I love me some Pre-Husband. I feel a comfort with him that I haven't felt in a while...maybe ever. I know he's the right person for me. I've even naturally toned down the crazy, which, I think, is a direct result of living with him and his amazing calming presence.
Watching Treme with him on the sofa last night was one of the best times I've had all week (also: anyone who's read this freaking thing even once knows I'm obsessed with all things NOLA).
That said, our wedding and subsequent marriage (which I'm so excited for) has got me thinking about dudes from my past.
I hate that I want everything to be fine with everyone. I hate that there's motherfuckers out there who don't know how I feel, and therefore they think I am evil. I hate that I had (have?) the tendency to express myself poorly, therefore hurting other people when it's the LAST thing I want to do.
That's all for now, I'm getting all googly. Maybe more later. Yeah. More later.
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, December 28, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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 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.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
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."
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."
Friday, May 15, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Statuses I've Thought About Using When Updating My FaceBook Page
Feel free to weigh in!
Monica...
Monica...
- never knows how much to tip the pedicure lady.
- never knows what will make her happy.
- wishes she did.
- thinks The Dark Knight could have been a lot shorter.
- thoroughly enjoyed Heath Ledger's performance in said movie.
- is publicly sorry that she waited until the last minute to say she couldn't go to your party with you.
- means that sincerely.
- misses NOLA every day.
- has to deal with the fact that there's someone out there that she wants to speak to that won't speak to her.
- has not dealt well with that so far.
- has done wrong by RA.
- feels alternately wronged and loved by RG.
- would much rather be a cannibal than be Amish.
- is terrified by the fact that she has never experienced writers block to this degree.
- would like to reiterate that: really terrified.
- can feel alternately very close to or estranged from her friends, the same friends, all in one day.
- hates that.
- doesn't care if people say it's disappointing--she will never tire of wanting to meet Tommy Lee.
- also feels that way about Nikki Sixx, but has never heard that it was disappointing.
- is thrilled to pieces about the arrival of her new friend Little T, who gets more freakin' great all the time.
- thinks that if she has kids, she definitely wants them to play hockey.
- thinks that hockey cures (most of) what ails you.
- has learned that there are other things except...ahem...substances that can make her feel alive.
- would be lying if she said they didn't (used to) help.
- thinks that nothing feels better than laughing until it really hurts. Pains.
- has fallen a little more in love with FG this year.
- wants next year to fall into place a little more.
- is wondering why she needs to hide behind fake FB status postings to be "naked."
- needs recommendations for the next good book to read.
- really enjoyed Slow Man.
- wants you to submit to Fat & Happy!
- wishes she could decide.
- thanks you for reading.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Not x365...The Love Edition
#9 You are another person I almost lived with, once. I had to tell you no, and that was terrible. It was my fault. You didn't deserve it. I was a little scared of how, when I was with you, I didn't really care about things that I usually care about. The only thing I cared about was us. We could get lost in day/week-long benders together, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't boatloads of fun and drugs and sex and laughing and hiding from everyone in your room. I loved you, and what we had together, and it was exactly the life I had to separate myself from, because I could get way too caught up in it. I hope we speak again. This is the hardest one of these that I have had to do, because I have to be vague and I don't want to. I have so much to say. Gotta nickel? I need a fifth of liquor and a Snickers bar.
#10 I loved you from afar for oh so much of my teen life! You used to tease me with brief moments of friendship and flirting, and I saved these little snippets deep in my brain matter and got giddy with happiness when I'd replay them in my head. Even as youngfolk, I think we would have been hot as a couple, but probably too intense, and broken up and never spoken to each other again. So it's fun that I can still delude myself into thinking that you were besotted with me, too. Ahhhhh.
#11/#12 Did you ever have a crush on someone for so long, and could feel mutual flirtation between you that almost made you dizzy? And did you ever think how great it would be to finally have your way with that person? Did you ever actually get your way with that person? Sometimes, it's not so great.
#13 Sometimes it is.
