No blogging at the sweatshop

In the past, when I've been desperate for work and have agreed to take a low paying, tedious job as a stop-gap measure, I've consoled myself by saying "Hey, at least it isn't licking envelopes for minimum wage."

Oh the sad fate of it.

dont box me in

As a woman who often finds herself pinned in a subway seat against her will, flanked on either side by the legs of men who seem to need a ballroom’s worth of ball-room as it were, I enjoyed Maud’s link to a story on the topic (Who's Got The Biggest Ball's Of Them All?) --and her own tales of run-ins with the scrotal-space brigade. I second Maud’s note to the unfamiliar with the phenomenon: we are not exaggerating about this, trust us. It’s like a freaking epidemic, men straining to stretch their legs open as far as they can, breaking both rules of decorum and personal privacy. If it weren’t such sad commentary on how powerless some men feel, poor, sad, little men who need to exert their physical being into another person’s space in order to force that person to acknowledge they exist, it’d actually be pretty damn funny.

Shame

Enraged by the stereotype that hunters are not, nor have ever been "smarter than the average bear", they exact their revenge. And in so doing, end the debate once and for all as to which of the two is more intelligent.

what's the use of getting sober, when you're only getting drunk again...

A little fuzzy from polishing off a bottle of Cat's Phee on A Gooseberry Bush last night (a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, truth). And yes I bought it because of the name. And yes it had a spunky little kitty on the label (and the cork said "fully house trained!"; how...cute...is...oh, never-mind). And yes I fell for that Corbett Canyon shit because of the square bottle; once. However, contrary to Corbett, the Cat's Phee was actually decent wine (for those who care: grapefruit/pear threatens to be too-fruity start, surprising tart pepper finish, 8-12 dollar range). So where was I? Oh, fuzzy.

So please help me understand these things:

Cute tools for chicks.

Why this fuckwad is still our president.

The rancor caused by (dwarf) substitutes.

How a person can be totally hot and funny AND fucking brilliant?

How one gets in on the gettin' trampled gravy train?

Why I don't have the super-natural powers to put what is widely understood by all who view it to be the greatest show ever back on the air.

Where do we go when we die?

Your help would be greatly appreciated.

Oh, right...

...like you don't ever vanity search. I bet you've never screened a phone call either. And I suppose you have every intention of ringing that drunken one-off someday as well, you know, just to catch up. Uh-Oh, what's this? A library book that was NEVER RETURNED? Oh, I see, you bought it at The Strand.

Yeah, you're right. A vanity search would be so like, beneath you.

Who's laughing at my duck boots now?

Here in NYC we're being hit with what the weather folk call a Nor'easter, and that it is. Big fat flakes of delicious snowman making, ugly neighborhood covering, stop at the store and buy the stuff for a big pot of something spicy and hot begging, dreamy sleepy nap inducing, laughing at the fashion plates who are miserable and wet and cold because they are too cool to dress appropriately allowing, good excuse to invite everyone over to get really snockered on cheap wine divine goodness. I ask that those of you who for whom this weather seems a cruel and ugly joke; indulge me. Try to get in the spirit. It's just some damn snow. Even my dog knows a good thing when she sees it.

Have a wonderful weekend.

How to fill the hole after Trista and Ryan's wedding...

Single? Busy? Glutton for punishment? Then Sour Bob's pitch for Gong Dating might be a gift sent straight from Rod Roddy in heaven --to you.

(Of course it should be followed by my reality show Make Me Lose My Shit, both of which, ideally, would be sandwiched between Friends and ER on Thursdays. Now we're talking "must see"...oh c'mon people, like anyone would even miss Scrubs.)

I recommended Epistemology of the Closet.

From the Morning News: Interesting list of customer recommendations for those who enjoyed Michael Jackson's Number Ones.

[update 12/6: They yanked it. "Feature temporarily unavailable".]

don't even get me started on Little Venice chicken wings.

