a little slap and tickle

I never thought I'd say this but AOL kicks ass. Let me 'splain before all you Mozilla-loving internet snobs abandon my blog in droves. I have a comp account because I work with AOL so technically, they pay ME to use it. Rock on, stick it to the Man and all that jazz.

Anyhoo, one of their features is AOL Radio and it's positively and shockingly wunderbar. I'm totally in love with the 80s Alternative channel. I feel the need to mention that The Hooters, Huey Lewis & the News, Expose and that ilk are NOWHERE (mercifully) to be found on this station. As I clean my apartment on this Memorial Day, I'm Swiffering to The Cure, Squeeze, New Order, Public Image, Ltd., English Beat, The The, Husker Du, et al. I just gave Bono a run for his money with my throaty rendition of "Red Hill Mining Town" from that musical masterpiece, The Joshua Tree.

For those of you with AOL access, give it a whirl. The offerings are tres yummy. Now if you'll pardon me, Mr. Clean and I have to get our groove on to "The Metro." [Random note: THE EX's brother thought that the lyrics to this song were "You were waiting there swimming through a pile of giz. (Sooooooooooooory)." I can never sing the proper words again.]

if it's not scottish...

I was fortunate enough to be able to spend a few hours with the Scottish-born Parents yesterday. I've not mastered any language other than English (something I'm not proud of, by the way) but it's in conversations with them that I realize I'm bilingual. Before I feed further into a huge misconception (and because I've actually been asked), I just want to take this opportunity to state that people in Scotland do in fact speak English, do NOT walk around wearing kilts while playing the bagpipes and tossing cabers in between doing the Highland Fling and scarfing down a steaming helping of haggis. You're more inclined to find that on THIS side of the pond at a heritage festival. The only thing my parents fling about are phrases and expressions that confound most but make total sense to their Scottish brethren and offspring. Most of my friends are polite enough to vacantly smile and nod while the Parents speak. They wait until they're out of earshot before hitting me up for a translation.

I don't always have to translate for just my family though. I've swooped in and cleared up the language barrier several times outside of my home. I worked at an Italian restaurant in college. I answered the phone and worked the counter but one night a waitress approached me and asked me to take the order at Table 3 because she claimed she couldn't understand a word they were saying. Scottish accents can be rather tough especially when infused with a lot of slang so I didn't give her a hard time. These people had pretty clean accents but their attempt to pronounce words like "cavatelli" and "parmigiana" completely threw off the smoky-voiced waitress who grew up on the mean streets of Newark. I don't think she ever backed down from a fight in her life but upon hearing "parma-YAHNA," she just gave up and deferred to me. I even did an over-the-phone Scottish accent lesson for one of my actor friend's scene partner. I fully expect to be thanked in an acceptance speech one of these days.

I'm totally American (born in New Jersey for Christ's sake!) but the town I grew up in was settled by Irish and Scottish immigrants and the culture still pervades. There was also an influx of Portuguese and Spanish immigrants so I know from good paella and sangria. I grew up with mostly first-generation Americans and we embrace our heritage with a bear hug. The Portuguese Cultural Association is teeming with youth. Those in my ethnic group can be found at the Irish-American Association and the Scots-American Club toasting Guinness and Tennent's with a hearty "Slainte!" (that's Gaelic for cheers). I totally dig it.

What I really love about talking to my parents is their expressions. A party at their home is like a feast for my ears. Non-Scottish and -Irish friends clamor to attend these events to absorb the dialogue. Some phrases pop out at me and make me chuckle and others are actually a part of my vocabulary. I'm more aware of it now but for years, I used Scottish terms completely unaware that people had NO idea what I was talking about. This was mostly right after high school when I left the confines of my Scottish enclave.

I can't remember all of them but I thought I'd share a few expressions with you. These aren't actually in a dictionary (that I know of) so my spelling for some of these is strictly phonetic. I've also added sentences for a few of the more obscure ones:

fusty: stale
These scones are fusty.

peely-wally: pale
You're looking awfully peely-wally today. Are you feelin' okay?

bold: bratty
Ach, don't you be so bold, you cheeky wee devil! [I heard this one A LOT growing up]

snot box: one who is bratty [I also heard this one a lot too]

boot: trunk of a car
I need to get my gear out of the boot.

bed clothes: bedding (sheets, comforter, pillow cases); NOT pajamas

ta: thanks

house coat: a robe

tea towel: a dish towel

knackered: tired

washing-up liquid: dish soap (Dawn, Palmolive)

movie house: movie theater

I know I'm forgetting about a million so I invite you to add to this list. Don't limit yourself to Scottish and Irish though. My current vocabulary is loaded with Spanish, Yiddish and Italian phrases and I'm always looking to expand it. Slainte!