#10 I loved you from afar for oh so much of my teen life! You used to tease me with brief moments of friendship and flirting, and I saved these little snippets deep in my brain matter and got giddy with happiness when I'd replay them in my head. Even as youngfolk, I think we would have been hot as a couple, but probably too intense, and broken up and never spoken to each other again. So it's fun that I can still delude myself into thinking that you were besotted with me, too. Ahhhhh.
#11/#12 Did you ever have a crush on someone for so long, and could feel mutual flirtation between you that almost made you dizzy? And did you ever think how great it would be to finally have your way with that person? Did you ever actually get your way with that person? Sometimes, it's not so great.
#13 Sometimes it is.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
On the Six
Ok, so this story doesn't actually take place on the 6 train, but that's the title of a J-Lo album, and therefore it's funny, because everything that has to do with J-Lo is funny. Even her freak multiples. This was a different train, but that's not that important.
It was a crowded, rush-hour train. We commented on its crowded-ness when we got on.
I hate couples that stare into one another's eyes, mooning all over each other like a pair of lovesick fools (though "lovesick" is one of my favorite words). I immensely dislike these people and think them not only puke-inducing, but rude (I'm not sure why).
This day on the train, I couldn't stop looking at you, right smack in the eyes. I was so gross, but so were you. Staring at each other like a pair of idiots. But I love you and couldn't help it.
We stood with the pole between us; that fucking pole was so in the way! I felt that the skinny little pole took up so much room. We hugged, then, tightly, with that pole in the middle of our hug. I hated that pole.
I kissed you quickly, on the lips, about four hundred times.
You whispered in my ear.
It was the best train ride of my life, and the purpose of this blog is to apologize to the people who had to witness our sickfest. But once I looked up at you, I didn't notice them at all.
It was a crowded, rush-hour train. We commented on its crowded-ness when we got on.
I hate couples that stare into one another's eyes, mooning all over each other like a pair of lovesick fools (though "lovesick" is one of my favorite words). I immensely dislike these people and think them not only puke-inducing, but rude (I'm not sure why).
This day on the train, I couldn't stop looking at you, right smack in the eyes. I was so gross, but so were you. Staring at each other like a pair of idiots. But I love you and couldn't help it.
We stood with the pole between us; that fucking pole was so in the way! I felt that the skinny little pole took up so much room. We hugged, then, tightly, with that pole in the middle of our hug. I hated that pole.
I kissed you quickly, on the lips, about four hundred times.
You whispered in my ear.
It was the best train ride of my life, and the purpose of this blog is to apologize to the people who had to witness our sickfest. But once I looked up at you, I didn't notice them at all.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Pasturized, Homoginized, Liquified, Carmelized
This is my first day of National Blog Posting Month. Go me.
So last night I went out for Halloween. This used to be my favorite holiday, but for some reason I just couldn't get into it this year. It may be because my partner in Halloween was out of town...she's a big Phillies fan (Phan?) so she was back home for the festivities...I guess they won some baseball game or something. Maybe it's because I didn't get my shit together fast enough to pull together the perfect costume. It's NOT because I'm getting too old, so don't even say it.
After thinking about it, though, I decided to go to a party that was very close to my apartment. I refuse to go to a Halloween party without costume, though, so I pulled something together. (The reason I could do this is because I keep a list, all throughout the year, of things that would make good costumes. I also do this with karaoke songs.)
I was this:
Can you guess who it is? It's not the greatest photo, and the costume itself was really hit or miss. People either instantly recognized it, or they stared at me, mouths slack and agape with "what the fuck is she doing"-ness. I won a prize for "most intellectual costume," though. Not really what one strives for on Halloween, but I suppose it confirmed my nerd status. NB: I don't look so great in that photo. I'm hotter than that in real life.
I saw two people dressed as the Golden Girls last night. Well, not all the Golden Girls, just Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo. I adore the Golden Girls, and have won awards for my knowledge of GG trivia (no kidding). Fake Dorothy and "Ma," were terrific and I hope that when I meet the surviving Girls, I'll have as quick kinship with them as I did with their replicas.
