Sunday, April 30, 2006
I got a great jump on the day by getting out of bed after 3 p.m. Apparently it was gorgeous out. Whatevs, Chipper Charlie Mornin' Sunshine, you can bite me. Seizing the day is gay. I seize the night.
I went to sleep at 5 am. At 7, I awoke to my trusty alarm, and realized that I had the same goddamned headache I had on my way out to the party last night. Obviously it's something fatal that hasn't been diagnosed yet, so I'm preparing myself mentally for this, and wanted to prepare all of you also. I have a lot of valuables (cat, etc...) so I should most likely get a will going.
Anyway, my friend Sabrina's birthday party was downtown at Good World Bar and Grill. It's tucked away in an area on the edge of Chinatown which is deserted at night and hard to get to. In other words, it's hip and relatively undiscovered, save for the tools who have found it. I bought Sabs a Princess crown with flashing jewels, so we could find her amongst the crowd. The DJ was good, I met some nice people, and the 3 pints of beer I had made me think I had given the headache the shake. But I realized soon enough that this was not the case.
Here's a unique description: It feels as if my head is caught in a vice.
To make matters worse, it was a bright sunny morning, and then I heard all this screaming outside my Lexington Avenue windows. "What the fuck? If someone isn't getting murdered out there, I'm going to murder you myself," I say as I look out to see some sort of Fun Run / Walk-a-Thon dilly-o. And every "Whoo hoo!" and clapping of the three broads at the mile marker on 36th street felt like a dagger to the eye sockets. Add in Doodle cat jumping on and off my bed for a straight 6 more hours, and I think you understand why I didn't force myself up until 3.
I was literally immobolized. Imagine if it killed me because I just could not get out of bed for sustenance? And then Doodle would be all "Meow! Meow! Meow? Meow? What the hell?" and eventually the Super would find us both all dead and bloated in a week or two or more. And then we'd be on the news, and it'd be embarrassing. And pathetic. Perhaps even sad.
It's now almost 8 p.m., and I still have the headache. Pain killers aren't making a dent. I'm looking forward to a night of the Sopranos and Big Love, pizza and ice cream. I might as well live it up with the remaining time I have left; it's not like I'm going to live to see obesity or old age, and who wants to go out like that, anyway?
Saturday, April 29, 2006
I was supposed to marry Adam Ant. It was my prophecy in the Swampscott Junior High School Yearbook. And it was my prophecy because I was on the yearbook staff and wrote it myself. Either that, or I muscled the Prophecy Editor into writing it because I thought what she wrote was total horseshit. I had to have a cool prophecy just in case it came true, you know?
Anne and Adam Ant. Anne Ant. And then when we had nephews and nieces, I'd be Aunt Ant. And most of the country would pronounce it "Ant" Ant, and New Englanders would pronounce it "Ahhnt" Ant. I was really looking ahead.
My friend Danielle introduced me to my prospective husband Adam and his Ants, and thank God she did! I believe Adam and the Ants was might have been my first-ever concert. I get it mixed up with the Ramones opening up for the B-52's. Yeah, 7th grade was young to go to shows, but we were chaperoned into Boston by her older sister at these things. I still have the t-shirt. It's black (now light black) and he's all bare-chested on the front, vogue-ing like only Adam can do. I wash it in a gentle cycle, cold water, inside out.
I wear the shirt all the time and get seriously offended if nobody knows who he is, or if they think my shirt is a hipster re-make from Urban Outfitters: "No, prick, it's real. I'm old. I WAS THERE!" like it was Woodstock or something. Nothing like shutting someone down when they give you a compliment. It's just how I do. Please, I can't explain Adam Ant to anyone. He was a cutting edge melange if you will. A mixture of punk, rock 'n roll, pop, and he was even an early rap pioneer (see Ant Rap on his album Prince Charming to see for yourself, ok?) And if that's not enough info, I don't know what to tell you. He can't be explained. You either know him, or you don't. And I do.
I mean, come on. He was speaking to me. I didn't drink, I didn't smoke. What did I do? I was a goody two shoes seventh grader. In love with Adam. I love you Adam! I remember being nervous getting dressed for the show that night. What will I wear? How should I act? Like if I actually had the chance to meet him backstage, he'd want my number or something. Hot 13 year olds were in short supply at his concerts, no doubt.
