No Real Title; Of Course There's Dogstuff At The End...

I had an apartment, a long time ago. It was going to be the first time I lived without a roommate. My apartment was freaking adorable. It had two front doors, for some reason.

The first person who wanted to move in was a really good friend/boss/twice-sex-buddy, who I will call Smith. Smith and I hung out together one of the first nights I lived in the new place. We went out, I'm SURE we got drunk as skunks, and somehow got locked out of my apartment. We had to break in. There was a piece of wood sticking out of the stoop of the apartment next door, advertising that the house was protected by some sort of security system. Smith took the wood out of the ground and proceeded to jam my window open with it. We crawled in. I can't remember what happened that "we" decided he wouldn't live with me, but it never happened, so I'm sure we came to some sort of agreement. I liked sleeping with him, though. We certainly had an affinity towards each other, and while "affinity" doesn't sound superhot, it made for sex that was. Who knows why.

After Smith, my wackadoodle blond friend wanted to move in with me. Would this have been fun? Yes. Would either of us have made it out of that situation alive? No. Again, I hate when people ask, then answer, their own questions, but it works here. No blond wackadoodle. End of discussion.

So, Smith, then BW. After that, I enjoyed an extremely short stint of living alone. I got cable. I bought a green sofa. Four days later, a friend of a friend, barely known to me at the time, had to move in. I forget how this happened, but I know that one day when I came home from work, all his crap was there. We had two front doors.

Living with him was way more fun than living alone would have been. I particularly remember one night: he was sleeping in the room next to mine, a mutual friend of ours, JC, was over, sleeping in my bed with me, and JC's dog was between us. It was perfectly still, and I was the only one in the house awake. I wasn't bored, and I just remember feeling perfectly safe, happy to be breathing under the same roof as these people. I miss that feeling. It lasted only for a second.

A booty call ruined it. Dude. To this day I wish I never answered that phone, and that I could have gotten a few more minutes of the peace-feeling. The booty call guy was a really good guy (and it actually turned out that I was the only one who thought we were booty-calling; he thought it was more relationshippy), but I could have done without it that particular night.

Weird, that this stands out as a regret of mine.

PS: Gia gets fixed tomorrow!

Takin' Her Out

The very day that Gia gets her rabies shot, she is going to the dog park with me, and she is going to be allowed to run herself ragged.

She is teething, and while I feel bad for her and how miserable she must be, it's not the most fun time for us. She understands "NO," and I know she doesn't mean to bite, and we correct her, and she'll grow out of it, and blah blah blah, but between nipping and her nails, I look like a cutter.

In the words of Marge Simpson, "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD."

I never really understood that expression.

In other news, my hockey team starts playoffs on Sunday. Our first game is at Tompkins Square Park on Sunday. Check it out if you're in the NY area, and you're so inclined.

In other other news, it turns out that I AM smarter than a fifth grader. Also, me and several friends are going to be Bea Arthur for Halloween. Not all the Golden Girls. We're all just going to be Bea.

Soulless

I ripped this off from a site called Redbubble. Someone once told me that they should have known better than to date a writer, because "all writers have no souls." I've never forgotten that. This reminded me of that. I wish I could say I wrote it, but I didn't.

Never Date a Writer

Never date a writer because she’ll fictionalize everything. She’ll write about things you have done to her, or things you never did for her. She’ll write about how you never bought her flowers. Not once. She’ll say in well-constructed prose how the whole time you were together, she never came home from a long week to see a vase full of roses, or daises, or anything.

She’ll describe times you embarrassed her, like at a party. It was her party because she was leaving for three months, and all her friends were there to see her off. People bought her champagne, which was never chilled, but you drank it anyway and that was after you had had whiskey. She’ll talk about how you played strip poker with others. And she walked in to see your clothes bunched up on the floor, next to smashed cigarette butts. She’ll say how she had to cover you with a coat because all her friends laughed about it, and so did you. Then she’ll describe how later, when she didn’t want to leave you and she wanted to be held, she heard you vomit in the bathroom. She’ll say how she had to make sure you were still alive and how she saw your face pressed against the toilet and how your legs shook on the tile. And she said your name and asked if you were okay and you just stared at her through half opened eyelids and looked away. She’ll say she couldn’t make love to you and she had to stay up and make coffee, before you took her to the airport.

She’ll continue this emphasis on what you had done to her, by describing things she had found, but said nothing about. Like when she opened your wallet to slide twenty dollars inside, because you had bought her dinner. She’ll say how she sat on the hardwood floor where the heat couldn’t reach and she shivered. She’ll explain the condom she found, and how it was lubricated and had small writing on the package she couldn’t see because her eyes watered. She’ll talk about the note she found from a girl she didn’t know but you did because in the scribbled handwriting she could make out your name. You were asleep on the bed and she was on the floor. She’ll tell the reader how she held her legs and tapped her chin against her knee. And she decided that it’s not wrong for men to have friends, because all men have friends, so she closed the wallet and slept without a blanket on the floor.

