lay in bed, curled in the fetal position, wondering why no one had prevented me from doing this.

Incidentally, I should mention that when I left home, my “friends” at school placed bets on what the headline of the Post would read after I was found dead. The smart money was on “Lunatic Left For Dead off I-95, Parents Opt To Wait For Law and Order Episode Based on Incident Before Experiencing Emotion”. I was going to bet on that too, but I was informed that I could get 40 to 1 odds if I bet on my actually surviving to see California. Upon my return to New York, I collected my prize money... and used it to buy body glitter.

Moving right along to stop number three... in the upper right hand corner you can see the fountain in the French Quarter of New Orleans. New Orleans was awesome. They were apparently unaware that the legal drinking age was 21, and mistakenly seemed to believe that having boobs was a n acceptable substitute for a state issued ID. This made me extremely happy since the thrill of running away had started to wane and the crushing reality of moving to a strange place where I knew no one at a time in my life where I had JUST learned how to do laundry was beginning to sink in. In addition to this, on the ride into New Orleans, Brett had felt it was an ideal time to mention to me his marriage. Needless to say, the access to bars could not have been more welcome.

There is no part of the painting which correlates to the evening we get really really stoned in the car, then Brett passed out and I drove all night through Texas, taunted by the gigantic billboards warning me that I would spend my entire life in prison if I was caught with so much as a joint in the great state of Texas (we, of course, didn’t have a joint... but rather a dead babies worth of hash, a giant ziploc bag full of mushrooms, a few handles of Vodka.... oh, and I only had a junior license so technically I shouldn’t have been driving after 9:00).

That giant blob of paint that kind of looks like the final shot in the “this is your brain on drugs” ads from the eighties is stop four, the Grand Canyon. which part of the Grand Canyon looks like splattered brains, you ask? All of it... when you’re strung out on mushrooms. I was fully prepared for the Grand Canyon stop. I was dressed in an evening own with a print of the Grand Canyon on it. I wasn’t, however, prepared for the massive quantity of drugs Brett fed me. While he painted this segment, I tried to disprove what I felt was a totally unfair assumption that I couldn’t gracefully float to the canyon floor on a beam on sunshine.

Finally, at the top right corner, you’ll see the California sun. Brett and I were equally amazed to have made it all the way out to LA with killing each other or ourselves, and I was thrilled at the prospect of the death bet money awaiting me back in New York. It was quite the adventure.... it wasn’t for another two months that Brett and I moved in together... and a good three months before I found him naked in my clean laundry... but that's a story for another time.

Meet Ms. Machiato

2007-05-21T11:21:00.001-04:00

Poor Big Big, I should mention, is not the only Machiato family member hard up for a job these days. After the traditional culmination of Yom Kippur services this year... the tearful announcement by my mother that were broke... everyone but my dad has been forced to look for work.

Now, when I got into Columbia, I was promised I was going to be treated like the five year old I act like and not forced to work. That’s out the window now though, since my mother has managed to blow through most of my fathers pension collecting overpriced, fat house pets and oversized handbags with clowns of them.

She would go back to work herself, except she refuses to work at a boring job or for people younger than her, dumber than her... and I think there were a few other reasonable stipulations like they couldn't be blonde or like the color green. Needless to say, she will be remaining unemployed. I give her about a week to find a way to blame this on diabetes.

I tried to do my part... I applied dot be a substitute teacher. It’s related to the career I’m pursuing, and it doesn’t involve me taking my clothes off, so all of my criteria were met. Of course, the agency I went through placed me on my very first (and very last) day.... at Anoosh’s kid Bailey’s school.

I suppose this shouldn't come as a surprise. It’s perfectly in line with the creul-irony as performance art that is my day to day existence. Still, when the time came, I was shaking like a leaf. The entire evening before I had nightmares about the substitute teachers we had in middle school. This one guy, Mr. Gentile, covered our seventh grade science class. Two hours of calling him “Mr. Genital” later, and he fled the room in tears. It was ugly.

The first class was fine... the kids were creepily well behaved. Like, Village of the Damned well behaved. I was starting to think the day was going to be ok. Then second period hit, and the polite little fifth graders were replaced by a sniveling, over hormonal group of preteens.

Oh my goodness. nothing on earth could have prepared me for this. All they did the whole class was say dirty words and then giggle, egg each other on, try to top each others inappropriate comments... they didn’t understand ‘no’, they didn’t understand ‘stop’, they DEFINITELY didn’t understand ‘don’t touch’.... it was pretty much like being put in charge of a room full of miniature ibankers.

The classes went downhill from there. I started the day with a strict ‘no biting’ policy, and ended it with a slightly more relaxed ‘if you must bite, I’d prefer you bite each other instead of me’ policy. The day culminated with me subbing for an 8th grade science class learning about venereal disease, which was nice because it allowed me to open the class with ‘if you have any questions... it’s probably illegal for me to answer them so just don't ask me.’

I ran into Bailey only once, when he grilled me about my inexplicable presence in his school. He definitely suspected sabotage, and could not be dissuaded from this notion. I came home and curled up in the fetal position until I had the strength to drink away the memories. I look forward to a promising career in education.

Big Big Graduates!

2007-05-19T21:20:00.000-04:00

Can you believe it? It seems like only yesterday when Big Big was drooling on hreself and crawling around on the floor. But I guess that must have been at least a year ago since I just witnessed her graduate from college.

Now, this was a major event for the family Machiato, since to be honest, none of us really expected her to graduate to solid foods, let alone graduate from a real college with a great GPA. In honor of the event, a massive caravan of Machiatos and extended family members trecked up to Syracuse for the event. Knowing I would be spending time not only with Big Big, but also with a coupler dozen of her absolute total complete best best friends in the world forever and ever, also known as theotehr members of Sigma Delta Nosejob, I brought along a pad of paper and a pen in hopes of jotting down all the vapid comments I overheard. A week later, I've mostly recovered from the Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, and can type again.

It's hard to pick a favorite. Was it when Biggy gave us a tour of the Syracuse campus, first showing us all of her friends sorority houses, then gesturing towards a seperate off-campus dorm and saying "That's where the poor people live. Oh... and the athletes. So.... pretty much the black people."?

Was it when she regaled us with tales of explaining to one of her 'sisters' that no, it doesn't need to be hot outside for dogs to get pregnant... that's not what being 'in heat' means?

Was it when we arrived at her house and a room mate ran into the room, eyes aglow and declared "Oh my god you guys! You will NEVER believe what just happened!! Tiffany's mom came over, and I asked her if she was hot, and she said she was actually a little cold!!!!!" That's it. that was the whole story.

For me, it was when Biggy visited the hotel/casino where we were staying and came over to the blackjack table where our cousin Janey was attempting to explain the rules to me. The dealer at this table happened to be this giant butch lesbian. So Janey asks Big Big how she did this semester, and she says in her usual Long-Island-Loud tone "I did ok, aside from this one class and that's just because the teacher was this giant lesbian bitch." At this point, the deal stops shuffling cards and glares at her. I flinch, lean in, and whisper "Big, the dealer can hear you." She looks over at the dealer, looks at me in utter confusion, leans in and says "So? Why would he care?"

Oh Big Big... she will finally know the joys of being a college graduate. All the intellectual rewards (afternoons free to watch Oprah), the myriad job opportunities (stripping and/or waiting tables) and best of all, all the doorways a college degree opens up (namely the doors to graduate school, or the doors to the employees lounge at McDonalds).

Congrats Biggy!

The D Card

2007-04-13T12:01:00.000-04:00

I have several memories that stay in the forefront of my mind when I think back to my family vacation to Europe a few years back. One is the image of Big Big cat-calling a large group of Italian men hanging out on the Ponte Vecchio... “Hey Guys! Whatcha doing later? ME??” she shouted at the confused but intrigued gaggle of Vinnys. The other is how many times my mother did what Alabaster and I came to refer to as “playing the D card”.

My mother has Diabetes. Now, I would never dream of mocking or belittling this ridiculous disease, but all I remember, all around Europe, was her constantly saying “We have to eat. I have diabetes.” “You have to seat us before these other people. I have diabetes.” “We need our food immediately. I have diabetes.” “We need to go back to the Prada outlet. I have diabetes.” It was insane. I dont know very much about diabetes, but from what I could tell, it’s the medical term for a person afflicted with a crippling need to get stuff the second they ask for it.

Now, we all have our own respective "cards". I often play the "J" card... like when I want a discount at Barney's, or when I want to accuse a major corporation of anti-semitism rather than pay whatever bills I owe them. But Man, my mom just took the cake. She had to. She has diabetes.

I hadn’t thought about that trip, or how often my mother played the D card until today when I had coffee with my mom. She opened her wallet to pay for our skim lattes... and thats when I discovered.... she actually HAS an ACTUAL D card. (see above)

In her wallet, amid drivers licences of her dead relatives, myriad credit cards, and frequent buyers cards from every store known to Jews... there it was; a diabetic alert card. I laughed so hard I almost cried. I begged her to give it to me, but she viciously refused. This thing is freaking brilliant. I NEED one.

Let’s take a look at it together... “I am not intoxicated” Ignore the slurred speech, the stumbling around, the humping peoples legs, making out with women and bottle of tequila in my hand... it’s totally just the diabetes.

“If I am able to swallow, give me sugar in some form”. First of all, I think my mother had a tee shirt that said this same exact thing LONG before the onset of diabetes. Secondly.... what’s the chain of events that occurs between discovering a semi-unconcious person, and realizing that they are able to swallow? What kind of “testing” are you doing to determine this exactly?

Needless to say, I will be dedicating the rest of my day to photo shopping my own D card. Mine will include the lesser know facts about insulin shock, such as instructing the reader to insert a black Amex in my mouth so I don’t swallow my tongue, giving me something that containsf sugar such as vodka, valium and gift cards.... and leaving money in my bra so I can buy some "sugar" for myself when I regain consciousness.

Gay, Straight or Taken?

2007-02-11T11:06:00.000-05:00

There’s a phenomenal new show on TV these days, and I feel it’s my personal responsibility to tell everyone about it... it’s called Gay, Straight or Taken? and it’s pretty much the only thing I watch.

The premise of the show is simple, and awesome. Some chick goes out on a date with three guys, only to discover one is gay, one has a girlfriend or wife and the other is single, straight and available. If she guesses correctly which is which, she gets to go on vacation with the single straight guy, if she picks someone else as the single straight guy, he goes on vacation with his boyfriend or girlfriend.

The main reason I love this show is because it reminds me a great deal of a game I like to play, called Gay... or Can Probably Be Talked into Sleeping with Me. Unlike my game, the gay guys KNOW they're gay and you can’t go on vacation with the married guys.

At the end of the date, the girl takes each guy aside and says something like “Rob, I had a really good time with you, but I think you’re taken!” and then Rob says “Oh! You got me there! I’ve actually been married for five years!” then they laugh and laugh. Just like a real date.

As good as the show is, based on my own life experiences,I think there is still room for improvement. I suppose the format makes sense for LA, where it’s shot, but if they ever do a NY version, I think I could help them. Instead of Gay, Straight or Taken, I think it should be Gay, Taken or Straight and Single but with a Horrible Secret.

Three men vie for your affection, but ones gay, one’s taken and one is available and straight but has a criminal record for child molestation.

One has a husband, one has a wife, and one can only get turned on if you dress up like a clown and tickle his feet.

Gay, Taken, AIDS victim.

Still, I’d love to get in on the ground floor before this show gets any more vindictive. So, if any of you out there know anyone in anyway related to the production of this show... please put in a good word for me!

Bear in mind that I have extensive reality TV dating show experience. you may remember me as The Drunken Obnoxious Mess from Blind Date. Or perhaps from my Elimidate fame, where I played The Drunken Obnoxious Mess to great critical acclaim. Or perhaps from your own experience of dating me, which is doubtfully any different.

Thanks in advance.

He's Just Not That In To Jew

2007-02-06T12:23:00.000-05:00

There are many things about myself that I’m not proud of.

My nose. My cruelty to children. The fact that, when I masturbate, I usually think about two or three of me making out with each other. But just be there's one unfortunate truth I’ve been denying for a while that I think it may be time to come to terms with.

Lately, Anoosh has taken to telling me that I’m a JAP. Can you imagine? Indignation aside, on further reflection, I realized that the past dozen or so men I’ve dated at one time or another have said the same exact thing to me. “Carmela, you are a spoiled brat.”

The first few times, I just let it slide but by the eighth or ninth guy who said it to me, it had started to hurt my feelings,. And now to have Anoosh say it to me too... well... there's just no way I can deny it any longer. It’s time to face the facts.

I really need to date richer men.

There. I said it. I’m not proud of it, but it’s something about myself that I just can’t deny any longer. If all the men I’ve dated in the past three years think I’m jappy, how can I possibly deny that there is something horribly, horribly wrong... with them?

What other explanation could there be? Clearly, I am not a JAP. I cut my own hair and do my own nails. I shop at Forever 21. Case closed. Obviously, it’s them. The best that I can figure is that what they are mistaking for spoiled behavior, isn’t me being a Jewish Princess... it’s just me being Jewish, period.

I don’t insist on a nose job because I’m spoiled, I insist on it because my nose is so gigantic it’s obscuring my view of the world. And I don’t ask for all expenses paid vacations because I’m a brat... it’s just that if I don’t get some sun in the winter months I get so pale that when I walk out in the sunlight you can see my brain through my forehead.

Anyway, this realization has inspired me to write a novel which speaks to other women suffering through this sort of challenge, entitled “He’s Just Not That In To Jew.” You can look for it in bookstores around summer. And I’m simultaneously working in the follow up novel, due out next fall, entitled “First Comes Love, Then Comes Nothing.” It’s going to be a series. Kind of like Harry Potter except without the awful children and dumb accents.

In this book, I also plan on explaining how it’s not really my fault that I choose these financially challenged men. You see, my parents did not prepare me for the completive world of dating.

Most young girls are taught to look for a mate with optimism and trust. I imagine most young girls get a talking to something along these lines:

Mom: Now Cindy, when youre old enough to date, it’s important that you look for a man who loves you, but also one who can support you financially.

Little Cindy: Gee mom, you’re right! Thanks for looking out for me!

Dad: Oh Cindy, you’re such a sweetheart. We just want to make sure you find the perfect match. He’s out there somewhere!

Little Cindy: Ok dad. You guys are the best parents ever!

The speech Big Big and I got was slightly different.

Mom, between mouthfuls of brownie: Listen guys, just remember, the only reason any man will ever be nice to you is because he wants to get in your pants.

Dad, while muttering racist epithets: And the only reason he wants to get in your pants is so that he can lull you into a false sense of security, and then harvest your internal organs for sale on the black market.

Big Big and Carmela: Stare blankly. Return to punching each other.

The closest I ever got to relationship advice was when my mother sat me down and told me “Carm, if you love something, let it go. Just don’t be surprised when it comes back with herpes."

So, you know, not really my fault. I’m the victim here.

God, I feel so much better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest! My ridiculously, pathetically flat chest that Anoosh refuses to buy me implants for. Cheap bastard.

Bangin'

2007-02-02T10:52:00.000-05:00

I like to vacillate back and forth between two states of being. State A is having life experiences so overwhelming and terrifying I can’t even process them for weeks if not months. State B is sharing said experience with pretty much anyone who will listen.

After several weeks of State A existence, I am finally coming back around to State B. There is so very much drama to share with you people… but since I’m not out of the woods quite yet, I’ll start with some basics.

I gave myself swoopy bangs. The results were mixed. They look cute but they aren’t exactly what I had in mind. I guess I went a little too subtle with them because I was trying to avoid an encore of Middle School bangs. I’m sure you all remember middle school bangs, yes? A perfect 180 degree circle that ended right above your eyebrows? I had bad ones, but Cowboy Sex Angel’s were legendary. Her bangs were so rigid, she would sometimes store shit in them. Need an extra pencil? Check CSA’s bangs. Sometimes we'd use them to pass notes. They were amazing. Sadly, she eventually grew them out and turned them into a solid field to protect her face from the prying eyes of strangers.

Everyone had bangs back then. Bangs and Spandex as far as the eye could see. I almost felt bad for the boys in Middle School that they had so few options for hairstyle flair. They all just had that same, sad, prepubescent buzz cut thing. The only boy who took a real stand against this was Alabaster. In a sea of Jew-brunette crew cuts, Alabaster opted to rock bleach blond streaks, and what I could only describe as mini bangs.

I remember the day he premiered this look. It was in gym class. He sauntered onto the field with his luscious blonde locks, claiming, “the sun must have lightened my hair", while the rest of the gym class gaped in horror. It was quite a sight.

Ahhh, the scrawny gay kid with bleach blonde hair and the overweight girl with Eddie Munster eyebrows and giant bangs. We were like a pedophiles wet dream. Had there been any cults recruiting in Scarsdale at that time, I imagine them telling their followers to recruit anyone who looks so insecure and confused that they’ll fall for anything, then holding up a picture of Al and me and saying “Yeah, we’re pretty much going for anyone who looks kind of like this.”

Although, now that I think of it, there actually was such a cult. It was called SYF, and guess what? We both joined.

Theoretically, SYF was a group for young people where they could gather and talk about important issues affecting today’s youth. In reality, it was more or less a club for bored rich kids experimenting with sexuality and hair color. Often at the same time.

They held their meetings in a local church on Sunday nights from… maybe 7 to 9? It coincided exactly with a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting that was held in the basement. Coincidence? Well, it worked out pretty well for everyone involved, needless to say.

I loved SYF. Pretty much every week someone would come out. It was at SYF that I met my first “girlfriend”. She was, like, the prettiest girl on earth. We would listen to Bikini Kill together and eat grilled tofu sandwiches. It was good times. Then one day, we disagreed about what constituted a “fun” plan for the weekend… she though Ani DiFrancio concert, I thought meeting up with Bob from the Sex Addicts meeting since his wife was taking the kids to Florida to visit Grandma all weekend.

That’s when she realized she was a “real” lesbian and dumped me for my friend Meghan… and I had to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t a “real” lesbian. I was just “real” bored in Scarsdale.

I guess it was just something I just had to try to realize it wasn’t for me. Kind of like bangs.

(See what I did there? With the tie in back to the initial topic? Yeah, that why I go to Columbia.)

California State of Mindlessness

2007-01-10T22:16:00.000-05:00

This is another Projects class gem....

My blanket had started moving again. I wasn’t touching it, it was moving of it’s own accord. I pretended not to notice. It seemed like the best thing to do.

I’m sprawled out on a couch. Who's couch? No idea. In who's apartment? Not a clue. It’s clean though, so... not mine. I have no idea how long I’ve been on the couch with the free moving blanket. I remember laying down on it when the balcony proved overwhelming.

The balcony overlooked the Pacific, massive and overwhelming enough when sober, so on four hits of Ecstasy it was more than enough to cause me to ruin for the shelter of the couch.

There’s a party going on around me. About 200 people, most of them as stoned as I am, mill about the massive, expensively decorated apartment. Some are out on the balcony, staring at the ocean and rubbing up against each other. Others are dancing/stumbling around the apartment or sprawled on furniture as I am. Some are watching the dazzling light show in the kitchen. One girl emerges from the he bathroom after at least an hour, cradling tube of Crest Whitening toothpaste in her arms like a small child. Awful techno music blares. I can’t tell if it’s skipping or not.

From the couch, I can see the door to the master bedroom upstairs, which is just now opening. Tara emerges, looking eerily ethereal as always, with Brad in tow. Following them is an extremely disheveled, disoriented looking blonde girl. She’s so shaken that Tara is assisting her down the stairs. Brad and Tara lead her back to the kitchen where her absence has not been noticed.

They survey the room. I hide under my blanket knowing that if they see me they’ll take me upstairs next and I do NOT want to go. I suddenly remember that this scene with the blonde has been repeated several times throughout the evening, each time with a different person, each leaving in the same state of traumatic shock. I keep meaning to find a better hiding place, but every time they disappear into the bedroom, I forget they exist. Fucking Ecstasy.

I peak out from under my cover to see Brad and Tara leading a young black dude up the stairs with them this time. Spared again. They close the door, and I completely forget they were ever there.

My attention is redirected to the light show in the kitchen. The light show, I should mention, consisted of one guy opening the door to the massive, stainless steel fridge and letting the white light shine on the stunned faces of the guests for several seconds before closing the door again. Each time the door is opened the guests near it are bathed in fluorescent light for several seconds. They applaud and giggle each time. This has been going on for literally hours.

My blanket is moving once again. It seems to have sensed that the danger has passed and is returning to a more relaxed position.
I rub my blanket intently. It feels sort of like a shag rug, all soft and warm. It’s the best feeling blanket on earth. It feels so good.

“That feels so good” said my blanket. I freeze. Blankets moving are one thing, but talking is a bit much, even in this state. I slowly look down. It takes a few moments for the realization to sink in, but eventually I realize my blanket is, in fact, a person. A total stranger with a nose ring and a wool sweater to be exact, draped over me exactly the way a blanket would be. This is a bit awkward.

“Lisa, why’d you stop? The deal was for me to e the blanket and for you to rub my hair.” The deal? What deal? I made a deal with this person? More importantly, I told him my name was Lisa? Blanket Guy and I continue to stare into each others massively dilated pupils in confusion. The crowd in the kitchen applauds as the fridge door opens again.

Blanket Guy and I don’t have much time to hammer out the finer points of our “deal” since the door to the master bedroom is opening again. Tara and Brad descend the stair case with the tall lack guy, now gently weeping, following behind. Just as Im about to hide, Brad spots me.

“Hey Carm” Brad says, looking directly at Blanket Guy and not at me. “Oh, hey babe.” I say as casually as a person rolling her face off and hiding beneath another human being can possibly sound. “Lisa, are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Blanket guy asks. “Oh, yeah, sorry, Brad, this is, uh...” “John” Blanket guy says. “Right. John, this is my boyfriend, Brad. Oh, and I’m Carmela. Not Lisa.”

“Nice to meet you.” Brad said. “Carm, could you come with me a minute?” He asks as he pulls me out from under John. I don’t want to go, but Brad is pulling me and Tara is following right behind me so it doesn't seem like I have much choice. Plus, the banister feels really good under my hand.

Trying not to show fear, I ask “So, what have you guys been up to all night?” No answer. “What the deal with the bedroom?” Nothing. I start to panic. We all three walk into the bedroom, and Tara closes the door behind us.

The room itself surprisingly non threatening. There are no whips or chains, the bed is made, the accessories very Pier One. I had been expecting an orgy, a dungeon, a dead body, an alien.... something to account for all the theatrics.

“Is this your room, Tara?” I ask. “Yes, but more importantly, it’s a portal into another dimension.” She explains, smiling. I nod and smile back as though she had just told me it was also decorated by Pottery Barn.

“Can you see it?” Brad asks, a massive stoned smile spreading across his face. I turn in the direction Brad and Tara are facing, and look out the window. Im scared to look; remembering how scary the landscape was even before I knew it was a portal into another dimension. I expect to see a giant black hole in the horizon, but all I see is three each, the sea, and a clam evening sky. I shrug, ut they are insistent.

“Um, I see... the ocean?” I offer. “No,” Brad says “look... deeper.” Deeper? I was hoping for something more like ‘to the right’. The Ecstasy is making everything look wavy so I try “I see waves?” “Carm, everyone else we’ve brought up here has seen it.” Brad informs me. For some reason this makes me feel insanely competitive, and I really focus.

Suddenly, I see a bright waterfall. “I see a waterfall!” “Yes!” Brad and Tara exclaim in unison. “That’s what everyone notices first.” Tara tells me. “What else?” “I see... a beautiful white horse with a fiery red mane. I see a glittery stream, and beautiful nymphs frolicking in it! It’s beautiful!” “Oh Carm, I’m so glad we could share this.” Brad says, kissing my cheek. “I love you.”

Exhausted and just past peaking, I allow myself to be lead back down the stairs. Brad and Tara deposit me on the couch next to John. Once I’m seated, they take a bewildered looking John by the arm and begin to lift him off the couch. “Hey where are we going?” John asks, passively. He is met only by smiles and silence.

I lean over and quickly whisper in his ear “They’re going to tell you there’s a portal to another dimension out the window, bu they’re actually looking at some tacky Lisa Frank looking cartoon beach blanket someone left by the shore, ok?” He nods, but I can tell he isn't fully processing. Oh well, I tried.

I curl back up on the couch and can see out on the balcony the sky slowly turning pink . Without my blanket, I curl up and fall asleep as the crowd in the kitchen breaks into another peal of applause.

Radioheadache

2007-01-10T14:17:00.000-05:00

In preparation for school, I’ve been going through some old files from school. In the process I came across this piece I wrote for a Projects class at NYU, which recounts one of the more Carmela experiences of my life. How I’ve neglected to include it up to this point is beyond me...

It was right after winter break, Junior year of NYU. I had sworn I would get a job, and I had, making fruit smoothies for the east village for minimum wage. I was “seeing” this DJ... and when I say seeing, I mean going to listen to him spin at Beauty Bar then getting semi naked in the freezing party room in the back if it wasn’t booked that night. I need a change, so I agree to go to Mercury Lounge with Crazy Ho to see some awful Emo band after work one night.

The band is awful, just whiny and pale... they’re basically just kvetching to music. Crazy Ho goes to get us drinks, and I spot this super adorable Jew smoking up near the stage (this was back when you could smoke in bars, mind you). I bum a cigarette and we get to talking. His name is Dustin, and we exchange numbers before Crazy and I split for 2A.

Interesting postscript to that evening... Crazy Ho ended up going home with a D-lister from 2A that night... Gideon Yago, the once MTV VJ. He had a girlfriend at the time, but she decided she had to sleep with him when he referred to 9/11 as “the highlight” of his career.

About a week after we met, Dustin and I went out to dinner. I have him meet me at the art show one of my classmates is putting on on Ave B. The show consists of the student sitting in the corner, ripping pages out of a phone book, and eating them. Forty Thousand Dollars a year. Dustin meets me there. While shorter than I remember, he is adorable. A little too clean cut and a little too young, but I definitely wouldn’t kick him out of bed. We go to Avenue A Sushi. I zone out while he talks about whatever and watch Ice Age which is playing behind him.

Dustin and I proceed to play First Date. I order about half of what I actually want to eat, and chew with my mouth closed. He asks me a string of generic questions and I giggle where it seems appropriate and get sloppy wasted. What do I do? I’m a student and he works at Comedy Central. Where am I from? Scarsdale and he’s from Texas. What would my super power be if I could have one? I would read minds and Dustin would fly and by now I’m hammered.

And then he asks.... “So, what kind of music are you in to?” I run down the list, Liz Phair, Cake, etc. “Well, I am really, really really (yes, he said it three times) in to... Radiohead.” He said it and looked at me like he had just uttered a secret password I should pick up on immediately. So, I say “Yeah, they’re amazing, I have, like, all their CDs” (I have, maybe maybe the Karma Police LP if that). Dustin lights up like a Christmas tree, and I know I’ve answered correctly.

On the rare occasion I pay attention to the rest of the conversation, Dustin is talking about Radiohead. I’m only zoning back in every twenty minutes or so, so needless to say this went on for quite some time. Finally the bill comes and I’m free.

I’m about to bolt when Dustin asks “So... do you... like.... get high?” I stop in my tracks. I nod. Maybe I drool a little. “Well, do you... maybe want to go to a bar or something? Or... maybe... go back to my place and smoke?” I think he got through about “my place and smo....” of that sentence before I’m leading him by his arm in the direction of his apartment.

When we get to Dustin's place, his room mate Ryan and, oh about 9,000 of his friends are hanging out in the living room. I make some half assed introductions and make a B line for Dustin's room.

The relief I feel at making it to his bedroom is immediately replaced by shock and horror when I open the door to his room.

Even drunk, the room is terrifying. Every single inch of wall space is covered with Radiohead posters and pictures of Thom Yorke. Acrylic paintings of Radiohead covers are stacked in every corner. A giant box of magazines with articles about Radiohead takes up half of the floor. A pile of Radiohead DVD concerts sits next to the TV, a pile of Radiohead CDs are stacked next to the computer, which has a Thom Yorke screen saver. Three Amnesiac Critter stuffed animals sit on his bed. I am so, so scared.

I back slowly towards the door. My hand is on the knob when Dustin turns and looks at me and I freeze in my tracks and fake smile. “So...” he says “this is me.” “Mmmm. Mhmm. It’s, uh, very cohesive. You’ve really, uh, tied it together.” I say in a nice, calm voice. The kind you would you to try and persuade a mental patient to put down the knife. “So, Um, you wanna smoke?” Oh dear god yes. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. “Sure”.

Dustin packs a bowl and offers it to me. This could make everything better. Or much, MUCH worse. At this point it’s really my only option anyway, so I smoke. “I’m just going to put on some music.” Dustin tells me. Mmm hmm, ‘some music’ indeed.

A few minutes later, Im far too high to move, and I figure, creeped out as I am, I may as well make the most of the situation while I’m here, I mean, he IS cute. I don’t know any Radiohead based come ons, so I just start rubbing Dustin's arm.

One thing leads to another and eventually we’re naked and, even better, no longer discussing Radiohead. I’m finally starting to relax, and can almost ignore the fact that Thiom Yorke and his lazy eye are staring at me from every visible surface.

Now, I didn’t learn much in high school, but I did learn these two things: 1) never compete with a cute, underage gay guy to see who can have the most anonymous sex, ‘cause you are NOT going to win. I mean.... even if you DO win, man, you lose. 2) You can train yourself to let hormones override fear and disgust. This is EXACTLY what I was doing right then.

It’s just about now then that Dustin goes for my belt. In stoned horror, I realize that I have a solid weeks worth of growth on my legs. This is due to the fact that as I was getting ready for this date, I thought, “Well, if I like him, I wont sleep with him tonight, and if I don’t like him I won’t want to sleep with him at all.” Instead of thinking “I’ll probably just get hammered and want to do him anyway”. AMATEUR mistake!

Realizing if I don’t have sex with Dustin right now, I never will... but my standards of hair maintenance are extremely high, so I excuse my self and shave my entire body in his bathroom using Dustin's razor which I try to ignore is the same exact hue as the cover of OK Computer.

The sex was surprising good.... but then again, when is sex with totally fucking crazy people NOT good? Afterwards we laid on his bed for a while, listening to an advance release copy of Hail to the Thief. Dustin asks if I want to borrow something to wear. I hadn’t planned on staying but I say sure. He hands me boxers and a tee shirt.

Once dressed I look down and realize with horror that the shirt he has given me has a gigantic picture of Thom Yorkes head on the front of it. “That looks great on you.” Dustin says. He puts his arm around and says “You’re amazing.” I start to say thank you, when I realize he's directing this comment to Thoms face on my chest. “I like you so much.” Oh my god! He’s not even talking to me. I think I’m going to cry.