Showbiz a dirty word? Is it ever, Adam! Again, singin' to me! Years later, and the lyrics still holding up--sign of pure genius. He wore hot sexy pirate-inspired costumes. Puss 'n' Boots style, white ruffly shirts, gold slouchy pirate boots. Read: bad boy. Oh, and Indian warrior face paint. But he softened it with Wet 'n' Wild light blue eye shadow (revealing his sensitive side)
Friday, April 28, 2006
Dear Mr. Daly,
Why do you tease us with the heavenly prospect of Last Call yet continue to reappear the following evening, you bug-eyed, block-headed idiot?
When will you keep your word?
It's never Last Call. Last Call implies, "Hey, in a few minutes, you'll not be able to drink from this bug-eyed, block-headed fool fountain--come 'n' get it, before it's gone..."
And yet, you're never gone.
Why do you lie? When is Final Last Call?
Please, pretty please, stop fucking with us, you stupid, bug-eyed jerk.
P.S. You have bug eyes
P.P.S And a block head
P.P.P.S. Neither are t.v. compatible
It sure was!
It was also made out of wool.
Modest Christian Jackasses.
Egg races, winner winner lobster dinner, cat fight, I'm green with envy...I do believe these photos caption themselves.
Last night I wore my 1985 prom dress to Seth Herzog's show Sweet at the Slipper Room. The show's theme was Prom, in conjunction with the documentary, The World's Best Prom by OVO. I wanted to compete for a Prom Date with Seth, but I fucked up because I left my wallet at home, and ended up arriving too late. How sad. (Poor Brandy dropped a lousy egg from her spoon in the agility contest, so Sara won. That bitch! I kid, I kid. Do I? More glam photos to follow.)
Even though I screwed up by being (re)tardy, most would agree that I looked smokin' hot in the still smokin' hot gown--despite the fact that I don't fill out the bust or ass in it anymore--and a tailor could retire on the alterations it requires. The eye-catching zig-zag top was very avant garde 80's, and it was held up with a clever hidden wire sewn inside. The dress was not cheap, I remember. My mom don't play like that. Only the best for her girls.
- Frizzy triangle shaped perm that didn't quite touch the shoulders. Maybe a barrette on one side.
- Large, chunky heart-shaped rhinestone necklace with square cut clip on rhinestone earrings to match
- Electric, jaundice-orange skin tone from excessive and unfortunate Quick Tan Applicator Creme
- Whore-iffic teal eyeshadow and black mascara compliments of my friend Danielle who was going through a punk phase
- Dye-ables glitter pumps tinted aqua with tiny rhinestones that I glued to the heel (in an 80's thunderbolt-like design from my Bedazzler kit)
- Extremely awkward posture and smile
My date was paler than the bright side of the moon, enhanced by his choice of light grey tux, ruffly shirt, and pink tie. Throw in brillo hair, add in a little pizza face. Top the whole thing off with the fact that I wanted to go with his best friend, but his best friend asked one of my "friends," and we're back to #6.
The photo could be titled, Mr. Pasty Takes a Hooker.
I will find it.
I will post it.
You will howl.
Yesterday, we had another jumper who "wanted to jump in the worst way." He wore a fat suit and fat mask on his way up the elevators to hide his paraphernalia (which included the parachute and a camera to strap on his head, of course) and then pulled a Clark Kent in the bathroom by changing out of the fat suit and into the parachute before flinging himself over the railing.
But who needs a parachute when you have a fat suit?
Didn't Yukon Cornelius tell him about Bumbles? That Bumbles friggin' bounce?!
But jumping off the Empire State Building in nothing but a pirate costume with nothing but a sword and swashbuckling swagger to break your fall?
That guy is a HERO.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Mike and Ikes. They're bursting with Fruit Juice Flavor. They're fresh and chewy and fruit juice flavor-y, and they cost a mere 65 cents from my local vending machine down the hall. Apparently they come in a bag now instead of a box like in the olden days. And they are goddamned delicious.
(bag half-way gone now)
They're made by Just Born candy company. I imagine working there would make my job taste like candy. I see they have several career opportunities at Just Born. There's an opening for Maintenance Mechanic - 2nd Shift in Philly!
But it's 2nd shift, though.
I was really looking for 1st shift. Ah, well.