somewhat instant karma

Perhaps I shouldn't have taken such pleasure in Cyndi Lauper getting nailed by a pigeon. I was basking in the sun at a barbecue today when all of a sudden... SPLAT! A bird zeroed in on me and dropped a bomb right on my hand. Thanks to the ricochet effect, my cute capri pants suffered secondary wounds. I wanted to choke the little fucker. It's not as awful as the deposit in Lauper's open mouth but it's still pretty heinous. I've dodged bird poop for 30 years with nary a near miss but mere days after publicly ridiculing another's misfortune, I was hit with a karmic boomerang. I could have done without the bird crap but it's still kinda neat that Fate actually reads my blog.

cereal monogamy

The past few days I've been craving cereal like a crack fiend. I don't eat meat so when I'm running low on protein and iron, my body is usually pretty conscientious about issuing a craving to satisfy my nutritional needs. I've been known to blurt out "I need cheese" at random times. Most people understand because well, mmm...cheese. I guess I'm low on riboflavin and massive amounts of sugar because my body issued a cereal edict today. So I stopped at Key Food on my way home from work and perused the aisle certain that something would jump out at me right away. And then I saw it... Peanut Butter Toast Crunch. I loves me some peanut butter especially in a bite-sized crunchy format. I rationalized that it would be a better purchase than the Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch standby because the latter can be a tad rough on the roof of one's mouth. I think I drooled in the aisle anticipating what this new concoction would taste like. I had to resist the urge to rip open the box while waiting to pay for it. Naturally I was stuck behind a woman quibbling with the cashier about whether the ground turkey was on sale or not. Despite my mounting hysteria, I managed to squelch the "Haul ass, bitch!" that was desperately fighting to come out. I then had to battle the need to bust open the box and eat it while walking home. This was a severe jones I was riding out.

I blew off dinner completely and sat my ass in front of the TV with a Yuengling and started tearing at the cardboard. I'm not a big fan of milk so any cereal I eat is straight up, right out of the box. I don't always drink beer with my cereal but this was a special occasion. It was a first date of sorts. I was in such a frenzy that I don't think I even tasted the first few handfuls. When I snapped out of my altered state, I had peanut butter dust all over my black clothes as well as caked on my face. What's even more pathetic is that the cereal wasn't even good. It took me half the box before I realized that it, in fact, sucked. I've never experienced morning-after-a-one-night-stand regret but I think I understand what it feels like now. I'm so sorry I strayed, Cap'n. I remain forever your bitch.

change of subject

I'm not easily scared nor an alarmist but watching the news tonight made my blood run cold. I don't get all hysterical when a new color-coded terror warning is issued or a diabolical plot revealed but I've completely reached my saturation point. So it was with great pleasure -- and equal amounts of disgust -- that I read the following tidbit in today's Rush & Molloy column in the NY Daily News. It was a somewhat welcome distraction. Um, enjoy!

Cyndi's airborne critic
Somewhere over Massachusetts is a sparrow who apparently doesn't care for '80s rock.

Cyndi Lauper was reaching for a high note during her opening number at Saturday's KISS-108-sponsored concert in Mansfield, Mass., when from the sky came a white glob of bird poop.

The fecal critique landed in her open mouth.

Showing more aplomb than Tippi Hedren ever displayed in "The Birds," the Brooklyn-born rocker wiped her tongue on her sleeve and kept rockin'.

The 50-year-old singer did kvetch backstage that a bird once plopped on her head while she was on stage.

"My grandmother says it's good luck, but I think it's disgusting," she moaned.

Maybe birds just want to have fun.

Say it with me now.... EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!

a stolen rainbow

For today's installment, I'm dipping into the journal again. Mmm... dip. I distinctly remember writing this at work in between answering phones for a magazine publisher while his assistant was on vacation. Temping can really suck but it's not bad when you're not expected to do anything but pick up the phone when it rings. The pay was awful and the work boring, but sometimes I long for the simplicity and the extra free time. This was written on 10.28.1997.

Humiliation is a part of daily life. No one is immune to this torment, however some receive more frequent and intense doses than others. Humiliation was part of the curriculum when I was in sixth grade. A typical day would start at 8:30am with religion class, reading, math and mental anguish to round out the morning. Believe it or not, the teachers set aside a time to inflict some serious psychological scars on their pupils. Make no mistake, degradation and embarrassment were a part of every class particularly those that included oral exams and mental math tests. These torture sessions in particular made certain that the makers of Mylanta will be in business well through the next century. Students, including myself, would give themselves stomach aches worrying if they would be cut down after incorrectly responding to the teacher's rapid-fire questioning. I'm certain that my town will soon be designated an ulcer pocket.

The boys-against-girls or class-against-class competitions were bad enough but nothing could top the talent portion of the Mortification Olympics in terms of emotional and gastrointestinal distress. We never knew when it would happen but every now and then, the two sixth grade nuns would mutually decide to take us down a notch. The phrase, "Okay everyone, put your desks in a circle," signaled the beginning of the end. We would all suck in our breath as we waited for the rest of the instructions hoping and praying for a grammar drill or a history pop quiz. No such luck. "You're going to come up one by one and sing, recite a poem, dance or do something to entertain us in some way. Who's first?" We'd all panic and jog our memories to remember a song or joke that was suitable in a parochial school setting. The worst was when I locked in on a good poem (I refused to sing) and while waiting for my turn, someone else had the same idea and performed it first. There were no repeats, you see. It was devastating.