With that, Dustin starts kissing me again. He takes my shorts off, but all but smacks me when I attempt to remove the shirt. It was so fucking creepy, I should have left... but I didn’t. I stayed for round two and snuck out while Dustin slept, cuddling one of his Radiohead pillows.

I went home, took a scalding shower, wept and chain smoked while listening to Creep until the sun came up.

Needless to say, we dated for five months, and he’s still my friend on Myspace.

Another Sucky Year of Death

2007-01-05T11:56:00.000-05:00

I know I’ve neglected my blog for a while now, and for that I would like to apologize.

Between quitting my job, getting in to Columbia and traveling I haven’t had a moment to blog. But now that things have calmed down a bit, I promise never to neglect my loyal fans (mom) ever again. That will be my new New Years resolution!

I need a new one anyway since I just broke my original one.

In 2005, my new years resolutions were to not have any cocaine induced orgies with married investment bankers, and to quit smoking, both of which I managed to follow through with by summer.

This year my new years resolutions were to learn more about poison, and to make it through another year without meeting Anoosh’s wife. I haven’t learned a thing about poison and I just ran into Anoosh’s wife.... and not with a car, like in my fantasy.

I was walking down to get my cell phone fixed at the shack where Anoosh purchased it, which is right next to her lair. I figured it would be safe since she theoretically has a job of some sort... ritualistically bathing in the blood of slaughtered virgins... or selling real estate or something.

Just as I was nearing the store, little Bailey popped out of the bodega on the corner and excitedly said “Hi Carmela!” Being the mature and confident young woman that I am, I handled the situation with the utmost composure; I bolted around the nearest corner and vomited in the gutter, twice.

Then I cleaned up, waited what I was sure was long enough for Bailey and Wrinkly McFaketits to have left, and walked back around the corner.... just in time to all but walk into her.

Time stopped as I gazed into the gaping void of soullessness behind her droopy, crows feet surrounded eyes.

AWKWARD! How awkward? Somewhere between farting really loudly during sex, and exchanging filthy explicit e-mails with a stranger in a chat room only rto meet up with them at the local motel to find it's your dad. And closer to the second one.

We gave each other smiles so fake I’m fairly certain they would have gained us instant admission to my sisters sorority.

Then she said “You may be with Anoosh now, but I’ll always be the mother of his child, and there’s nothing you can ever do to compete with that, silly girl!” And laughed, maniacally.

Well, actually, she said “Hi.” But that’s what she meant.

I said “Well, that may be so but I’ll always be hotter, younger, more fun and better in bed, while you wasted the entirety of your youth in a doomed marriage and have nothing to show for it except a plastic nose and wrinkles.” Of course, it may have sounded more like “Hey.”

Then we stared each other down for a few seconds, before my eye started twitching and I had to excuse myself.

Then I smoked my first cigarette in six months. Then I bought a pack and a quart of Ben and Jerry’s.

It’s gonna be a good year.

Bi-Curious George

2006-12-07T10:22:00.000-05:00

This morning I began my day at work much in the same way I begin everyday... looking for jobs on Craigslist.

Usually I just look in the "ETC" section, becuse I'm an et cetera kind of person. Like if someone were to ask me what field I was interested in working in... law, medicine, business, hospitality.... et cetera? I would pick et cetera everytime. There's just something so unique and... latin about it.

Anyway, most of the jobs on there are of zero interest to me... things like dog walking or promoting comedy clubs... you know, jobs for hippies. But every once in a while there'll be something that looks intriguing like "Get paid $500 just to take this survey on ice cream flavors!" Or "Let us harvest your eggs so some barren couple can incubate a science baby!" I'm paraphrasing here.

The one I saw this morning sounded awesome, except I had no idea what half of it meant. The headline was "Beautful Women: Make your Own Hours!" How great does that sound? I'm a beautiful woman... and I love makig my own stuff! It sounded so arts and craftsy, how could I resist?

So the body of the ad was something like "Midtown agency looking for attractive young women for all shifts. We cater to upscale businessmen looking for the GFE."

Huh? Ok, so this is some sort of... catering service? No, ok, obviously I knew it was an escort service, but what was this elusive GFE that these men are looking for? Apparently it was very valuable to them, so I thought it warented a bit of research.

A quick look through the erotic serives section helped me emensely. A lot of other posters were also looking for this GFE character, but no one mentioned what the fuck it was. They were all "In search of the ultimate GFE" "Looking for a great girl offering GFE". I started to feel like Harry Potter, trying to riddle out the cryptic message in his egg to get to the next level of the TriWizard Championship.

I thought maybe I could figure it out on my own... Gooey Finger Epidemic? Doubtful. Grand Father Emporium? Maybe....

Finally, one post said "500 Roses for a great GFE (Girl Friend Experience)". Success!

So THAT'S what was worth the extra cash... or "roses" or what have you. The "Girl Friend Experience". So simple! Except... what the fuck is a girlfriend experience? It sounds like some sort of fantastic ride in the Magic Kingdom. Step right up and check out Disney's latest addition! The magical, mystical Girl Friend Experience! That made sense. I would totally pay extra for that.

After a more thurough investigation... and no, to answer your question, I really do not have anything better to do with my time at work... I came to find that a "girl friend experience" means that, for an hour or two, you act like you're the guys girlfriend, instead of just some chick who's hanging out with him for money... what the difference between those two things is, no has been able to sufficiently explain, but that's another story all together.

So, that's all these guys were looking for? Wow guys, look no further! For $500 an hour I could definitely offer you an eerily lifelike girl friend experience. I could come over, lay on your couch, watch Scrubs, maybe order some sushi. Then we could zone each other out while we complaned about our respective jobs... and then I could pass out unfulfilled while you checked your emails. That's a thousand bucks right there! And just to think, I've been giving this amazing "girlfriend experience" away for free all this time like a sucker!

Just as I was about to embark on my exciting new career, I noticed that this "Total GFE" includes sex. Not quite as easy as I thought.

With this knowledge, I went back and looked through Craigslist again, and lo and behold, it turns out it's true. Top dollar in the sex industry these days is going to the whores who can act the LEAST like whores. Bizarre.

In addition the GFE listings, there was also a barrage of guys looking for "non-pros". Just to clarify, that means they are looking for a girl who IS NOT a hooker, who will have sex with them for money. Is that too much to ask for?

That's when it became crystal clear for me exactly what is going wrong in this city. Women are looking for men who treat them well and love them... as exemplified by calling them and wanting to spend time with them, without being clingy and needy... as exemplified by calling them and wanteing to spend time with them. And the men are looking for women who will have sex with them for money but who aren't whores.

I think this is going to work out really well for everyone involved.

I Left My Shirt in San Francisco

2006-12-06T13:06:00.000-05:00

Isabelle is going to San Francisco this weekend. Jealous does not even begin to describe how I feel about this. This would be the second time an enamored suitor has flown my lovely room mate to the west coast this year.

Isabelle says that one business trip out of the country is equal to two trips stateside and now we’re equal, but I still say she’s ahead. Maybe the4re is some sort of rule delineating how much each comp trip you’re invited on “counts” for in Girl World. The rules seem to be unflinchingly rigid, like the rule that Isabelle and I have to be “equally skinny or equally fat”, which necessitates constant arm fat measurements on both our parts.

Even if we are only tied I’m still incredibly jealous. I love San Francisco and I want to go back NOW.

The first time I went it was secret rehab. My father took me there on a business trip and didn’t let me go out at night… Im pretty sure it was at my mothers bidding to make sure I got one solid week of detox in before my senior year finals at NYU. .It was still a great trip though, despite the fact that I had the shakes the majority of the time.

Magically, despite the fact that I barely left the hotel room other than to site-see from the car, listen to Fanny Pack, chain smoke and have my hair bleached blonde, I managed to lose one of my favorite tee shirts. A skin tight black number with a black lace back.

This is pretty much par for the course for me though, since I leave a beloved article of clothing almost everywhere I go. I then spend inordinate amounts of time desperately trying to replace these items, which I never seem to be able to do.

Of all the articles of clothes I’ve lost, I miss my silver velvet hoodie with reflective tape on the sides the most. It was pretty much my favorite thing to wear. I loved it the way you would love a child. A child that you left on the couch to go get laid at a beach party one summer, and was gone when you came back.

I may never know what happened to that hoodie, or my “Saturday” day of the week underwear for that matter, but here it is eight years later and I’m still thinking about it.

A close second is this mini dress I had that was silk-screened to look like the ocean and the sky. The horizon was right at my vag. It was pretty sweet. I wore it to this Fatboy Slim Concert one night… took some X… one thing led to another…. Long story short, I woke up the next morning curled up in my parent’s driveway, wrapped in a bathrobe. I had to go the ER to have my toe nails lasered off since there was so much congealed blood underneath them AND I have no idea what became of my dress.

I like to imagine there is a giant vat somewhere filled wit all the personal belongings I’ve lost over the years. My favorite tee-shirts, my dresses, my shoes, the majority of my brain cells.

At the very least, I’ll ask Isabelle to keep an eye out for my shirt this weekend.

Gross Pussy

2006-12-01T13:57:00.000-05:00

After ejoying a lovely catch up dinner with my ex-room mate, Teeny, I was sprawled out in the back of a cab on my way home, doing what I always do with moments of down time; fantasizing about being Roofied and date raped by Aaron Eckhart.

Just as I was getting to the good part... the part where the drugs kick in and he drags me back to his hotel room... I got a call from my dear friend Jenny, who was calling to wish me a happy birthday, only one day late this year.

In addition to her birthday wishes, Jenny informed me that my ex-ex-roommate, Crazy Ho Bag, was getting married to a kid who got kicked out of our high school, if memory serves, for shooting Heroin. Now there's a match made in heaven.

That got me thinking about the time when we lived together in Brooklyn. Now, bear in mind that Crazy Ho Bag got her name from ACTUALLY being a crazy ho bag. It wasn't like 'Oh my God, she's a total hooker.' Because, oh my god, she actually WAS a hooker. As in sex-with-strange-men-for-money hooker. She didn't make a killing, mind you, since she has a crooked nose and the body of a 12 year old Asian boy, but she made enough to furnish our crappy apartment.

Granted, I was having sex with strange men who happened to give me large sums of cash and expensive presents... but that's not being a hooker. That's being... Jewish. This girl would tell guests when they came over "I know our place isn't much to look at now, but I'm only three handjobs away from an LCD screen and cable."

And now she's getting married. Exquisite.

Before we had our (unimaginably, extremely, insanely ugly) falling out, we did have some good times. For a while there we were totally BFF. Even our fights were cute. I'd come home from work to find some guys installing a stripper pole in our living room. I'd go find CHB and scream "Well, I suppose I know whose guests I can thank for turning the living room into Scores." And she'd scream back "Yeah? And I know whose guest to thank for the gray pubic hairs in our shower."

And then we'd laugh, and drink 'till we vomited. Usually with our third room mate, Bootsy, who we loved but spent most of her time at her creepy boyfriend's.

It all seems like so long ago now... sometimes I wonder why we had to split so dramatically. I suppose it's natural for two people to grow apart as they mature in their own ways and start to follow divergent life paths. Plus, I couldn't stand to smell her gross pussy through the wall anymore.

Speaking of gross pussy, Mac did the grossest thing this morning. I came back from the gym to the worst smell I have ever smelled in my life. It smelled like I imagine a baby would if it were gutted, stuffed with rotten eggs and left in the desert for a week.

Then I see Mac, prancing about, happy as can be, laterally covered in shit. Upon further investigation, I discovered that he had relieved himself, and then rolled around in his own crap for a few minutes.

Why? Why would he do that? What was the thought process there? "Well, the mere sight of me seems to strike fear into the hearts of most, perhaps I could do something to make myself more appealing. Ah yes, I know just what to do..."

Maybe merely being in my presence is enough to incite this kind of behavior in living things. I got to spend the next 20 minutes wiping fecal matter off an animal who thanked me by sinking his fangs into my arm.

Happy Birthday to me.

Post Depression

2006-11-28T09:31:00.000-05:00

It's a very rare occaison that I care about anything that happens in the news. I think at least half of it's made up and the little that isn't is beyond my power to change. So, aside from Sunday Styles in the Times and the occaisional obit, I really have no use for news papers.

It's even rarer that I read the NY Post, which is pretty much just a tabloid they've printed on cheap paper instead of glossy. Although I really do enjoy their impartial commentary on world events. I distinctly remember the headline the day I stopped reading the Post. I think it was "Evil Terrorists Bomb Innocent School Children Just To Be Mean!"

The rediculousness of the statement aside, I think you can safely say that any paper that empoloys exclamation marks in their headlines is pretty much garbage.

Regardless, I do like their crosswords, and this morning as I searched for the daily crossword, the front page story caught my eye. It was about this chick (see above) who had been arrested for trying to extort $125,000 out of some CEO type she was banging. (Of course, the Post refered to him as a "bigwig", whihch I think is some sort of insect. That's how bad the Post is).

Agaisnt my better judgement, I read the story because it is my ultimate lifelong goal to do something SO rediculous that it ends up on the front page of the Post, and since I imagine my story will be in this vein, I thought it might give me some idea of what to look forward to.

As is always the case when I cave and read anything printed in the Post, the entire story made me want to cry. I just want to go find this girl and shake her. So many amateur mistakes!

Let's take a closer look...

Jessica Wolcott (above) extorted Pepsi Bottling Group Executive Vice President Gary Wandschneider, whom she met over the Internet, by threatening to expose his illicit cyber-liaisons to his wife.

So far, so good.

"I'm sure this will be an unpleasant surprise. I'm sure when your wife finds out that you've been looking for a fill-in for her . . . it will be unpleasant for her, too," Jessica Wolcott, 22, e-mailed multimillionaire exec Gary Wandschneider, 54, in August.

Ok, that's a little heavy handed there, Jess. How about a nice simple "Hey babe, haven't connected in a while. Hope all is well :) Saw an amazing pair of Manolo Blahnik's today that would look so cute on me! My best to the wife and kids. xoxox, J". It's simple, it's sweet, and it gets the point across without exposing your rampant dad issues.

Wolcott eventually got the funds transferred to her online account - but only after Wandschneider alerted the FBI, which provided the money and set up a sting to nail her.

Heh heh. Nail her.

When Wandschneider learned her name from FBI agents, he told them he had met her last February through the craigslist.org Web site. A month later, after exchanging e-mails and photos, he met her at a Mount Kisco bar.

Wow, what CAN'T you find on Craigslist, you know? But maybe when he suggested meeting at a Mount Kisco bar, it should have dawned on her that this guy did not like to part with his cash unnecessisarily. It's fucking MOUNT KISCO. I wouldn't even stop at a stop light in Mount Kisco.

The Ridgefield, Conn., man also copped to giving her $30,000 shortly after that meeting because she told him she needed to pay debts.

Ok, I can see how she thought this was going to work out. I distinctly remember back in college when I was dating some Bear Stearns higher up, meeting up with him at a club and him telling me our cocktail waitress was a really "nice girl".

I asked him what that meant and he said "You know, she's a sweetheart. I like to help her out." Like, help her out with the really tough questions on her homework? No, like pay for four of her abortions. FOUR OF HER ABORTIONS. What a sweetheart!

It's pretty much impossible to witness something like this without a giant, evil lightbulb going off over your head. But maybe after he shelled out the $30,000, she should have moved on. No need to get greedy. There are OTHER people who work at Pepsi.

Phenominally, the Post included a quote from this guys wife...

But his wife, Dana, said, "I can't wait for her to be sentenced. You know, extortion is a bad thing."

I don't know about you, but I find it hard to believe anyone could be dissatisfied being married to an intellectual giant like this woman.

When Wandschneider first received an anonymous threatening e-mail on his office computer from Wolcott, she told "Gary" that she knew he had used his work e-mail account on a Web site that catered to wealthy men trying to meet attractive women, court records say.

And yet, no mention of what this website where wealthy men troll for hot chicks might be. Damn you, NY Post!!!

"I'm sure [Pepsi Bottling] would be very proud to have an employee with such high morals," she wrote. "I don't like cheaters, not at all, men like you become my profession . . . You think you can just [throw] money at some young girl . . . who needs it because you are in a better position and use it to get sex?"

Well thank God she went out of her way to disorove this horrible, oppressive stereotype. Way to take the moral highground, sweetie.

I think what drives me the most insane about all of this is that I so easily could have done a better job on this one. I'm cuter and smarter... I could be sitting pretty with that $125,000 in the bank and the guy would still LOVE me.

What a cold, cruel world.

Thanks Anyway

2006-11-25T17:05:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is always one of the more amusing holidays, and this year was no exception.

I think the true essence of my experience is illustrated perfectly by the above picture. This is one of my mother's many "pieces of flare". This particular one is a newer addition. It is a black velvet lined, leopard print, mini bead fringed, neon green boa topped pencil holder, inside of which us a bright orange, plush, teddy bear bookmark, wearing a Bacchanalian, Eyes Wide Shut inspired fig mask.

My mother thinks it's "cute". I assure you, this image will haunt your dreams for months.

Other highlights of the thanksgiving feast? Let's see...

The eight course meal, consisting solely of dishes with a standard recipe of one part animal meat, two parts lard, one part cheese, and three parts chocolate. Yum. It was a very festive meal, clearly intended to be reminiscent the meal the pilgrims prepared for the native indians in order to induce instant heart attacks in the few survivors the small pox hadn't killed.

Anoosh telling my family that he had spent the morning feeding the homeless, and how he couldn't believe the government spends blah blah blah billion dollars on the war when there are so many homeless people. And then my father responding "Yeah, for half that much they could just have all the homeless people killed."

Tragically, this wasn't an attempt to curry favor. Anoosh really DID spend the morning feeding homeless people. Not with me (OF COURSE), but with his son, Bailey and his ex-wife who now goes by her maiden name, Wrinkly McFaketits.

Personally, I think feeding the homeless is actually contributing to the problem. If you feed them, they're just going to have the energy to breed and make more homeless people. But nobody listens to me.

The rest of my break is being spent getting stoned with my one remaining room mate, watching Dave Attell Insomniac reruns, and drinking. It's like heaven on earth.

When I get back to work, my plan is to spend the majority of my time coming with good explanations as to why I have to quit less than two months after starting. It's gonna have to be a good one.

Oh, and my cats have now taken to waking me up by crawling up into my bed, and 69ing each other next to my face.

So much to be thankful for.

Foxes Vs. Cougars

2006-11-22T10:31:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I interviewed at one of the grad schools I applied to. It was intense. It’s for an early childhood teaching program. The chick who interviewed me asked me what made me want to work with small children, and for some reason all I could think to say was “fresh brains.”

I knew that wasn’t the right answer, but that’s what kept going through my head. I figured after she told me that I seemed like a very well rounded candidate, and I accused her of calling me fat, I should probably try to get the rest of the answers right.

The other distracting thing was that the woman I interviewed with looked exactly like the bartender at this bar I used to hang out at in Long Beach. It was this bar a few blocks from my house that I discovered my first week there. The “theme” of the bar as it were was Really Hot Old Men. No, I am not kidding, nor am I remembering a fantasy I had rather than an actual experience.

It was called “The Silver Fox”. No joke. And yes, I spent every evening there.

I looked it up online after the interview just to make sure it wasn’t actually the bartender. It wasn’t… she still works there. Also, I found that, as happens with almost everything I love, The Silver Fox is gay now.

You really can’t go home again.

Speaking of drunken old men, I guess I never really got around to telling you about the swingers party Saturday night.

Honestly? BIG YAWN.

The men were creepy and/or gross and the women… Oh, the women. Watching these sad, middle aged housewives drunkenly dancing around in mini skirts and bustiers with their saggy, stretch marked tummies and big, fat thighs all over the place… it just made me wish I could take a picture of them, create a time machine, go back to the seventies and show the pictures to all the first wave feminists and say “See? See where this is going to go if you don’t knock it off and get back in the kitchen, like, right now?”

I see these women everywhere, but this was a toxically high concentration. The divorcees, the 40 year olds who wear these outfits out to clubs that they think say “I’m still fun and young” and the rest of clearly read as “I stole this from my kid”. We call them cougars, and we avoid being seen with them at all costs. And here I was, in the middle of their lair.

So, yeah, what was supposed to be a super sexy night of debauchery ended up being an experience that made me want to lock myself in the bathroom and sew my vagina shut.

Pretty much par for the course, the way this week is going.

Thanksgiving

2006-11-20T11:07:00.000-05:00

Ahh, Thanksgiving. Not really a holiday I take to naturally, but anything that means time off work is good by me.

In my family we have a tradition... it's one of the few that doesn't revolve around eating or smoking pot... every year on Thanksgiving, we go around the table and say something we're thankful for.

Yes, it's every bit as ugly as you might imagine.

My father usually gives thanks for the fact that no black people live in our neighborhood, my sister usually gives thanks for her collection of Fendi purses, my mom gives thanks for having a beautiful (covered in kitchy trash and dog hair) home, and a wonderful (self involved and obese) family, and I give thanks for something esoteric and/or bleak... like "death" or "inflammatory bowel syndrome". Good times.

This year though, I think I'm going to be a little more proactive and read aloud a poem I've written just for the occasion...

"What Thanksgiving Means to Me" by Carmela Machiato

I'm thankful for winter.
I'm thankful for snow.
I'd be really thankful to not have to go
to my parent's on Thursday for emotional beating,
and general malaise, and marathon eating.

I'm thankful:
*that, since I have to, Anoosh has to come, too.
*for martini's which are dirty.
*for anything that's blue.

While I hate my job, I'm thankful for the perks
like the coming four day weekend when I won't have to work.
I'm thankful for Strabucks and Louboutin shoes.
I'm thankful that most of my friends are rich Jews.

I'm thankful for black polish, black hair and back leather.
I'm thankful that Paris and Nicole are back together.
I'm thankful for my freakishly hairless new pets,
and that I still have my AmEx, despite all the threats.

I'm thankful when people I grew up with get fat.
I'm thankful I'm not one of them. (How awesome is that?)
I'm thankful when exes become meth abusers,
and when girls from my high school get married to losers.

I'm thankful that my jadedness can be constantly exhibited,
and that my serotonin re-uptake is selectively inhibited.
I'm thankful for blogging. I'm thankful for orgies.
Most of all I'm thankful when I fit in size four jeans.

It's going to be a huge hit, I can sense it already.

2006-11-17T16:02:00.002-05:00

Awesome Weekend... of Death

2006-11-17T09:09:00.001-05:00

How creepy is this picture? It's a still from one of the films in Horrorfest. Horrorfest is this thing where they show eight indie horror films too graphic for mass release. Needless to say, I will be watching this all weekend.

How could you NOT want to see the movie that this is from? I mean, yeah, the blood is scary and all... but look at her fucking huge teeth! Ahh! Why are they so big? Does evil make your teeth grow? It's horrifying, I must find out.

All the other movies are about scary stuff too. One's about small, dead children. And OK no, that isn't as terrifying as small, live children, but still, as scary things go, dead babies are totally in the top 10.

I encourage you all to come with me. It starts tonight and runs through Tuesday.

In other exciting news, I got a call from Cipriani's Upstairs to interview for a bar tending position! I don't know if Ill go since I'm sure they'll need me over Christmas which I can't do... but still, the fact that my picture alone was enough to convince them that I belong there is gratifying enough for me.

For those of you who are out of the loop... Chip's Upstairs is pretty much the most exclusive place in the city. You can't even go there unless you're a member! I'm not sure what qualifies you for membership, but I know you definitely have to have a three initial job to even be considered. (You know, like SVP, CEO, etc.)

So basically, if you aren't model good looking and you make les than $250,000 a year, you can pretty much forget about getting inside.

My god, it's like the club version of me. It's phenomenal.

And on this day of accomplishment, let's also extend a round of applause to Alabaster, who has FINALLY joined Jdate!

Now that they're letting the gays on, there's really no reason for anyone on earth not to be on there. He's only been on a week and he's already met some guy he likes, and gone to a bunch of nice dinners.

He hasn't yet been carried around a giant vault filled with gold by a bunch of gorgeous Jewish ibankers while he lies on a satin chaise lounge in a gold lamee gown singing Material Girl... but I think that usually happens the second week on the site.

Looks like it's going to be a good weekend for all of us.

Sick Day

2006-11-16T11:24:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was a fun day. I woke up looking pretty much like this guy.

Something bit me in my sleep and I woke up with huge, gross facial welts. My greatest fear was realized as my outside began to reflect the hideous deformities on the inside. I spent the day at home with my cats, who love me even when I'm grotesque.

It was actually worth the vile face welts not to be here for one day though. On the bright side, now the welts have gone down and it just looks like I have bad acne and some oral herpes, so my days going REALLY well.

On the bright side, I got to listen to the new Fergie CD about a million times during my convalescence. It's so good. And useful! I leaned how to spell delicious, glamorous, and tastey... although I think they spelled that one wrong.

It's a great CD to listen to while you're yaked out on Benedryl, since the lyrics make zero sense anyway. I listened to it again this morning and was amazed to realize she actually DID say "I be up at the gym just working on my fitness", wow.

Using his keen ability to sense my abject misery (which I assume he was given to compensate for his inability to read), Tony called me out of the blue. He does that every couple of months and leaves me angry messages. I would just change my number, but after the last breakup I swore Id nver change my number to avoid a guy again. I figure so long as he doesn't know where I live I'm good.

They're always of the "Youse betta cawll me back" variety... why he thinks that would be effective, I have no idea. Like I'm going to say to myself "Well, I really COULD use a little spice in my life right now... maybe it should be in the form of a reconciliation with my psycotic ex! I think I's WILL call him back."

Ultimately, there probably isn't even THAT much thought process behind his calls. I'm sure it's more like he picked up his phone, saw a number he didn't recognize and decided to call it and leave a scary voice mail for whoever it was. Then when it was over, his mind probably went back to it's resting state where it thinks about parmigiana and plays the theme from The Godfather.

That's what I like to imagine happens anyway.

What the Hell

2006-11-13T11:52:00.000-05:00

Saturday night, Isabelle's brother called her at 1:00 AM to tell her he couldn't sleep.

Normally this would mean a massive drug binge of some sort had ensued, but Isabelle and her family are from Michigan where I imagine people don't do drugs, but rather gather around with their families on Saturday nights to play board games and sing songs about Jesus.

No, her brother couldn't sleep because he was just too jazzed about getting to meet some dude from Blink 182. This sounded insane to me, because I can't even imagine being so excited about anything that it would prevent me from sleeping. I can imagine laying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, my heart beating a million miles a minute, wondering when the speed would wear off... but natural excitement? That's crazy talk.

Isabelle tried to explain it to me. She said "Carmela, this is he idol. The man he WORSHIPS. It would be like if you got to meet... um... Satan."

Then I totally got it. It would be SO COOL if I got to meet Satan! There are just so many things I would want to ask him! Like what his favorite drink is at Starbucks, and what he was thinking about when he created Hoboken.

I'd probably be so flustered with excitement, I wouldn't even be able to get any of my questions out... I'd be lucky if I managed to tell him how much I love his work.

Maybe we'd get to spend the whole day together! We could do some light shopping at all of our favorite stores, and hold hands and skip though a sun dappled field, kicking puppies and infants out of our way as we went.

We'd sniff out some rocky marriages and break them up... Maybe tell some children that Santa Claus isn't real and that their parents only had them because they were bored with each other and lonely.

If I was really good, maybe Satan would let me help him with that pop up on peoples shoulders thing he does. Like someone would be in a major moral debate... thinking to himself "Hmmm, I just found this wallet with a thousand dollars and some chicks driver's licence with her address in it, I wonder what I should do?"

And then Satan would appear on his shoulder and say "Take the money! Take all of it and ditch the wallet! You know you want to!" And then I'd appear on his other shoulder and be like "Totally! And after you take the money, you should go to her house and rape her!"

And then we'd high five each other.

I know he'd want to meet my cats, so he could come over and we'd hang out with them for a while. Then maybe have a nice steak dinner at a romantic little candle lit restaurant with over worked, underpaid, Mexican waitstaff we could taunt and poke with sticks. Then we could take the left overs, find a homeless person, and eat them in fron tof him.

If it was OK with Satan, I'd really love to introduce him to Anoosh. It would be so nice if the two most important men in my life could get to know each other. I bet they'd get along so well. I'd tell him "I know this is our special day together, but there's someone i'd like for you to meet, because from the second I met him he totally reminded me of you."

After that, maybe a night out clubbing! We could start with baby seals and work our way up to small people.

The Martha Stewart of Snooping

2006-11-10T10:47:00.000-05:00

This morning Alabaster was telling me about a friend of his who is having some troubles with her boyfriend. Like all women, she questions his fidelity. Like all men, his response is "If I wanted to be with someone else, I wouldn't be with you."

Let's examine this for a moment. I would say that out of the 10,000 people I've been on dates with in my lifetime, 9,997 of them have made that same exact statement, verbatim. Let's be generous and say that only 95% of men cheat. You do the math.

You can handle potential infidelity by talking it out like mature adults, and if you really like hearing "if I wanted to be with someone else, I wouldn't be with you" repeated ad nausea, that's the best way to go. If you actually want to find out what's going on, however, the only thing to do is psychotically stalk your loved one.

Now I've spoken before about Crazy Time and how important a pastime it is for me. It's really more of an initial foray into the world of dating than a means of stalking. Crazy Time is more "getting to know you" type stalking; going through the boxes in the back of their closet, sorting through his porn collection, rooting around under his bed and in the medicine cabinet, etc. Crazy Time is the foreplay of stalking.

Once you're actually dating someone seriously, you can't count on mere Crazy Time findings to clue you in. No, that calls for a little something I like to call... Totally Fucking Bonkers Time.

Totally Fucking Bonkers Time isn't a hobby like Crazy Time, it's a mission with a specific goal. The goal is to find a good reason to end a relationship you're perfectly happy in. If you look hard enough, there's always a reason.

Some guys make it easy for you... they save their computer log in and passwords. I say, if you're stupid enough to trust me to respect your privacy, you really deserve whatever you get.

If they haven't been this foolish, however, breaking in is a lot easier than you might think. First, scan the history to figure out which websites he visits. If he's on any dating websites or addicted to porn... this is can be a gold mine.

Watch him when he signs in to things... you can usually see the password he types in, and most guys use the same password for everything.

The other biggie is his phone. Try to find a quiet hour to yourself to take this one, since theres a lot to do. Showers are good, but while he's sleeping is even better. The first thing you want to do is go through the call log, in going and out going. Write down any repeat numbers that aren't stored with names, and call them from a restricted line.

Text messages are also huge. I don't know a single cheater who doesn't text. Cheating and text messaging are like peanut butter and jelly, I swear to God. Never hurts to go through the stored pictures either.

The best form of phone snooping is going through voice mails. If you do it from his phone, theres a record, but if you call him and his voice mail picks up, all you need do is hit *** and his code (or on some phones # and his code), and you can listen to your hearts content. The saved and skipped ones are usually the most informative.