P.S. I have a tummy ache
P.P.S. I'm bi
P.P.P.S. ROLF LMAO
- Connie Kuntz
- Harry Ballis
- Alvaro Cunto
A COLORING BOOK FOR LAWYERS
THIS IS ME. I am a lawyer. Lawyers are important. They go to important offices and do important things. Color my underpants important.
This IS MY SUIT. Color it gray, or I will lose my job.
THIS IS MY TRAIN. It takes me to my office every day. You meet lots of interesting people on the train. Color them all gray.
THIS IS MY ELEVATOR. It takes me way up high. People who are not lawyers stand right next to me in the elevator. They are all right, but i would not want my daughter to marry one of them.
THIS IS MY DESK. It is mahogany. Important people have mahogany desks. My walls are mahogany too. I wish I were mahogany.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
I got an email from some 48 year old douche in Rhode Island today who wrote something to the effect of "Blah blah blah I'm a plain clothes street yogi" or some crap like that, which I gather means that the guy does yoga.
In Rhode Island.
I'm not intrigued.
Then, in another, immediately sequential email, he goes on to write in the subject line:
and in the body:
Me: No Shit
Why, oh why?
I'm LMAO on Happy Administrative Professionals Day. It's my day, dammit, and that's how I want to spend it. I want to laugh. It makes me forget that I'm an Administrative Professional. I consider myself more semi-pro. I mean, I play in the major league, but I do prefer the minors. Better uniforms.
I met a fella from the mailroom one day last month when we were both donors at the company blood drive. I was LMAO and he was LHAO because we were both so nervous about the whole thing (it's a story for another time to tell it properly), and a few weeks later he saw me sitting out here in all my Administrative Professional Glory and said, "Anne, is that you? Oh, shit, I thought you were some hot-shot lawyer or somethin' and you sit out here?"
You don't get compliments like that everyday.
Last night I went to Jack Kukoda's fantastic benefit at the Slipper Room. Per usual, I was looking pretty hot. I mean really hot like "Wow, you're stunning! Do you model?" hot, and that gets awkward because then I have to explain that "Oh, thank you. Uh, no, I don't" and all that jazz and then they're like "You might want to look into waxing your mustache" and I'm like "Oh."
Anyway, Peeps Brandy and Sara were lookin' hot too, of course. They were runnin' around in prom-like gowns selling raffle tickets for the good cause. (I didn't win shit, and I left my rain parasol there, but that's beside the point)
So, the show's over, and we're having a few cocktails in a booth by the front of the joint, laughin' it up because--duh--we're hilarious. There were still a lot of dudes there, none really good lookin' --but good enough I suppose, I'm willing to settle at this point--and this one particular group of boys were at the bar, checking us out. Of course. Because you know, like I said, we're hot. And hilarious.
Do you think one boy came up to us 3 single, funny, hot broads all night? (Comedians don't count). I'm talkin' a real live single, civilian boys? The answer is NO. Not one. Why? Too hot. Too hilarious. H&H. An intimidating combination.
A combination that will render me barren and alone.
Did I say that out loud?
Ok, yes, granted-- I did have raffle tickets stuck up my nose, but still. A real man would have seen beyond that.
I tried to shoot the tickets out of my nose out like the Chinese delivery guys shoot out snot rockets, but the technique isn't the same.
Boys can bite me.
This is what I got in my inbox this morning. What a load of shit! What exactly is there to be happy about on Administrative Professionals Day again? I bet Secretaries Day was better. This is a load of shit. What, I'm so appreciated for "the outstanding job that I do", so a few hundred billion trees were sacrificed for a lousy piece of yellow paper instead of a check? Is this my bonus? Plus, they weren't even selective or discriminating about the yellow paper gift. Yes, I do an outstanding job, but I know other administrative professionals who don't and they got a yellow paper gift in their inbox. Am I unappreciative of my Administrative Professionals Appreciation Day yellow paper gift if I throw it away? And all the trees died for nothing? Should I frame it? Put it in my outbox? I mean, this is seriously a load of shit. Right? Is it me? A load of shit. L.....O......S.
New acronym. LOS.
I'm LOL about the LOS in my inbox.
Ok, I'm not laughing anymore. Now i'm sobbing. Because I'm an administrative professional. Lame!