Oh! I just thought of something that I forgot to tell even these girls last night: a few years ago I went to go see an awful Broadway musical with my family, my ex (not Double Ex, a different one), and his family. During the intermission, I went to get a drink, and I spotted Rue McClanahan at the bar. I instantly started choking up. I adore her. I generally have a "leave them alone" policy when it comes to celebrities, but I could NOT leave Blanche Devereaux alone. I would never have forgiven myself.
Anyway, I pulled myself together as best I could, walked over to her, and said "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. McClanahan, but I need you to know that I am a giant fan of yours." (I could say "giant" because I was considerably thinner, then.) She just turned to me, grasped my shoulder (!!), and said, in an accent dripping with Southern goodness (I hope it wasn't just put on for my sake) "Oh, honey. It's never a bother."
I love her.
Halloween also makes me think of someone I miss very much. So, if you read this (sometimes you do), I miss you. And yes, I know we never spent Halloween together, but I've seen MoFoFed many times on Halloween, and they always make me think of you.
So last night I went out for Halloween. This used to be my favorite holiday, but for some reason I just couldn't get into it this year. It may be because my partner in Halloween was out of town...she's a big Phillies fan (Phan?) so she was back home for the festivities...I guess they won some baseball game or something. Maybe it's because I didn't get my shit together fast enough to pull together the perfect costume. It's NOT because I'm getting too old, so don't even say it.
After thinking about it, though, I decided to go to a party that was very close to my apartment. I refuse to go to a Halloween party without costume, though, so I pulled something together. (The reason I could do this is because I keep a list, all throughout the year, of things that would make good costumes. I also do this with karaoke songs.)
I was this:
Can you guess who it is? It's not the greatest photo, and the costume itself was really hit or miss. People either instantly recognized it, or they stared at me, mouths slack and agape with "what the fuck is she doing"-ness. I won a prize for "most intellectual costume," though. Not really what one strives for on Halloween, but I suppose it confirmed my nerd status. NB: I don't look so great in that photo. I'm hotter than that in real life.
I saw two people dressed as the Golden Girls last night. Well, not all the Golden Girls, just Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo. I adore the Golden Girls, and have won awards for my knowledge of GG trivia (no kidding). Fake Dorothy and "Ma," were terrific and I hope that when I meet the surviving Girls, I'll have as quick kinship with them as I did with their replicas.
Oh! I just thought of something that I forgot to tell even these girls last night: a few years ago I went to go see an awful Broadway musical with my family, my ex (not Double Ex, a different one), and his family. During the intermission, I went to get a drink, and I spotted Rue McClanahan at the bar. I instantly started choking up. I adore her. I generally have a "leave them alone" policy when it comes to celebrities, but I could NOT leave Blanche Devereaux alone. I would never have forgiven myself.
Anyway, I pulled myself together as best I could, walked over to her, and said "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. McClanahan, but I need you to know that I am a giant fan of yours." (I could say "giant" because I was considerably thinner, then.) She just turned to me, grasped my shoulder (!!), and said, in an accent dripping with Southern goodness (I hope it wasn't just put on for my sake) "Oh, honey. It's never a bother."
I love her.
Halloween also makes me think of someone I miss very much. So, if you read this (sometimes you do), I miss you. And yes, I know we never spent Halloween together, but I've seen MoFoFed many times on Halloween, and they always make me think of you.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
A Mess. It's Been a While.
The molecules of the room are frantic and you're buzzing around. You're one of only two people in the room, anyway. Oh, no. Wait. There's three. There's definitely a tweaky energy in there and you're drinking after a night of drinking at five, four, sometime in the morning. You don't have that pit feeling yet, though, because the sun hasn't started peeking out yet. Still dark. You're ok.
You wait to talk...wait until the conversation or bits of loud non sequitur spin your way, feeling a good-natured, affectionate hatred towards those whose turn it is to talk. Coke's the storyteller's best friend. While it's not your turn, your head preoccupies itself with blahblahblah: men you've known, men you've more than known, men you've slept with... You then start taking a businesslike, systematic look at your dirty attitude towards men. Really dirty? Or are you just being extra judgemental of yourself due to the powder. Not dirty, you decide. Just plentiful. You think about it as if you are putting together a Rolodex. For research. Yeah, research. Except you're not researching anything.