How do you get his 4 digit code, you ask? Also very easy. 9 times out of 10 it's either 1234, his birthday or the birthday of his child/pet/mother/wife. If it's his wife's birthday, don't even listen to the messages, just dump him.

If it's not any of these... you probably can't get close enough to him while hes checking his messages to see what code he's typing in, but you CAN get close enough to him to see his PIN when he uses the ATM. It's always the same 4 numbers.

If you don't know your boyfriends/husbands PIN number, there is just no hope for you.

Other than those two, theres always Condom Watch. If you use condoms... count them. Are there as many there now as there were the last time you were over? If you don't use condoms... look for some. Any secret stashes under the sink or in a drawer or in his wallet?

Ok, those are the basics, and if you follow my instructions rigidly, you should be able to catch your significant other doing something illegal, illicit or immoral. If you do all of these things and can't prove that he's cheating on you/lying to you/in love with someone else... just accept the fact that you've found an evil genius... and hold onto him, 'cause he's a keeper.

Oiliesback

2006-11-09T15:35:00.000-05:00

As well we all know, Justin has brought sexy back. I'm going to one up him. I'm bringing sticker collecting back.

Lets all try to think back for a moment to a simpler time... a time when all we needed to be happy was a brand new Oilie from Big Top. Maybe a nice pack of fuzzies, too.

Right before I discovered alcohol and pills... probably when I was about 9, all I cared about it the world was my sticker collection, and my Slam Book. Those were the staples of my very existence.

All my girlfriends (and I say girlfriends, as in little girls who were friends with me, not as in prepubescent women I dated, and not as in "Hey girlfriend, how you doin'? I hear you got a nice new place in the West village") would gather after school and trade stickers for hours.

There was a very rigid and exacting hierarchy as far as stickers went. Oilies and fuzzies were the best. Holograms and glitteries came after that, and then everything else was third rate.

Everyone had their own sticker philosophy; some felt it was best to buy mass quantities of the high grade stickers, and hold on to them, thus having the most prestigious and envied collection while others felt it was more beneficial to diversify, and would buy oilies and trade them for mass quantities of lesser stickers.

It was very intense being part on the trading floor for that first hour. We ran around like crazy and communicated mostly through inarticulate grunts and complex hand signals... it was almost as if we were imitating our fathers and their busy days on Wall Street... which we might have been... had they been around enough to imitate... which they weren't... different story.

Anyway, I miss those days. I really want to start collecting stickers again. I wish there was some baby I could pretend I was doing it for. Maybe I could say they were for my cousins? They seem to be more into make up though. I could totally pretend they were for Anoosh's kid if he were a girl... stupid Y chromosome.

After collecting stickers got old, I started collecting business cards. Everyone said they would do it with me, but when they realized I was serious, they all reneged. From age 12 to age 18, I collected guys business cards. I had six full books worth. God it was awesome. Then my stupid boyfriend made me throw all of them out. I cried for a bout a week, which incidentally, is several days longer than I cried when I broke up with him.

Now I don't have anything to collect, and it looks as if it might be time to start with stickers again.

Ahhh, circle of life.

Better Dead than Wed

2006-11-08T14:36:00.000-05:00

It is said that the human mind is not capable of conceiving the true nature of God.

My personal belief system dictates that the human mind is incapable of truly understanding how bored I am at work.

Here are 3 jobs which would be LESS boring than mine;

Being a live operator that companies have in lieu of hold music. All I would do is repeat “Please stay on the line for the next available representative” every thirty seconds or so, and maybe hum some classical music.

Sorting M&Ms into color piles.

Being a professional Wall Starer.

When I worked at the spa with Isabelle and her marriage happy sorority sister/room mate, whenever they got bored they would plan their weddings. They’d flip through bridal catalogues; tear out possible dresses, rings, husbands, etc. At the time I couldn’t imagine anything more boring. I long for those days now.

It always brought them such joy though… Maybe I should give it a shot.

Ok, the first thing I would do would be to put a great, big ad in the New York Times so that everyone’s Jewish mom would have something to call their daughters about. It would be a tasteful picture of me, possibly nude, and a tagline that read “Carmela Machiato to Wed Local Man”. If it was someone really special, maybe I’d let them put his name in there too, but probably not.

Then the rest of the announcement would read “Ms. Machiato, 17, will be married this Saturday to Local Man. They will elope to Las Vegas to be married by a midget dressed as Elvis. The couple met while attending Harvard Business School themed happy hour at nearby bar. Ms. Machiato will be married before her younger sister. Wa ha ha.” Oh, and maybe something about my husband’s job if he does something cool, like taxidermy or contract killings.

Then there’s the ring… I want something very tasteful; a white gold skull with rubies for eyes, and diamonds for teeth.

For the dress I’m thinking black leather or lace, maybe both, and a bouquet of dead roses. My bride’s maids can wear red velvet corsets, leather hot pants, fishnets and stilettos. It will be a small and tasteful affair, attended only by members of the wedding party, a few family members, some friends, my cats… and, I imagine, the grooms children.

We’ll write our own vows, and promise to love each other until death, or until one of us gets fat, or we get bored and wander away, and then we’ll make a small, tasteful sacrifice… perhaps a lamb, or a bunny, and then the party!

The reception will be at The Palms. We’ll rent out the roof deck and the pent house floor, and have a totally cute theme party! The theme will be… “Infidelity and Death”.

Every table will have a huge bouquet of white roses as a centerpiece, and everyone will have to wear a skull mask and nothing else. I am kind of a traditionalist, so there will be a band instead of a DJ, and we’ll serve Cornish Hens, filled with cocaine.

After dinner, we’ll serve the seven tiered wedding cake I’ll order from Balthazar, and then the band will play and everyone can do some fun wedding dances, like the Electric Slide and Hands Up, and then the escorts will arrive and the mass orgy can begin. Perhaps as Green Sleeves plays softly in the background.

FYI… I will be registered at Tiffany and Hot Topic.

Wow, that really was a lot more fun than I thought it would be! Those girls were really on to something!

Now all that’s left to do is pick a husband. Let’s see… I’ve always kind of planned on marrying Alabaster, but he says we can’t because gay marriage isn’t legal… which I don’t THINK makes sense, but I guess I can take his word for it.

Who else? I could marry Anoosh. He clearly values the holy institution of marriage just about as much as I do. I could say "Anoosh, I really love you as a person and am totally NOT just doing this 'cause I want you to buy me expensive jewelry and have a big party for me." But what are the odds he'd fall for that? Twice?

So, I guess I’m open. Anyone wanna get married? We could have it annulled the very next day, after we sobered up and went to brunch and everything.

Just throwing it out there.

Cat Fight

2006-11-08T09:35:00.000-05:00

Last night I pinpointed what it is about Nietzsche and Machiavelli that makes me love them so much; they're like cat versions of me. Except they get away with it cause they're cats.

They spend about 90% of their time completely in their own heads. Mac will randomly come flying around a corner, leap a foot up in the air and wrap his fangs around Nietzsche's neck. Then they'll laugh it off, and go back to whatever they were doing.

A few minutes later Nietzsche will get up on a table, pounce on top of Mac and try to strangle him to death with his paws. They love that game. It makes perfect sense to both of them. But whenever I try to play the "randomly attack you while you sit there peacefully" game, people get all upset.

They also like to pretend inanimate objects are out to get them. They'll get together and "bravely" defend themselves against the evil advances of my throw pillow. I know in their little minds, they're battling a ferocious wildebeest instead of a plush accessory form Bed Bath and Beyond.

It's kind of like the revisionist way I like to remember my past. Like when Jenny came over last night and we reminisced about the good old days...

Me: Remember that day I made a feminist statement, and came to school in a slip and the establishment tried to oppress me and force me to adhere to their standards?

Jenny: Oh, you mean the day you woke up half naked in the school parking lot and they let you go home and put clothes on because you were freezing?

Me: Yeah. Those were some good times.

Why couldn't I have been born a cat? When they act crazy, it's so much cuter than when I do.

Everyday is Sunday

2006-11-07T15:34:00.000-05:00

One of my mothers favorite things to do is call me up and tell me who I went to high school with is getting married. I have no idea why she does this, I’ve told her at least a thousand times that I couldn'tcare less. Here’s how that conversation usually goes:

Mom: Carm! Guess what?!

Me: Dad convinced Big Big that MotuhAIDS is a real thing?

Mom: NO! Remember (Jennifer, Sarah, Jodi or Rebecca) from our block?!?

Me: Yeah, I guess.

Mom: Well, I ran into her mother at (Starbucks, Woodbury Commons or the Luis Vuitton outlet in the Westchester Mall)! And she’s getting married! Isn’t that exciting?!?

Me: No. Not to me. Not even remotely.

Mom: (ignoring me entirely) To a very nice (investment banker, dentist, surgeon or litigation attorney) named (David, Neil, Seth or Benjamin)!

Me: Mom, we’ve discussed this before. I don’t care when my classmates get married. Do not call me to share. Do you remember when I said it was ok to call me?

Mom: When someone has a debilitating illness, an embarrassing STD, or is involved in a freak accident?

Me: That’s right mom.

Click.

This happens about once a week. The reason why it bothers me when my generic Jewy classmates find that special anyone is because I think they should be running it by me first. I know that may seem invasive and unnecessary, but let’s face facts here… I’m the one who’s going to have to date these guys in three to five years. Isn’t it only fair that I have some say in their selection? I think so.

On the bright side, my mother is pretty much the only person foolish enough to still subject me to these phone calls. My father calls when he finds an untimely death in the obits, or a police report that hints at child abuse. Things I CARE about. Things that make me feel BETTER about my life.

My friends are also very good about only sharing earth shattering news of death. My friend who is best at this is Cowboy Sex Angel (so named because of some insane outfit she changed into while we were all sitting around getting high one day). CSA always has some bad news or a horrificly bleak outlook on life to share with me. She understands that every silver lining is merely a distraction from the dark raincloud within.

Each conversation with Cowboy Sex Angel offers me little pearls (or tiny daggers, if you will) of wisdom that I can ponder all day. Here's one from today's conversation:

"So, Carmela, I got the pictures you sent me. Brad's kid is really cute."

Very kind words... except for the fact that I haven't dated Brad for eight years. A brilliant commentary on how interchangeable men are? A cutting remark intended to remind me that had I borne the child Brad thought might "be fun" to have, she'd be looking at cute pictures of MY eight year old right now? A clear indication that it's time to scale back on the meds since she can't recall which decade we're in?

Or perhaps all three.

My favorite Cowboy Sex Angelism was when she said "Today was a good day; I didn't eat anything, all I did was sleep and cry."

Wow. How bleak does your outlook have to be for that to qualify as a good day? Or even an exceptional day for that matter? The kind of day she's tlaking about is clearly what the rest of us would refer to merely as "Sunday".

It's these gems that keep me going through the unbearable onslaught of "good" news.

Like when I run into some JAPs I went to high school with at Nobu or something and they're all "Oh, hey, Carmela, right? The last I saw you we were in Bio together, and you were dating some inapropriately older guy and you were drunk all the time! What are you up to these days?" rather than stab them in the eye, I can just repeat some of CSA's quotes to myself and get through it.

Thank you, Cowboy Sex Angel. Thank you.

Finally, A Use For Math

2006-11-06T16:31:00.000-05:00

This weekend at brunch with Alabaster and Muffin, the conversation turned to (turned to meaning started with, ended with, and consisted solely of) sex talk.

Muffin refused to tell us how many people her boyfriend/boss/some guy has slept with. We all agreed that this was insane, since there couldn’t be any possible reason to keep such information secret… but that’s just how Muffin is… bizarrely secretive about random crap… uh, wait… I mean “considerate of other peoples feelings”.

She did, however, share with us the total number of people she’s slept with, which I will share with you now. It’s three. THREE. Three people in her entire lifetime.

Her lifetime since last weekend? No, her lifetime since birth.

Needless to say, Alabaster and I were a little taken aback, and more than slightly scandalized by this number. I can’t speak for Alabaster, but I personally stopped counting years ago. For a long time I kept meticulous records of this kind of information, but I soon found out the only person who will ever ask you how many people you’ve slept with is a boyfriend, or maybe a gynecologist… and either way, claiming total ignorance is the best defense.

Other than my current one, I’ve only been in one other relationship I would consider “serious” and knowing off hand how many people I had slept with had a severely detrimental effect on that one.

Glaring insufficiencies aside, I’m really happy in my current relationship, and I wouldn’t want it end like that one did. Well, I wouldn’t want it to end at all, but DEFINITELY not the same way that one did. I mean, it couldn’t end EXACTLY the same way… since the doctors agreed I could never lose that much blood again and live… but I’d prefer it not end anything like that one at all.

After brunch though, I started giving the matter serious thought. I wondered if I could still remember every single person I’ve ever had any kind of sexual relationship with. Guess what? I totally can! Guess what else? It’s a ridiculously small number.

I assumed it would be an astronomical sum, merely because I know I’ve thought to my self “Ewww! I can’t believe I just had sex with that guy!!!!” at least a thousand times. But What I came to realize is I was often saying that about the same few people over and over.

I have to admit, I did have a little help producing a definitive list. Deep in the recesses of an old journal, I found a list that had been updated at the end of college, and I only had a few to add thereafter. The tricky part was trying to remember who some of the people on the list were.

I eventually was able to distinguish between the four Joes… the only one that threw me off for a while was the mysterious listing of “Gil”. I feel like sleeping with someone named Gil is the kind of thing you’d remember. Eventually, I realized it actually said G.I.L. as in Guy In Lexus.

So, it’s not three or anything, but it’s not 8,000 like one might think. You want to know what it is? Probably not, but it kind seems like you’re going to keep reading anyway, so I’ll tell you…

No, ok, I’ll spare you! Consider it a little present from me to you. Happy Birthday! I’ll just say I could count all of them on my fingers.

And I’d only need three more hands. Ba da dum chh!

Also, last night I had a dream that I was eating at a restaurant on the beach in southern California, and it seemed very familiar. As I ate, I realized I had eaten in the same restaurant everyday for my entire life. The restaurant was called "It's OK in 66". Weird.

I Just Really Need MySpace Right Now

2006-11-03T10:05:00.000-05:00

Well, the kittens seem to be on the mend, and now that there are two of them, they spend the majority of their time playing with each other and ignoring me. Bastards.

In light of this, I’ve realized it may be time to get back to the relationships in my life I’ve given short shrift to since I got the cats... like my relationship with Myspace.

Myspace knows I love it whether I get to spend all of my time with it or not, but I’ve been neglecting it lately and that just isn’t right. Theoretically, Myspace exists so you can reconnect with lost friends and meet exciting new people. Clearly, that is insane. Myspace exists for exactly two purposes: to stalk your exes and to get laid. That’s all, folks.

Personally, I’ve never used it to get laid. I’m not saying I’m above it... lord knows I went on a few Friendster dates in my day. I use Myspace almost exclusively to stalk my exes. I’d feel worse about admitting this if I didn’t know for a fact that 99% of people are using it for exactly the same reason.

If you’re amongst the 1% who doesn’t stalk their exes, you may be asking yourself why I dedicate so much of my time to this activity. It’s not that I regret breaking up, I definitely don’t... were that the case I’d just keep sad, pathetic little reminders and tons of pictures of our failed relationship in my apartment like Anoosh does with his ex-wife. (He says "I keep them... for my son" 'my son' clearly being code for 'to stare at while I masturbate and cry').

And it’s not that I care about them as people... it’s merely that I need to make sure they’re doing significantly worse than they were when we were together. I am happy to report that for the most part they are :) Most of them have put on weight, or are still single and aging poorly... it’s about a million times more validating than any positive relationship could ever be.

There are some exceptions. One guy I dated has a very skinny, large breasted, semi-intelligent looking girlfriend now... and I’d rather have my limbs removed with a rusted knife without anesthesia than accept that. That anomaly aside though, when I look at exes profiles I say to myself "Hmm, put on some weight, way to old to be on Myspace, still single, and pathetically trying to validate himself by having a bunch of hot women he’s definitely never slept with in his Top 8... I WIN." But when they look at my profile, they are forced to say to themselves "Wow, Carmela looks great... so pretty, so happy, so fun... such great taste in music... I’ll never get over her."

There are still a few exes I can’t find on Myspace, and those ones I just pretend are dead. Some of them might be, since theyre not on Myspace. I really want to know what the guy I hung out with for the last two years of high school is doing these days... especially since we hooked up pretty much every week for two years. I guess being able to remember what the hell his name was would help... but all I can remember is what kind of car he drove and the name of the school parking lot where we’d hook up. Sadly, Myspace won’t let me tailor my search that specifically.

I know to non-initiates this may seem like slightly psychotic behavior, but I assure you as exstalkers go I’m actually pretty self-controlled. Isabelle could easily have discovered who really shot JFK, found a definitive explanation for Stonehenge and cured cancer a couple of times over if she put a quarter of the energy into that as she does into stalking her exes. I’ve come home to find her with graphs spread out across the floor tracking the dating habits of her exes across Myspace, Facebook and eerily in-depth Google searches, so in the grand scheme of things I’m not even that nuts about it.

On really slow days, like today, sometimes I’ll even stalk my friend’s exes. That’s not as fun, but it’ll do in a pinch. Then, after hours of research, I get to call my friends up at work and say "Remember that guy you dated for two weeks Junior year of High School who told you he just wasn’t ready for a serious relationship? Well you’ll be happy to know his hairline is now receding and his favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle!"

To which they usually respond with an extremely appreciative "Carm, I’ve already asked you several times never to call me here again."

And that make sit ALL worth it.

Cat Got Your Crotch?

2006-11-02T09:23:00.000-05:00

As well we all know, I have some very minor issues with moderation and self control. I think I get it from my mother who likes to collect Mercedes Benz' and glittery faux fur throw pillows. Rather than expressing my addictive personality through twenty new pairs of the same shoe, or an exciting new drug addiction for fall, I've chosen instead to start collecting these cats.

My vestigial sense of right and wrong has been acting up again, so when Nietzsche started to seem lonely,out of guilt I bought his brother to come live with us. It is with great pride, and sad resignation at my inevitable future as "that creepy cat lady", that I welcome Machiavelli. Mac for short.

As I looked at the two of them, curled up in my lap, their demonic little eyes aglow, their reptilian tails whipping about behind them... I knew true happiness. I swear to God, for about two seconds it actually made me want to have babies... deformed, fanged, clawed babies with tails... but babies nonetheless.

That desire pretty much vanished when I woke up at 3:00 in the morning, lifted my covers and found both of them using their claws in an attempt to make more comfortable sleeping arrangements for themselves in my crotch. Thanks guys, but if I wanted to see satanic beasts burrowing into my nether regions, I'd drop some acid like a normal person.

Obviously, Nietzsche and Machiavelli are not the names the breeder gave them. I chose Nietzsche because he was a dark and tortured evil genius, much like my cat, who said "Gaze too long into the void and the void gazes also into you." Isn't that fitting? The breeder named him Jay Jay. Does that cat look like a fucking Jay Jay to you? No.

Machiavelli I chose because he was a manipulative and callus genius, also like my cat, who said "It is better to be feared than to be loved." Obviously, a perfect name. The breeder apparently felt Little Man was a better fit. Little. Man. Where do these people come up with this shit?

The second runners up were Oedipuss and Chairman Meow.

I'm not entirely sure if the crushing monotony of the rest of my life or a genuine love for these cats that has brought this obsession on... probably a mixture of both.

Anoosh said "Having these cats is just like having newborn babies!" Which I expected him to immediately follow with "And it's been really nice knowing you!" But so far, no.

All in all this has been a pleasant, though utterly horrifying experience for me. I feel like I'm turning into my mother. All I want to do is spend the day at home playing with them and taking care of them.

And baking four different kinds of baked good for them.

And then buying a new Benz.

Fuck.

Hallowhine

2006-11-01T14:34:00.000-05:00

Halloween is my favorite holiday.

Yesterday, the guy in line ahead of me at Duane Reade was doing a little last minute Halloween shopping. He bought a big bag of mini-Snickers bars, a huge bottle of Children’s Nyquil, and a massive container of Astroglide.

Halloween’s probably his favorite holiday, too.

The more I thought about, the less likely it seemed that he could conceivably be doing anything with those purchases that wasn’t gross and illicit. Absolute best case scenario is the mini candy bars and the lube were for some sort of midget orgy, and the kiddie Nyquil was for his sick child and totally unrelated. Even that’s a bit sketchy.

I kind of wanted to ask him what the plan was. I mean, that’s not like throwing a Roofie in someone’s Cosmo... this was going to necessitate some finagling. Like, maybe you lure the kid in with the candy, invite him in for some apple cider and then mix the Nyquil in there? That seems pretty iffy.

Maybe you put the Snickers at the bottom of a glass filled with Nyquil and tell the kid he has to chug it to get the candy. That seems more feasible.

Maybe he was going to take the Nyquil himself, get a little buzz going, chill out, have some candy, and kids these days are just really promiscuous and I don’t know about it.

I may never know the answer.

So... once a year, a parade of sheer insanity takes over the streets of Manhattan... scantly clad revelers loudly parade up 6th Avenue, terrifying and amusing children and adults alike with their ridiculous costumes and lascivious acts...

But Gay Pride won’t be for months, and in the meantime we have to settle for the Halloween parade.

This year I celebrated by going to the parade with Alabaster, who dressed as his father circa 1977... apparently his father looked a lot like a gay, disco dancing drug dealer in 1977, and Muffin who came dressed as Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

For those of you who couldn’t make it to the parade this year, let me just tell you that there were at least a hundred Borats, a couple dozen K-Feds, a handful of Steve Erwins and a vagina. The vagina I think was the best costume at the whole parade. The guy had made it himself out of felt and fur. He was all cozy and warm, wrapped in his giant labia with his little clit cap on. It was adorable and horrifying and hilarious.

The evening was slightly downcast, however, because my little Neeches hasn’t been feeling very well lately. You know in The Adams Family when Morticia has a baby boy and he gets "fatally ill", and this is witnessed by the fact that his cheeks get rosy and he starts liking Dr. Seuss and quits smoking? I was hoping if Nietzsche ever got sick it would be like that. I’d come home one day to find him covered in soft fur, playing with a ball of yarn rather than scowling in the corner, waiting to scratch my eyes out.

Sadly, his actual illness seems to more involve crapping all over Anoosh’s apartment and a runny nose.

Not quite as cute as I was hoping for.

The Teaches of Neeches

2006-10-30T14:33:00.000-05:00

At long last, I’m beginning to grasp why women get so annoying about their babies. This Saturday, I picked up my "baby", and I can safely say he is now pretty much my sole reason for living. His name is Nietzsche, and he is amazing. Unlike a real baby, growing inside you and using up all your nutrients until you’re too weak to move much in the way a cancer would, Nietzsche came fully formed from the breeder!

Have you ever thought to yourself… 'I sure would love to own something that looks exactly like an alien and feels just like a gigantic testical and has claws'? So have I, and now I do.

Nietzsche’s favorite activities include: Attempting to eat my eyeballs, trying to "milk" me, eating, pooping, and taking naps over my nose and mouth so I can’t breathe. He also likes trying to fit his tiny, warm, wrinkly head in my mouth when I yawn.

After picking him up, I took him home to meet my family. My mother referred to him as her grandson, my father told me he was the most disgusting creature he had ever seen, and Big Big couldn’t have cared less about the cat... however she did form an instant emotional bond with the Louis Vuitton carrying case he came in... which she cradled and petted and asked if she could name.

The thing about Nietzsche that kind of creeps me out a bit... and it’s not his glowing green eyes or webbed feet... is that he looks at me in a very odd way. It’s not the expression he has in this picture, which is adorable and clearly says "I will soon shed my mortal form and return to the bowels of Hell", this is a totally different look, and he only does it when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s this desperate look that seems to say "I’m going to control myself, but if I had my way I would devour you whole right this second." It’s exactly the way my mother looks at a plate of tacos. Pretty creepy.

In addition to getting my baby, this weekend was also the ten year anniversary of my father’s death. Ten years ago Sunday, my father died after his second massive heart attack. He had a party yesterday to commemorate the event. I imagine he celebrated by eating a chicken fried steak wrapped in brownies while chain smoking.

He was only dead for a few minutes, but he did see the light and his dead ancestors and all, so I guess it counts. I was deeply traumatized because going to the hospital seriously cut in to my workout time. After the whole thing was over, he became extremely religious and really reprioritized his life to make time for the stuff that matters most.

He was like a changed man.

That was a really nice week and a half. By November he was back to planning for the inevitable day when the Blacks revolt. Sure is nice to have him around.

Executive Search and Destroy

2006-10-26T13:17:00.000-04:00

After spending years at emotionally and intellectually dissatisfying jobs, and a few harsh, grueling months being unemployed, I can finally say I have found... yet another sucky job of death.

This time I’m working for a small Executive Search Company. What is executive search, you ask? That’s exactly what they asked me on my interview. My response was "Well, I’m not really sure, but I do know that I’ve spent the majority of my adult life searching for executives, so I’ll probably be pretty good at it." Miraculously, they still hired me.

An executive search, as it turns out, is pretty much like the business version of Home-wrecking. A company comes to you and says "Hey, I want some new executives." And you say "Ok, how about this nice guy right out of college?" and they say "No, I want someone with lots of experience... someone who knows how to CEO me juuuuust right. Someone like that guy who’s the SVP of marketing for my competitor!" and you say "Oh no, Mr. Giant Conglomerate Sir, but he seems so happy over there with your competitor!" and they say "Yes! He WILL be mine!"

So then you hide outside of the candidates office, and when he leaves work for the day, you corner him in a dark alley and say "I know you THINK you’re happy with that boring old company you’ve been with for decades, but imagine how much happier you would be with this shiny NEW company that would love you and appreciate you in a way your old company never did!" etc, etc. Eventually, they all cave.

Fun as that sounds, this is probably the most boring job I’ve ever had. On top of this my boss is a cunt. A divorced Jewish shrew fast approaching middle age who likes to talk about her kid and ponder why she doesn’t have a man in her life. My ABSOLUTE FAVORITE kind of person in the world do deal with, let alone work for.

Today she told me to dress more conservatively. This is absolutely inconceivable. If I were dressed any more conservatively, I would be wearing a fucking bonnet. Short of running out after work and picking up some bloomers, I really don’t know how I could dress any more conservatively than I do right now.

I think the problem is I’m wearing the right stuff, it just refuses to look conservative on me. Were anyone else to wear the outfit I’m wearing today, they would look like a white collar corporate worker. On me, however, corporate clothing looks like a costume I’ve thrown on for some S&M mean boss / naughty worker roll play. NOT my fault.

I dread coming in every morning. I cry when I have to get out of bed. Not just because of how much the job blows (which, I assure you, it does, massively) but because it’s really not much worse than any other job I could have right now.

Everyone tells you to think of the things you love doing, and then find a way to make money doing them. Ok, let’s try that model... what do I love doing?

I love spending the night in pricey hotels. I love getting wasted. I love having sex. I love being given tons of cash. And I LOVE seducing shady business men trapped in unfulfilling marriages.

Hmmm. I WONDER what a good job would be for me??

Let’s really brainstorm and see if we can’t come up with something.

Here's Looking at You, Kidney

2006-10-25T11:58:00.000-04:00

So, my cousin Sally, who is awesome, is getting a new kidney. Couple things about that…

1) I’m not sure she’s actually my cousin. I use the term loosely, like when Big Big says Eve and Kayla are her “cousins” but she actually means “cousin’s children”, or when my mother says Alan is her “cousin” but she actually means “husband”.

2)This new kidney is coming from some chick I’ve never heard of. This is not out of necessity, since when I heard about Sally needing a new kidney; I immediately offered her one… of Big Big’s, since I’m 95% certain she was bread for spare parts.

I only met Sally a couple of years ago, since she is part of that elusive group of family members I someday hope to join the ranks of, whose names are never spoken aloud for fear of their evil power… kind of like Voldemort. Everyone was scared of Sally because she’s brilliant (i.e., went to med school, works in a think-tank and never got married).

Just to give you an inkling of how far away I am from gaining this kind of family infamy, I spent a stoned afternoon with Muffin and Alabaster just trying to figure out what a think-tank IS. Alabaster said it was some sort of large water filled tank that you float around in with other smart people, sipping cocktails and thinking. I said it was more like a giant, zero gravity tank where you float around with a bunch of other smart people, and the tank does the thinking for you. Muffin said it wasn’t either of those, and she wanted to go shoe shopping.

Looks like if I want to be in the dare-not-speak-their-name category, I’m going to have to aspire more towards my other “cousin” in the category, Cousin Dickey.

Cousin Dickey doesn’t get mentioned for a whole other reason. I never even knew he existed until I met him at a family party in Boston when I was about 11 or 12. I liked him instantly. He was the only relative who didn’t speak to me like I was retarded.

I later discovered that Dickey had spent the majority of his adult life in prison for theft and sex crimes… although he didn’t mention any of that during our conversation. I imagine my parents would have prevented me from speaking to him at all had it not been for their strict no-allowing-pedophiles-near-the-children-unless-preventing-it-would-in-some-way-inhibit-our-appetizer-consumption rule.

Regardless, Dickey soon went back to prison after that night, and despite having broken out of lower security places in the past, this one seems to beholding him pretty effectively.

The tragedy of all this, of course, is that were my family to function in the one way that makes the family structure useful rather than just restrictive, Sally and Dickey would know each other, and she wouldn’t have to have waited more than a weekend to get a new kidney. Give him $500 and a three hours, and Dickey probably could have gotten her a kidney, a liver AND an ounce of Meth.

But Alas, it wasn’t meant to be…

Trick, or...

2006-10-24T12:24:00.000-04:00

Ahh Halloween... my favorite holiday of the year. Growing up, I couldn’t WAIT for Halloween to arrive. When strangers would scream at me “Hey, it’s not Halloween yet!”
I would be deeply saddened by the truth of their statement. Then, I’d give them the finger.

This year I'm in a particularly festive mood, since Big Big has informed me that her sorority sisters think I'm a witch. I imagine to them "witch" means, any girl who does not show the appropriate level of love for shopping wholesale and does not carry her own supply of Splenda with her at all times. Kind of like when my sister was telling me about a friend of hers from school and described her as "you know... a real free spirit... but not, like, a lesbian or anything."

Despite my deep love for this holiday, I’ve had mostly sucky Halloweens...

2005: Too broke to buy a new costume, I reuse my naughty nurse get-up for the zillionth time. A bad Halloween season in general; despite the fact that I was dating three, count ‘em THREE, guys with kids, I still had to go see Harry Potter with Muffin. That is FUCKED up.

2004: Attend a Halloween party at the restaurant of my at the time roomie. Too broke to buy a costume, I go as a slutty French maid, since I just happen to have that outfit lying around. Have to sneak out to the party because Tony won’t let me leave the house after 9:00 PM unattended. Dating him was kind of like being a Muslim.