She’ll later describe the moment in the bedroom when she sat at the foot of the bed and you kneeled in front of her. She’ll give you short choppy dialogue, so that you sound distant. She’ll tell the reader how you said it’s not that you didn’t love her but you couldn’t be with her and that it’s more your fault than hers, except she’ll tell it much more compellingly. She’ll describe how she choked on her tears and tried not to vomit right in front of you. And how she looked at the poster on the wall, the one she bought for you and how the different colors turned together when you spoke. She’ll say how the bed you had brought from your place felt like steel and she couldn’t move because her legs were welded there and she could only listen to you and watch the colors of the room turn gray.

And she’ll send you a manuscript and you’ll be on the couch where you both had sat and you’ll read every word. You’ll notice she didn’t tell things, like the time you had to see her because she had been sick with the flu and unable to get out of bed. And you ran from the campus to her apartment to make sure she was okay. You ran in the dark and there was so much snow that your legs began to freeze. And she won’t tell the reader how you didn’t have gloves or good shoes and you couldn’t see the patch of ice and you slipped. She won’t tell them you slipped. You twisted your ankle and your face landed in a snow bank. She won’t describe the taste in your mouth, how you pulled yourself up and limped up to her apartment. You used the key she’d just given you and she won’t say how nice it was being able to enter unannounced. And she won’t say how good it was to see her asleep and that you kissed her on the top of her head and then staggered home. She won’t move into your head and explain how much you really loved her. How you almost started to cry when you walked. You shook from the wind but felt safe because she was.

You’ll sit alone on that couch where you made love to her and you won’t move and the glass of whiskey on the table will not be touched. You won’t get up to turn up the lights and you won’t get up to use the restroom even though you have to. You’ll sit in the dim of your living room. And you will read.

Some Stuff...

Due to my dog's sickness (she's fine now, and thanks for the well-wishes, everyone), we've been at the vet a lot this week.

Every time we go there, the experience is great. He loves my little potato girl, and she loves him and the vet techs there. Everyone's so sweet to her, and there's lots of puppies around.

We don't want to leave.

More accurately, every time I go there, I want to stay all day long. It's so comforting. They love us.

My friend has a great story in which she talks about this coming out in Fat & Happy (our literary journal...coming soon!). You'll have to check it out.

Her ears are a bit more "one up, one down" now. I am hoping they stay that way.

Boy and I are going on a date tonight, because, we swear, we are not slaves to the pup. We are not. Nooooo.

The job search continues. Carry on (unless you can help me with the job search. Then carry it the fuck over here).

Last Week; We're Sickly

Gia and I are sick. I have some sort of cough, she has a fucked up colon. We'll both be fine. She went to the vet today, for the third time since we've had her, and while I understand she's too young now, when she gets older, she's getting a job.

FG had two great wins yesterday. I love my team.

Last Friday: Sept. 11th. I won't say too much about it. It was a dreary, sad day, made worse by the rain. The only thing I will say is that I won't get behind this "on this day, we are all New Yorkers," thing, unless on August 29th, people start saying "on this day, we are all New Orleanians."

Sitty had an engagement party this weekend. Congrats, Sitty. Her party was rockin', and we ate a roasted pig. This was made mildly disturbing by the fact that this was the cake:




After you chow on a roast pig, you don't want to have an anthropomorphized one for dessert.

Oh, and by the way, to explain the cake: he proposed to her on a paddle boat in Central Park. Neither of them, for the record, are the least bit overweight.

Introducing....

Miss Gia.

Our little miss ladypants has been with us for a week, today, and I couldn't be happier.

FAQ:

What is she?

She's a mutt. We don't know. The vet doesn't know. No one knows. I have been told by guy at gym that I can pay $150 to send a cotton swab of her spit to a guy in California to analyze what she is...I'm going with no on that one. She's cute and awesome. That's what she is.

How big will she be?

According to the vet, somewhere between 25 and 40 lbs. Again, we don't know.

Does she rock?

She rocks. And she is hilarious. She takes after me.

Are you turning into one of those annoying dog people who only want to talk about funny shit their dog does?

Hmmm... Hope not. Probably, though.

Boy and I love her, and so do all her new friends. She loves her vet and her vet tech, and I'm lucky that my punkass buddy knows a ton about dogs and dog raising (because he's a great dog daddy), so he's been a great resource, too.

I promise she won't be the focus of every post from now on, but I had to gush a bit. Cheers!

Anecdotes and Non-Sequiturs

The first:

I was sitting in the coffee shop, listening to two people next to me having a conversation.

Him: Have you seen Monica?
Her: Yeah, she's not doing so well. But it's hard to sympathize, 'cuz she's so annoying.

I do not know these people. They were obviously speaking of a different Monica. But I immediately felt defensive and hurt.

The second:

Boy and I went to a wedding in Madrid a few weeks ago. All was beautiful, and we had a great time. However, if Jesus went to a wedding in Madrid instead of Cana, he would have had to turn the wine into water. I have never been thirstier in my life than I was in Madrid. This seemed like a general consensus amongst the folks I was with. No one had a real reason why.

The third:

I haven't slept in three days. I'm jittery and tired. This week's been bad.

The fourth:

I haven't been even getting pleasure out of hockey these days. Though my team rocks, as usual.