To many of them, these men, you're not at all emotionally attached. In your mind, your fucking them isn't even a blip on their radar because it's not a blip on yours. It doesn't reach them and it doesn't reach you.
Then. Then there are the ones you never fucked, but felt more strongly towards, anyway.
The one, skinny as a rail now, who used to be fat as a child.
The one who taught you to play pool.
The one who has a class picture of himself in a pale-pink knit tie and black button-down shirt.
The one you loved, who insisted on talking about the ex. Or the exes.
Why do you have such a morbid fascination for hearing about the ex? About all of their exes? Why do you love hearing it so much when every single solitary motherfucking time you get jealous of a life that happened before you whywhywhy?
You start to feel like you maybe should think about this sometime, when you're sober. Try to remember to do so.
Buckup and pay attention, now, because it's your turn to talk.
You wait to talk...wait until the conversation or bits of loud non sequitur spin your way, feeling a good-natured, affectionate hatred towards those whose turn it is to talk. Coke's the storyteller's best friend. While it's not your turn, your head preoccupies itself with blahblahblah: men you've known, men you've more than known, men you've slept with... You then start taking a businesslike, systematic look at your dirty attitude towards men. Really dirty? Or are you just being extra judgemental of yourself due to the powder. Not dirty, you decide. Just plentiful. You think about it as if you are putting together a Rolodex. For research. Yeah, research. Except you're not researching anything.
To many of them, these men, you're not at all emotionally attached. In your mind, your fucking them isn't even a blip on their radar because it's not a blip on yours. It doesn't reach them and it doesn't reach you.
Then. Then there are the ones you never fucked, but felt more strongly towards, anyway.
The one, skinny as a rail now, who used to be fat as a child.
The one who taught you to play pool.
The one who has a class picture of himself in a pale-pink knit tie and black button-down shirt.
The one you loved, who insisted on talking about the ex. Or the exes.
Why do you have such a morbid fascination for hearing about the ex? About all of their exes? Why do you love hearing it so much when every single solitary motherfucking time you get jealous of a life that happened before you whywhywhy?
You start to feel like you maybe should think about this sometime, when you're sober. Try to remember to do so.
Buckup and pay attention, now, because it's your turn to talk.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Bodega Guys and Hook Hands
I've not been able to go into my bodega since last Monday. At the very least, the night shift (of the 24 hour place) is off-limits for me. My bodega guy asked me out. My bodega guy. Asked me out.
Now I understand those of you not familiar with bodega culture may not fully grasp how terribly horrible it is for your bodega to be off limits. This one is the shit, too. More like a gourmet mini grocery-convenience store. And it's a good idea to make friends with your bodega people, as I did, as well. You can have packages left off there, if your building doesn't have a lobby and you don't want your packages left outside. If they're close enough to your apartment, they'll help you carry heavy stuff home. And sometimes, if they know you real well, and if you lost your bank card and it's too late to go to the bank, and all you have is a check and you really, really, need a pack of cigarettes because you just got back from a trip to New Orleans and you can't help but wondering really, REALLY, why you live in the most expensive city in the world, well, then, sometimes, they'll let you write them a check. They're not stupid, though. You have to put your phone number on the top of the check.
See where this is going?
So anyway, last Monday, I had a drink with a friend that I haven't seen in a long while. I got home fairly early, got off the subway, and went into the bodega, as I often do, to purchase a snack. Well, flirty bodega man was in there, and asked me what I was up to for the evening. Flirty is younger than most of the other bodega dudes, and chattier, too. I just smiled at him, and told him I was on my way home. He then said, "Maybe we could hang out sometime before the holidays." Since I have never ever learned how to decline gracefully (WHYWHYWHY did I never learn that??), I just made some sound like "kayhrmsph," let it trail off, and walked out.
Well, I get home, and not but two seconds later, my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I don't answer the unfamiliars. Ever. But I did listen to the message. It was Flirty. He had gotten my number from the check I had written, and wanted to see what I was doing because he was on a "quick break." Actually, let's be honest. I didn't even get asked out by bodega dude, I think I got booty-called by him. Claaaaaaaasy.