2003: Living in Williamsburg, in the House That Release Built. Forced to host a Halloween party in my home against my will. Dress as Liz Phair to meet the required Rock Star theme. Spend the whole evening being hit on by some cute guy who came dressed as Elliot Smith (although everyone thought he was supposed to be Eminem. The serrated knife through the heart was a dead giveaway, I thought). I go to use the bathroom, and when I come back, Alabaster is making out with him. To make matters worse, Al didn’t even go home with that guy, he went home with a guy who came dressed as a beaver, which I thought was pretty ironic.

2002: Dragged by Crazy Ho to some party out in Brooklyn. Go as Miss Congeniality because that was back when people kept telling me I looked like Sandra Bullock. Got obscenely drunk and made out with a Jewish investment banker dressed as Santa Claus. That made for some interesting blackmail Polaroids.

2001: Ed and I dressed as Sally and Jack from The Nightmare Before Christmas. The costumes took four hours to put together, and in the end, Ed refused to go to the parade because he was convinced it would be bombed by terrorists. Which, sadly, it was not.

That’s as far back into my sorted Halloween past as I can (or care to) remember. Hopefully, this year will be a nice turnaround. I have an awesome costume... and after my CVS run to pick up some essentials (mini candy bars, Gillette refills), I’ll at least have an outside shot of not crying myself to sleep this year.

2006-10-20T09:10:00.001-04:00

Vitamin E

2006-10-19T15:00:00.000-04:00

I am at fault for a glaring omission. In all this time, I have yet to dedicate an entry to me dear friend E.

Her name isn’t really E, it’s some long drawn out Asian thing, E is just what we called her growing up rather than using her oh so slightly antiquated American name, Eunice. Going through life with a name like Eunice is a daunting enough task for anyone, since no one but Asians has named their child that since the early 1800’s, but E handled it admirably.

For as long as I can remember, E had obscenely long hair, occasionally with strands of bright scarlet in it that came all the way down to her knees. Also, she was Asian, so being friends with her was kind of like being friends with the girl from The Grudge, except rather than sneak up behind you and eat your face; E would just sneak up behind you, tap you on the shoulder and offer you a joint.

E was the first person I knew to get a tongue ring. I would make her stick her tongue out so that I could stare at it daily for all four years of high school, and E never complained. She was also, by far and away, the most talented artist I had ever met. In fact, she still owes me a painting. Why Imp not sure… either a birthday or some sexual favors or picking up her tab at Starbucks or something.

In high school, E had this boyfriend I just loathed. I’m not sure why I hated him so much, but I seem to remember it having something to do with the fact that he was short. Anyway, he did something “mean” to E one day... Beat her, or didn’t buy her jewelry or something, and we got into a fight. The only physical fight I ever got in (that I didn’t get paid for, that is) was with E’s boyfriend. It was a rather unpleasant sight… a small boy with soft Arian features being manhandled by an overweight, army boot wearing chick with a purple crew cut. Ugh. I’m getting a little nauseous just thinking about it.

A happier memory I have of E was picking her up in the mornings for school. I’d show up in my little red Beetle, wearing a holographic tube top and a bikini bottom and walk through the snow to her front door. Inevitably, she’d still be sleeping, and her mother, who never spoke to me but REALLY liked Jesus Christ, would scream up the stairs in Korean, something that I imagine translated roughly to “get your ass out of bed, your whore friend is here. Praise the Lord.”

Since E now lives in assfuck nowhere (which is right by Albany), I hardly ever see her, but she did recently send me this post from Craigslist...

I have a simple request: Would someone like to come over to my place dressed in a long, beige trenchcoat, panama hat, and dark sunglasses, smoking a cigarette? When I open the door (I'll be wearing a polka-dotted dress and wiping my hands on an apron), you will be looking away. You will say, "Is the cake in the oven?" I will hang my head, fight back tears, and invite you in.

We shall move to the bedroom and I shall undress awkwardly, looking upset and ashamed. You will throw me up against the wall and I will scream "Maim me!" as you bite through my strand of cultured (but we'll pretend they're real) pearls, which will fall to the ground and scatter. You will think I've said "Mamie" (as in Eisenhower).

At this point, you will stroke my hair gently and become romantic and tender, rendering unto the First Lady the respect to which she is entitled. Slowly and carefully, you will rub your hand up my thigh. When you reach my genitalia and discover I am genetically male, you will fly into a rage and "rape" me (condoms and lube will be located in an antique snuff box at arm's length; please be discreet in procuring them).

Prior to climaxing, you will push me to the floor, remove your condom (again, discreetly), and ejaculate into my eyes. I will lie in a crumpled, sobbing heap at your feet, softly singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President." When your semen has dried my eyelashes together (this might take a while; I will have prepared a selection of cold cuts, assorted beverages, and glossy magazines for your entertainment), you will softly clean it out with a sponge dipped in warm milk.

You will hold me in your arms as we await the coming night. When (and whether?) we part again will be determined from that point.

God, I miss her.

Interesting postscript to that… I forwarded this post to Anoosh, thinking he’d be deeply amused, but in fact he had already seen the post on Craigslist. Let’s analyze this for a moment, shall we? What kind of fucked up, sexually deviant such could he have been doing to come across this post? M4M? Casual Encounters M4Transexual? Keyword search: cum in eyes?

It’s probably best not to wonder.

Tony O

2006-10-11T23:21:00.000-04:00

We were sprawled outon Aviva's bed. Aviva, Alabaster and I. Aviva's apartment is exactly like my old one, except clean. Just being there brings up awful memories that have nothing to do with her.

I'd been drinking for credit since about 2:00. We all agreed that it was to be an early evening since all of us had big days ahead. and what better way to ensure an early evening, we wondered, than finishing off the baggie of coke left over from Aviva's lunch meeting. Alabaster whipped out his Amex and cut lines on the coffee table while Aviva recounted her traumatic weekend over which she had witnessed her pseudo boyfriend hook up with his ex-girlfriend at Alphabet Lounge.

"The worst part of the whole thing", Aviva was telling us, clearly stricken with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, "wasn't having to watch them hook up... the worst part was that she was... she was..." Aviva was too flustered to finish. I blew a line and tried to help, "blonde?" Alabaster followed suit and offered "Wearing legwarmers?" "No! She was... FAT!" Alabaster and I gasp "NO!" in unison. "Yes! She was fat. And she was wearing this outfit... oh my god, I think it was from Joyce Leslie." She collapsed into tears again as I pushed the table closer to her and atempted to comfort her by handing the straw. Aviva down the last two rails with bereft vigor and off we went.

At Aviva's request, we returned to the scene of the crime, Alphabet Loung, but as I assumed, she broke down and cried at the door and we had to drag her away before the police were called. Instead, we go to Dorsia.

Dorsia is also Aviva's choice- she know people there. I second the vote because this amazingly hot guy I've been masturbating to for, like, forever, works there on Thursdays and told me to stop by. Tragically, theres a rediculously long line out front, and I have a strict policy about waiting on lines... which is: I don't. Aviva, however, drops the right name to the door guy, and we're whisked to a table at the back of the club.

Alabaster and I give each other a shared glance of bewilderment when we realize were the only people who aren't models and have a body fat level higher than 2%. Aviva is already on the neon dance floor, grinding with a seven foot tall black dude with dreads. Alabaster and I down three shots a piece and I drag him to back room to find my boy. Sadly he's not there, and since the room is now spinning and it's past midnight we decide to grab Aviva and make a run for the door before any orgies break out.

As we exit Dorsia, Aviva gets a call from her friend Becky. Aviva says Becky wants us to meet her at Rehab, which I think is a bit much since, yes, I like to have an occaisonal drink here and there, but I can stop anytime. Despite my protests Im ushed into a cab. Rehab, as it turns out, is a party on Lafayette.

When we arrive, I realize that this particular party is being thrown at Time Cafe. I have a strict policy about going to Time Cafe; I don't. Time Cafe is the bar where, in high school, my friend Bethany whored me off to her internship boss in hopes of furthering her career. It is also the bar where, in college, in friend Bill sucked some guy off in the bathroom for $200 while I sat alone at the bar and then refused to split the money with me.

I think I'm going to be saved because of the block long line at the door, but Aviva tells us Becky's at a table and we need on;y mention the name of the guy whos paying to be let in. We get to the door, a line of a hundred people glaring at us, and Aviva blanks on the name. "Fuck! We're here with, uh, Billy G?" The bouncer raises an eyebrow, and I slowly start to back away into the street, scanning desperately for a cab. "Timmy E? No? Tony O! We're here with Tony O." With that, I'm being dragged, literally kicking and screaming into Time.

I'm in tears, which my "friends" have chosen to ignore, but moment later we arrive at the table, which is covered in Crystal, Grey Goose and Saphire. Like a drunken kid in a candy shop, I instantly forget my troubles and attach my lips to nearest bottle of vodka, and take stock of the gorgeous suits occupying the table.

Once we're all sufficiently intoxicated, we start scoping prospects. Aviva has been corned by some very Jewish looking guy who, we gaggingly realize, is asking her what her sign is. Alabaster is cruising the most overtly gay dude there, who is standing by the bar, checking out his own reflection in the full wall mirror. That's when I spot him... the hottest man I have ever seen in my whole entire life that night.

He had that whole CEO-Date-Rapist thing going for him that I love so well, he's wearing a Prada suit, and he's looking right... at... me. I look away before I start drooling on myself. Tragically, he's standing next to some old chick. And by old, I mean a few years younger than him.

"Alabaster." I say as I dance up behind him "What's up babe?" "Quick question..." "The hot suit at nine o'clock? That's not his wife." "Oh my god, you are like... ass-psychic! Are you sure?" He looks at me like I'm retarded. "Um, yeah, who brings their wife to a club?" It's a good point. Now all that remains is working up the nerve to talk to him.

Aviva is now being proposed to by the same creepy guy, looking at us with total desperation. Al has gone from staring the guy at the bar to sucking his face off in a matter of moments. I realize it's now or never, so I think up the smoothest line I can muster, walk over to him... and draw a complete blank.

I'm totally speachless, and he AND his non-wife are now staring me down, so I take his drink out of his hands, down it and throw the glass over my shoulder. There's a moments pause... then he's escorting the woman he brought out the door and putting her in cab, and two seconds later we're dancing together.

Actually, dancing is a bit euphamistic for what we're doing. More accurately, we dry humping in front of my friends and his coworkers. Alabaster comes over, mystery boy in tow, takes one look at me, turns to the CEO and says "tell her to call me tomorrow." Now my friends are gone, and the clubs emptying out, and everything I'm seeing has trails. CEO says "let's get out of here" so we get out of there.

The limo ride is ablur, and when I refocus were at the front desk of The Hudson Hotel. The conceirge is saying "Good evening Mr. Unpronouncible Italian Name! Your usual suite is ready for you." CEO grabs the key, and moments later we're standing in his massive pent house Pretty Woman style suite.

Now he's telling me "I don't think your boyfriend liked me very much. He kept giving me dirty looks." I tell him "That's not my boyfriend... and those looks weren't the kind of dirty you think they were. But now that you mention it, were'nt you there with a woman tonight? "Yeah, y friends tried to set me up, but she was fat." She WAS fat. "I know that sounds vain, but I used to be an actor so I feel like I have the right to be vain." "You were an actor?!" I drunkenly slur "that is so cool!" I do not think that is cool. "Yeah, I was on One Life To Live in the nineties. I got to rape Jasmine Bleeth!" "No way! That is awesome!" That is pretty awesome.

"So, do you live around here?" I chit chat as he breaks open the mini fridge. "Yeah, a couple of blocks away actually." "Oh, then why aren't we..." at this point he whips out a baggie full of coke and hands it to me, which is all th eanswer I need. He cuts it on the night stand with his black AmEx, and as he hands me a rolled hundred dollar bill, he asks "do you ever feel like your whole life is just a scene from Less Than Zero?" And I'm in love.

We start making out violently. The kind of making out where it more seems like were trying to suffocate the other one than kiss. He throws me on the bed, complimentary mints go flying everywhere. He throws his Prada suit on the floor, causing me to bug out and scream at him for treating Prada that way. Eventually we're both totally naked.

CEO says to me, falteringly, "So... should I um... get a condom?" In retrospect, I realize that he probably meant 'as opposed to not having sex with you', but class act that I am, I responded "Um, duh, I JUST MET you, I'm not going to have unprotected sex with a total stranger." God. some people! And with that, we proceeded to have the most rediculously coked up, barely concious, bunny rabbit sex known to man.

The sun was rising by the time we realized how late it had gotten. "Oh Jesus!" I say, falling as I attempt to stand "what time is it? I have class in like an hour!" "Uh, you have what?" "Class?" I repeat, pulling Care Bear folders from my bag to illustrate my point. CEO flinches. "How old are you?" he asks as I scramble for my clothes. "Twenty one" "Wow, that's pretty young. I'm 37" "yeah, that's... whatever, do you see my shirt?" He finds it under the bed, and calls for cars for us.

As we make the seven mile trek across the lobby, CEO says "so, can I get your number?" "What, are we... friends now? Ok, tell you what, you tell me what my name is, and I'll give you my number." He smiles, "I'd never forget your name, Melissa." I wince. "Wow, that would be really flattering if my name wasn't Carmella." But he's persistant, so eventually Igive him my number and he gives me his card.

His card informs me that I've just had a coked up fuck fest with none other than a senior vp of bear stearns named Anthony Occhicone. "Oh, wait! I know who you are! We had to use your name to get into that club tonight." "Well, I guess you can thank me for the five bottles of free liquor you and your leach friends downed. I've never seen people drink that much. You guys sure like open bars." "Yeah, we sure do. Well, thank's Tony!" I say getting into my car he's called for me, which happens to be the company limo.

With a company limo at my disposal, going to class seems ill advised. I take tour of manhattan before returning to my house in Brooklyn to pass out till three in the afternoon to eight voicemails. I assume theyre from Alabaster, making sure I'm alive, but theyre actually all from Tony, asking when he can see me again. I wake up in time for the seventh call, which is an invite to dinner that night at Nobu.

We proceeded to see each other pretty much every single night for three straight months. Who knew raising a child required so little effort on the mans part?

Autobiography

2006-10-11T22:33:00.000-04:00

When I was a sophomore at NYU, I took a projects course.

That's the fancy art major way of saying... do whatever the fuck you want really. We'd have topics, things like "identity" or "myth", and we had about a month to create a work which spoke to that topic. Anoosh refers to it as "that bullshit Freespirit 101 class you took".

Some people were too high to really care and would do shit like take polaroids of their twats while they were having outbreaks of weird shit for the "identity" project. Others got hardcore and had their named legally changed.

For the second to last project, the "myth" project, I needed a little extra credit since the instructor had little to no idea who I was, and generally identified me as "that girl who comes in half an hour late, gets a nose bleed and leaves".

The myth I chose was that of the pheonix. You know, the bird that lives a hundred years, then builds its own funeral pyre, lights itself on fire, burns to death and then rises from it's own ashes. I can kind of relate to that. On several levels.

So I went ahead and designed a pheonix tattoo and had it put on my neck. It was a huge success and I got an A.

The last project was called "autobiography", so I wrote one. More or less. The stories I included follow for your viewing pleasure.

Enjoy.

How Nice, For You

2006-10-11T16:47:00.000-04:00

I know it’s been a while since I’ve blogged... this is due to the fact that since Im now unemployed, I have no free time. All the time I used to spend bored out of my mind blogging at work is now spent interviewing (read: drinking) and working on applications (read: sleeping).

But I assure you, my loyal fan base (read: mom), that I have not forsaken my blog permanently.
Since I have a couple of hours to wallow in my misery (read: watch Curb Your Enthusiasm and pluck my eyebrows) I thought I’d share.

Today I did an onsite essay for a grad school I’m applying to. They give you prompts and you respond. For example, they write “Jenny and Maria are fighting. Jenny thinks Maria is taking too long to take her turn at a game and Maria thinks Jenny is in too much of a rush. What do you do?” And then I say “punish whichever one is fatter.”

After that, my good friend Muffin came over for lunch and I finally got to meet her boyfriend. Uhh... I mean boss. Uh... I mean some guy. Yeah, it was really nice to finally meet some guy. He was very cute and obscenely tall. He wore a suit and carried mini fridge sized bottles of Grey Goose. Mmmm... dreamy.

Muffin and I had lunch, then went to the candy store across the street where I spent an hour digging out mildly ominous conversation hearts.

Yep, thats the kind of thing I get to do now that Im jobless. Until someone agrees to hire me to do some menial degrading job, I plan on pursuing my ultimate goal of penning children's books. The first one, “Gang Bang Barbie”, which I coauthored several years ago, was a huge success. Meaning after we wrote it, we still found it hilarious after the drugs had worn off. So, keep your eyes peeled for “Why it Takes Daddy so Long to Drive the Babysitter Home” in stores near you in the near future.

I think back to the last time I was unemployed for an extended period, which was right after graduation. Fortunately, I had a pretty sizable coke habit which occupied most of my time. Sadly, I don’t have to money for an encore.

Those were some good times though, that was back when I was living in Brooklyn in The House That Release Built, with my room mates Crazy Ho and Bootsie. Crazy Ho was a crazy ho... still is from what I hear, and Bootsie was a recent transplant from Maryland who was depressingly more hip than either of us.

She managed to look hot with a fashion mullet and shared my penchant for pill popping. Bootsie was a good friend to have, since she was the only one who knew what it felt like to come home to a beach being set up in your backyard, or a stripper pole being installed in your living room, or forced into increasingly ridiculous costumes for parties in our house we very grudgingly attended (such as the “come fly away” party where we were forced to dress as stewardesses, or the “put me in labor day” party which we had to wear lingerie to.

But I digress, I should really get back to work (read: Flavor of Love just came back on).

The Fasting and Furious

2006-10-03T14:06:00.000-04:00

In general, my feeling is that I do not have to fast on Yom Kippur because I was anorexic for an entire year. I think fasting days can be deducted from that year and used as credits towards my salvation.

Yom kippur, for those of you who don’t know, is the Jewish holiday of atonement, when you don’t eat, and you go to temple and feel guilty and beg god to forgive you for being a generally sucky person. As holidays go, it doesn’t hold a candle to Purim, when the bible commands that we drink until we can’t tell the difference between good and evil. Now THERES a holiday I can support.

Despite my feelings about it, I decided to be a good Jew and fast and go to services this year. It’s not so much that I’ve become religious, it’s more that I have a lot of sins to atone for this year, and I figured this couldn’t hurt. Plus, it’s never a bad idea to fast. If the Jewish religion has chosen to help me on my quest to look exactly like Nicole Richie... so be it.

I found a free service online and convinced the only other Jew I thought might be interested in going to temple to come with me. As we quickly learned, in the Jewish religion, you really get what you pay for.

We should have left when the rabbi spent an hour begging for donations.

We should have run screaming when the service opened with a large, tattoo covered black man in a leotard performed an interpretive dance to motown to “capture the essence of the holiday”.

But we actually waited an hour and a half, until the rabbi used this allegory to explain gods love: God is not like the father, who coming home from a long hard days work is excited to see his baby until the baby wets itself and repulses the father. Our god is like the mother, who spends all day at home tending to the baby, and lovingly changes it when it wets it’s diaper.

That was the final straw. We were laughing too hard to stay, so we split and went for sushi.

So ultimately, I only cut it as a good Jew until about 12:30, but thats still better than last year.
Later in the day I went to my cousins to “break the fast” although no one present had fasted. I had tons of fun since I got to teach my baby cousins to refer to their faces as their “moneymakers”, and my mother called my sister fat, at which point my sister called my mother an obese son of a bitch, and told her (in front of friends and family) that she was the reason I had been anorexic.

The funny thing about that was it marks the 5th consecutive year that my sister has blamed my eating disorder on someone on Yom Kippur. Last year she blamed my father. The year before that she blamed herself. The year before that she blamed the dogs. The year before that she blamed my mothers brownies which we all thought was a bit of a long shot.

It’s also funny because I didn’t even HAVE an eating disorder... I just wan’t hungry. You know, like some days you’re so busy you forget to eat? It was like that. Except for a whole year. It’s not like I had a problem or anything. I could have stopped at any time, as I tried to explain to the doctors at the clinic, to no avail.

Besides, I looked really cute at 98 pounds.... I was like a baby kitten, all covered in soft hair, curled up in front of the heater. Those were some good times. And thanks to Biggy, I get to relive them at least once a year.

Fortunately, that pretty much ends the run of Jewish holidays for a while. Nothing to look forward to now until Chanukah, when hopefully I’ll get to find out who Big Big feels is to blame for my childhood lisp.

L'Shana Tova!

2006-09-25T17:25:00.000-04:00

As those of you in the tribe... and those of you with friends in the tribe know, this weekend was Rosh Hashanah.

Rosh Hashanah is the day when Jews celebrate the angel of death coming to earth and smiting our enemies by slaughtering their babies! No, wait... that's Passover.

Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year! It’s just like the regular New Year, 'cause you go to a party and eat lots of stuff.. and then at midnight you get to make out with strangers! That’s how I celebrate anyway.

This year was no exception. It started with the obligatory family dinner attended by extended family as well as Anoosh and Alabaster. When Anoosh and I arrived, Big Big was hysterical crying after whacking her head on the ceiling. How she managed to do this, I may never know, but I do know that she somehow managed to blame the entire thing on her boyfriend Billy, whose lack of “good boyfriendness” apparently contributed to her pain. He managed to entertain himself in her absence by dangling my 4 year old cousin off the railing of the house.

After recovering, Big put away a good pound and a half of mac and cheese, and then regaled us with stories of her sorority sisters, who apparently believe that The Vatican is some sort of four star hotel in Rome, and that Ronald Reagan is the vice president.

Jaimie invited one her desperate housewife style friends who brought her hot, sexually repressed husband as eye candy, which was a nice treat for Alabaster and I.

The highlight of my evening was either when my baby cousin Sam asked Anoosh why he always looks mad, or when I then asked him how I looked and he said “skinny”. Smart kid, that one.

After the traditional Jewish desperate search for pot, we returned to the city where we met up with my room mates Isabelle and Natasha. Through some of our “dealings” Anoosh and I met a guy who owns one of the hottest clubs in Manhattan. Along with his “sort of” girlfriend, we got a table at said club and proceeded to get wasted out of our minds.

Around 4 in the morning, Isabelle and Natasha went home and Anoosh, Club guy, Hot Sort of Girlfriend and I went to... someone's apartment. Some non present 5th party who had decorated it starkly with one or two pieces of pricey furniture and nothing else, very American Psycho style.

Now, bear in mind that Club Guy and Hot Sort of Girlfriends aren’t they’re REAL names, those are just pseudonyms I made up to protect their identities. But, the jig is up... Their real names are... um, gosh, I could have sworn they told me at some point. I think it was... Blond Chick and Owns A Boat. Yeah, that's it.

So, Blond Chick is very cute, though slightly bonkers. And Owns A Boat owns a boat. Most importantly they're both extremely hot and good in bed.

I think it was a great warm up for next week, which is the Jewish holiday of atonement when you don’t eat all day and spend hours in silent contemplation of all the horrible stuff you’ve done and feel really, really hungry and bad about yourself. It’s called Yom Kippur... or as I like to refer to it, “Pretty Much Every Day of the Week”.

Have You Seen My Pussy?

2006-09-21T14:22:00.000-04:00

Back in the good old days... back when mini back packs were in and all you needed to get into the best clubs in the city was a push up bra and low self esteem... we used to play this game called “Things Which Are Awesome”.

Much as the name implies, you basically just name things which are awesome. Needless to say, we were usually very high when we played this game.

Some of the winners were Sno cones, pleather, Frappacinos and when you sleep with someone and then go through their medicine cabinets and find tons of mood enhancers.

Since I dont smoke much anymore and I don’t live in the suburbs anymore, I rarely get to play Things Which Are Awesome much these days. If I did though... I think this would be the winner.

This is a picture of the cat I will soon own. He is a Sphynx cat and I will love him in a way I could never love a human being.
Muffin reminded me that when “all I do is love” things, they have an unfortunate tendency to end up mangled, broken and/or emotionally disturbed, but this will be nothing like that. I swear.

I have already decided to dedicate my future to making this tiny, bald, freak of nature happy. I plan on knitting it tiny little sweaters with skulls, constructing him little boots out of playdoh, and buying him little studded collars. I also plan on bringing him with me everywhere I go, Paris Hilton style.

The only task which remains is naming him. I’ve narrowed it down to three potential names:
Nietzsche, which Anoosh favors. I think it may be a little pretentious, so I’d spell it Neechee, but it’s still a pretty intense name.

Azreal, which is my favorite. It means “angel of death” and you know how much I love working the phrase “of death” into everything. Plus, gotta love the Smurfs reference. Or...

Fluffy, which is obviously hilarious.

Thoughts? Votes?

Number One

2006-09-15T13:24:00.000-04:00

There are certain things we don’t say just because we don’t like the way they sound.

I’m unemployed.

I’m a 32A.

I met my boyfriend on JDate.

Today’s my anniversary.

I’m not one to celebrate events like anniversaries because I think they're cheesy and contrived. That said, this will be the 4th one year anniversary of my life. So far, it’s shaping up to be the best.

My first one year anniversary was with Brett. He suggested that I move in with him and after one year, I said yes. Then, we broke up.

My second one year anniversary was with Ed. He wanted to live together so after one year we found an apartment in midtown. Then we broke up.

My third one year anniversary was with tony. He said we could move in together and get married or he’d break my legs. I went with the legs. Then we broke up.

Anoosh and I celebrated by going to dinner and planning for next months orgy. Love, sweet love.

In honor of our one year anniversary, let me share this amusing anecdote with you... the first Jdate I ever went on was with this hot, rich tool named Dave. I was late for dinner and he was even later. He called to tell me he’d be there in a minute and that he was driving.

Dave said he’d be pulling up in his silver Jetta in just a moment. I looked out the window of the restaurant just in time to see Dave pulling up in his hard top S class Benz. He got out of the car, smiled at me and said “My god, did you really think I’d be driving a Jetta?” I giggled, rolled my eyes and ordered the lobster.

On my first date with Anoosh, I was waiting for him to pick me up outside of Bergdorf’s and he called to say he’d be pulling up in a second in his silver Jetta. No way I was falling for THAT one again!

Then he pulled up in his silver Jetta.

The rest is history.

You Can't Go Home Again

2006-09-11T10:55:00.000-04:00

I once thought that nothing on earth could be as humiliating as being called out on a fake ID. I distinctly remember going to Beauty Bar when I was 19 with my friend Steph's ID, and having the bouncer humiliate me in front of all of my friends, and my 30 year old date. It was horrible. Since I'm now 24 (i.e. so old I'm practically dead), I figured I was pretty much safe from ever going through that torture again.

Friday night, however, I discovered that there is in fact something worse than being called out on a fake ID, and that is being called out on a fake ID that's real.

Isabelle and Natasha had decided to subject me to an evening at the worst club in all of Manhattan since Twilo closed, Home. I don't know why they chose to do this to me... I hadn't done anything to them. Perhaps they genuinely wanted to go, but I think it's far more likely that I was being punished for doing something horribly wrong, although I don't know what that may have been.

Ever since some underage Jersey bimbo got raped and killed after getting wasted at Guest House one night, club row has been a disaster. In addition to the trashy B&T crowd that litter the street as it is, there's an addition of dozens of cops, tons of floodlights and even surlier beefed up bouncers.

One said bouncer, a sixty something Russian with a stomach larger than my apartment an a brain smaller than my desire to go to Home in the first place, decided that my ID was a fake. He very politely told me to get the hell away from the front door, and then proceed to threaten my with arrest.

This was particularly amusing considering that I was USING MY OWN ID. Ok, so maybe I don't look exactly the same as the day I had it taken.... I was going through some.... stuff at that point in my life, but do I look so drastically different that no one, not the bouncer who grabbed my ID, nor any of his seven bouncer friends would believe it was me? I think not.

The misplaced member of the KGB proceeded to inform me that I had two choices. I could either admit where I had gotten the ID, or he would call the cops over and they would fingerprint me and arrest me right there.

Lets pretend for a moment that this was in fact a fake ID. How old could this guy possibly have thought I was to believe that the cops were going to whip out their fingerprinting kits which they keep on them at all times, connect them to the DMV database they can magically access through their nightsticks, see that I was not in fact the girl on my ID, and then arrest me? Not since I was 6 and my father told me that if I had a sleep over at a friends house ivy would cover my room and I could never come home again has a ridiculous man made such a blatantly unfounded threat to my face.

At this point, i told him to please call the cops over. When he wouldn't, I did. turns out they neither a travel fingerprinting kit nor a even a scanner. They were actually LESS equipped than the bouncers to determine whether or not my ID was really me. They did, however, provide the invaluable service of... sipping coffee and wandering around, so I could clearly see why they were needed.

It was about this time that Isabelle decided to "help" my cause by coming over and explaining to the growing circle of bouncers and cops "Look, it's her... just caused she's aged, figured out how to apply make up and realized that her hair needs to be straightened doesn't mean she's a whole different person!" This failed to convince anyone, but it certainly gave me a much need ego boost.

Eventually, the nazi youth in charge of running the god forsaken club decided to let me in... although they intimated it was more of a favor than a recognition of their massive incompetence. After that I was blessed with an evening of skeezy men up in my face, bad music blaring loudly and long lines for the bathroom, so ultimately it was worth the degradation.

It just goes to show you how rewarding it is to improve your self. Now I'm debating whether it's easier to get a new ID, or cut all my hair off, over pluck my eyebrows and gain 20 pounds.

I know which would be more fun...

Allegory For Sophomore Seiminar

2006-09-07T12:38:00.000-04:00

Going through the few remnants I've saved from my days at NYU, I came across the only paper I was ever asked to write for my Major. The assignment was to write a poem about a memorable event in our lives. I wrote the following. It made me happy to write it, and I got an A!

Well, I got a smiley face, which is the art major equivalent of an A.

"Allegory for Sophomore Seminar" by Carmela Machiato

And so I was weepy, and full of self pity
as I sat all alone on the skirts of the city.
Along came my friend ----, who gave me a light
and we sat there and smoked but he couldn't sit tight.

Because he was antsy and bored with my story
and sick of my whining which he thought was boring.
But just to appease me he said "tell me again?"
(And these are the joys of a gay guy best friend).

So I told him again of my date from last night,
who broke my poor heart and ruined my life.
He listened, disinterested, his expression was bland.
But when I was done he took hold of my hand.

"Darling," he said, as he looked in my eyes,
"let me tell you some things about girls and guys."
"There's one type of girl," he said, looking at me
"who imagnes she knows just how love should be."

"She gets her heart broken." He said, monotone.
"And truly believes she'll die old and alone."
"But then, one fine day..." his voice slightly rose
"she meets the right guy, and their true love grows."