The fifth:

I'm sitting in the coffee shop right now, again, and feeling sorry for myself. This was immediately alleviated, however, when I just heard the opening beats of "That's Not My Name," by the Ting Tings. I defy you to be in a bad mood when you hear this song. Also, two of my favorite people in the world love this song, and they both happen to be under the age of four.

The sixth:

I have re-found a prior love for Jonathan Ames. When me and Boy re-discover our delight in each other, we say we are having a renaissance. I'm having an Amesessance (I AM ALLOWED TO BE A DORK. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE GOING FOR ME RIGHT NOW).

Hilarious vs. Hysterical

Hello, again, friends.

Twice in one day is not normal for me, but I can't let this one go any longer.

See the title of this post? See the two words in the title of this post?

They're not interchangeable.

When something is hilarious, it is very very funny. You can say "that movie was hilarious," or, "that Monica...she's the most hilarious person I've ever come across in my life! The hilarity she causes is so great, that there is nothing else to do but for me to name her the most hilarious person on earth."

Hysterical is an adjective. You are hysterical when you are unable to control yourself. You can laugh hysterically, but you can not say a movie was hysterical.

Sorry. You just can't.

Coma Plans, WYR, Other Things

it's been a while.

also, i don't feel like capitalizing today, so i'm not going to.

i guess the way i can do this best is to write down what i did this weekend, map out what i want to say based on that. sound good? good.

friday. friday was good. i went to see a friend of mine and his ridiculously adorable clown-like dog, and we played a game...an old fave of mine, "would you rather." my favorite thing about this game is picking out the raunchiest, most uncomfortable scenarios, and then forcing people to choose between them. for this reason, many people hate playing this game with me. my ex used to get angry with me, in fact, when (often drunkenly), i would give him one of these fake ultimatums.

my friend and i were really getting into it, and because he and i are very much alike (read: very self-absorbed), there were certain questions that really made us think. here is one of them: would you rather save the lives of five loved ones, or 1,000 strangers in another country (who knows why they had to be in another country). we both picked loved ones. then we changed it to this: would you rather save the lives of five people, and they'd never know it, or let 1,000 strangers die, and EVERYONE would know it. this one, for us, was more difficult. same end, but the difference was that in one, people would hate you. boy, of course, picked saving 1,000 people each time, no matter who knew it or not. he's like that. we're not.

then we met boy and two of my other, delightful, wonderful friends for a few drinks, and had a lovely time all around. i think. i may have drank a bit too much. i pet a great english bulldog mix while we were at the bar. (it was actually a really great weekend, dog-wise, for me). often it's awkward to hang out with friends that have never met, but it was far from it. good times.

saturday. bachelorette party. then we met up with the corresponding bachelor party. fun, but not a lot to say about it without putting anyone's shit on front street (i love that expression).

sunday. woke up. felt droopy. mopey. played with a dog. ate brunch way too late. watched ghostbusters. walked to a brooklyn neighborhood near ours, and saw the bastille day festivities. hit a bookstore for a while. i bought two books, one of which was jonathan ames' the alcoholic, tried to laugh a little. hung out with boy. he had a rough night at the bachelor party the night before.

we had dinner in the bastille-day neighborhood, and i started to get tired. i'd had...not a hangover, exactly, but a sense of sadness and malaise all day (does sadness mean the same thing as malaise? don't i teach english? wow). again, droopy and mopey. at dinner, a little boy sat next to us. he had two small stuffed animals named pablo and austin. he wanted to go home.

i asked boy a question. "if i were to go into a coma, would you secretly be a little bit happy that you could tell people you had a 'girlfriend in a coma?'" he said that he would not, and that even though he loves the smiths, he would be sad about my coma status. and that if he found any kernel of happiness in the whole sordid scene, it'd be that he could, in fact, tell people that he had a girlfriend in a coma.

then i asked him: if i was your wife, and i was in a coma, would you downplay our relationship so that you could say you had a girlfriend in a coma?

he said no, very quickly. i was happy.

then i reminded him of a deal that my friends have, that i've always wanted to get in on. i told him "don't forget to tell n&c to pluck my lip and chin hairs."

"your coma plans are extremely thought out," he told me.

"yes, of course they are. do you have any?"

he told me the only thing he wanted was for me to make sure that no one wrote all over him with a sharpie while he was in a coma.

"oh my god! is that a thing? do that to me, too," i said.

phew. good thing he hipped me to that.

anyway, as we were walking back home, i felt worse. sadder. mopey-er. spoke to my friend via IM, a little. he sounded sad and mopey, too.

right before bed was the worst. sad. lonely. droopy. mopey. sad sad sad. scared. alone.

boy just looked at me and said the most depressing/helpful words i'd heard in a while...
"sometimes i get that way after a rough weekend, too."

Ladies. All the Ladies. Louder Now. Help Me Out. Come On. All The Ladies.

I have been avoiding this motherfucker like the plague, these days! Every time I try to sit down and blogeroo, I think of four thousand other things to be doing. Usually I don't do those things, either, but that's none of y'alls damn business.