For you kids keeping score at home who are wondering about the Rochester-based culinary delight Monk and I are prattling on about, this:

is a Nick Tahou's Garbage Plate.

I must point out that unlike other fast food/greasy spoon establishments who entice you with glossy, misleading photos of food that look nothing like what you will receive, the above picture is totally accurate. It is exactly, 100% to the "T" what you will be handed when you order a Garbage Plate; a fatty pile of meat and starch on a grease-splattered paper plate. God love them.

(note to boyfriend, G: Get out your big pants, Daddy. During our trip upstate you will drink Genny, and you will eat Garbage.)

What's he building in there?

...seriously starting to entertain all conspiracy theories about whatever the fuck has happened to Dong.

But I was offended when he dissed the Garbage Plate.

Monk is hopping mad about an article mocking the high speed ferry project that would connect Toronto, Canada to Rochester, New York. The tagline for the article --"The good news is that Torontonians are getting an exciting new car ferry. The bad news is it's going to Rochester"-- gives you an idea of the columnists opinion of Monk's and my hometown. In a quasi-related post, Chico links to a Times article on the growing cultural rift between Canadians and Americans in general.

(more...)

Glad you could join us.

The problem with taking an extended blog break is you end up with a week's worth of backlogged brain crap to empty out before you feel like you can move forward. In the spirit of flushing the mental toilet, I give you last week's...
Memory:
I remember being asked to jump in on a game of double dutch with Ma'lee and Dawn, and being terrified. I knew full well (from past experience) that if I didn't step in the circle at exactly the right moment I would not only suffer the indignity of getting smacked in the face with the first rope, but would be clothes-lined and brought to the ground by the inertia of the second. They insisted my problem wasn't timing, but approach. Ma'lee and Dawn slipped between the ropes like eels, slid their little lanky bodies sideways and up and over in one quick, remarkably fluid motion. I, on the other hand, thrust myself into the circle like I'd just been thrown off a dock into a lake; legs akimbo, arms extended, fingers splayed out into jazz hands. I'm convinced the only reason they continued to include me was because my jazz hands kept great time swinging the rope, and I knew all the words to "Lady Marmalade," including the dirty french part about going to bed with Mz. LaBelle.

Epiphany:
I know two things with great certainty. The first: last Saturday was not a good day to try and quit smoking, or to attempt to help myself do so by spending the last pennies I had on 2" dowel rods for some pointless home improvement project that will bring neither myself or my man any joy, certainly less joy than twenty cigarettes would have had I had the money to buy them. The second: Michael Jackson is a freak.

Related Plea:
Listen mister, I don't know where you buy cigarettes, but I have never received an "extra" one in the pack. Stop asking me for it. I promise if that 21st cigarette ever materializes, it has your name all over it, okay?

Discovery:
Seems my dog is a Puritanical Baptist, or some similar sect thereof. And even though I'm more of a buddhist/naturalist, quasi-spiritualist Jew type myself, we really get along quite well. I chalk that up to preaching religious tolerance and an appreciation of ALL belief systems throughout her life, even if it sort-of bit me on the ass when she decided to become some freaky Christian freak. But we've learned a balance. I tolerate the wild machinations she goes through to disrupt all the drinking, dancing and pre-marital sex that goes on around here, and she puts up with me listening to punk rock, occasionally quoting new-age Dr. Wayne Dyer bullshit, and making dreidels out of clay.

And finally, A Warning:
When, while playing Scrabble, your boyfriend forms two words by placing a "Z" on a triple letter score, therefore getting the triple both times and like a ka-jillion points in the process? Quit the game. Forfeit, whatever. Unless of course you ENJOY staying up all night trying to concoct baseless arguments as to exactly why he's a mean-spirited asshole in an effort to cover up your selfish sour grapes. Just call it a draw. Go make love, bake cookies, re-arrange the closet, anything. Trust me.