"and it grows and it grows, and they get engaged.
That girl wonders why she was ever enraged.
She can't believe she had ever been sad.
The rest of her life will be blissful and glad."

With this he smiled, and I smiled back.
I had no idea ---- had so much tact.

Then he took another drag, and exhaled, and said:
"And on the night before that perfect guy weds
there's the type of girl he Ruffies and rapes on the floor
of the bachelor party bathroom and then kicks out the door.
And then he forgets her, like he never knew her
and it's that kind of girl, my dearest, that you are."

With that he took his car keys and walked quickly away.
And I went home and cried in my bedroom, all day.

Ta da! $40,000 a year, people. Obviously, money well spent.

Labor Day (It's a Holiday)

2006-09-05T17:32:00.000-04:00

Just Like Fergie says in “Labor Day (It's a Holiday)”... “ lets get it goin cuz we know we gon celebrate cuz its a holiday”. I think that sums up the spirit of this beautiful holiday perfectly.

I'm pretty sure it does... actually, I have no idea what that crazy shva lover is talking about half the time, but it’s a good song regardless.

Anyway, Labor day is an important holiday for all of us as Americans because it celebrates the historic day when... someone... stopped working... or went into labor.... or something.

To me, labor day means one thing... pig races.

That’s why I was so happy to have been invited to the Sanchez household in Copake this year; it allowed to celebrate Labor Day in a truly meaningful way. The last time I went to Alabaster's house upstate it was to ring in the new millennium. The heat took hours to kick in so I developed frost bite since I was wearing open toed heels, and there wasn't a TV so we counted down to the year 2000 on Alabaster's microwave. Then I was forced to sleep on the living room floor because the bed I had chosen ended up being part of the "orgy room". Good times.

After spending an evening playing obscure drinking games and eating a wide variety of meat, Muffin, Alabaster, Bari Jenn and I attended the pinnacle of American culture.... the State Fair.

I've only been to one other state fair in my life, and that was the first time I went to Alabaster's house upstate. I was sixteen and I had a sunburn so I refused to put a shirt on and Alabaster had to drag me around the state fair in a tennis skirt and a bra. I don't really remember much else about it. If I did, I certainly wouldn't have subjected myself to it again.

I've been through a lot in my life; living out of my car, several near death experiences, jail, bad haircuts, general humiliation.... but nothing could have prepared me for the horror that is a state fair.

That picture up top... the one of "race pigs" speeding around a dirt track... that doesn't even begin to cover it. The pig races were preceded by a pig ventriloquist show, and followed by a pig high dive. Other "amusements" at this fair included rickety fair rides, a variety of fried meats on sticks, and an assortment of filthy animals in sheds.

But by far the most interesting part of the fair was the people attending it. Never in my life have I seen so many mullets... or morbidly obese children wearing clothes from Kmart.... or morbidly obese children wearing clothes from Kmart who had mullets. Absolutely horrifying.

Taking a look around at the "families" at the Copake State Fair, it became very apparent to me that there are parts of this country where Plan B is still not available over the counter. (Tangentially, how ingenious a name is Plan B? I love the implication that Plan A was not being such a ho bag, but that just didn't pan out).

Anyway, after a surreal day at the state fair, I fled upstate as quickly as was humanly possible. I love it up there, but I had gone nearly 24 hours without Starbucks and I was starting to get the shakes.

Labor Day it's self was spent with Anoosh and Bailey, his kid, participating in wildly inappropriate activities, such as going to a petting zoo and a park. Considering that I spent last Labor Day taking nude bong hits on the balcony of some Jewish ibanker on the upper west side... I suppose that qualifies as a step in the right direction.

Of course, I can never really decide if Bailey's extremely mature for his age, or if Anoosh is just extremely immature. I think it may be a combination of the two. I secretly suspect that Bailey isn't his kid at all... Anoosh and he were actually buddies before Anoosh made a wish on Zoltar and was magically transformed into a full grown man overnight, although I have no substantiating evidence of this.

Sadly, things took a turn for the worse with the tragic and unexpected death of that guy who does stuff with crocodiles.

Aside from this enormous loss, however, I'd have to say this Labor Day had it all... petting zoos, pig races, meat on sticks, and a road trip. Who could ask for more?

Love in the Age of Leg Warmers

2006-09-01T12:52:00.000-04:00

Let me explain... Figure A above represents what Anoosh has contributed to our relationship. Figure B represents what I have contributed.

This isn’t a metaphor for something more pressing. I don’t mean he’s brought the emotional equivalent of one sad lonely vibrator to our relationship. I mean quite literally, that lone vibrator is his and the rest of the brightly colored, glowing, whirling, multi speed, glitter covered collection is mine.

That’s not the entirety of it either, that’s just what I keep at his place.

This is odd, since I tend to think of him as the more sexually deviant of the two of us, but as I scrubbed our joint collection of sex toys the other evening, I realized that there was actually a profound anthropological discovery being made in his bathroom.

Later that evening (happened to be while Anoosh was telling the couple we had over about seeing Flock of Seagulls live in concert) it hit me.... sex was probably a whole other ball game back in the day.

I’ve been collecting sex toys since I was 17 and worked in a sex shop. I never thought that was odd, because even the most prudish, sexually repressed of my peers have at least one or two vibes to their name. Similarly, I don’t know a single girl who hasn’t at the very least made out with another woman.

These are just basic rites of passage for our generation. As a general rule of thumb, if you grew up wearing slap bracelets, you’ve probably had a threeway.

Vibrators, porn, girl on girl... these things are so common place it never dawned on me that people might still find them taboo. At least, it hadn’t until I really took a good look at the sole sex toy Anoosh had contributed to our collection.

Anoosh is the kind of person I would expect to have a separate apartment filled with sex toys. Maybe a leather bondage bed and a closet full of fetish gear as well. I was almost surprised when the interior of his apartment didn’t look exactly like a Matthew Barney video.

there really is no other explanation than that “back in the day” people just didn’t do things like that.

Seriously, look at that thing.... I see sexual suggestion in almost everything, and to me it just looks like something that I’d use to foam a cappuccino. It’s like one step away from the water powered vibrators they used to cure hysteria in the 1800’s. Where did he even find this thing?

Fifty bucks says it’s his wife’s..... and she bought it in high school..... and she traded two chickens for it.

Menage A Blah

2006-08-28T15:34:00.000-04:00

Today my mother and I discussed kinky sex over lunch.

We’re blasé Jews from Scarsdale, and that’s just how we roll. Plus, it’s a fairly effective appetite suppressant.

Ever since I was about 18 or so, my mom’s been letting little tidbits about her wild youth slowly slip out over the years.

My favorite was when she told me how when her and my dad started dating, she took him to an orgy. They had to leave though because there were more men than women and my mother didn't think enough attention be paid to her, and my father was unhappy with the appetizer selection.

I think that pretty much accounts for the entirety of my personality.

Anyway, my mother basically admitted to trying an experiment with me and my sister. With me, she told me the “truth”: that sex was fun. Especially when it involved anonymity and or drugs. Apparently, she wasn't so happy with how that worked out, so with Big Big, she took the more parental approach, and just told her you could get AIDS from someone with AIDS looking at you.

Big Big subsequently grew up to compulsively wash her entire body with Purell at fifteen minute intervals and brining her own silverware to restaurants. And I grew up to be.... me.

It’s not like I’m a nympho... I can have and have had several long term, monoton....uh, I mean monogamous relationships, some for years. But to be fair, now that I know that a relationship can encompass sex with strangers and still be functional and fulfilling, I don’t think I could ever go back.

When you’re dating someone who likes shopping, you go shopping together, right? Well, why should’nt the same apply to anonymous sex? Sure, it leads to complications... like the time Anoosh got bored in the middle of a threeway and eventually just sat on the edge of the bed, watching us and eating Pringles. That was an all time new low for me.

For the most part though, it’s worked out for the best. You get to meet lots of exciting and interesting new people... and have sex with them! What could be better?

The main problem, as it turns out, isn’t jealousy or self loathing... it’s boredom. It was all fun and games at first... we met one really quality chick... hot, young, smart, fun, good in bed... who allowed Anoosh to indulge his mid life crisis and I my narcissism, simultaneously. It was awesome. Tragically, she eventually found a boyfriend and that was the end of that.

Finding a quality couple, let alone single woman, is actually a lot harder than one would imagine. I’m too lazy and easily distracted to dedicate the kind of energy to the pursuit that is required, which means that Anoosh spends the majority of his time cruising the internet in search of a person or persons who don’t make me gag on site... which are few and far between.

This means that all I had to contribute to the lunch time conversation today was that Anoosh and I spend wild evenings at his place.... where he stares at Craigslist and I fall asleep watching Miami Vice reruns. Pretty edgy stuff, I know.

So, you know, with that in mind.... please do keep us in mind for any threeway needs that may arise in your future. A little about us?

He is a 30 something (the “something” being an extra 10), with carmel skin (since he’s half terrorist) and rugged good looks. She (meaning me) is a twenty something (24, look 30) very laid back (in fact, I’m laying back as we speak) beauty with an athletic build (no chest and thighs only a black man could love).

Do drop us a line, won’t you? Otherwise... we’ll really have to scrape the bottom of the barrel,’cause giving up just isn’t an option.

It’s not that I’m incapable of only having sex with one person... it’s just that..... ugh, why?

I mean, If Anoosh and I could only have sex with each other, that would be like punishing us for being in love with each other.

And I think we’d both agree that just being in love with each other is punishment enough.

Toys 'R Us

2006-08-25T17:07:00.000-04:00

When I spent a week in Amsterdam with Alabaster two summers ago, he woke me up at 2:00 in the morning to share with me this drug addled epiphany: "most people have either two, or three children".

Did that require waking me before dawn to share? I don't think so, personally, but ultimately it is a fairly astute observation. Here's an even more frustrating one that dawned on me recently: all the best products are geared towards those children... from your teens on basically everything on the market for you sucks.

I think the best example is toys. Remember how much fun it was to get a shiny new toy when you were a kid? How few things bring out that level of enthusiasm in adulthood? I distinctly remember the joy I felt when my mother would come home from work with a new shiny, brightly colored contraption for me to play with.... generally, I just waited until she wasn't looking and then flung them at her head... but the point is, they brought me so much happiness.

I guess in part it's because children are so easily amused. Pretty much anything gets them going. This weekend in the hamptons, I watched as countless children literally FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT over ice cream. Ice cream, people! Frozen freaking milk! You would have thought it was the second coming of Christ the way those little retards were carrying on.

I suppose when I was there age I felt the same way. I remembered going for ice cream with my father as a small child. “Daddy! Daddy! Can I have some ice cream?!?” I would beg. “Sure, Carm... Just don’t pick the flavor that’s poisoned.” Perhaps it was slightly harsh, but it certainly took the mindless enthusiasm out of the event.

Regardless of how easily amused they are, I don’t think it’s fair that all the best products be marketed to a demographic that still wets it’s pants.

What about me and my needs? I still want shiny new toys. I want something marketed with my specific demographic in mind. I want a young adult Barbie whose hair I can dye black, who comes with a pack of cigarettes and a tattoo kit. I want a battery operated plastic mini-Benz. I’m not too proud to drive around in it, I’m really not. How about something simple like an Easy-Bake Starbucks making set?

It’s tragic that in the world we live in “adult toys” are synonymous with sex toys. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex toys, but there should be so many other options. The feeling of joy I get when I purchase a new Lil’ Dolphin Vibrator with free pack of AAAs, while wonderful in it’s own right, just isn't the same.

Another Day at the Beach

2006-08-23T11:28:00.000-04:00

"Carmela, what does "Beshert" mean? Does it mean, like, Sugar Daddy?" Lisa asked me on the phone as I drove uptown to pick up Isabelle.
"What? Where did you hear that?"
"These older women at work... I think it's a Jewish word. They keep saying how they don't miss dating at all and how happy they are to have found a 'beshert'. Is that a Jew thing?"
"Yeah, um, it's Jewish for sugar daddy. You figured it out. nice work."

I could already see what kind of weekend this was going to be.

Isabelle and I spent the first 4 hours of the weekend sitting in traffic on the L.I.E. That was pretty much fine with me since I had heard tell that the previous weekend in the Hamptons, which I had missed to pick up trash, had consisted largely of playing Edward Fortyhands.

When traffic finally cleared and we made it to the timeshare in Southampton, however, things were looking up. The house was beautiful, had a pool and was stocked with grain alcohol; basically all I could ever ask for in a house.

Yes, I was scared at first... the thought of spending 48 hours with my peers engaging in age appropriate activities did make my skin crawl a teeny tiny bit, I won't lie. But the people were actually pretty decent. They were friendly and didn't tie me down and force me into Seven jeans while bleaching my hair and chanting "One of us! One of us!" Like I imagined they would.

Once I realized that the guy I went to high school with didn't recognize me, and after Isabelle explained what the creepy specks of light covering the sky were (she called them "stars"), I began to calm down and acclimate to my surroundings. We went out searching for food, however, through some horrific turn of events, there were no bodegas within two minutes of our house in either direction, and I was pretty positive the woods around us were filled with flesh eating children, so we quickly headed back and dined on Colombos and cheap vodka.

Eventually, everyone in the house was herded cattle style onto the waiting mini vans and were deposited at Cain. I have to admit, the clubs in the Hamptons are far better than the clubs in the city. My guess would be that this is due to the fact that there is no easy way to access them from Trenton may have something to do with it.

Saturday was spent on the beach at Sag Harbor, where there are no shvas, no babies and lots of hot men. One group of said men sat next to Isabelle and I. One of them being an adorable Jew who fell instantly in love with Isabelle, and the other being a ridiculously Greek guy with a ridiculously Greek name... something like Prometheus.... wearing a celtic cross, whom I quickly realized I had dated when he was posing as a Jew named Jason.

Poor Jason/Prometheus. It just wasn't his day. After our uncomfortable moment, his ex-girlfriends best friend showed up and struck up a conversation with him... which ended early because she had to return to studying for her SATs.

After lightly frying ourselves on the beach, we returned to the house where I was introduced to a bizarre game called "flip cup". Apparently, everyone who went to a real college and not NYU knows about this game, and it's close relative "beer pong". I apparently suck at both games, and ultimately settled for a seemingly innocuous game called "kings".

When I watched a round being played, everyone was innocently naming candy bars, but mysteriously when I started playing, it turned into a game of "never have I ever", which simultaneously got me drunk and labeled me "That girl who licks old man ass".

All in all, a good day.

Ultimately, not as terrifying a weekend as I had imagined, although returning to the city where there are no stars or flesh eating children was as always a huge relief.

ZAP!

2006-08-18T10:20:00.000-04:00

Against my better judgment, I've kept loosely in touch with several of my exes. This includes the one whose pet I killed when he offered to trade me to his drug dealer (but that's cool, 'cause we're friends now... twitch, twitch).

The last time we spoke he told me this girl I knew when we lived together had gotten a ton of plastic surgery lately. I hadn't thought about that chick in years, but once he reminded me of her I distinctly remembered her going on many a tirade about the evils of plastic surgery.

That's pretty much par for the course though because this particular woman was pretty much as full-out-balls-to-the-wall-bat-shit-crazy as they come. Her name was Mara and she was a friend of Brad's whom I met when I lived with him.

Mara was absolutely stunning. I was surprised someone like her would even be hanging out with the crazies in Venice Beach... that is until I asked her what she did and she told me she "created and maintained a frequency in which all living things could peacefully coexist... and also worked in retail".

As luck would have it, I ended up working with Mara for a while... in retail... not with the whole frequency... thing.

She helped me get this job co-managing an upscale furniture store on Venice Boulevard with her. No one ever really came in though, it was mostly just the pet project of this lunatic divorcee who needed to do something with all the money she had gotten in the divorce settlement and decided what better way to spend it than to open up a children's furniture store... 'cause that makes sense.

Since no one ever came in, Mara and I spent most of our days just hanging out and talking. And when I say talking, I mean she talked... mostly about her theories on metaphysics and the illusion of time and space, and I listened half heartedly while wondering why I couldn't have just gone to a normal college and lived in a normal dorm like a normal kid.

During the subsequent years after leaving California, I methodically self medicated away the majority of my memories about Mara and everything else that happened during the time I knew her, but two particular moments of crazy were so haunting that I have nightmare about them still.

First there was the day Mara told me about how she was getting really into crystal. I said "as in... meth?" but sadly no, as in quartz. Mara explained to me that she had channeled information from the planet Paladia, a million light-years away, and was thus privy to the information that once she had given enough of her "magical crystals" away, they would forma grid of purity, and the earth would be able to ascend to a higher plane of being... which... and I'm just throwing this out there... I'm fairly sure hasn't happened yet.

But better still was the day Mara brought in The Zapper.

You probably don't even know what a Zapper is, do you? That just shows the tragic extent to which Western medicine as kept the people blind to the truth. The Zapper is a simple and cheap device anyone can afford which cures all diseases known to mankind. It omits an electrical vibration that can be adjusted to match the vibration of any particular ailment, thus negating it and curing you! Or, in laymen's terms... it's a giant battery with a wire attached to it.

When I came into work that day, Mara was zapping away a mild cold. I asked her if the Paladians had told her about the Zapper, but as it turned out she had learned about it long before a "walk in" from another galaxy had possessed her human form (which, of course, was the event that allowed her to start communicating with being from other planets).

Mara had leaned about The Zapper from a friend when she was about 16. Mara was desperate because her boyfriend had given her Syphilis and she couldn't go to a doctor because then her parents might find out. Her friend gave her the Zapper and Mara used it to cure herself. She went to a doctor about 4 years later, who told her she had a rampant case of untreated syphilis, but Mara knew he was just seeing the dead cells that hadn't been cleared from her body yet.

Of course, as she told me all this the current from the Zapper was causing her left eye to twitch uncontrollably, making it that much creepier to realize that Mara's prided "enlightenment" was actually, in all likelihood, sheer insanity brought on from years of syphilitic brain damage.

That was the day I quit.

But I'm glad to know Mara's doing well after all these years. It's important to keep in touch.

I think I'm going to change my phone number after work today.

Totally Important News

2006-08-16T16:32:00.000-04:00

This is important.

Like, WAY important.

It's at least as important as Tori Spelling fighting with her dead father's wife, if not more so.

I am moving all of my old Myspace blogs to my blog page!

The far reaching effects of this decision are truly incalculable, but rough estimates suggest that this may effect anywhere between.... FOUR AND TWELVE PEOPLE.

Hoewever, this move is a necessity because... well, Im just really bored at work.

Love,

Carm

Movin' On Up... To the West Side

2006-08-16T16:30:00.000-04:00

(From June '06)

Yesterday I moved to midtown.

I have to say, I think this may have been my smartest move yet.

My old apartment was great, my roommate was great... but I now pay just over half to live in luxury what it cost me to live in a squalid rat hole of death.

True, my new apartment building is named something to the effect of "Everyone From Middle America Lives Here", and the average age seems to be 22, and Isabelle seems to have been lying about the attractive couple on the brink of divorce I was promised were living down the hall when I decided to move in...

but considering my east village apartments biggest claim to fame was housing a man who chopped up his dancer girlfriend, then used his tub to make her into soup, I think its a step in the right direction.

Actually, Ive moved at least every year since I was 17, and each move has been a step up.

When I graduated High School I moved from my parents house of obesity and self-loathing to Long Beach, CA.
I paid $700 a month to live in a giant apartment across from the beach in a phenomenal neighborhood. Unfortunately, my roommate, Angie, was a lesbian robo cop who fought drug dealers by day, and licked muff by night. I lived in constant fear of her, and within two months I split.

I moved to Venice, CA to live with my... Oh, whats in a name?
My "lover", or "friend", or "drug addict, married, scum ball boyfriend of death".
He had an awesome house right on the beach, and we'd spend our days rolling on E and confessing our undying love for each other or alternately, sobering up, crying and ignoring each other entirely.

One day I came home and he was curled up naked in my fresh laundry.

When that (AMAZINGLY) failed to work out, I moved to another apartment in Venice, before giving up entirely and moving home.

When I had sobered up enough to walk without collapsing (which took about 3 months), I moved in with a family friend in the east village.

That seemed like a wise choice, since she had a great, rent controlled apartment in the totally awesome east village. Sadly, she decided her room had "bad energy" which necessitated her to live in the living room and sleep on the couch.

About 6 months into the lease, she started banging this married dude whose wife had just had a baby... A baby which she kept pictures of on OUR fridge.

When that (AMAZINGLY) didnt work out, I came home to find her burning sage while chanting naked and walking around the apartment. She told me our apartment needed to be "cleansed". I said "try using a fucking vacuum, crazy!" and moved.

I lived in the NYU dorms for a year with a 400 pound pathological liar who ate whole pizzas and screwed strangers she met in AOL chat rooms while I slept feet away.

After that I lived with my then boyfriend in Midtown on the east side. We shared a ground floor studio. You had to stand in the bathroom to open the fridge. Everything I owned was covered in hair from his cat. I spent my days in class and my evenings desperately attempting to come up with reasons to continue living.

Then it was off to Williamsburg to live with two girls, one of whom was awesome, and the other of whom went totally Single White Female on me, cut her hair like mine, got a tattoo when I did, wore my clothes, slept in my bed, hit on everyone I dated, and then snapped and installed a stripper pole in my living room and turned to "massage with release" to make rent.

After that, it was the east village for a record 2 years and now midtown west... Beyond that... The future!

Interesting post script... the first chick I lived with in the east village ended up suing the married guy. He told her he's leave his wife and child for her. He didn't. She sued for breach of verbal contract.

2006-08-16T16:28:00.001-04:00

Happy I-Was-Smart-Enough-To-Get-An-Abortion Day.

2006-08-16T16:27:00.000-04:00

(From Mother's Day, 2006)

The beautiful weather and general joy of Monday morning has inspired me to create a new national holiday.

Its for everyone for whom motherhood just didnt seem like the best idea.

All my "spending the weekend with family in Jersey" girls, all my "grab a quick pack of Plan B on my way to class" chicks... all my old school RU-486 ladies, this is a day for you.

Unlike Mothers Day, when youre forced to waste a perfectly good Sunday with your family, being force fed mountains of overpriced food, IWSETGAA Day is spent at your job. You dont get flowers, you dont get cards, you definitely dont get a party. Then, after work, maybe you pop a valium, chain smoke, asnd listen to Ben Folds Five "Brick" on repeat for a couple of hours till you pass out.

That may not sound like its as much fun as Mothers Day- although, to be honest, it does to me- the real celebration comes every other day of the rest of the year when you dont have to tend to your spawn, and you get to not have stretch marks all over your body and a big, gaping, tore-up vag.

And isnt that really the best present of all?

What is this "Mother's Day" charade anyway? Aside from Fathers Day, it's the worst day of the whole year.

Dont get me wrong; I love my mother. She brought me into this world, but for the most part Ive forgiven her and grown to love her deeply.

When I was 17 and working in Haagen Dazs, I had to work one Mothers Day. It was the best Mothers Day of my life. I made overtime for working, and I got to watch hoards of reticent fathers dragging their whiny spawn in and out of the store to buy ice cream cakes for their already porky wives. I was all alone, I was stoned all day and I was surrounded by ice cream, just like my mother would have wanted. It was awesome.

But now, Ive got nothing. I never have to work on Mothers Day. Everyone Ive dated for years has to spend it with his babys mama (as I assume will be the case once again this year, though Im being told otherwise). Im forced to spend it with my crazy family, listening to the story of my birth, and my sisters birth for the zillionth time.

I have to spend money on flowers that die in a week, and waste money on a card which is inevitably insincere since Hallmark doesnt make any Mom, thanks for footing all my rehab bills, paying for my shrink and always showing up for my court hearings cards.

This year, Im going to wise up and get so wasted on Saturday night that the whole day goes by in a hung over blur.

Fucking Mothers Day, man. My holiday is much better. If I-Was-Smart-Enough-To-Get-An-Abortion Day isn't recognized as a national holiday... maybe I'll petition for a more "family friendly" I-Was-Smart-Enough-To-Use-A-Condom Day. Who wouldn't support that?

3 Days, 2 Nights, 1 Nut

2006-08-16T16:26:00.000-04:00

From (11.20.05)

**Some names have been changed to protect the innocent, namely me, from being sued for defamation of character.**

I just got back from my weekend in Buenos Aries, and I just wanted to "hola" at all of you....
Ok, sorry for the obscenely cheesy pun, but it should give you some idea of what I've been subjected to for the past three days.

Things started out well enough; I medicated myself into a mild coma for the 11 hour flight out. Things took a turn for the worse when I landed and realized that NO ONE in Argentina speaks any english, aside from the words "tip please", and I of course dont speak a word of housekeeper, so just finding a cab to take me to the hotel was a ridiculous hassle. Not to mention that Bush was in town, so there was a huge protest on every street corner, with firecrackers going off and big groups of angry young people screaming about something; their hatred for Bush I imagine.

When I finally got to the room, I was psyched because --- wasn't there and I got to adjust to my new surroundings, i.e. jump up on the king size bed screaming "Hotel! Suite! Room Service! Yay!" and pocketing all the hotel stationary and pens.

Then, --- came back from his conference on international trade, or civil liberties or whatever he does. He looked pretty good, although a little worn out from a month traveling the world doing whatever his job is. The problems started when he greeted me with "Hi Sweetie! I told my coworkers I had to leave early because my girlfriend had just flown in to see me!" Rather than point out the obvious problems with this statement, I just smiled and nodded.

--- wanted to immediately go sightseeing all over the freakin' city. Now, when I agreed to this vacation of death, I was informed that --- would be in meetings all day, while I would be spending my afternoons all valiumed up on shopping sprees... you know, just like marriage! But NO, --- had passed on all of his meetings for the weekend so he could spend all of his time with me.

Buenos Aires is a lovely state or whatever, because there arent any Shvas! Theres lots of expensive shops and tons of good expensive food. I took a lot of cheesy pictures and had lots of pretty presents bought for me. However, everything I wanted to buy for myself, --- told me was "weird". I'm sorry, what exactly is weird about a skull necklace, or spider earrings?? He also told me I was weird for buying Maxim to read on the plane, telling him I thought it was hot when he yelled at the concierge, and suggesting Barely Legal 4 when he told me to pick a movie. Hello! Obviously I'm weird, were I a normal girl would I be hanging out with a 41 year old? Um, no!

Aside from that fact that I wasn't White Wonder Bread enough for poor ---, I had a good time with him. We went to lots of markets and lots of nice restaurants, and a cool art museum, some fun tango shows. Plus the weather was really nice and sunny everyday.

Activities aside, my days with --- were spent...

A) having our vacation compared to the last vacation he took to Buenos Aires, with his ex-wife, something any girl would love to hear about, in infinite, griping detail, and B) being introduced to myriad friends and coworkers like this "This is my girlfriend Carmela, SHE'S 23." I was surprised he even got my name in there. He may as well have said "Hey, this is a hot 23 year old....and IM DATING HER!" It was like being 23 was some amazing magic trick I could do. This is Carmela, she can juggle, breathe flames, and be 23! Not to even the girlfriend "issue" he was having.

Of course, --- had a picture of the ex on his computer which I found when I went through his personal files while he showered. Um, I mean, which he showed me. The good news is, Im way hotter. The bad news is, she's way skinnier. 100 tops (In other news, I also saw a picture of ***'s ex who I am also hotter than, at least in the picture I saw, however, she has D cups. Either way, I'm way way younger than either of them, and thus, I obviously win.)

The final insult was on the plane when (thank god) we we're assigned seats far away from each other. Of course --- went out of his way to try and arrange that we could sit together, which he finally managed to do, and to which I responded by taking a valium, xanex, ambian, nyquil cocktail that knocked me unconscious by take off. I came to only once, mid flight to discover ---, completely curled up in his seat, with HIS FREAKIN HEAD IN MY LAP. I screamed in horror, but fortunately he was too heavily sedated to wake up.

All in all, not a bad trip...better than the comp vacay to Atlantic City I scored from the last sucker, but not as good as the holiday in Paris I have dedicated myself to landing ASAP.

Working for the Weekend (and By Weekend, I Mean Man)

2006-08-16T16:23:00.000-04:00

(From 1.18.06)

Sweet lord Jesus Christ am I bored.

I am so bored, that I'm blogging.

I don't even now what blogging is, but I'm so effing bored right now that I'm doing it anyway.

So far today, my "job" has consisted of spraying my desk with disinfectant and wiping it compulsively, eating 2 bagels, attempting to dred my hair, thinking of words that rhyme with convulse, and attempting to give myself a nose job with my bare hands and some scotch tape.

My kinda hot boss is gone for the day, so I can't strut around the office trying to look busy, and all of my co-workers are doing real work and don't want to play with me.

The sad thing is, I used to be able to amuse myself for hours in an office with nothing to do. In fact, I used to love doing that!

I have the fondest memories of my father taking me to his office for take your daughter to work day. All day I would just run around, xerox copies of my face, eat the non dairy creamer, take some crayons and draw on his walls, help him yell at the cleaning lady, hide under his co-worker Brian's desk and see how long it took him to notice me. I was always so upset the next day when I had to go back to boring old high school.

Seems like a life time ago now...

Here at the architectural firm where I "manage", I have two bosses.

One is an absent minded professor type, the other is a scary, domineering, bossy pillar of hotness.

This second one has been making me do little research projects for him ever since he (tragically) realized I wasnt retarded.

This is bad, because I dont like to have to think at work.

I like to focus all my energy on surfing the Internet and doing crosswords. When I do think, I mostly like to think about how I kind of want to nail my boss.

Anywho, the latest project I was assigned was to research rocks.

I have to do this so they know what kind of rocks they want to use for some rich clients new guest beach house or whatever.
Researching rocks online made me remember learning about them in ninth grade earth science with Mr. Sepe.

Mr. Sepe was a nice, old man. He quickly realized that my ability to retain information about anything other than caloric content and shoes was negligible, so out of the goodness of his heart he let me dress up for grades.
Every Friday, he would let the class grade my outfit on a scale of A-F, and that would be my grade for the week.

I know this seems slightly drastic and inappropriate, but after the third quiz I handed in with little spiders and broken hearts and skulls where the answer were supposed to be, it wasnt really that tough a call to make.

The only time I ever got an A+ in science was for a Diesel mini dress with black, red, orange and yellow striations on it, which I wore when we were studying lava and metamorphic rocks.
I got tips on my nails and had them painted to match my dress, and did a nice three-layer eye shadow as a final touch. I looked like a big, crazy hippie transvestite, and Mr. Sepe applauded.

Id wear that dress to work in hopes of getting out of this project, but its a size 00. God damn, am I fat.

Ok, seriously. What the hell am I doing? I cannot be an "office manager" for another split second.

I need a REAL job! Something I can parlay into a career somehow.