I'm sobbing out loud. SOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOL
which also means coincidentally shit out of luck. SOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOLSOL
The whole thing blows.
I am easily amused--nothing cracks me up more than myself and tricking man or machine into saying stupid words. My sister and I abused her Speak n' Spell well beyond our speaking and spelling years. Enter Bartelby.com. Not only will Bartelby define the word poop for you, if you click on the little orange speaker icon, it will also pronounce it. Sometimes you get a dude, sometimes a broad, it depends on the word, I suppose. The dude will say poop and jerk but the broad says whatever. Now you try.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
(Can someone explain her posture here, please? Is it "I'm so demure and skinny!")
And I didn't know who the hell Kenny Chesney was, so I googled an image of him, and up came:
(Some dorks at the Kenny Chesney Concert) Hilarious! It was from there that I found
the endless amusement and I never get tired of cruising it, nor will you.
Monday, April 24, 2006
*Ok, Tabber is probably more than annoying. Obnoxious? Likely a nickname that should not have stuck but did. If nicknames are generally inspired by regular names, then I have two questions: 1) Where the hell did Tabber come from? 2) Do we really want to know? And yes, there is a Tabber, because I met him, and he had the nerve to introduce himself with "I'm Tabber." Which begs a final question 3) WTF?
I just received the following pop up ad:
Bummer. Answer Yes and you get the Never Ending Pasta Bowl for Two plus the Never Ending Terrible President for two more years. Answer No and you get the Never Ending Past Bowl for Two plus the Never Ending Terrible President for two more years. It's lose lose any way you choose. There's probably Never Ending Ass Blow too, but that's a given with the Garden.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Poor dudes. They are dying for the hands free freedom and accessibility of a purse, but they're terrified of what it implies: fag. Sad, but true. Lately it seems as if the lines between messenger bag and man purse are getting fuzzier and fuzzier, which makes me laugh (heh heh). Messenger bags are worn with a shoulder strap, yes, but are generally quite wide to accomodate all of those items messengers have to messenger. These smaller versions are narrower, but still sport the shoulder strap--but you're not fooling me, a hands-free purse lover myself. Dudes should just take a stand and proclaim, "Yeah, it's a purse. What of it?" This dude looks like he works out and could take a heckler shouting "Nice Man Purse, Fag!" He could be like, "Takes one to know one, homo!" And then throw down. You know?
Messenger Bag or Man Purse? You decide.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Twenty years ago, my kid sister used to act like a kid sister and embarrass me in front of my friends ie: nose pickin', passin' gas, you name it. The farting part was rough, especially sharing the back seat on car trips or the spare bed at Grama's house, and the twirp just wouldn't cut the shit no matter how many times I said, "Cut the shit!"So, I had to try another approach.
In my most serious tone, I told her, "Listen. People die from too much farting."
"No they don't shut up."
"Yes, yes, they do."
"Nuh-uh. People don't die from farting."
"Yes, they do, Erin. It's very serious."
"Liar. Who died from farting?You're lying."
"No, I'm not."
Then I picked a name out of thin air. A name that had to be obscure, but a real person, a celebrity, but one that I was sure a 6 year old would not know:
"Shelley Winters." She bought it.
Poor Shelley. We will always associate her unfairly with chronic and fatal flatulence.
- "At this point in time." People, please stop saying this. It makes no sense. It doesn't make you sound smarter, because it's redundant and retarded and oh, incorrect. Your choices are either "At this point." or "At this time."
- When you're outside, and you drop something, you dropped it on the "ground." When you are inside, and you drop something, you dropped it on the "floor." There is no floor outside, and the only time there is a ground inside is if you have a dirt floor in your house, then "ground" is acceptable.
- "I feel badly about that."If you feel bad, then you feel "bad," as in "not good." You don't feel "badly"--unless your ability to feel is impaired for some reason.
- You dig?
- Thank you.
- p.s. Feel free to attack my math skills, I'm terrible and still count on my fingers.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
I was a 5th grader in 1978. I can assure you, nothing makes you sound more like Grandma faster than explaining to youth just how far technology has progressed since then. The electronica of my day was all about film strips (bing!), reel to reel movies, and overhead projectors. Nowadays, budding adolescents can google any awkward, hard-to-get, birds n' bees information they need. Way back when, we had to rely on the our folks' word for it, some hidden Penthouses or Joy of Sex, and a book on puberty that your Mom gave you for Christmas that you opened in front of everyone and your heart sank. Granted, we had sex education classes (ie: Health), but please. That's the class where you learned how to contain your laughter so you didn't get detention.