Reminds me of something else (a little bit):
My mom still lives (for now) in the town in which my sister and I grew up. The town definitely has elements of small-town livin', even though it is a fairly upscale Long Island town. Everyone sort of knows everyone, which is (I suppose) nice, but also, everyone knows everyone's business. That has nothing to do, per se, with my story, but I'm painting a picture here, folks.
Anyway, there used to be (or maybe there still is) a cab driver in this town who had a hook hand. A pretty high-tech hook hand, too. It was all metal, none of that fake skin plastic bullshit. He wasn't joking around with that hook, yo. We'll call him Vinny the Hook. So V the H wound up with my mom in his cab at one point. Suffice it to say, he became smitten. Whenever a call would come in from my mom, V the H would be the first one to pick up the dispatch, and be there to pick her right on up. I'm pretty sure he asked her out once or twice. My mom, unlike me, surely did learn how to decline gracefully, I imagine, because she never did wind up going out with the Hook, nor did she have to avoid the cab company altogether.
Until.
One day he was driving her home from somewhere (I'm sure she didn't even have to tell him where she lived anymore...which now that I think about it is REALLY creepy), and pulled in front of the house. She paid him, and was about to get out. But Hooky turned around with a bunch of CDs in his hand, and said "here. Take these. They make me think of you."
I'm sure that at this point, my mom made a noise akin to the "kayhrmsph" noise I made in the bodega last Monday, but she took the CDs. My favorite part of the whole thing is that apparently, the music that made V the H think of my mom consisted of the scores of several movies that she described as "satanic." Literally so. Not a judgement call, but literally movies condoning satanic worship.
Not that there's anything wrong with that...
Now I understand those of you not familiar with bodega culture may not fully grasp how terribly horrible it is for your bodega to be off limits. This one is the shit, too. More like a gourmet mini grocery-convenience store. And it's a good idea to make friends with your bodega people, as I did, as well. You can have packages left off there, if your building doesn't have a lobby and you don't want your packages left outside. If they're close enough to your apartment, they'll help you carry heavy stuff home. And sometimes, if they know you real well, and if you lost your bank card and it's too late to go to the bank, and all you have is a check and you really, really, need a pack of cigarettes because you just got back from a trip to New Orleans and you can't help but wondering really, REALLY, why you live in the most expensive city in the world, well, then, sometimes, they'll let you write them a check. They're not stupid, though. You have to put your phone number on the top of the check.
See where this is going?
So anyway, last Monday, I had a drink with a friend that I haven't seen in a long while. I got home fairly early, got off the subway, and went into the bodega, as I often do, to purchase a snack. Well, flirty bodega man was in there, and asked me what I was up to for the evening. Flirty is younger than most of the other bodega dudes, and chattier, too. I just smiled at him, and told him I was on my way home. He then said, "Maybe we could hang out sometime before the holidays." Since I have never ever learned how to decline gracefully (WHYWHYWHY did I never learn that??), I just made some sound like "kayhrmsph," let it trail off, and walked out.
Well, I get home, and not but two seconds later, my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I don't answer the unfamiliars. Ever. But I did listen to the message. It was Flirty. He had gotten my number from the check I had written, and wanted to see what I was doing because he was on a "quick break." Actually, let's be honest. I didn't even get asked out by bodega dude, I think I got booty-called by him. Claaaaaaaasy.
Reminds me of something else (a little bit):
My mom still lives (for now) in the town in which my sister and I grew up. The town definitely has elements of small-town livin', even though it is a fairly upscale Long Island town. Everyone sort of knows everyone, which is (I suppose) nice, but also, everyone knows everyone's business. That has nothing to do, per se, with my story, but I'm painting a picture here, folks.