My dads always telling me I need a plan. He says this is my own fault for being directionless... but the thing is, I really didnt expect to still be alive at this point. All of my previous "goals" were based on an 18 to 21 year life span. Through some horrific turn of events, however, I have yet to die tragically yet unsurprisingly in a freak accident involving a Mac truck, an aardvark and one hundred thousand dollars in cash.

So now, Im stuck. I dont know what to do with my life. The bitter irony is that I HAD the perfect job. I found a career that was tailor fucking made for my personality... but once the police got involved I was right back at square one again.

So... any thoughts, anyone? Ive pretty much narrowed down the fields.

I could be a writer...
as long as I never had to write about anything but myself.

I could be a cop...
then I would get to have a gun, which would be awesome.

I could be a bitter, crazy lawyer like mom and dad...
that would be nice cause I could be rich and bossy. Much more so than I am now.

I could be a teacher...
then I could yell at kids and we all know how I feel about doing that.

I could marry rich...
Id have to be a first wife though, no use getting to them after theyre done handing out the free nose jobs.

I could be a ballerina if I wasnt so damn fat.

I've been trying to think back to the job that made me the happiest... it's pretty much a toss up between getting high and sticking the Gummy Bears together in filthy sexual positions before putting them on top of children's ice cream, with Christina at Haagen Dazs, and shrink wrapping dildo's while discussing the works of Neitzche with Vantessa at the Rubber Tree. Neither one of those seems like a viable career.

So I try to think back to my original life goals. When I was a kid, all I wanted to be when I grew up was a vampire. I guess thats pretty much out of the question now though.

Or is it...

When I Was Your Age, I Was 30

2006-08-16T08:23:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you something about teenagers... they ain't makin em like they used to.

Last night was my first time tutoring for the SATs... which means it was my first time being around a 17 year old girl... pretty much since I was one.

I remember being that age very clearly... and I was at least twice as old as this girl. I couldn't believe what 17 looks like to an "adult"... she seemed like she was about four, four and a half... maybe about a year past teething. The thought of someone that age driving a car... let alone... ew, oh my god, it blew my fucking mind.

Plus, it was surreal how little she knew about anything. She seemed like a fairly smart girl too, well spoken and intelligent looking, but it was as if she only had, like, 17 years worth of knowledge or something. The things she didn't know could have filled a book! A giant book called "Pretty Much Everything You Need to Know to Do Well on the SATs".

Now, I KNOW there is no way I was like that at her age, because I distinctly remember feeling very old and mature. And people used to tell me how mature I was for my age all the time! Ok, yes, most of them were trying to justify having sex with me, but still.

Paradoxically, these days I'm actually much younger than I was at 17.

When this chicks mother started asking me about admission standards "way back when" I was applying to colleges, I wanted to scream "What 'way back when'? That, like, JUST HAPPENED, bitch!"

Yes, it's true, I still thought I'd live forever, and I had yet to experience the joy of my first worry line, and I knew nothing about "watching my carbs"... in fact, as far as I was concerned, a "carb" was merely the part of the bowl you put your finger over when you inhaled.

And I mean, sure Britney Spears was still claiming to be a virgin, and the "big scary thing" threatening America wasn't terrorists it was Y2K, and no one under the age of 30 had a cell phone and people still got AIDS... but it wasn't THAT long ago... right? RIGHT?!?

I'm still young! I'm still hip! I swear to god! I'm on Myspace for Christ's sake!

And I like, totally loved that show that was on MTV when I was at the gym the other day... I think it was called "Pubescent Girls Make Out With Each Other and Then Giggle" or something. And I love that new Justin Timberlake song "Great Neck" or whatever... and don't even get me started on how much I love the Kitty-cat Dolls. And I'm totally up to date with what's in right now... it's, uh, razor scooters, yeah? Oh, and trucker hats!

Ultimately, this tutoring session opened my eyes to a very harsh reality that's still hard for me to fully accept, as I know it will be for my peers. But given the rude awakening I experienced last night, I can no longer deny the cold, hard facts:

The United States government has been adding some sort of viral agent to the water supply. This toxin seems to stunt the physical growth and emotional maturity of all those born after 1981. I don't have any more information at this time, but I will be diligently pursuing this issue... right after my mid afternoon nap.

There. I said it.

The Summer of "Love"

2006-08-14T09:32:00.000-04:00

Now that I'm at long last grasping the correlation between action and consequence, I can look back at the majority of my life and safely say... oops!

Most of them are shudder-inducing oops'.... Oops! I got a really stupid tattoo. Oops! I plucked my eyebrows on Acid and now I look like drag queen. But a couple of my oops' are precious and dear to me... they were life altering mistakes at the time, but eventually I've come to love them and think of them fondly. Kind of like children.

High on this list are moving in with Crazy Face in Brooklyn, working in a dungeon, and the entire summer of 1999.

The summer of '99 is probably my all time favorite oops. Really, there isn't a second of it that I handled well, and yet I'd have to say it was probably the best summer of my life. It was the summer I graduated High School and moved to California.

The whole damn thing was a mess. Probably a novel, a mini series AND a made for TV movie's worth of stupidity and excess, but the absolute peak of oopsocity was the week Though Though and Alabaster Came to visit me.

I was living in Long beach with Angie the robo-cop lesbian, in a giant 2 bedroom apartment on the beachfront. Robolez was out of town for the week to fight crime or eat box or whatever, and we had the place all to ourselves. The night before they were to arrive, I decided to spend resting up for their arrival.

I managed to get into bed around 11:00, but I couldn't fall asleep for the life of me because through my window, I could hear a loud party going on somewhere in the neighborhood. I put up a valiant fight to fall asleep but by 11:05 it was obvious I had no choice but to get dressed and do some investigative research. Oops!

The party was so loud it was easy to find from 10 blocks away. The partygoers were spilling out of the front porch into the street and onto the beach. I tentatively walked towards the epicenter of the party, and as I did a completely wasted dude in Bermuda shorts and no shirt swaggered out the front door and asked me, very pirate like, "Who goes there?"

I said "Hey, I live a few blocks from here and I heard all the noise..." at which point the Bermudan Pirate cut me off and informed me that I had arrived just in time for body shots. The next thing I know I'm on my back on this guys kitchen table having limes stuffed in my mouth and Patron poured into my belly button... which actually worked out pretty well since I had just had my navel pierced and had forgotten to clean it with alcohol that night.

4 or 50 shots later, Im driving some dude named Mike and his friend Crazy down to Mike's friends apartment in Hermosa Beach. Oops!

Once we get to the party, Crazy tells me about his native New Zealand and how he's trying to stay in the states but he can't unless he finds someone to marry him, but no one will agree to for the $1,000 he's offering as dowry. I slurringly tell him I'll marry him for $1,000 bucks, and we're well into planning our trip to Vegas for the following weekend when I remember I'm 17 and will need parental consent to get married.

I briefly wonder whether the note I had my father write for me in high school when I didn't feel like going to class anymore, the one that read "I hereby give Carmela permission to do anything she wants to", would suffice, but I doubt it would have. Instead I gave Crazy my number and told him if he wanted to wait it out a few months I could marry him in late November.

Just about the time my first marriage is coming to an end, Mike comes over with mixed drinks for us and we start chatting. He tells me he's going back home to NY in the morning and has decided to spend his last few hours in town getting wasted since he'll be able to sleep it off on the plane... which is just about when I remember that I have to pick my friends up at the airport in an hour. Oops!

Realizing there was no time to waste, I give everyone at the party my number, tell Mike to grab his bags and shove him into my car without asking him whether or not he wants a ride. He seemed too terrified to say no to me anyway, but as it just so happened, Mike's flight was departing at the same time Though and Alabaster were arriving.

We managed to get to LAX and double park across two handicapped spaces with 5 minutes to spare. We spent the five minutes making out, before I kicked Mike out and made a desperate sprint for the arrivals gate.

Al and Though took a while to find since Though had flown first class and left Al to fend for himself in coach, but eventually I managed to get both them and all of their luggage into my car and give Al the keys before vomiting in the airport parking lot and passing out in the back seat.

When I came to, we were in my apartment unpacking and planning our weekend. The main factors we had to negotiate were these: I had to work four out of five days at my job at the local sex shop, shrink-wrapping dildos for just above minimum wage. Alabaster was "straight" that month, so we all had to agree to a strict "what happens in LA stays in LA" policy, and Though though was at a truly fascinating point in her latest eating disorder where after fasting for three months she was now consuming around 8,000 calories a day.

For their first night in town, they wanted to go to a party, so after lunch and an afternoon nap, we piled back into the car and headed back out to Hermosa beach for a party at the same people's house I had met the night before.

Being the only clearly intoxicated blatantly underage people at the party, we were a huge hit. By midnight we were all too drunk to be functional.

Alabaster hooked up with a girl from Eureka and seemed far more traumatized by the experience than had he been gang-banged by the entirety of the Knicks. Though went home with an unbelievably, ridiculously, insanely old man... who was 27. She later would tell us it was a good evening, except for the fact that he was "abnormally shiny". And I dragged some guy away from the conversation he was having and forced him to grind with me... then let the host of the party beat the crap out of him for being a lech. Then, since they were both otherwise engaged, I left the party with some guy who I knew was trust worthy because he drove a mini-van.

We couldn't go back to his house for... "reasons", so we made out in the local playground and passed out around sunrise. Oops!

When we woke up it was almost noon. I had to be at work in ten minutes. I didn't know where my friends were, I didn't know where my car was, I didn't know where my shirt was... and I didn't have the faintest fucking clue where I was. I found a pay-phone and in a desperate hail mary called my apartment.

Alabaster answered. He said "Where the hell are you?" I told him I had no idea, but he assured me that he and my car and Though Though had all made it home safely.

I convinced What's His Name to drive me to my job, to which I would be an hour late, but I assured him they loved me there and wouldn't even mind. That was the day I got fired from my job. I've only been fired form one job in my entire life, and it was working at a sex shop. I just didn't meet the moral standards they held their employees to. That's what my boss told me when I showed up just after 1:00 in a stained leopard print dress. When Though and Alabaster came to meet me for lunch, I just didn't go back. Oops!

The rest of their visit was a drug addled haze. That evening, after Tough made us stop on the way to dinner so she could eat a burrito, we went to visit my visit my boyfriend Brad in Venice. We were desperate for pot, but Brad claimed there was a "dry spell" since the cops had been cracking down lately. Regardless, we gave him a hundred bucks and told him to do his best.

Brad returned exactly 3 minutes later with a hefty bag sized container of weed, saying "here you go, sorry it took so long." Ahhh, California.

We smoked a ridiculous amount, then took Though to get third lunch out on the board walk. By then Alabaster had given up on the whole "straight" act, and made such a name for himself at the local gay bars that I had carte blanche at all of them for three months after he left.

Though Though brought 10 rolls of film with her, but was so busy eating and smoking that the only shot she took the entire time was of a speed limit sigh that said Speed Limit: 14 miles per hour. That is the sole pice of documentation any of us have of the trip.

Five days, a million odd calories and thirty or so strange men later... Though and Alabaster were all Californiaed out. I dragged their disheveled bodies to LAX within minutes of their plane departing.

The day they left I got a completely non-sensical message on my answering machine that said "Hey Carmela, this is Crazy..."

I had no idea what that meant... but I had to agree with the sentiment.

Summertime (Black and) Blues

2006-08-11T09:28:00.000-04:00

Maybe it was talking to E after so long…. Maybe it’s the immanent weekend at the beach… but for some reason, all morning, I’ve been thinking about Uncle Peter.

Now, Uncle Peter was neither an uncle, nor am I sure his name was Peter… in fact he's not even my story to tell, but since SOME PEOPLE have neglected their blogs for their jobs like negligent parents too busy with work to spend anytime nurturing their children… it looks like the story telling will be left to me.

It was the summer before Senior year. I know this because my Beetle was brand new and I still wouldn’t let anyone else drive it, despite the fact that I was such a reckless driver a drunken Helen Keller could have driven circles around me.

Alabaster, E and I were spending a lazy summer afternoon at Robert Moses State Park Beach. E and I had underestimated how intense the heat would be, and thus were forced to strip down to our Day-of-the-Week underwear to tan.

After Alabaster, E and I had covered ourselves in baby oil and deep fried for a few hours while listening to Phish, They Might Be Giants and Liz Phair, respectively, on our walkmen, Alabaster decided it was time to roam.
Now, the beauty of this particular beach was that, aside from not being overrun by "undesirables" (i.e. children), there was a mile long stretch of nude beach, accessible only to those in the know.

You know who loves nude beach? Well, in Europe, everyone, but here in America it's mostly limited to old people and gay dudes... the same demographic that enjoys figure skating. Imagine an entire Celine Dion concert stripped naked and placed on a beach and you've got a pretty good idea.

Knowing this, E and I didn't have to put a lot of thought into where we should start our search for Alabaster after an hour and a half had gone by and we were sunburned and ready to leave.

Rather than merely search for Alabaster, E and I decided to get the most entertainment possible out of the situation. We found some paper and a pen, and made signs that said "free advice" and affixed them to our bodies. Seeing the signs, other beach goes called us over and we helped them with whatever their specific issue was, be it love advice or a comprehensive plan to get out of going to work on Monday... we had tons of fun. Then we got to the nude section of the beach.

Here's a lesson you only have to learn once... do NOT offer free advice on a nude beach. 9 times out of 10 the advice ends up being "Dear God, please put some clothes back on."

We removed the signs and continued our search. After combing the beach for nearly an hour, we finally found Alabaster. he had made friends with an elderly couple and a man whom we would refer to for years after as Uncle Peter. Uncle Peter was handsome, tan, well endowed, undeniably sexy... and since at 17 he seemed to be about 100, I'm guessing he was probably in his mid 30's.

Alabaster seemed indifferent at best that we had sent two hours looking for him, and less than enthusiastic about leaving quite yet. It was about that time that Uncle Peter suggested all of us get to know each other better over some drinks at the local bar.

On our way to the bar, there was heated debate about the nature of these drinks. Alabaster insisted that Uncle Peter was gay and that these drinks were a warm up, where as E thought these were friendly-get-to-know-you drinks which wouldn't lead anywhere, and I thought there was a 50/50 chance Peter was straight and told all involved that if I was right he was mine.

Over drinks, the debate escalated. The elderly couple were completely oblivious to any sexual tension between anybody and really were just there for drinks and conversation, which kept E occupied while Alabaster and I tried to out flirt each other. Uncle Peter was definitely game for something... and yes, he did seem to be leaning toward Alabaster, but I wasn't willing to give up the fight so easily.

After a drink, Uncle Peter invited everyone back to his apartment for dinner. The car ride over to his place was spent pleading our cases.My logic was that, were he gay, he and Alabaster would have fucked already and only straight men draw out the process so unnecessarily. Alabaster claimed that the delay was due to some vestigial sense of right and wrong which was preventing Uncle Peter from having sex with an underaged stranger.

We got to Uncle Peter's place and the old people settled into the couch to sift through takeout menus while the rest of us got a tour... which ended conspicuously in the bedroom. Uncle Peter excused himself to use the bathroom leaving the three of us alone in his bedroom.

Being extremely mature for our age, we handled the situation like adults; we jumped up and down on his bed and played Rock Paper Scissors for the right to fuck him.

I won two out of three rounds and thus decided it was time for Alabaster and E to get the hell out. Alabaster was a sore loser though, and insisted that winning Rocks Paper Scissors wouldn't make Uncle Peter anymore straight, and that he had found him in the first place and E and I better get our asses out of his bedroom, like, NOW.

Sulkily, she and I left and rejoined the couple in the living room. Uncle Peter returned to the bedroom and after 10 minutes I had to admit defeat. We all ordered pizza and sat around chatting. Alabaster and Uncle Peter (conveniently) finished up just as the pizza was arriving. We ate a few slices while I glared at Uncle Peter and Alabaster who were smugly eating their pizza while looking disgustingly contented.

After theat, we left and I made Alabaster drive home. I always hoped for a family reunion someday, but so far, no luck.

Yes, I was sad about being wrong about Uncle Peter, but at the end of the day, hey... free pizza.

The Sisters Machiato

2006-08-09T10:46:00.003-04:00

I’ve heard tell of twins separated at birth who were so connected emotionally that if something bad happened to one twin, the other would feel the pain although they had never met. Every time I hear a phenomenal report like that I think about my sister and me... because we’re pretty much the polar opposite of that.

Does Big Big feel an intuitive pang of despair when I’m hurt even if I’m a thousand miles away? Definitely not. Although she does start shaking uncontrollably for no apparent reason on occasion, and then later in the day discover that Fendi has released a new limited edition clutch.

To be fair, I don’t instinctively suffer through her setbacks either. In fact, I’ve witnessed her getting hit right in the face with a wiffle ball bat, and I think my general reaction was pretty much hysterical laughter.

Essentially, Big Big is my doppelganger. We look eerily similar, same hair same facial features, same body type, same family… but almost everything else about us is a world apart.

We were raised by the same crazy people, and yet I am clearly the product of excessive leniency while Big Big miraculously managed to end up a perfect cookie cutter Scarsdale Jew. I have no idea how this happened.

I know it didn’t happen at birth. For the first ten or so years of her life, Biggy was just as crazy as I was. While all the normal siblings were playing around with their Tiffany rattles and Babies First Benzs, Biggy and I would routinely attempt to kill each other. Sometimes I’d knock her over and kick her in the head, other times I’d be in more of a holding a pillow over her face kind of mood. She would occasionally try to bite my face off while I slept, but in general she tended to stick to throwing things at me while my back was turned.

Our other favorite activity was cursing at each other. I’m not talking about usual toddler cursing either. My father had been generous enough to supply us with an impressive supply of expletives at a very early age, so it wasn’t like she’d call me a poopy head and I’d call her stupid face and then we’d cry, it was more like she’d call me a fat asshole son of a bitch and I’d call her a cocksucking mutherfucker and then we’d brawl. The only words you weren’t allowed to say in our house were “instant” and “retail”. Everything else was fair game.

Then, somewhere around age 10 or 11 (I was 13 or 14) everything changed. While I was reaching new levels of bat-shit-crazy on a daily basis, Big suddenly did a 180 and turned into a perfect Stepford kid. She was a skinny, pretty, social and athletic pre-teen and I was “that weird girl who wears a lot of body glitter”.

At first I assumed she had been replaced by a pod person and I was extremely jealous. Sadly, this was not the case. Eventually, we started telling people we were distant cousins.

Now Big is a the social chair of Sigma Delta I Come From Money, one year away form graduating from JAP-U with a bachelors in Pre-Wed, and I am about embark on a career where young, malleable minds will be given to me to mold into my own image… wah ha ha! I guess it worked out pretty well for both of us.

We can still bond over grande skim sugar free vanilla lattes and reminisce about the good old days
Sometimes we still fight… I’ll get upset when she holds a shanghi dumpling up to her ear to find out if she can hear the ocean, or she’ll get frustrated when I confuse the logo for Chanel and Coach, but for the most part we’ve come to accept our differences.

Ultimately, it was all a matter of realizing that we were just blossoming from similar cocoons into the drastically different women were destined to become. Big emerged a beautiful, shop-happy, vapid JAP, and I had emerged a beautiful, shop-happy, intellectual sociopath.

Just as god intended.

Growing Pains

2006-08-07T15:32:00.000-04:00

There are designated moments throughout a woman's life which are supposed to count as “rites of passage” for her; transitional events that theoretically herald the onset of adulthood.

Some such events include being bat mitzvahed, getting your period, your first job, losing your virginity, turning 16, 18, 21…. I have to say, I think the entire system needs some serious rethinking.

There’s no doubt that everyone eventually has some sort of defining moment when they realize “oh fuck, it’s all down hill from here”. I just don’t think any of the milestones our culture has elected to signify that moment have been well chosen at all.

I had a bat mitzvah. It didn’t make me an adult. It didn’t even make me feel like an adult. I spent the night getting wasted and being miserable that the boy I liked didn’t ask me to slow dance. Although eerily predictive of my adult life, this was hardly the beginning of it. I was a baby! I still had bangs for Christ’s sake! I didn’t even own a bra, let alone make up.

I had sex for the first time about a year after that. That sure as hell didn’t “make a woman out of me”. It pretty much just made me an even more jaded, jappy, bratty kid.

At 16, I got my drivers license… nothing screams adulthood like a fire engine red VW Beetle with a fake daisy in the vase by the steering wheel being driven 20 miles over the speed limit with bad techno blaring from the stereo.

18? Drove to an all night gas station so I could buy my first pack of cigarettes. It was somewhat anticlimactic though since I’d been smoking for five years already.

On my 21st birthday, theoretically the great equalizer of all rites of passage, the first thing I did was order a green apple martini. Clearly the choice of a grown up. The only adults I know who can get away with drinking green apple martinis are gay men and sassy black women, of which I am neither.

These events are completely meaningless. Adulthood is signified by far subtler, more ominous events than any of those. I propose a total renovation of the system. Here’s my proposition for the new "Quartet of Adulthood for Women":

It all starts off innocently enough with event one; the first time a man pays for something without provocation.

I remember this one well. I was hanging out at Dunkin Donuts with some friends one evening, recently having graduated from Middle School. I went up to the register to buy a Snapple, when I realized I only had a single left. I was about to go ask my friends for money, when the creepy middle aged drifter looking guy behind me on line said "Don't worry about it sweetie", then turned to the indifferent Indian dude behind the counter and said "Her drink's on me" and winked at me.
I blushed, thanked him and took the Snapple, then returned to my table where all of my friends were already teasing me.

When I took a sip of that Mint Snapple, my entire future flashed before my eyes... I was jet setting around the world, driving luxury cars, being adorned with diamonds and emeralds while Madonna's "Material Girl" played in the background....

THAT was a rite of passage.

Tragically the finally three stages are far uglier. Event number two is the first signs of your inevitable slow decay.

One ugly day, may at 40, maybe at 30, maybe at 16… you see it…. ominously lurking amidst all the regular colored hair on your head/eyebrows/cooch… your very first gray hair. There it is, clearly sent to tell you that God no longer thinks it important for members of the opposite sex to find you attractive.

I endured event two earlier this year... my friends tried to convince me it was actually a platinum hair, but I knew the hideous truth.

Event three can come before or after event two, and it's every bit as chilling. I call it the "old man at the club" moment.

You’ll be talking to some kids a few years younger, but people you still think of as being “in your age group” and you’ll reference something they’ve never heard of. For me it was Crystal Pepsi. I believe I was at a bar, and this girl just refused to believe that such a thing ever existed. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Suddenly, I had become the creepy old chick talking about her favorite episode of The Brady Bunch. Oh my god… not me! NOT ME!! But it was too late.

The final stage is one I've only recently experienced for my self. It's an undeniable sign that the gravy train of your youth is making it's final stop at the retirement home of Adultsville. It's when you participate in a totally juvenile activity, with a creepy and antithetical level of maturity.

This may come in several different forms. It may be the first night everyone comes over to pre-game, and you wake up on your couch the next morning, and when you try to piece together what happened the night before, it slowly dawns on you that you never even made it out. You all fell asleep halfway through your second glass of wine while watching "Jenny, Please Eat Something" on Oxygen around 10:45.

Maybe it's the first time you get wasted at a bar and go home with some dude, but you refuse to have sex with him because when you get to his apartment you discover he doesn't subscribe to The Times.

Maybe it's the first time someone asks you how your weekend was and smirking you say you've done something "really bad", but instead of referring to a coke fueled orgy with a football team... you actually meant you had a second helping of kugel when you went home for dinner on Sunday.

For me, it was all three.

For men, there is only one sure sign that adulthood is about to begin... their 53rd birthday.

My Small, Thin Greek Buddy

2006-08-04T10:15:00.000-04:00

Looking over my posts this morning, it dawned on me that, while I've dedicated a post to almost every major character on The Carmela Show, I've overlooked a few key players. One such oversight was my dear friend, Muffin.

Muffin is very well mannered, she loves puppies and babies and kittens and bunnies, and she always chews with her mouth closed. Also, she's Greek, so although she has a normal first name, her middle name is Aschkazooblahblah or something like that.

When I used to go on dates and I didn't think "being myself" was going to cut it... I made a conscious effort to act like Muffin; all dainty and polite and sweet with really well maintained eyebrows.

When I first met Muffin though, she wasn't anything like that. We were in the same house in middle school together, and I silently worshipped her. Not in a creepy-pseudo-sexual-pre-lesbian kind of way... more like in a really-sweet-and-endearing-pseudo-sexual-pre-lesbian kind of way.

Muffin was just way cooler than everyone else. She had highlights before any of us even knew what highlights were, and she wore lipstick... AND lipliner.

We ended up in Mr. Flisser's study hall together, and the rest is history. We'd hang out at the Galleria on weekends and go shopping at G+G together. This is back when baby tees were in, so we'd spend hours picking out the cutest ones. Muffin was an "early bloomer", which meant that she'd get cat called everywhere we went.... which totally blew my 12 year old mind. I was insanely jealous. Plus, Muffin always had a boyfriend. Her turn around was about a week. She was like god to me.

Then one sad day, it all stopped. Out of the blue, Muffin decided to start acting like a born again Christian. No more boys, no more lipstick, no more inappropriate tee shirts... it all just ended out of the blue. It was horrible. We stayed friends, but it was never the same.

Muffin kept that act up for a solid decade. She became the voice of reason. A love of babies and puppies developed out of nowhere. She was the friend I turned to for sobering advice, the friend I had to be nice to, the friend who didn't make a habit of contracting STDs. In fact, from her precocious start, by the end of college I could count the number of people she had slept with on my fingers... with one hand... using two fingers.

We all thought the old Muffin was dead and gone, and then one wonderful day we realized... she had just been laying dormant this whole time! That was the day she nailed her boss.

She had kind of been leading up to it for a while... skank dancing while wasted, a drunken makeout session with me on New Years, but nothing had prepared us for this.

She didn't just nail her boss, she nailed her boss who was married, whose wife was 8 months pregnant with their second child. I was so excited. I think I was more excited than she was. I cried. This wonderful part of my youth had been miraculously resurrected. It was like if they had put Alf back on the air... only better.

Of course, she had to be all Muffiny about it and start liking him and shit, which all but ruined the beauty of the affair. But, beggars can't be choosers. I take what I can get.

She still chews with her mouth closed and the days of Wet N' Wild lip liner are far behind us... but I see a bright future for Muffin. One filled with manners and bunny rabbits and babies... but also filled with cock.

Blacking Out

2006-08-03T17:38:00.000-04:00

I survived the blackout of 2003. Looks like I might have to survive the blackout of 2006 as well.

I think pretty much everyone survives, right? I mean, death-by-blackout isn’t a very common thing for those of us not relying on respirators for air.

Honestly though, I just barely survived. I did, ironically enough, drink until I blacked out.

The thought of losing power right now is making me extremely unhappy, but that 2003 blackout, man… that fucking rocked.

I remember driving home from the beach with Alabaster and his friend Jeremy when we got to a red stoplight a block from my house in Williamsburg. We were waiting for it to turn green, and it just blinked out. We were all pretty stoned at the time, so we didn’t quite know what to make of it. Mike dropped Jeremy off at the subway and me at my house and drove home.

I walked in to my crazy ex-room mate, Katie, sitting at the kitchen table in darkness, rapidly stuffing her face.
I asked hr what the hell was going on and she informed me there had been a blackout and so she was trying to eat all of the perishables.

Rather than point out the fact that the "perishables" she had chosen to start with were economy sized bags of marshmallows, I wandered back outside to see what was up for myself.

I lived in the old school Italian section of Williamsburg, so my street was filled with crazy geriatrics in muumuus screaming at each other that we were under attack. I wanted to ask them what kind of half-assed terrorist would evilly plot to make the lives of thousands of New Yorkers mildly inconvenient for a couple of hours, but instead I just walked back inside, went upstairs and called my date for the evening to make sure this would in no way be effecting his buying me dinner.

When I got in touch with Robert, he told me that the power was out in Manhattan too, and he had heard that half of the east coat was down. More horrifically, he said that since he made reservations at Sushi Samba, we should probably reschedule.... something about eating un-refrigerated raw fish being bad for you or something.

This upset me more than the blackout really, because I had bought a new dress for this date and I wasn't going to let some stupid power outage keep me from wearing it... especially now that I was all tan. I told Robert that if he REALLY wanted to see me, he should grab some liquor and mixers and just come over.

My logic was that the 5 mile walk from midtown across the bridge to Brooklyn couldn't be THAT bad, besides, what else was he going to do with his evening? It's not like he could stay at home and jerk off to internet porn. Robert eventually agreed with my solid logic, and began his trek to my apartment.

I showered and shaved by candlelight.... a foolish and blood-soaked task, and put on my new dress. That's when panic struck.... how was I going to iron my hair?!? Fortunately I had an emergency backup battery operated blow-drier, but after several attempts to heat my hair iron with a lighter failed, I resigned myself to imperfectly straightened hair.

Robert eventually showed up with his room mate, and they set up shop in our backyard area which crazy Katie had turned into a pseudo beach, complete with sand and a fake palm tree. The four of us got completely drunk and then found some tiki torches and wandered the streets of Brooklyn.

The bars were giving out liquor for free (which I suppose they thought was a better alternative to being looted) and full tilt chaos ensued. We passed out in a pile on the sidewalk around 4 in the morning.

It was amazing. I was heartbroken when the power came back on the next day.

A couple days later they stared selling commemorative tee-shirts that said "I Survived the Blackout of 2003". I wanted to buy one, but my other room mate made one for me instead that said "I Survived the Blackout of Last Thursday" because she thought it would applicable to more situations. She was right.

The only good thing tht would come from there being a blackout this summer is that fewer people would be able to see Superman Returns.

In case you there isn't a blackout, let me save you $10.25. Superman Returns totally fucking sucks.

Ready for the plot of this movie? Here it is: In typical Alpha male style, Superman knocks up Lois Lane, bounces, then just when she finds a nice Beta male to help her raise her bastard son, guess who shows up again to screw up her life, and then bounce once more?

"Super" my ass. Is this what society has come to? I have to pay to see a dead beat dad wear tights?

You know what?I think I DO want another blackout after all.

Craigslist As a Second Language

2006-08-02T09:59:00.000-04:00

So here it is, another boring-as-fuck Wednesday at my job of death, and I’ve resorted to my favorite slow morning activity; cruising Craigslist personal ads.

I would never respond to any of these ads myself because, well…. ew.

Fortunately, trolling the internet for potential three way partners falls under the job category of boyfriend… and since mine seems to have a preternatural skill for finding promiscuous women on the internet (hence the genisis of our entire relationship), this task is never left to me.

No, this is strictly about satisfying a morbid curiosity. What I love about Craigslist is that you really have to read between the lines of each posting to understand what’s being said. It’s like an entirely different langue only a select few speak. Fortunately, they offered a class on this at NYU, so I can help you out with some of the fundamentals.