Sunday was a great day of hockey. We played a really wonderful team, and though we won (1-0), it was a scoreless game until four minutes left. It was a matchup of two of the best goalies in our league (and before someone I know has a hissy fit, I said two of the best, not the two best...), which always brings the level of play up.

But Saturday. Saturday I play in a morning pickup game with some people, and I have a bittersweet relationship with the whole deal. For instance, this week: a decent amount of people showed up, mainly men, as always. There were five girls there in total, and four of us were on the same team. Now, usually, certain dudes that we play with would have a freaking canary at the thought of splitting up the girls unevenly. They act like having someone who posesses a vagina on their team is a giant liability, and they like to split up the hazards. These people, obviously, are douchebags. Not just because they think this (there are SO many people that think this, I'm not stupid), but because they say this out loud in mixed company. But this time, the girls happened to be on the team with the nicer dudes, so no one really complained.

This shouldn't matter, but I would like to point out that though I am sadly not one of them, many of these girls run circles around the guys who complain the most. Stellar hockey players, some of my ladies.

What was interesting about this week, however, is that it was the first time I heard someone complain about having to play against the girls. Saying they didn't get a good enough game, simply because the women were all on one side, girls suck, penises rule, blahblahblahblahblah.

Yeah, I know, ladies. All in a day, right?

Pretty much.

Back to Sunday. After the game, most of my team went out to celebrate a bit. This is because my team is made up of spectacular people that I love so much. Gush, gush, gush. Anyway, after we'd been there for about an hour or so, we noticed a group of people come in and sit at a nearby booth. The group consisted of one very extremely loud, large, fratty wanna-be-guido type. Fat dude. Then there was his so-drunk-he-can-barely-standup friend, seemingly normal dude, and three girls. Two girls looked whorish but ok, and one looked like she was going to keel over at any point. She could barely keep her eyes open. I'm saying she was scarily drunk.

So my friends and I glance over. The first thing we notice is that the three dudes are having what seems to be a group hug, though we soon realize that the drunk girl is in the center of this "hug," which now looks like much more of a gangbang than a hug. We look at it askance, but we don't do anything about it. Possibly a mistake.

Drunk girl is wearing a cotton strapless tube dress. This becomes relevent later.

Boys keep dancing with drunk girl (it's not a dancey kind of place), and spinning her around. Boys dip her. It becomes apparant that the girl is not wearing underwear. My friends and I tell girl to watch her dress because it's riding up.

Girl goes to sit in an opposite booth from her "friends," by herself. My people tell girl it is possibly time to go home. My people tell girl's female "friends" it is possibly time to take girl home. Female friends do not listen, girl attempts to leave by herself.

I go outside to watch girl, and to possibly put her in a cab if need be. Girl can not find her wallet.

One of her "friends" comes running out, saying she found Girl's wallet in the pocket of large fat fratboy. He had taken it in an attempt to stop her from leaving. Girl and Girl's friend begin hugging and crying, and I go back inside, disgusted.

Girl comes back inside a few minutes later. Sits at the booth alone again. One of the boys unsnapps her strapless bra from the back, removes it. Another unzipps his shorts, pulls out his penis, pushes it in girl's face.

This all goes down quietly, but Filthy Gorgeous (my team) sees the whole thing. We spring into action. First, girls. My tiny friend DK runs up to giant fat fratboy. He mentions the word "rape." She pushes him. He pushes her back.

It's immediately on. My team defends each other's honor, and that of drunk girl. They finally leave. Or get kicked out. The bartender intervenes, is disgusted by events and the fact that she hasn't seen any of this go down (like I said, it all happened quietly).

Afterwards, DK asks me if I think girl wound up ok. I answer her honestly.
"No."

A Big Week For Me; Puppy Porn

Despite the fact that, like Ron Burgundy, I've been living in a glass cage of emotion this week, there's several things going on that I'm excited about. First and foremost being that I'm getting my pupster in a few weeks. I can't WAIT to have a dog. As I've been told before, my biological clock is certainly barking. In consideration now:

• A rescue mutt of any kind, medium size (Boy's favorite idea right now. Bu this "of any kind" business freaks me out a bit...you don't ever know what you're getting. But I love mutts. And I love the idea of a rescue).
• A boxer (so lovey! They are prone to fatal health problems, though, and I want my pupster to be around for a long while).
• A French Bulldog (ahhh, oui. I am somewhat against trendy dogs, but that's just Martha Stewart's fault, no one else's. And I admit, I've never thought about the Frenchie thing before. But I am head over heels in love with one right now, and he's really just the best pooch ever).
• A mastiff (my favorite forever, and yes, I know, not practical).
• A pittbull terrier (ditto).

Help, Naked Readers. Not that I'm not doing my own reasearch. Every day I look at what my friend calls "puppy porn."

And yes, there are other things happening right now, good, bad, and confusing, but this is all I choose to get into right now.

Later.

Kid Me, Not x365, Temporary Giddiness

I've got that feeling I get sometimes. The one where it's possible that I'm feeling really good and motivated and ready to write, but it's also possible that I just had too much coffee.