I remember the day in 5th grade that Mrs. Palardy asked for all of our permission slips. Permission slips that she had handed out days or even weeks before, that we were reminded to bring in. The permission slip I left at home. I was probably late for school like usual and in a rush. Goddamn it. The slip read "My daughter has my permission to watch ......The Period Movie." It was an old reel-to-reel on the subject of menstruation, replete with full-on maxi pads and that belt that they hooked on until they invented GLUE and created stick-em panty liners, probably. I'm guessing on the details--I never got to see the Period Movie--because I was the only girl with the exception of Maria who forgot their permission slip. So while the girls were watching the period movie in the auditorium, Maria and I had to join the boys in the gymnasium for......The Golf Movie.
What, boys don't need to learn about periods?
They should have been forced to watch The Period Movie too. They're gonna have to run to Rite Aid and buy a feminine product for their lady at some point. I can't say I remember a damn thing about The Golf Movie because I was horrified that I was in the wrong gender flick. Plus it was extra embarrassing, because Maria came from a weird home, so nobody was surprised that she didn't bring her permission slip in. Most kids thought she was a witch anyway. I didn't think so, but I did think she had a thick mustache, and if her mother wasn't available to sign the permission slip, she might have done something about Maria's 'stache.
And your choice of either 1) Fabio, 2) A Martinez --some soap star, if you were home all day, I'd not have to explain this person-- or 3) Tia Carrere. You just punch in your name and go from there. It's terrible. And no, they won't accept a*shole or sh*t as first names, I tried. They did accept Annie Bum Bum however.
Click here to begin your dirty adventure
Make sure that the next time you get a chance to do karaoke, sing Ray Parker, Jr's Ghostbusters as a duet. Unless, of course, you don't want to laugh your f*cking ass off.
I ain't afraid of no ghost...
Additionally, if you sing a solo of Ray Parker Jr.'s The Other Woman, you'll take yourself really seriously and be so f*ckin' into it because it's an awesome tune.
I'm in love
With the other woman...
Ba-da da da da
My life was fine
'Til she blew my mind...
Monday, April 17, 2006
When she read that The Lord of the Rings trilogy was going to be made, she went back and re-read the whole series including the Hobbit before she saw the movie. Hard core. She probably knows that crazy Hobbit language but won't admit it. My sister and I are in complete awe of her. In fact, most people are, but we more so, because we're her spawn and utterly retarded in comparison. For example, the first thing I do when I purchase a new electronic is plug it in. Then I throw out the instructions, then the box, then the receipt. Conversely, my mother recently self-wired her car for Bluetooth talk technology.
Since she knows everything, it was not a surprise that it was she who enlightened me years ago to the fact that the term "to gyp" (as in "to cheat") is actually a racial slur directed towards the Gypsy race and culture. Who knew? Mom did. Who didn't know? The Director of Human Resources I interviewed with recently. He reassured me, "This place doesn't gyp you out of vacation days."
"Well, that's a relief," I replied. "Good to know you're not acting like a faggot, trying to jew me down on benefits around here. I want to be able to drink like a mick and act like a polack, and I'll need some time off to do that."
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Aunt Kay is on the left, holding her beloved grandson, Charlie. Doodle is on the right, coached by her aunt, Whipcreamy. (Please don't ask me to explain Aunt Kay's shiny disco purple windbreaker. I can't. But she's wicked old, so let's try and cut her some slack. On that, and the hairdo.)
My mother was referee.
The match was brief.
The Easter Bunny didn't dare make a visit this morning, for fear Doodle would rip it's ass off, but it was a gorgeous day in NYC, and I got up in time to go to church. Well, not a church in the traditional sense, but a place where I get to watch the Red Sox win over a couple two three five mimosas. So, Jesus? No offense or anything, it's just more my bag. Doodle's crying at the back door right now, wanting to go down 8 flights and out the laundry room window to bring back a traditional Easter alley mouse, but it's not happening. We're going to drink more mimosas and watch The Sopranos and Big Love on HBO. And we're gonna love it! Right, Doodle? Happy Easter, people!