Let’s take a look at some of this morning’s posts together, shall we?

25 YR OLD COLLEGE GUY HERE, (25 years old and still in college? Hmmm) GOTTA GIRL SO GOTTA KEEP THIS ON THE DL (that's one lucky lady), WANT TO TRADE HANDJOBS WITH ANOTHER GUY LIKE ME, SORRY... NO GAY DUDES (oh, he wants a STRAIGHT guy to jerk him off... of course! That whole 25-and-still-in-college thing is starting to make way more sense) MIGHT WANT TO TRY SUCKING, BUT PROBABLY JUST JERKING OFF. (Good call, 'cause THAT might be kind of gay)

IF YOU'VE EVER FANTASIZED ABOUT WATCHING A MAN MASTURBATE IN PUBLIC, TODAY IS YOUR CHANCE! (as is any day you ride the G train). WE CAN MEET IN A PUBLIC PARKING LOT, I PLEASURE MYSELF, YOU WATCH, I CUM, YOU DRIVE OFF, NO NAMES, NO SPEAKING, NO STRINGS ATTACHED (does this kind of event really require this level of planning? Hey buddy, ever hear of a "playground"??)

I'M GOING TO THE BORGATA HOTEL AND CASINO IN ATLANTIC CITY TONIGHT.(promising so far) I HAVE A SUITE AND WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A GOOD LUCK CHARM BY MY SIDE (and don't have the cash to pay for one of the "good luck charms" who hang around the casinos). I PROMISE WE'LL HAVE THE TIME OF ARE LIVES. (the time of ARE lives? Rich AND brilliant, my favorite combination!)

MY GF ALWAYS THINKS I'M CHEATING ON HER. I'VE NEVER CHEATED ON HER EVER NOR DO I GIVE HER THE IMPRESSION THAT I EVER WOULD (this posting aside) BUT NOW IT'S GONE TOO FAR, TO PROVE IM NOT CHEATING ON HER SHE WANTS TO GET MARRIED. (I think we can all see the logic there) I TOLD HER YES, THAN FOUND OUT SHE CHEATED ON ME AT THE START OF OUR RELATIONSHIP. IN RETALIATION I WANT TO SLEEP WITH A GIRL HOTTER THAN HER. HELP ME GET REVENGE. (See, this is exactly why 18 year olds shouldn't get married. Or have sex. Or be allowed to live.)

ARE YOU A YOUNG, FIT, SEXY ASIAN FEMALE WHO NEEDS SEXUAL EXCITEMENT AND ASSISTANCE? (I MEAN WITH MONEY) (as opposed to meaning assistance with spelling things, and opening pickle jars?) 38 YEAR OLD, RECENTLY DIVORCED, FIT, 6'2" (46 year old, pudgy, 5'8", still married) ITALIAN SEEKING VERY DISCREET WEEKDAY ENCOUNTERS.

I AM A STR8 GUY LOOKING TO GIVE HEAD TO A STR8 OR BI DUDE. (even if the contents of this post didn't tell you that this guy is 100% gay, I think the fact that uses the words "str8" and "dude" would have been dead giveaways.) OR U CAN JERK OFF WHILE WATCHIN PORN AND NUT IN MY FACE. (what straight man wouldn't want that?)

I NEED TO HAVE SOME FUN AFTER A ROUGH DIVORCE. (and by "fun" I mean I'll probably cry a lot during sex) 32 YEAR OLD FEMALE, NO KIDS. (37 year old female, no kids..... aside from Samantha) COUPLES ONLY! (Because what will really cheer me up after a divorce is watching a happy couple with an exciting sex life. Really makes you wonder what went wrong in her marriage.)

DOMINANT MALE SEEKS FEMALE SLAVE TO USE AND ABUSE. I AM DRUG AND DISEASE FREE (unless you count weed... or herpes) MUST CALL ME SIR AT ALL TIMES, NEVER LOOK ME IN THE EYE, AND BE VERY SUBMISSIVE. YOU MUST BE ABLE TO HOST. (Because I live at home with my Jewish wife or mother, and if she even knew I was so much as using the computer without her permission, oh boy...)

If you do choose to navigate the choppy waters of internet dating, I hope you'll find this guide helpful. Oh, and most importantly, always keep in mind that "looking for a down to earth girl" roughly translates to "I have absolutely no money whatsoever."

Don't Touch Me There

2006-07-31T14:57:00.000-04:00

I have a very serious confession to make.

This may come as tremendous shock to those of you who know me because I’ve been in denial about it for a very long time, but the time has come to let the truth be known.

When I was a young child…. Wow, this is harder than I thought it would be.

I was the victim… of not being sexually molested.

God, it feels so good to get that off my chest!

For years I’ve been hiding this fact, claiming constantly that I was molested on an almost daily basis by random authority figures…. Doctors, camp councilors, family friends and what have you. But actually no one ever laid a hand on me to abuse me; sexually or otherwise.

It took me years to even admit the ugly truth to myself, but after many sessions of regressive therapy, endless soul searching and objectively dealing with the cold, hard facts, I realized I just couldn’t keep lying to myself. No one ever so much as felt me up my whole entire childhood.

It’s a really unpleasant fact to have to face. Sexual abuse has been such a sweet excuse for almost all of my creepy/self-destructive tendencies. Now I’m left with the daunting task of finding something completely different to blame all of my inappropriate behavior on.

Take a look at the symptoms of childhood molestation and you’ll see exactly how much of my life I’m going to have to completely renegotiate if I don’t have childhood molestation as an excuse anymore….

* Sexually precocious, inappropriately seductive and promiscuous at an early age.
“Mr. Truman, I’m really sorry about telling the maintenance guy to pretend I was a clock and screw me against the wall… but in my defense, he was kind of asking for it.”

* Attempts to make self unattractive.
“Yeah, so I cut all my hair off with cuticle scissors and plucked my eyebrows so thin even Puerto Rican chicks look at me funny…. but now I’m thinking that the look won’t really be complete unless I couple it with a neon green lycra jumpsuit and some body glitter.”

* Radical mood swings, depression and regressive behavior.
“Hey Josh, sorry about telling you I love you, then throwing that glass vase at your head, then telling you we were meant to be together, then curling up in the fetal position and sucking my thumb while rocking back and forth.”

* Apparent boredom with peers and age appropriate activities
“This tea party sucks, Jill. Your teddy bear’s excuse for conversation is completely inane. Go invite your dad, and tell him to bring up some of that Chardonnay while you’re at it.”

* Tendency to lie and/or steal.
“Oh my god, I totally do not even know what jewelry box you’re talking about! And what would I want with your old wedding ring, anyway?”

* Encouragement of peers to engage in age-inappropriate activities.
“Isabelle, I don’t care if he IS two years younger than your dad, you are coming on this double date with me whether you like it or not! Now go get dressed and I’ll explain to you what an “eight track” is.”

* Intolerance of intimacy and inability to trust.
“Look, Jason, I know we’ve been seeing each other for almost a year, and it’s not that I don’t WANT you to sleep over… it’s just that I worry might accidentally strangle me in my sleep and then steal all my stuff. Oh, and please don’t introduce me as your girlfriend again, ever.”

No matter how many times I denied it, I think my mother always suspected that I may have suffered from lack of sexual molestation. I guess it was just too painful for her to talk about.

Sometimes I ask myself “Why me?” When so many other children are molested everyday in this country, why was I so bitterly neglected?

My parents claim it is because they maintained a vigilant watch over me and all those who came in contact with me throughout my youth. I’d like to believe that, but deep down I know the truth.

It’s because I was fat.

Not So Grand Canyon

2006-07-28T11:04:00.000-04:00

Right now, I have a headache as big as the Grand Canyon.

EXACTLY as big. I know. I've been there.

I went to the Grand Canyon as one stop of an ill-conceived road trip across America.

You know what? It's really fucking boring.

Years of hearing about this natural wonder had prepared me for an awe inspiring, breathtaking view that would cause some instant revelation about the majesty of my country or inspire an epiphany about God, and mankind, and... stuff.

I'd been stuck in my car for two weeks by then, and I needed an emotional experience like that to coast through the remaining days of my trip if I was going to make it to California without killing Brad in his sleep.

We'd driven for close to 3,000 miles together. I got high at least three times a day while we sat in traffic just to anesthetize myself to the point where I could tolerate Brad singing along with the Rusted Root CD he played non-stop, and talking about aliens.

I remember parking, walking up to the edge of the canyon, looking at it, and thinking...…

Wow. Rocks. Great.

I was so ready to get back in the car, take the rest of the speed in the trunk and drive day and night until I reached California. I just couldn't take any more America the Beautiful. I mean, it was rocks. That's it. Just like... a big canyon filled with them. I was so disappointed.

That's when the mushrooms kicked in.

I was relatively young at the time, seventeen I guess, and my drug experience was pretty limited... as were my decision making abilities apparently, since I took the advice of drug addict boyfriend and ate five entire hallucinogenic mushrooms without ever having tried them before

At first, I thought what I was feeling was the beauty of the scene enducing the overwhelming appreciation of nature I had been expecting... but when the tree next to me started singing, I realized it was probably the drugs.

I've never been that high in my life, and I hope I never am again. Initially I had a tremendous rush of energy. I ran to my car, dug out a dress I had packed with the Grand Canyon silk screened across it and insisted on stripping out of my shorts and tank top in the parking lot and slipping into this dress and some nice, strappy heels.

NOW I was ready to hike the Grand Canyon! I ran back to where I had been standing to sing back up for the tree.

As quickly as it had come, the euphoria was gone and I was terrified. I waved off the pack of Japanese tourists who had been video taping me, and slowly lowered myself over the edge of the cliff into a tiny cave where no one could see me but I could look out at the canyon.

Brad tried to see how I was doing... but the second his face appeared, hovering at the entrance of my cave, I starting screaming and crying and flailing my arms. (FYI, that's how 17 year olds tell their boyfriends they need more space).

I spent the next three days curled up in my little cave without food or water, contemplating the meaning of good and evil, referring often to the texts of the great philosophers, which someone had left in the cave for me to find.

Of course, rather than three days it may have actually been about ten minutes.... and rather than "great texts", it may have been a leaflet about Jesus that had been left behind by some tourists... and rather than reading it, I may have just been rubbing it all over my face.

All a matter of perception, I guess.

I spent the next five hours (or seven years, if memory serves) climbing around extremely unstable rock ledges in heels and a full length dress, with oversized, neon blue sunglasses on. I looked like a lunatic drag queen impersonating Spider
Man.

But I couldn't stop climbing, because if I did the clouds would start having sex again, and I hated when they did that.

At one point, my sunglasses blew off my head, landed on the rocks a few feet in front of me, and de-materialized. I went to investigate... only to have Brad pull the back of my dress so hard I fell into him. I turned around and politely asked "What the fuck? Those were my favorite sunglasses and disapeared into thin air!" At which point Brad pointed out that they had actually blown off the edge of a cliff ten stories above the next rock ledge, and that maybe following them wasn't the best idea.

I was still pretty upset, but he eventually convinced me that my plan to "gently float" into the ravine below might not be the best one. I think he convinced me by giving me a small, pink rock to play with.

As the mushrooms started to wear off, we watched the sunset and made our way back to the car.

Out of all my brushes with death, I think that one was the most gratuitous.

Just thinking about it has made my headache disapate just a little.... Or maybe thats the seven Advil kicking in.

2006-07-27T10:39:00.001-04:00

FYI

2006-07-26T12:20:00.000-04:00

Now that I have disassociated myself completely with the contents of this blog, I feel free to publish some of the entries I held back while I could still be held responsible for authorship. I have decided to now include them, as I feel some of them are really funny, if a tad less appropriate than most. (And by funny, I clearly mean unbelievably juvenile).

2006-07-26T12:11:00.001-04:00

I Was A Home-Wrecking Coke Head And All I got Was This Lousy Tee Shirt From the 4 Seasons

2006-07-26T12:10:00.001-04:00

Driving to work at an obscenely early hour on this beautiful spring day, I happened to drive by the office of this guy, John, I used to... Oh, lets be euphemistic and say date.

I havent really thought about him in years. I only "dated" him for a few months in college. But driving by his building today, I felt a twinge of nostalgia... then, I vomited on my shoes.

John was a gorgeous, ibanking, coke-head CEO in his late thirties or early forties, or mid fifties or something. He had a wife, but I never had to hear about her. They were still married so I was never subjected to one of those droning "amicable divorce" fairy tales guys like to tell.

He had a kid too, but he never even mentioned the kid to me until 2 months in to things, when I inquired about a crumpled up stick figure drawing I found in his suitcase while I was rifling around for yay.

I asked "What the hell is this?" John said his kid made it for him, shrugged, handed me a rolled up hundred dollar bill and proceeded to use his Black Amex to make rails on the dash board of his Lexus.

John was having a nice, traditional midlife crisis, where you just pretend all those grown up parts of your life never even happened, and you never talk about them.

Sure, he was a horrible father, a neglectful husband and a pretty terrible person all around, but he was really good in bed, and I got to stay in some of the best hotels Manhattan has to offer.

I never had to have opinions, or be there for him through the tough times. All I had to do was eat expensive food, play nice with his clients, and not ask to many questions. So simple.

Then, in the mornings, Id wake up at the 4 Seasons or where ever, John would be gone, room service would be at the door, and a car service would be at my disposal. It was like a fairy tale! Ok, it was more like a scene from Requiem For A Dream, but still.

Then, one sad day, his wife started bitching or his kid got sick or something, and John just kind of faded away

Driving by, I wondered what John was up to these days. His kids about five now, I guess. Shes going to be something else when she grows up! Boy, am I glad Im not her.

Except, of course, that I pretty much am.

Homewreckers, Bitch!

2006-07-26T12:05:00.001-04:00

Muffin and I decided to start a support group. Well, really it’s more of a club.

It’s for homewreckers and sexual deviants. We feel that all those prissy bitches who beat their boyfriends into emotional submission and then connive them into marrying/impregnating them shouldn’t be the only one who get to act they’re members of a super exclusive club.

We were going to call it Homewreckers, Anonymous but that implies were trying to stop and/or that were ashamed. So we opted instead for the more prideful (if a tad ghetto) Homewreckers, Bitch!

We let Amanda in for almost banging that married fireman a few years back, and for dating her boss at Banana.

Membership benefits include a free Iced Grande Carmel Macchiato upon joining, a variety of candidates for the inevitable three ways, and getting to spend Holidays and weekends with your friends!

Trust me, this is something you want to get in on the ground floor of... our next group, The Second Wives Club, will be far more exclusive and there will be a base income requirement.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

2006-07-24T15:54:00.000-04:00

When I was 17, I threw a small animal from a moving vehicle in a psychotic rage. You know what happened? Nothing.

When I was 20, I drove 30 miles home at 3:00 AM stoned, drunk, and rolling on Ecstasy. I put a cigarette out in the back seat of my car because I thought it was an ashtray. You know what happened? Nothing.

When I was 22, I stole $500 worth of liquor from a bar that screwed me out of money on my paycheck. You know what happened? Nothing.

A few months ago I parked, illegally. You know what happened? I spent the night in prison and got sentenced to 32 hours of community service.

When I lived in Williamsburg, I believe that’s what we would have referred to as “irony”.

Between the actual arrest, the court time, the jail time, the several mental breakdowns and the community service… it’s hard to pick a favorite. Really, they all had their special moments.

While getting handcuffed by a dozen cops and hauled down to the local precinct, I tried to maintain some sense of calm, but after about an hour of sitting chained to the wall in the local precinct, it dawned on me that this was not in fact on an episode of Punk'd.

Anoosh, whom I called to come gather my belongings, comforted me greatly by freaking the fuck out and calling my dad, who showed up about an hour later with my mother AND sister, all of whom contributed to my emotional well being by crying their eyes out… aside from my father who told me I was retarded.

Big Big, in an unprecedented show of emotion, cried for a full 10 minutes before being distracted by a new designer handbag.

They unchained me briefly to confer with my father in the back room of the precinct, but sadly his legal advice was watered down somewhat due to the fact Law and Order was playing on the television behind my head, and necessitated most of his attention.

I spent about 5 or 6 hours at the precinct being fingerprinted and what have you… the arresting cop asked me out, so that was nice. I, dressed appropriately as always, was wearing a tank top mini skirt and heels, so the other inmates were pretty fond of me as well.

Around midnight, they brought me down to central booking where I had the pleasure of undergoing an extensive strip search before being placed in a filthy, smelly, roach infested, urine covered cell of death along with 10 other women.

After greeting my new roomies- a couple of Korean prostitutes, several Hispanic drug dealers, a black chick who was there for assault and a 700 pound black lesbian who wouldn't speak but had apparently been there for three days- I "curled up" as best I could on the 11" wide, splintery, cold wooden bench that was still available, and attempted, futilely, to sleep.

I did pass out for about a minute around 2 in the morning, but was awoken moments later by a giant cockroach crawling up my thigh. After that, I was pretty much wide-awake the rest of the night.

Around 4 am they gave us frosted flakes, which of course I didn't eat, but gave to Taniqua the assault convict, who was very appreciative. I know this, because she said "You'd a'ite, white girl".

On my way back to my bench, the giant, mute lesbian grabbed my ankle and told me I had nice legs…. I didn't really know how to respond without crying, so I just smiled, and said "thank you!", then shook my ankle free and returned to my bench.

After about 10 sleepless hours of this, they brought me upstairs to an even smaller cell with even more people in it, this time with a few homeless chicks thrown in for good measure.

Around 3:00 in the afternoon, I finally got to see a judge for about 2 seconds, who dismissed me to a hysterical mother, bored sister, unstable Anoosh, and severely pissed off father.

Then I went home to Westchester, showered for several hours, popped a Valium and chain smoked till I passed out.

I made it to work the next day, where my co-workers gave me a card wishing me a speedy recovery from my kidney stone operation.

I had nearly recovered from this incredibly pleasant experience, when the time rolled around for me to do community service.

Waking up at 6:00 was a great start to the day, and was complimented nicely by the next 8 hours spent picking up garbage in the Bronx. The fact that my friends were spending the week on the beach in the Hamptons added to my enjoyment of the situation immensely as well.

I made some great new friends… Consuela, who pulled a knife on the cops, was very nice about helping me get the intravenous needles and used condoms from the gutter into my trash bag. Jamal, who violated his parole because he had to go to New Jersey on a drug run, had some very kind remarks to make about my legs.

The second day was equally as fun. And by fun, I mean I had to be dragged back by Anoosh, kicking and screaming after spending the evening crying hysterically while curled up in the fetal position, chain smoking. I look forward to next weekend will giddy anticipation.

Today my ex co-worker died suddenly and unexpectedly.

Oh, and my aunt disowned my entire family last night.

Did I mention my grandfather died last week?

Yeah, so…. I’m kind of thinking I may need a small break from the pressures of working.

And the pressures of socializing.

And possibly from the pressures of brushing my teeth and wiping myself.

2006-07-21T10:41:00.001-04:00

Stereotypewriter

2006-07-20T17:51:00.000-04:00

You know when you break up with someone and you know that even though it’s for the best, some small part of you will always wish you had stayed with them?

Me neither, but here’s one thing I do know…. old men LOVE golf.

I know this because lately I’ve been trying to find a great 40th birthday present for my current soul mate and I’ve been doing some searches online. I challenge you to find one website that does not reinforce the notion that the only thing any 40 year old man could possibly want is a golf club and a watch.

Apparently, everyone on earth is under the assumption that on the day a man turns forty he says to himself “Well, I can see by my Omega here that it’s 4:17. Guess I’ll go play some golf.”

The man in question already has a watch, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say anything about golf… although maybe it’s one of those brain chemical things, like when men hit 40 all they can think about night and day is golfing… you know, kind of like women and babies when they hit 30.

Maybe not, maybe that’s just the stereotype.

That got me thinking about stereotypes in general… obviously, the 40-year-old white man/golf one wouldn’t have worked out for me, but I bet it would have worked out for 9 out of 10 people.

We’re all raised to believe that stereotyping is wrong and unfair, but the more I think about it, the more I realize most stereotypes have a purpose…. And that purpose is shopping.

If someone was looking for a gift for me, and typed all my info into some sort of giant, stereotype producing machine (like my father for example, or perhaps some sort of computer) I bet I’d end up getting a gift I’d really like.

Maybe I’d get a big, diamond paved Star of David necklace from Tiffany’s, which would be great. Maybe I would get a skull and cross bones sweater from Betsey Johnson. Maybe I’d get a giant bottle of Valium, which would be pretty sweet, too.

I know if I was a black person, and someone gave me a great big bucket of fried chicken as a present, at first I’d be like “Wow, that kind of fucked up” but then a few minutes later Id be like “I fucking LOVE fried chicken! This is awesome.”

When my unmarried, 19 year old friend in college got pregnant and had a baby shower, I bought her a pack of RU486 and some condoms. Yeah, it was a little rude, but come on…. we all need a little push in the right direction sometimes.

My ex-boyfriend was Italian. You think I got him a dictionary for his birthday? No, I got him the nicest gold plated Jesus pendant they had on the whole truck.

I'm not saying it's right or wrong, all I’m saying is there’s a fine line between stereotyping and knowing your audience.

I, Miss America

2006-07-19T16:02:00.000-04:00

When I was 8, my family went on vacation to Montreal and my father made us take the “short cut” across a torn up abandoned lot, causing me to fall and rip my knee open on a protruding iron pipe, necessitating a tetanus shot. I then made a promise to myself: I would never go on another family vacation EVER AGAIN.

The few times I broke that promise; there were severe consequences. Most notably, when I agreed to spend a month JAPpacking around Europe with them.

I knew it was a bad idea, but I was out of work and bored and they let me bring my friend Alabaster along, so I thought, “How bad could it be?”

The next four weeks answered that question for me in excrutiating detail.

It started go awry as soon as we got to airport. For international flights, it’s wise to come a good two hours early. Thanks to my oh so mildly OCD father, we got there a conservative six hours before take off, giving my mother plenty of time to curl up in the fetal position and weep until we could force feed her enough horse tranquilizers to bring her to a more pleasant, vegetative state.

After what felt like a three-day flight, we arrived in Barcelona, city of food with it’s head still attached. After such a well planned and long anticipated trip, we were eager to soak in as much of the foreign culture as possible, so after stopping at Starbucks we took a nice long nap at our hotel.

My sister immediately established her love of European culture by refusing to leave the hotel. On the rare occasion she did, it was to buy McDonalds before quickly returning to her room to watch MTV, which she was delighted to discover they have in every country.

On this memorable vacation, during which she earned the nickname Big Big Moron, she removed her headphones only once, and it was to announce “the only I thing I care about at all on this trip is going to the Prada outlet.” I believe we were on the Ponte Vecchio, watching the sunset at the time.

Other than that all she did was sleep, rap at us, and complain that she wasn’t with her boyfriend Billy. I can say with total assurance that, multi thousand dollar shopping spree at Prada aside, she would have been twice as happy spending the month at the Westchester Mall.

Unlike Biggy, Alabaster and I made the most of being in a foreign land… which is to say we actively picked up strangers everywhere we went, and shopped constantly.

I’ll always remember fondly seeing Al stumble home drunk early one morning just as my family was having breakfast. My mother smiled at him and said “Well, looks like one point for Al, zero for Carmela.”

Not one to ever be outdone, I hooked up with an exquisite Adrian Brody look alike named Julian, whom I met at a club and danced the night away with… before returning to his apartment. He was a phenomenal kisser, and things were getting pretty hot and heavy, until he took his pants off and exposed to me to my first uncircumcised penis… causing me to grab my belongings and run screaming into the night. There are some things a girl from Scarsdale just simply isn’t ever meant to see.

After that, thanks to my neurotic fathers inability to read the departure time of our boat… it was off to Nice, France. Where Al and I amused ourselves infinitely by saying “Nice is nice” to all those around us. I got my first boob tan (that was back when I had boobs). It was a wonderful experience for all. My mother insisted that every place we went in France was where Van Gogh had painted, although frequently this claim was made at toll boths and rest stops.

Not wanting to be viewed as your typical loud and ignorant Americans, while dining in one of the finest restaurants in France, my sister ordered Ranch dressing on her salad. When the (humiliated) waiter conceeded to try and create a similar salad dressing, Biggy insisted that he give her a high five.

After that, it was a slow trek of the touristy places Italy had to offer. Florence, Rome (Where we daily sang “Roam if You Want To”), some god forsaken Coney Island type beach resort called Rimini. That was by far the worst stop on the trip because, aside from being deserted and run down, we stayed at a hotel which I swear was the impetus for Steven King’s The Shining and was filled with “guests” you would never believe existed outside of a David Lynch film.

I will say this about Italy, they have more painting of Jesus than should exist n earth. They are ALL ABOUT Jesus over there. He's like their Brad Pitt.

For some reason my father just couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Europe was in some way different from Epcot Center. He got fed up with the whole “we don’t speak English” act very quickly, and assumed the language barrier could be easily overcome by screaming loudly at the natives, and using odd combinations of completely indecipherable hand gestures.

Holding his hands about a foot apart vertically meant “plain water”. Holding his hands about a foot apart vertically also meant “carbonated water.” A small circle with his hands indicated “more bread”, and gesticulating wildly while speaking I believe translated to “why don’t you speak English, you ignorant Italians.”

I broke my toe in Rome (which my mother still insists was Gods punishment for not coming with the rest of the family to see the Vatican), and so the last family stop of the trip, Venice, Italy was spent mostly laying in bed, drugged to the gills, slipping in and out of consciousness and watching TV. Not unlike the time I spent in Venice, California…. but I digress.

After that my family finally returned to the states, leaving Alabaster and I to visit Paris and Amsterdam on our own.

Like true Americans, upon arriving in Paris we took a leisurely stroll to the Luxembourg Gardens… then got right on the metro to Euro Disney. While the park was mostly dull and creepy, we spent the afternoon telling one another “Euro Disney”, the appropriate response to which was “No! EURO Disney.” That kept us entertained most of the afternoon.

The next day we spent the day singing the classic Beatles hit “Louvre, louvre me do.” Guess where we went?

After Paris, it was Amsterdam. Amsterdam, as Alabaser astutely noted, is eerily similar to that island where the bad kids go in Pinocchio where they all slowly turn into Asses. We bought enough drugs to keep a family of crack heads completely intoxicated for about a month for our four-day stay.

The red light district is really cool… they keep all the hookers in neon lit rooms in buildings so that look like crazy fucked up doll houses. The men are so aggressive even I was afraid to leave the hotel room, so we mostly ventured out only for our seven meals a day, and to visit Ann Franks house, which truly is bigger than any apartment I’ve ever lived in.

The highlight was the evening Alabaster took 'shrooms and woke me up at 3:00 AM with the revelation that “most people have either two… or three children.”, at which point I realized it was time to go home.

The entire trip I kept a travelogue. The last entry reads: “Dear Diary, today we arrived in Amsterdam! I seems like a great place and I will write more after we’ve done some exploring.” A few pages after that there’s a drawing of a bunny.

Lots of people in their early twenty spend a summer in Europe “finding themselves”.

For the most part, I “found myself" hot, semi-conscious and in a different bed every night.

Sure couldn’t have done that in New York.

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star Fucker

2006-07-14T10:53:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I said writing about celebrities I want to fuck was too trite for a blog entry. Today I say… oh my god, I can’t believe I’m at work again.

On that note… yesterday I compiled a well thought out and extensive list of celebrities I want to have sex with. I came up with the top 20 men and the top 20 women. My choices weren’t very popular, but than again they never are.

Personally, I’m not a big starfucker. I don’t go out of my way to be places where famous people hang out in hopes of a quickie in the VIP section. Let’s see….

I dated a guy who had fucked Tori Spelling, and I dated another guy who had fucked Yasmine Bleeth, and Mark Whalberg checked me out briefly once when I passed his table at Nobu (although whether it was with lust or repulsion is as of yet unconfirmed), and I once touched Daniel Day-Lewis’ ass at a party.

That’s about the full extent of my sexual encounters with fame. Oh, and I know a girl who got Chlamydia from Moby.

Regardless, in a perfect, consequence, commitment and status free parallel universe, I would ideally like to come home one day to the scene above.

My first two choices are Jeremy Piven and Liz Phair.

Jeremy is a pretty hot commodity these days, I know, but I don’t even want to have sex with Ari Gold Jeremy, I want to have sex with Spence Kovak Jeremy, Ellen Degeneres’ cousin on the Ellen Degeneres Show…. now THAT’S love.

Ok, I want want to have sex with Ari Gold Jeremy, too.

Liz Phair is like God to me. She’s beautiful, she’s funny, she’s talented and she writes the best music on earth. When I hear her songs, I realize she is in fact singing TO ME.

And it’s not like she’s singing “Oooh, some guy broke my heart and now I’m sad, la la la” It’s more like “Hey Carmela, get off your ass and go to Duane Reade, you're out of shampoo.” Not literally, but with that level of accuracy.

She is the only woman I would break my No Moms Ever rule for.

My second choices are Christina Ricci and Vince Vaughn.

Vince is obvious. I like him thin, fat, young, old, single, dating horse face, whatever. I would most like to do Norman Bates Vince, because he’s totally hot and totally creepy… my favorite combo.

Christina Ricci I would actually rather become than have sex with, but I’d settle. I love her. I act like her. On good days I look like her. See that outfit she’s wearing? I own that outfit. Plus, I know she’d want to go to Starbucks afterwards, and maybe check out the new line at Betsey Johnson.

My third choices are Jessica Sutta (the hot/goth Pussycat doll) and Timothy Olyphant (the drug dealer who ends up with Katie Holmes in Go). Nothing personal there, I just think they’re really hot.

Ideally, I’d like to meet with all of them for a giant orgy one night at the W Union Square.

Or maybe Morgans.

No! The Maritime!

Totally The Maritime.

For sure.

You're Not the Boss of Me

2006-07-13T17:26:00.000-04:00

It’s no surprise to anyone that I hate my job.

I don’t hate it as much as being as my last job as spa manager where I would have my pay docked for forgetting to apply a second coat of mascara in the morning, but I hate it nonetheless.

I work 10-hour days doing remedial, meaningless tasks that a trained chimp could do at least as well if not better and certainly more enthusiastically, and they pay me less than a Mexican.

To top it off, my boss is a scary crazy lunatic. He is both the lowlight, and the highlight of my workday.

The first day I worked, he made me get down on my hands and knees and pick pretzel crumbs off the floor. How unbelievably degrading/ridiculously hot is that?

Just to give you a rough idea, he’s in his late 50’s, tall, good body for a guy his age (i.e. I doubt he has the dreaded old-man-ass), he pretty much looks exactly like professor Snape, but with wavy salt and pepper hair and a better nose.

He’s always upset about something stupid. He loathes restrictions of any kind and thus has never been married, yet imposes his will on everyone to weak to resist. He’s a self-involved narcissistic egomaniac. He’s essentially a male version of myself.