Have you ever had that feeling that you miss....something? But you're not sure what it is? Yeah. I miss that.

Usually, "that" = NOLA, or a former fuck (I've learned my family reads this. Heh. That'll teach ya), or getting high, or...something I can put my finger on that used to make me happy.

(heehee..."put my finger on.")

But this time, it's not that. I feel kind of like something's missing (surprise), but I also feel a little spring-timey hopeful. As if something good's about to happen. Which will ROCK, 'cause I need that.

Here's a Not x365:

#15 I drive you batty, but you do the same to me. You have the ability to produce both rage and affection in me, which, you know, is a good thing, 'cause it means you're important. Which you are, so don't forget that. I wish I had been a better friend to you when you needed me, but I'm trying my best to do that now. Just don't push it. KIDDING (had to say that I was kidding). You can push it a little bit. Next time I see your dog, we will look at each other awkwardly, mumble hello, and turn away from each other. Happy Tuesday. I love you.

Here's a kid-me thing:


Click on it and tilt your head. It's worth it.

LDTB!

Boo Effing Hoo

So because today is rainy and disgusting and kind of cold, and because I have a slight hangover, and because why the fuck not, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself today.

Good lord, there's little I hate more than self-pity. But there you have it, anyway. I guess my current prevailing emotion (like you care...oooh, look! There it is...nice fresh self-pity...) is "put-upon-ness."

So I don't suppose there's any specific cause for this feeling, more like a lot of things, but the one thing I keep coming back to is this: the world would be a much better place (well, scratch that. I'm talking about MY world and I know it. So I'll rephrase. My world would be a much better place) if people thought about the things they say and do, and whether or not those things they say and do will hurt anyone else (namely, me).

I once had an ex who told me that his friend was the hottest girl he knew in person (the friend was not me). Now, granted, we weren't dating at the time, but we were certainly fooling around. And while I do strive to be the funniest person in the lives of everyone I know, I know way better than to presume I'd be the best looking person in anyone's life. I'm realistic about this. But it smarts a little harder when it comes from the mouth of someone you're currently doing it with. This dude wasn't a bad guy, so I assume he didn't think this would wound as badly as it did when he said it. If he had just thought, "hmmm, I wonder how M would receive this piece of information," I doubt I would have had to hear it.

Just think, people.

Because I don't often feel it, I forget that pain of the non-physical variety blows.

It Broke

I think that I would have totally been hot for the Roman god Bacchus (or the Greek god Dionysus, whichever you prefer). He's the god of wine, was all sorts of crazily sexually adventurous, and was certifiably insane. Oh, and he was a cross-dresser. Loved a party, that guy. I'm sure I would have been all about it. I'm also sure he lived in his own head most of the time, as I have a tendency to do.

One of my favorite things in my mom's house (my house, growing up) was a ceramic mask of Bacchus (I wanted to attach a photo but I don't have one of her actual mask, and the ones online don't do it justice) that she bought in Venice when we were really little. For most of my life, it has hung on her dining room wall. My sister recently told me that she was scared of it. She told me this when she called me to tell me how my mom's (recent) move (from the house we grew up in, to an apartment) went.

Her: You remember that mask?
Me: What?
Her: You know. I was sceer [read: "scared." Long story] of it?
Me: Oh, yeah. Bacchus. I loved that thing.
Her: You did? 'Memba when [name deleted] cut himself on one of it's vines and had to get stitches?
Me: Yes.
Her: It broke.

I may be overreacting (it happens), but I could not believe the nonchalance with which she was telling me this information.

When I called my mom later, I said, kind of in a weird frenzy "Bacchus head broke!???!"

She laughed and said "yeah, he was the only casualty of the move. It's just as well, you guys [read: my sister and I] would have fought over it when I died, anyway" (This is not a weird thing to say, in my family. We're used to such comments).

"No, we wouldn't have. She wouldn't have wanted it. She didn't even like it. She was scared of it."

My mom paid this very little attention, as she probably should have. Oddly, I'm not entirely over it. I loved that fucking thing.

I'm sad I can't find a photo. You know who I mean...the dude with the grapes at the side of his head.

Anyway...I've recently been thinking that I wouldn't have been good with Bacchus anyway. He and I would have been cool to run around and get crazy and get into intense arguments and have lots of fun, but eventually, I bet I would have just wanted to sit on a bench and quietly hold Apollo's hand, or something.

UPDATE: I just found out that Bacchus was to have risen from the dead on March 25th, which is my bday. I would have taken that as a big sign.

What's "Not x365?"

I've had a few people recently ask me what Not x365 is. I'm not sure why people have been asking as of late...I've been doing it for months. Maybe more people read the blog, now?

Word.

Anyway, Not x365 is my version of The x365 project. It was started in 2006 by a dude named Dan Waber, the basic premise being that he would write about one person a day for 365 days in 40 words (because he was 40 years old at the time of the project). My friend Uncouth Heathen is the first person I saw do it, and I keep trolling her list to see if she's got me in there yet (she doesn't).