Anyway, there used to be (or maybe there still is) a cab driver in this town who had a hook hand. A pretty high-tech hook hand, too. It was all metal, none of that fake skin plastic bullshit. He wasn't joking around with that hook, yo. We'll call him Vinny the Hook. So V the H wound up with my mom in his cab at one point. Suffice it to say, he became smitten. Whenever a call would come in from my mom, V the H would be the first one to pick up the dispatch, and be there to pick her right on up. I'm pretty sure he asked her out once or twice. My mom, unlike me, surely did learn how to decline gracefully, I imagine, because she never did wind up going out with the Hook, nor did she have to avoid the cab company altogether.
Until.
One day he was driving her home from somewhere (I'm sure she didn't even have to tell him where she lived anymore...which now that I think about it is REALLY creepy), and pulled in front of the house. She paid him, and was about to get out. But Hooky turned around with a bunch of CDs in his hand, and said "here. Take these. They make me think of you."
I'm sure that at this point, my mom made a noise akin to the "kayhrmsph" noise I made in the bodega last Monday, but she took the CDs. My favorite part of the whole thing is that apparently, the music that made V the H think of my mom consisted of the scores of several movies that she described as "satanic." Literally so. Not a judgement call, but literally movies condoning satanic worship.
Not that there's anything wrong with that...
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
UGH to the UES; Miscellany...
For some reason, I've found myself having to go to the Upper East Side with increasing frequency over the last week or so. It's made me realize something I truly don't like about myself: I sort of despise people that obviously have more money than me. (I'm talking about folks that drip money, here, not your average joe schmoe who happens to make more of a salary than I do. It's not hard to accomplish.) I don't mean to...but up there people sort of exude money. You can tell, especially, by the haircuts. Not the shoes or the bags or the teeny weeny dressed up dogs (I know, I'm making myself ill with this cliched bitterness), but the chicks in their mid 40's...you can see it in the layers and the highlights. I'm sure none of this would bother me (or, let's be honest, it would bother me less), if I wasn't currently residing in a state of broke-as-a-joke-edness. Generally (here comes another less than mind-blowing revelation), I avoid the area like the plague. Though it is fair to mention that we found a really good park for street hockey, of which I am so fond, up there last Sunday.
Otherstuff: I was in Ozzie's today, trying to get some writing done. I've been sort of blocked, these days, so I started writing about the first thing that popped into my head, just to get the pen moving. What happened to pop into my head was a Morphine song, particularly, the disgust I feel every time I hear it. (The song is "All Wrong.") I have nothing against Morphine...I actually quite like the song, more than quite like it, in fact, as I do the entire Cure For Pain album. It's just that I associate the song with a specific person and a specific thing that bothers me--really, really fucking bothers me--about this person (a person who otherwise ... well I'm just delighted by this person). Since, for me, the whole thing is a particularly charged topic, I was writing like gangbusters. The song, and thinking about it, jerked something loose, and it was on.
Anyway. I sort of lost track of time. When I finally looked at my cell, it had been an hour or so after I started, and please believe it felt like, at the most, fifteen minutes. Not but two seconds after I got up to leave, I shit you not, folks, the motherfucking song came on in the coffee shop.
When I figure out what this is an omen for, I'll let you know. Something, though. Something.
Otherstuff: I was in Ozzie's today, trying to get some writing done. I've been sort of blocked, these days, so I started writing about the first thing that popped into my head, just to get the pen moving. What happened to pop into my head was a Morphine song, particularly, the disgust I feel every time I hear it. (The song is "All Wrong.") I have nothing against Morphine...I actually quite like the song, more than quite like it, in fact, as I do the entire Cure For Pain album. It's just that I associate the song with a specific person and a specific thing that bothers me--really, really fucking bothers me--about this person (a person who otherwise ... well I'm just delighted by this person). Since, for me, the whole thing is a particularly charged topic, I was writing like gangbusters. The song, and thinking about it, jerked something loose, and it was on.
Anyway. I sort of lost track of time. When I finally looked at my cell, it had been an hour or so after I started, and please believe it felt like, at the most, fifteen minutes. Not but two seconds after I got up to leave, I shit you not, folks, the motherfucking song came on in the coffee shop.
When I figure out what this is an omen for, I'll let you know. Something, though. Something.
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