Today he called me up and told me to pick out an “expensive but fun” restaurant to take one of his girlfriends too. I basically want to get fired so I said “Why don’t you make Heidi (his assistant) do it?” He said “Because she doesn’t know anything about expensive restaurants, and you seem like you go to a lot of them.”

I of course replied “ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?”, at which point he hung up on me and I booked him a table for two at Megu.

Then I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to figure out if that had been a compliment, an insult, or just a run of the mill thoughtless remark. Honestly, whichever it is I’m deeply offended/turned on.

Now while it’s true that I am close friends with several of the founding members of the “I Heart Fucking My Boss” club, I know that this will never come to fruition. Primarily because I wouldn't cheat on Anoosh (I’ve never cheated on anyone in fact, incongruous as that may seem), and secondarily because I think he mostly thinks of me as “that obnoxious girl who sits up front and paints her nails in front my clients”.

Yet, every once in a while, when he comes over to me and tells me “This Excell spreadsheet you made is all wrong”, part of me longs to respond “Yes! It is wrong! So wrong! I’ve been a very naughty office manager, I think I deserve to be punished.”

So far though, I’ve taken the professional high road. I just roll my eyes and say “Whatever.”

Putting the Fun Back in Funeral

2006-07-12T14:24:00.000-04:00

Sunday, my grandfather died.

I found out after screening my fathers calls for a few hours until on the 10th call when I finally picked up and screamed “Oh my god! Why are you stalking me?!?!?” and he said “Just to let you know that my dad died.” And the good daughter award was won by me, once again.

I’m sad that he’s dead. Really, I am. I’ll miss him and all… the thing is though, I got the distinct feeling he was kind of over the whole “being alive” thing. On the rare occasion I saw him, he mostly just sat around, stared into space and generally looked like he was longing for the sweet embrace of death. It’s a look I’ve often seen on the faces of significant others, and in pictures of myself, so it’s easy for me to recognize.

My family's Jewish, and in our religion when someone dies we bury them within a day or two because we don’t embalm them because it’s sacrilegious (and expensive) and then we sit Shiva for a couple of days. Shiva is kind of like a Jew wake, except you (in theory) cover all the mirrors and wear rags and no make up and stuff.

That’s not quite how we roll, though.

The initial response to the death of the last patriarch on either side of the family was for everyone to meet at his old apartment and claw each other’s eyes out, Jerry Springer style, in desperate bids to get their hands on all unwilled goods. This was followed by a traditional Jewish family dinner at an Italian restaurant, where we all shared the ceremonial family-style pork chops and lobster.

Tuesday was the actual funeral. In the house before leaving for the parlor, my father OCDed over his speech, I applied “mourning” make up and Big Big and my mother cried their eyes out.

Big Big’s hysterics weren’t particularly surprising, since I’ve seen her cry equally as hard when the when her stylist at Neiman Marcus can’t fit her in for a trim, but my mother’s tears came as somewhat of a surprise since she never really spoke to my grandfather. I had to ask he if she really cared that grandpa was dead. She briefly stopped weeping to reply, “Of course I do! I’m glad he’s dead.” An understandable, yet completely creepy response.

Big Big recovered in an unprecedented five minutes, upon discovering that she could receive a free Burberry cologne with a purchase of $100 dollars or more.

Since my dad’s sister decided that having a rabbi at the service would jack the price up too much, and it was only decided last minute that one would be necessary, we got the most bootleg rabbi they could find. Iodine tan, talk show host demeanor, everything you wouldn’t want at a funeral. The plastic menorah filled with electric candles which they placed behind the slightly-better-than–cardboard coffin, however, really upped the class factor.

My father's eulogy was surprisingly heartfelt. He acknowledged that my grandfather was probably better off this way since he had often expressed the sentiment that “if he couldn’t drive or shop, life wasn’t worth living”. A quote I will certainly be reusing should my sister predecease me.

After the service, the extended family returned to my parents house, where as usual there was enough food to host a weeks worth of over eaters anonymous meetings.

My friends arrived just in the nick of time, and we mourned together by consuming three bottles of wine, 6 pills of Valium and 4 or 5 plates of traditional Hebrew mac and cheese.

The highlights were my father whipping out his camera to take Shiva shots of us getting wasted, Muffin asking Big Big if she knew who the vice president was, and her replying “You mean, of my sorority?”, and Though Though letting everyone look at/feel up her boobs because she was pissed at her boyfriend. Oh, and lets not forget the impromptu meeting of Gamma Kappa I Date Dads that ensued.

The evening was topped off by the ceremonial smoking of the Shiva Blunt.

Perhaps my mother summed it up best when she said “You know, I’m really going to miss Grandpa.... a little.”

Home is Where The Fake Monkies Are

2006-07-07T15:08:00.000-04:00

Personally, when I have a home someday (be it a trailer or a recently deceased husbands mansion) I will decorate it according to my own personal taste.

My taste is a Expensive/Goth blend I like to call “Jewitch: the darker side of JAP”.

This will include things like a taxidermy room filled with professionally stuffed rare birds with diamonds for eyes, a chandelier made entirely of onyx and rubies, black leather interior by Philip Stark, a shark tank, and a coffee table made entirely out of fetus replicas encased in crystal.

I know my style isn’t for everyone, but it’s my dream house, and that's how it’s gonna be.

With so many styles out there everyone’s concept of good taste is unique, however, I would venture to say that more people would prefer to live in a house I decorated than one my mother had.

Even when I was growing up, I knew something wasn’t quite right about the way my mother had decorated our home. I knew this because all the other mommy’s had hired interior decorators like normal people, and all of my friends lived in nearly identical houses filled with crystal and Lladro and multi million dollar paintings no one was really sure were any good.

But not our home.

Oh no, my mother added her “personal touch” to the decoration of each room, thus creating a style similar to that which you might expect from someone who was raised in a mental institution, released into a trailer park, and than given a platinum Amex and asked to decorate a house in the suburbs.

The picture above doesn't even begin to give you an idea of the tzochkes that cover every surface, but it was the most recent acquisition that I discovered. What is it you ask? Why, it is a necessity for any home.... a butter knife with a cartoon bat/ clear plastic, rainbow glitter filled handle, of course! It was part of a set. It’s counterpart had a pumpkin. I guarantee it cost no less than $50.

But that knife doesn't hold a giant, metallic silver, glitter covered pillar candle (we have five) to the rest of the decorations.

It’s hard to pick a favorite.... the golden calf milk pourers, the crystal candy holder that’s covered in beaded golden mesh so that it looks like the crystal jar version of a drag queen, the monkies-in-top-hats table setting, the golf cart sized fake flower wall installations... they’re all pretty note worthy.

If I had to pick, I would say it was a toss up between the ceramic pig’s head with an apple in it’s mouth that she’s hung on the wall and used as a flower holder, and four foot salt shaker replica she uses to store Splenda.

Of course, nothing says class like the fake persian, dog fur and urine soaked rugs that cover every floor.

Had I grasped the severity of the situation as a child, perhaps it wouldn't have come as such a shock to me when she dressed me up as a pilgrim and my sister as an indian princess before sending us to school the week before thanksgiving.

Why didn’t my father do something about this disaster, you ask? Well, his sense of “style” as it were wasn’t much better. We were lucky if he remembered to put pants on before leaving the house. Had we left it up to him, our home probably would have looked eerily like a prison cell, which I guess ultimately would have been worse than living in a life size doll house that looked like the prototype for a show called “Tacky Eye for The Crazy Housewife”.

Over time, I’ve come to accept this as part of the charmingly eccentric (read:bat shit crazy) personality that makes her who she is.

House of Sand and Snapple

2006-07-05T14:27:00.001-04:00

DISCLAIMER:
Some names have been changed to protect the innocent. Others have been changed to amuse me. Still others have been kept because they were too surreal to fictionalize. However, all events are accurate and truthful.

It started out as any Friday night would, with my roommate Isabelle threatening to excommunicate me if I refused to come out with her.

But this was no ordinary Friday night. Oh no, this was the night before I would be spending 48 straight hours (drum roll please)…..
with my temporary Life Partner…. (wait for it)
and his son….. (wait for it)
in the Berkshires where no one can hear my screams….. (wait for it)
at the home of Wendy, the Snapple Lady.

BA DUM CHH!

Isabelle was saying…

“Carm, this is bullshit! I would totally do this for you!”
”Isabelle, I have to be up at 6:00, and I can’t be hung over, I have to spend the day with a small child.”
”But that’s six whole hours away! And you can be hung over, kid’s LOVE alkies!”
”No, I’m not going. I have to pack. Sorry.”
“Fine. That’s it. If you want to be that way, fine. Just know that I am downgrading you from friend to acquaintance AND starting a sorority with Natasha and you can’t be in it. We’re going to have secret handshakes and cheers and you’re not invited to pledge.”

I looked to Natasha for support. She just shrugged and went back to cruising the Internet.

“Yeah. Ok, fine, whatever. I’m still not going out though.”

In a last ditch effort, Isabelle snatched an errant Valium that had fallen onto my comforter during packing and threatened to throw it out the window if I wouldn’t come out.
I screamed in horror, but fortunately for everyone involved she was bluffing. She returned the pill to my med pile and stormed off to work on the Eta Nu cheer.

Natasha grudgingly agreed to help me go through my entire wardrobe and remove all things deemed “non child friendly”.

After nixing every leather micro mini, skin tight tube dress, shirt with guns, skulls, expletives and (after extensive argument) my “My Other Ride is Your Dad” tee shirt, I was left with exactly two things to wear, which I packed alongside my one pair of non-heels and the giant bottle of Valium my mother had Fed-Exed me “just incase”. (Just incase of what, I’m not sure. Just incase I had to sedate a small village, perhaps).

6:00 rolled around and while my alarm clock didn’t wake Natasha, the sound of my terrified wimpering did. She dazedly attempted to comfort me as I got out of bed and finished packing.

Although I was terrified, I had set aside an hour the night before to go over some ground rules with my dear friend Alabaster.

Spending 2 straight days at the House that Snapple built with my temporary life partner…um... Anoosh Goldenblatt, was daunting enough. Throw in his seven-year-old son… um…. Bailey, and this was fast shaping up to be the weekend that sent me (right back) to the mental hospital.

Alabaster talked me down. By talked me down, I mean fed me Stoli and Sodas until I stopped speaking. Once I was sedated, he reminded me that children can sense fear, and if I wanted an out side shot at surviving, I would have to remain calm and not make any sudden movements. He also told me to make sure not to nick myself shaving if we were going to go swimming, because children can smell one particle of blood in 1,000 particles of water, and if they do they go in to frenzy and try to bite your face off. He later rescinded that comment and said he was almost certain it was true of sharks, and not small children.

Though visions of having my face bitten off still danced through my head, I walked calmly out of my building to find the Jetta parked outside. Clearly anticipating how nerve wrecking this experience would be for me, Anoosh was kind enough to ease the transition by blaring Daniel Bedingfield’s If You’re Not the One, and belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs, to the horror of both his son and me.

The ride up to the Berkshires was nowhere nearly as horrific as I imagined. Actually, it was kind of peaceful. Son of Anoosh mostly watched DVDs and was very nice to me. Possibly on pain of death from his father, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The last time I saw Bailey, the only question he had for me was how soon would I be leaving. This time however, he had several more. He asked me if I had any kids and I told him I didn’t. He asked if I was married and I told him I wasn’t. He asked if I had ever been married and I told him no way. Then he asked if I ever wanted to get married and I told him no. He asked why not, so I told him I thought marriage was icky. He agreed with that solid logic… and it was pretty much smooth sailing from there on in.

On the way up we stopped at this place called Jiminy Peak, some country style ski resort cum pseudo amusement park.
We went on this alpine-slidesque-roller-coaster thing a couple times. After a few go-rounds, Bailey decided he wanted to ride with me instead of his dad. I have no idea how or why this happened, but the next thing I know I’m strapped into a tiny plastic seat with a seven year old boy strapped between my legs. That’s usually the part of the nightmare where I wake up in a cold sweat and swear I will never take Quaaludes before bedtime EVER again… except this time I couldn’t wake up. I have to say, of all the things that have ever found there way between my legs, this was by far the one I most wish I had been drunk for. Amazingly, I made it through the entire minute ride without accidentally squishing him to death or permanently traumatizing him… that I know of.

Following that, we had lunch at the restaurant at the park where Anoosh decided that the table with the geriatric crazy man mumbling to himself would be an ideal place for us to sit. Anoosh was very busy eating his bleu cheese burger, which is perhaps why he didn’t notice that Crazy Man was enthusiastically telling Bailey all about how much he loved little boys, and how pure they were, and how much he enjoyed sucking their toes.

I decided not to interject, because for all I know about child rearing, this may have been totally normal behavior. Like, maybe Dr. Spock recommends a weekly lunch with deranged pedophiles to build a child’s character or something.

After all of the literal and metaphorical roller coasters had been exhausted, it was time to head over to Wendy’s house.

Now, I’m sure most of you, like me, remember Wendy the Snapple Lady from the string of bizarrely amusing ads in the 90’s, and if not from that than from Celebrity Fit Club, or I Love the 90’s. I’d met Wendy once before and since she was exactly like her television persona… friendly, loud, effusive…. I was sort of expecting her house to be a giant creepy Snapple shrine.

Either that, or I imagined the entire thing being filmed, and in a few months from now I’d be watching TV and a Snapple ad would come on….

“Carmela, from Manhattan, writes ‘Dear Wendy, I always wondered what it would be like to spend a day at your house, simultaneously trying to make my boyfriend’s son not hate me, while desperately attempting not to sound retarded to a group of people twice my age AND continuously being fed to the point of immobility!’ Well Carmela, pack your bags!”

Wendy’s house ended up actually being pretty normal. It was giant, and pretty and the only sign of her secret Snapple life was the giant Snapple vending machine in the living room.

Truth be told, it ended up being a really great weekend. Once the terror subsided, I actually had a lot of fun. Wendy was an extremely gracious hostess, Son of Anoosh was nice to me and even shared his greatest fear with me (it’s “large, African American males”). He even drew a picture of me… in which I was smiling, and not being shot in the face or publicly lynched, which I think is a good sign.

Lest it be too fairy tale though, Anoosh’s wife chose this weekend to announce her engagement, putting a nice, big, screeching halt to the fun. But that’s really none of my business, as Anoosh gently reminded me (and by gently reminded me, I mean belligerently screamed at me while I cried).

To top it all off, I still managed to squeeze in a holiday BBQ with Isabelle, Alabaster and Muffin. (Which was fun, although Isabelle maintained that I was barred from her sorority, yet invited Alabaster to join, thus causing Muffin and myself to create a retaliatory sorority… Kappa Gamma I Date Dads).

As I watched the fireworks from atop Anoosh’s building, being plied with liquor by his cute 20something neighbors, I realized…. not only was this the most surreal 4th of my life, it was the best.

A Lone Carrot in a World of Nuts

2006-06-28T17:46:00.000-04:00

So, I sent a bunch of friends this brainteaser thing. You’re supposed to read these prompts, and then they ask you to name a vegetable and you’re supposed to say carrot.

I don’t know why I wanted to make my friends say carrot. I just did. I don’t know why you say carrot, but 98% of all people do.

I did. My sister did. Supposedly, only the mentally challenged 2% think of a different vegetable.

This may not come as a surprise, but hardly any of my friends thought of carrot. THAT’S what’s been going on all these years! I’m not the freak show…. my friends are!

Big Big said carrot, and we all know her brain functions as conventionally as is humanly possible.

I always assumed I was in the minority, and that my brain chemicals were just telling me things no one else would ever think of, but all along, I was the control group. CREEPY.

When I hit puberty and all of my friend’s brains were wired to tell them to start thinking about having boyfriends, and mine told me to count to four repeatedly the entire day and never let my feet touch the ground for more than 5 seconds at a time, I kind of felt like the odd man out, but no.

If this test is to be believed, I was the sane one and they were the nuts. I KNEW there was something not quite right about wanting to drink light beer and make out with a 13 year old boy in your parent’s basement!

Or in college, when al of my dorm mates were getting dressed up to go to the bar, and I was using my room mates make up kit to create a convincing looking herpe on my face so no one would try and talk to me… guess I was in the right then too.

You hear that, you guys? I am the normal one! I said carrot, just like everyone else in the world. Suckers!

One person said corn, one said string bean, one said celery, one broccoli… I have surrounded myself with people whose thought processes is even more deviant than my own, and as far as I’m concerned that is my greatest accomplishment to date.

Incidentally, my dad said eggs.

Just For Jenny

2006-06-28T09:54:00.000-04:00

A very close friend of mine has asked me explicitly never to write about her in a public forum.

Her name is Jenny.

Let me tell you all about her….

Jenny and I went to high school together. She was just the sweetest, quietest little thing on earth. Then, in college, she found her voice… and she mostly used that voice to make vicious yet hysterical comments about me, and all those around her.

Every time I see this girl, some sort of fantastic adventure ensues. Out of all of them, I might have to say my personal favorite was the time we got really bored and decided to go to La Guardia to pick up men.

We put on wigs and evening gowns, stole some Malibu from my parent’s basement, drove out to the airport blasting Lou Reed and got tanked in the parking lot.
We went inside, got even drunker at the airport bar, took Polaroids with the baggage handlers and bought some I Love New York paraphernalia. Then, we found a piece of card board and made a giant sign that said Vanilla Ice and held it up at the arrivals gate as people de-boarded.
Then when that got boring, we went to baggage claim where we met a charming businessman who had just arrived from New Zealand. We offered him a ride to his hotel in the city, which none of knew how to get to, and he accepted.

I still have a picture of him and Jenny standing next to my car. Every time I look at it, I think about how much fun I have with Jenny. I also think about how my mom found that picture when she came to drag me out of the driveway where I had slept that night because I was too tired and hung-over to make it the last ten feet into the house. She looked at it and said, “Wow, Jenny looks great! Her dad looks pretty good too.”

In short, this is the trifecta of Jenny’s awesomeness:

1) She is exceptionally competent. She lives with her boyfriend of a thousand years, is already established in her career of choice, and can talk to literally anyone on earth about anything.

2) She tells it like it is. Like when she told me the headline in the paper the day I die would read “Untimely Death of Crazy JAP Surprises None”.

3) She is always there when you really need her. Like on New Years when my then boyfriend and I broke up for the zillionth time, and she collected me at the train station, propped me up on her couch, wrapped me in a blanket and fed me clementines while I watched Crocodile Hunter.

Even more importantly, when we were in high school and I called Jenny up crying because I had lost my favorite pair of underwear in a neighboring school field, she was there first thing in the morning, distracting the school children while I rummaged around in the bushes.

Even took me to Starbucks after.

Damn, that’s a good friend.

The Two Finger Diet

2006-06-27T17:10:00.000-04:00

I don’t know who the hell Katherine McPhee is, but I do know I have to see her fat ass on the cover of every magazine I pick up and it’s really starting to piss me off.

Turns out she was on American Idol… but get this, she didn’t even WIN. No, she’s famous for being bulimic.

I can understand struggling with bulimia…. It’s actually way harder than it looks. Especially if you suck a lot of cock, because that really builds up your gag reflex.

But now, Star and US weekly and People have informed me, she has lost a ton of weight the healthy way, through “intuitive eating”. If that’s not the most bizarre euphemism for coke addiction I don’t know what is.

I don’t know why this bothers me so much… I suppose it’s because everyone I’ve ever known has had an eating disorder, and none of us gets to be on the cover of anything.

Also because I recently had the epiphany that I am too poor to be bulimic. Unless I want to binge on Costco bulk food, I can’t even afford enough food to make vomiting worth my while.

Seriously though, let’s analyze this picture for a moment, shall we? OBVIOUSLY this girl is struggling with bulimia… if she had gotten it right, her arm wouldn’t look like that. Maybe if she focused a little harder on vomiting or singing she won’t be a loser at both.

Name That Baby

2006-06-26T16:17:00.000-04:00

You know what’s fascinating to me? How every girl and gay man on earth over the age of four knows what they want to name their baby.

I would sooner give myself an at home abortion using a pair of rusty pliers than have a baby, but I still have names picked out. Elvira for a girl, Damian for a boy.

Ideally, I think children should be labeled until they're old enough to pick names out for themselves. We could just call them Female Baby or Male Baby, pending their ability to make choices for themselves.

When I was about ten I decided, as most little girls do, that the birth of my daughter was imminent and I had best start picking out names. I wanted something unique, so I picked out the most advanced looking book I could find on my shelves, and scanned it for things to name my kid. It ended up being a toss up between Monotony and Chlamydia. (Don’t even ask what kind of reading material my parents supplied me with in my youth.)

The tragedy is, most parents don’t fare much better than I did at ten.

My parents also wanted to name me something unique. My dad came up with Chartreuse, which was viciously vetoed by my mother. If I was boy, I was going to be named Private.

I asked two of my extra-special-baby-crazy friends (and one gay for good measure) what they were going to name their spawn and lo and behold, they already had lists. Spoiler alert: If you were thinking of using Ruby, Samantha or Grace- they’re going to be the new “Jessica”s.

Tangentially, when I went out with Tony he used to talk about what we were going to name our kids all the time. Regardless of the fact that I told him many times that I would never have a child, let alone his toxic flipper baby, he insisted on running baby names by me all the time….

“Babe, what do you think about Angela for a girl?”
“Nope. Not happening.”
“How about Anthony Junior for a boy?”
”No. Sorry… veto.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Vito’s a better name.”

Granted, the only names I’ve had to pick out thus far are names for my pets and aliases. Even then, though, I try to pick out names that have some sort of significance.

In high school, I made everyone call me Princess, because I was a great big princess.
When I had to pick out a "work" name for myself, I went with Fallon, because it sounds strong and powerful. It means “attack” in German, as I learned when a giant German Guard Dog lunged for my throat when someone called my name out one day. When I had to name my dog, I picked Molly, which means ”beloved”. When I had to name my pet rabbit, I picked “Scared Shitless” which means “so terrified of being touched that he craps himself whenever I come within five feet of him”.

Why not pick out an name that's pertinent? Something to do with the kids conception maybe, like "November" or "Black-Out drunk" or "PLEASE don't leave me"?

You know what else is fascinating to me? Ball sacks. Why aren’t more parts of our bodies made out of that material? So malleable, yet so sturdy… I bet if we had that skin between our arms, we could totally fly around and stuff. But that’s a story for another time.

Boyfriend Land

2006-06-23T09:34:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was told that I have “gone to the dark side”.

This came as quite a shock to me, as I always kind of assumed I had started off on the dark side to begin with. But no, it’s worse than I thought. This time, I'm told, I’ve REALLY gone to the dark side…. to the dreaded Boyfriend Land.

Now, I of course categorically deny this. First of all, I do not have a boyfriend.

I am a lone wolf.

I walk alone.

Yes, I may be in a monogamous relationship with someone who makes me really happy and whom I spend inordinate amounts of my free time with and think about constantly and totally love, but does that make him my boyfriend? Um, I don’t think so. He is simply another lone wolf, who happens to walk kind of near me sometimes.

Boyfriend Land is a little too far into the dark side for me. I would never go there, not even for an afternoon picnic. Not even if they were having a really fun party there and I could take my own car.

Boyfriend Land is a terrifying place, filled with scary people. It’s kind of like Harlem.

People have occasionally tried to trick me into going there. They make it sound all fun and exciting like "Hey Carm, let's go to Boyfriend Land! It'll be really fun, we'll hang out with other couples and finnish each other's sentences and stuff!" But then we get there, and it's just a bunch of codependent weirdoes and I'm not allowed to stay out late our wear anything low cut.

Sometimes they pull the old bait and switch. "Oh, no, Boyfriend Land? Not for us... just get in the car, we're just going for a fun little ride to the country! No where near Boyfriend Land!" It's kind of like what they do to dogs when they're trying to trick them into going to the vet. Not falling for THAT one again!

Also, Boyfriend Land is just a train stop away from Husbandville. Now I may have cruised through Husbandville late at night on occasion when I wanted to get laid, but I wouldn’t be caught dead there in the light of day.

I like to think of it as having a nice, rent stabilized place in Singles Town that I will never sell, but I still spend most of my time indoors rather than participating in the nightly keggers and weekly orgies.

Singles Town is an anything goes kind of place. As a lone wolf, it’s really the only option for me. In Boyfriend Land, they try to domesticate us. If I just wander a little too close to the county line, next think you know I’ll be de-clawed and housebroken and wearing one of those gay little cardigans.

In Husbandville they just shoot us on sight.

As a lone wolf, sometimes even Singles Town is a little too restrictive for me. I prefer to roam the wilderness alone, howling at the moon and what have you. And by “wilderness” I mean the mall. And by “howling at the moon”, I pretty much mean drinking Starbucks.

Menage-A-Blog

2006-06-22T12:31:00.000-04:00

At long last, two of my favorite people have caved and started blogs, allowing for the moment I’ve been awaiting for years… or at least since I started my own blog a month ago.

Welcome to Menage-A-Blog…

Where Alabaster, Biba and I prove that when we pool our resources we can do anything; be it answer pressing sociopolitical questions regarding Britney Spears, or touring the stoops of the Lower East Side.

Today we address two seriously pressing issues I know are on everyone’s mind…

First up is a question we’ve all asked ourselves at least once this year…

Is there any hope of salvaging the train wreck that is Britney Spears? (The baby? The weight? The vile excuse for a husband?)

BIBA:
The woman is pregnant. So until she pops that sucker out there is no
chance she will lose an ounce of weight.

I def think the husband is out! to the curb!!!! But he won’t disappear
cause you know L. Lohan is next to jump that one...or maybe Paris.
Anyhow...someone is next in line.

I’m confident she'll get back on ecstasy and blow and start dancing
again. CRAZZZZY

ME:
I’m going to have to agree that things look bleak. I’m so sick of that bullshit “I can’t loose weight because I’m pregnant!” Oh my god, just stop eating, piglet!
Babies are supposed to weigh, what?, 3 pounds or whatever, so anything she’s gained in excess of that has to go RIGHT NOW.

Then, once she pops the thing out, she should give it to K-Fed along with the first one, and send him back to raise it with the other two he has with Janet Jackson or whatever.

Then and only then will there be a light at the end of the tunnel for Brit.

ALABASTER:
After watching Britney Spears be interviewed by Matt Lauer - which was hands down more awkward than walking in on my parents doing it - I can safely say that Brit is one of the dumbest people on the planet. I mean, I pretty much ALWAYS knew that - but I kind of always wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.

The fact of the matter is that Britney likes negative attention - she really does - she thinks, and I wonder if her warped publicist agrees, that the negative press is GOOD for her. She thinks that's she's coming off as "real" cause you know being in a relationship with a dead beat, putting your kids in danger, and walking barefoot in a public bathroom are all things that "real" people do.

When will the downward spiral end? I don't know - for now it goes as far as the eye can see.

Will breaking up with K-Fed change her image? I mean, it can't hurt - but honestly, she's dug herself into a nice hole here.

Will he children be fat? Oh, most definitely.

Next up, we have more of a moral dilemma…

How do we feel about nailing our exes? (How about “just being friends”? And what is an acceptabl relationship for your current to have with their ex?)

BIBA:
This is a doozey...ok so you can nail your ex but you have a certain
grace period. You have about a 6-month window to do so. But if it's been a
year, be prepared for a possible re-hash of the relationship. BORING!!!!

You can be "friends", but again, that can only happen after the 6 month
sex window has closed. The earliest (in real time) you can call
yourselves friends is about a year or more after the end of the end (so
like if you still sleeping together you have to really stop that portion
and then a year or so after that).

And they are SO NOT allowed to be friends. Who do I need to kill now for
you?

ME:
Not to worry, Biba, you won’t need to kill anyone. I do appreciate the offer though.

I personally would never nail an ex simply because if I wanted to sleep with them I probably wouldn’t have broken up with them. Desire to nail is the first thing to go, nine times out of ten.

I’m not so in to the friend thing either, since I firmly believe if you weren’t friends to begin with, you won’t be friends after.

Before Scott, I too had a strict no-talking-to-exes-ever rule for anyone I went out with. But Scott and his wife have such an awesome relationship… for example, I asked if I could have this cool leather bracelet of his, but he wouldn’t give it to me because his wife gave it to him for being such a great ex-husband.

Isn’t that just so adorable? Doesn’t it totally speak to the fun, cool, quirky, casual nature of the relationship they have now?! I know I totally think so. But don’t take my word for it, ask Scott, he can talk about that shit all day.

ALABASTER:
I feel great about nailing my exes - nailing them to trees, nailing them to walls, nailing them to the floor. That way, when you're really drunk and you want to yell and scream at them and make a scene, you know EXACTLY where you left them.

'Till next time, folks....

Bi Now, Gay Later

2006-06-21T14:40:00.000-04:00

You guys know what this weekend is? That’s right! It’s Gay Pride.

This is the weekend when all the most young, attractive men in the city clog the streets and the clubs and the Starbucks and hit on each other and ignore me. How this is different from any other weekend in the city, I have yet to determine.

The parade is on Sunday, and all the gays I know (and most of the straights, for that matter) will be celebrating by getting wasted and having sex with strangers… which is why Gay Pride Week is unofficially followed by Gay Shame Week.

Personally, I’ll be hanging out in the Hamptons until the whole thing blows over.

You wanna hear something really sad? I was IN the gay pride day parade once. It was sophomore year of high school, I had just gotten my great, big female sign ankle tattoo. I never really thought I was gay per se, I suppose I thought I was “bi”.

Then one day, I had an epiphany… bisexuality doesn’t even exist.

It’s a complete myth. Here’s why:

Men who are “bi” are gay. I’m sorry, but if you’re into sex with men, you’re gay. There’s no two ways about it. Bi is just a transitional stage between “I’m just a late bloomer” and “meet my life partner Phil”.

Bisexuality for men just is the last local stop on the express train to Fagsville.

Women who are “bi” are straight. Take a look at these two bimbos. They are making out with each other, yes, but is there any doubt in anyone’s mind that they are anything other than drunk straight girls? If you’re a guy and you’re dating a girl who claims to be bi… why don’t you wait and see how bi she is once there’s a ring on her finger.

Bisexuality for women is just a means of landing men.

Now, don’t get me wrong, fucking around with members of the same sex is a great way of saying “Hey world, I’m privileged and jaded and so bored with existence I have to resort to deviant sexuality just to entertain myself” and of course I’m all for declarations of that kind. But bisexuality isn’t something you can rally behind, or have pride in.

Sure, if the kitchen’s out of beef, I’ll have the fish course rather than go home hungry. And who doesn’t like a little surf n’ turf now and then to spice things up? But bisexual? I don’t think so. Come on people; let’s face facts here.

Incidentally, I now officially identify myself as a “buy-sexual”, which means I’m attracted to members of both sexes, mostly when they buy me things.