I, like many, was attracted to this idea, but I didn't like that I had to use a certain amount of words or that I had to do it every day. I also didn't like to use people's names. So I do the NOT x365 project, writing about whomever I want, whenever I want, in however many words I want. I never use people's names , but sometimes it's obvious.

I'll do one now...I haven't done one in a while. Heregoes:

#14: You're a hilarious friend of my sister's; you've become one of my friends as well. For some reason, I know the most embarrassing childhood story about you (it involves potato chips and underwear), but my favorite story is when I caught you wearing my skirt (that clearly my sister had lent you) walking down the main street of the town we grew up in, and when you saw me, you tried to hide. As if. Your wedding rocked! One of the best in recent memory, hands down.

Short, Senseless Vignettes and One-Liners

People in NY think they're not starfuckers. Maybe they're not. Except for when they are, and pretend they're not, which is it's very own brand of sickening.I was on line for an event the other day (a few months ago, I suppose), and Meryl Streep walked by. The guy on line behind me was practically breaking his neck not to look, and when I realized who it was, I said "wow, was that Meryl Streep?" he said "oh, I never notice that sort of thing."

The other day I was sitting on a two-sided bench at my subway stop, writing blognotes, actually. I was kind of wrapped up in it, until someone gagged into the hood of my jacket. It brought me right back down to earth, folks.

My friend told me today I could be the mother of a 20 year old girl (I love misquoting you, baby!).

I've recently heard more than once from #9. He's called twice, I've been unable to pick up, he's left messages. Once was to see if I wanted to collaborate on a project, and once, I suspect, so I had his new phone number. Though he's not answered either time I've called back (or he'd call back, and I couldn't pick up). Each time, I've loved getting his message.

My birthday was last week. More on that later.

I've been playing a lot of hockey lately, and I'm feeling mixed. But more happy than not.

No good things have ever come after the words "we're supposed to be friends, right?" Today, I learned this, and even though the person was joking, I felt bad. But because I often obsess about other people's lives to avoid worrying about parts of my own, and because I know this, I'm going to try not to get all wrapped up in his problem.

Kid-Me, Hockey, An Old Photo, a Not-So-Old Photo, and Eye Candy

Here's another kid me thing, this time written out instead of scanned in. Spelling and grammar mistakes included. This story is entitled "Debby."

Debby walked into her living room and she saw bubbles. Then Debby remebered that her little brother was blowing bubbles outside. Then Debby smelled soap. She walked into the bathroom and she saw soap but it wasn't her soap. Then Debby said I give up. And To this day Debby can't find her soap. And she wonders evry time she takes a bite of chocolate.

Don't know what that chocolate thing was about.

ANYWAY. My hockey season starts soon, (two weeks), and I'm certainly ready. This is from a game my family came to, last year. They (meaning my dorkass sister and cousin) made signs. Again, spelling mistakes included.


I've been playing a lot lately, and it feels really good. I want to be better than I have been this season. I even got my first official hockey-playing related tip of the season today from my punkass friend. Rock!

Here's a photo from jazzfest a long time ago.


And last but not least, here's some eye candy. Or, at least it's eye candy for me. Though I'm not entirely clear on which part is the candy part. Hmmm.

More Than One Post Today

I got a voicemail the other day from a person I miss. Someone I thought would never call me again. He may still never call me again, but I loved his message. Speaks volumes about who he is. I love the little cryptic sonofabitch, though.

It said "Hey, it's [name deleted]. Call me back on this number, I don't know what my new number is, but whatever the [area code deleted] number that showed up on your phone was. There's been a death in the family."

We have no family in common. And I have a suspicion I may know what he's talking about (the breakup of a band that we loved). Still, I'm not sure why, but I love the message.

Odd.

A Break From the Kid-Me Stuff

I'll do it again, just not now.

The other night, I got together with a friend, and we spoke about someone we'd met a few days before. The girl we'd met had something of a... rough...look about her. Someone recently reminded me of a word that used to be one of my favorites: "haggard." It wouldn't be so off the mark for me to call her that. Sweet girl. Very nice. Anyway.

So my friend and I start pontificating (to speak in a pompous and dogmatic manner) about why she looks that way. He comes up with the following nugget of wisdom:

"You know, I bet she has a kid. ALL WOMEN look like that after they have kids. I've seen it a million times"

My best judgement would have been to call him a giant jackass (just sort-of kidding, sweetie! Hi!) and forget it. What I did instead was wrack my brain for women we knew in common that had a kid or kids but looked, in no way, haggard. I came up with a girl that we knew, a girl that he'd even had a huge crush on. VERY cute. Not at all haggard. His retort? "Well, her kid's only three. It doesn't happen until the kid is around four or five."

Even though I know he has no clue what he's talking about, I left that dinner and said "I'm never having motherfucking kids." I have nary a wrinkle on my face, and neither does any female member of my family (even my grandmother has great skin), but that night I slathered on the moisturizer two inches thick.

In his defense, the next day, via text, he admitted he had no clue what he was talking about. I should have realized this. Another direct quote from this person:

"I almost told you that you look like you've lost weight. But I decided against it."

Tip for everyone? NEVER decide against it.

LUURVE ya, babe!

Hey, Good Luck! Also...I Promise I'll Be Done With This Series At Some Point

Today started out meh. I say just "meh," because I woke up with that weird feeling that I had a lot to get accomplished, and then just felt sorta blah all day and puttered around a bunch at work, running errands, and trying to write, but didn't really accomplish anything real.

Then, early this evening, I called a friend that I just recently got back in touch with. I'll be creative and call this person RA (as I think I've already done before on this blog. I'm really good with the annonyminity thing). We laughed a shit-ton while on the phone, 'cause that's just how we roll. While we were chatting and laugh-laugh-laughing, I was cleaning out a box that my mom had given me (we're packing up her house to move. I may have mentioned). Inside the box, I find an envelope simply marked "2004." I openend it, freaked out by what I might find (oddly, my brain went immediately to tax papers or some shit. I have no idea why). What was in there, though, was $300 in fucking ciz-ash! Boo-yah!

This is remarkable on its own merit, however, it was made even moreso by the fact that a few zillion years ago, I was on the phone with RA another time, and I found $100. So, see, this time was better. So RA, if you're reading, I looooooooove you, and, as Boy said "you guys need to talk on the phone more often." I missed you a wholebunch. Ask anyone.

ANYWAY, here's another in the kid-me series. I can't figure out how to put it straight, and I kind of don't care that much. Tilt your head and read it, it'll be fine. Good for your neck muscles.

This one's a two-parter. And entirely true. She still hates mice to a rediculous degree. I think it's a family trait. Also note my overuse of the word "well."



Be well, readers.

Another in the Series

So since yesterday's theme proved to be a hit, I decided to post another two pieces of literature authored by kid-me.
Here's the first (and sorry, but no matter how many times I save them horizontally, they still post to this page vertically. Annoying. I don't want to re-scan them but I may have to).




So I'm pretty sure the drinks that "they" had were quite different than the variety that "we" partook in, but still I think it's interesting that I chose to take note of the drinking at all. Nowhere in this group of papers did I see anything about our actual trip to Canada.

Here's another.

Who played colorforms? Me and the baby? I had a friend that had a baby? I was taken to this person's house by someone other than my mother, who said that I had to be home for dinner? Why do the people in this illustration have creepy penciled-in eyes?

Thanks for reading, y'all.

That Was a Longer Hiatus Than I'd Hoped

Hopefully I won't have such a long gap between posts anymore. I don't know what got into me. Maybe it was that I have lots of projects that I'm trying to work on, and it's been a pain in my tuchus to get them off the ground. Maybe it's that I am lazy. Maybe...who cares. I'm writing now.

This Saturday, I helped my mom pack up her garage for her upcoming move. I found lots of kid-Monica gems, and discovered I had quite the passion for creative writing. I'm careful not to imply that I had any sort of talent for creative writing, but if having passion means that I wrote like a motherfucker, then, yes. Passion I had.

Here's a sample. In honor of fashion week...
By Monica Russo, age 7.

The Weird Dream Thing

So re: my last post...

It turns out that the weird feeling I was getting (not knowing if I was dreaming, etc.), was a reaction to this medication I was taking. The antibiotic SUCKED. It really fucked with me. I don't want to get into the details but suffice it to say the next night was way worse.

This week was a strange one...I was either superhigh or really bad. I had a great day on Wednesday, my friend wants to make me a rockin' logo for the new business I'm starting, and my night last night was fun (those were some of the good things), but on the other hand, I had that terrible night, a bad day today, and my friend got into an accident yesterday (he's fine).

Enough.

I'm going to watch Seinfeld. Sad days make me want to watch TV.

More Me For You

Today's odd, and I'm having stream of consciousness thoughts. Sorry, fools, but that means you're going to have to deal with this in stream of consciousness form.

Last night I had a hurricane dream. I was in some city (I'm guessing NOLA), a giant hurricane was coming, and the people around me didn't want to leave the city. In the dream, I thought, "too bad this isn't just a dream. That'd be sweet." Normally when this happens, it's a sure-fire way to know that it is, in fact, just a dream. But when I woke up, I wasn't sure. And Boy was no great help at 3 in the morning, either. I woke him up to ask "is there a hurricane coming?" His sleepy response: "I don't think..." Please believe: when I fo-reals woke up this morning, the first thing I did was turn on the Weather Channel. I think NY is hurricane-free for the time being.

I'm going to write more here. Like, everyday-ish. I saw an old friend yesterday who advised me that the best way to get more traffic is to post a lot more.

I need to fix the job situation. I NEED to.

I'm getting my motherfucking permit this week. Again: NEED.

I saw another old friend yesterday, and we waxed nostalgic about (gasp!) high school. Specifically: the weird/rude nicknames everyone had for certain people behind their backs. I hate to say it, but this is a practice I've continued throughout my life (Bologna on the Floor, RoastBeef Mary, etc).

I am working on two projects right now. If I was a praying kind of gal, I'd pray that I keep the motivation for these two things going. If you're a praying kind of gal/not-gal, do it for me.

Cheers.

In the Parlance of Our Times

I've been sick for three weeks...motherfucking hell. I'm miserable. But I felt like I was ditching y'all. So hey!

Several things to say, on the Lebowski front....

First off, I know this is old, but someone sent me this photo, and I couldn't stop laughing:

it's just pure genius.

Secondly, some friends of mine recently hosted a Lebowski party at my apartment. Lebowski party = eating corn nuts, drinking White Russians, and then going bowling (I skipped the bowling part, myself).

It's not exactly what I would call a feelgood movie, but I always feel good when I see it. It's extremely well written and such a great movie (fuckoff, I'm not a movie critic...), but in addition to that, it always makes me think of folks that are/were very important to me. And while I'm sad I lost touch with a lot of them, the movie always makes me feel closer to them, somehow. Makes no sense, sounds corny, so be it. It's just the case.

Also: I recently re-united with a friend of mine on bloody FaceBook...it's my favorite FB "reunited and it feels so good" story. I am so happy to have found him.

How does this relate? 'Cause he's always reminded me of..

They're Humerous Folks, They Are, They Are.

I was going to do another not x365. I started it, and I realized that I can't post a not x365 about the family. It's too much.

I have an odd relationship with them, to say the least. Who doesn't, I know. So let's say this: I've got my own odd relationship with my family (namely, my mom and sister, called "Sitty" from here on out).

The three of us talk to each other approximately 7890548927054 times a day. I don't know why. I'm not sure when I signed on for this, but I know I'm guilty of it, too. Boy will come home and ask me "did you talk to Sitty today?" and I will just laugh. There's no day where the answer is no.

Does this mean we all get along happily? Are we all supertight? Puke. We get along, yes, but we're poster-people for our own brand of dysfunction just like everyone else (I won't get into specifics, because I'm not sure they'd appreciate it). Boy gets along with his brother really well, and they speak maybe once a month. I'd say they're possibly closer than me and some of my people. My friends look at me in pity and disgust as they make their once weekly phone calls. I do not know how to do this: be close, yet far. If they didn't hear from me for a month, they'd...well, I don't know what they'd do. It's never happened in the history of my life.

Meh. It's just how we are. We hate, we argue, we wrack up phone bills. It's our way.

Lowbrow Post

As my sister would say, I'm "not really feeling" today. But I couldn't not share this. Do you watch? It's never Lupus.

Putting Food on Your Family Since 2001

I'm a very happy girl today. I fear that for the past few months, I've been expecting too much of Barack (how sexy is that name, by the way)...like, I've been expecting him to come into office and fix not only the Afghanistan/Gaza/Iraq situations, but also calm my neuroses, find me a better job, and make me a better hockey player. I'll try to chill out about that, but it's hard when I'm just so happy about GWB getting the fuck out of here, and the near miss of Devil-lady Palin.

So to keep this light-hearted and festive, here's some of my favorite Bushisms from the past years (though this leaves out my favorite..."too many OB-GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all accross the country." Uhhhh, what?). From a humor standpoint, I'm gonna miss this asshole.


Which are your favorites? Are they on here?
Happy Obama day, all.

I Motherfucking Hate Being Sick

Erm...

I'm sick. I'm a lot better than I was yesterday. I got home yesterday after a wave of nausea hit me so fast that I almost dropped. Gross.

More later. Whine, whine, whine.

Back

So it was a bit longer of a hiatus then I'd planned. Oops. I don't have a ton of time right now, but I wanted to get the Naked ball rolling again (heh..."naked ball"), but just to keep you posted, since the last time we met, I:

• Went to Montreal
• Spoke "French" in Montreal, accomplished by putting the word "le" before every English noun and punctuating every sentence with "ahhh, oui!"
• Went to Ottawa (these are not in order)
• Saw 3 junior international junior hockey champion games at Scotiabank Place
• Realized that I never need to see 2 ice hockey games in one day ever again, unless I'm playing in at least one of them
• Saw "The Strangers"
• Saw the Benjamin Button movie
• Saw a real, genuine Montreal junkie
  
• Was scared shitless by "The Strangers" and woke up freaked out about bag-headed people
• Played shinny in Montreal
• Have been entirely smoke-free in 2009, so far
• Listened to my uncle shout the words "TRUE OR FALSE" to my grandmother
• Received a "First Canadian Christmas" package from Boy's brother and sister-in-law, including a can of Molson Canadian and an actual tuque
• Slept for six hours in the back of my friend's car
• Had some very...ahem...satisfying experiences
  
• Saw the rockin' view from my friend's new apartment and played with his dog
• Bought a pink hockey stick from Sport Rousseau
  
• Forgot to take my garbage out before going to Canada, and was pleasantly surprised by its non-stinkiness when we got home
• Read The Heroin Diaries by Nikki Sixx. Not as good as The Dirt, but still damn entertaining
• Want to write more, bitch less

It's also worth mentioning that today, when I told my friend that I had slept with our annoying male Bikhram Yoga teacher (I didn't, but I wanted to see her reaction), she thanked me for trying to spice up the friendship. I laughed for five minutes straight. Also: this guy was someone I totally would have gone for in my younger days. Le Sigh. Young me was so dumb. Ahhh, oui.