It was a pitiful sight to behold as this group of ragtag, talentless (for the most part) performers favored the rest of the class with their selections. The only things missing from this scenario were Chuck Barris and a huge gong. The Unknown Comic looked like a master of his craft compared to some of the acts on display here. One student was so desperate to quickly end his misery that he skipped around the room while pretending to shampoo his hair and sang, "I'm Going to Wash That Gray Right out of My Hair." Like many in my generation, he had NO idea that the jingle was based on a song from South Pacific. Had he known the actual words included "man" instead of "gray," he might not have picked that song. After he was done, we were promptly told, "No commercials!" The mad scramble for original material resumed.

Little did the nuns know that their little exercise in humility was also a showcase of the backstabbing, manipulative streaks that lay beneath the surface of even their sweetest students. Hidden under the layers of sunny conformity and the authority-pleasing eagerness lay a dark side of me that put the scheming wenches of Melrose to shame [ed note: remember, this was written in '97 and Melrose was the model example of bitchy behavior.] I'm not proud of it but I did the unthinkable one day. I was having one of those three-alarm stomach aches worrying about my turn in the scorching spotlight. I had no idea what to do. My panic was only making it worse -- I even considered singing but I couldn't remember the words to any songs. I couldn't remember what I had done the last time I went. Then I had an idea. I feigned curiosity and interest and got the girl next to me to tell me what she was going to do. I actually knew the poem she was planning to recite!! As soon as the stage cleared, my hand shot up in the air and I volunteered to go next. I walked to the center of the stage and began: "I saw a lovely arc of rainbow span the sky..." I might as well have stolen her boyfriend and made out with him right there. As I was talking about sunshine and rainbows, the look on her face suggested death and destruction. It was quite a contrast.

I think my younger sister was instrumental in bringing this horrifying practice to an end. Two years later when she was in this class, she had the cojones to get up and sing a song she learned at Girl Scout Camp. Oooh! "Girl Scout Camp"!!! I should have sung that. Anyhoo, the younger sister and two of her friends took the stage and sang a ditty that goes a little something like this:

Oh I was I was a little bar of soap (bar of soap)
Oh I was I was a little bar of soap (bar of soap)
I'd go slippy slippy slidey over everybody's heinie
Oh I was I was a little bar of soap!

Oh I was I was a little mos-qui-TO (mos-qui-TO)
Oh I was I was a little mos-qui-TO (mos-qui-TO)
I'd go bitey bitey bitey under everybody's nightie
Oh I was I was a little mos-qui-TO (mos-qui-TO)!

I think when they got to the verse about being a keg of beer (going down with a slurp and up with a burp), the two nuns had heard enough and brought an abrupt end to the talent show. Yet again, the wee sis had done me proud.

curly's big adventure

I sit here this morning writing to you with a screamingly sore bum. No, not for THAT reason, dirty-minded ones. I bought a bike yesterday and promptly went for a 14-mile ride in Prospect Park.

My Good Neighbor was kind enough to accompany me on a bike-shopping expedition yesterday. We started out at a shop for serious riders in the East Village. I had intended on buying a used bike so that I could get a quality frame at a decent price. But when we arrived at Bikes By George, the pickings were rather slim... and they weren't pretty.

I didn't necessarily want one with a basket on the front or rainbow-colored tassels hanging from the grips but the hot pink and mustard-colored offerings were less than stellar. Good Neighbor realized what he was dealing with and promptly got on the phone and found a few more stores. As we walked westward, many bikes were chained up along the way which we naturally critiqued:

Good Neighbor: That's a nice one.

Yours Truly: Nope, too "Mrs. Gulch."

Good Neighbor: Sigh.

We had big plans to hit the shops for serious cyclists but we took a quick detour into the Astor Place K-mart "just to look." Less than 30 minutes later, I was swiping my debit card at the register with a kick-ass Huffy (going back to my roots) in tow. It's a sweet ride. The last time I bought a bike, I was about 13. I had saved up money from my paper route (I kid you not) and bought a powder pink and gray Huffy 10-speed. The handlebars had pink grips and there were lovely splashes of pastel colors on the frame. I bought it on a Saturday but couldn't pick it up until Monday because it had to be assembled. That schoolday was quite possibly the longest, most excruciating day ever.

This time around, the seat had a bar code sticker on it so we wheeled it to the register, the cashier scanned it and off we went. I also got a helmet but I made Good Neighbor carry the K-mart bag because I still have embarrassment issues stemming from childhood about that. I think I was ridiculed in school because of K-mart brand crayons one year and I've been scarred ever since. Besides, I looked kick-ass on the 6 train standing next to a metallic blue bike with a shock-absorbing frame. I couldn't ruin the illusion with a plastic bag draped from my wrist. Ew.

tarot cards & tapas

I unexpectedly ended up going to a press event after work. For reasons I can't really explain, I had my astrological chart done at a function touting nail polish remover. If there's a common thread in there somewhere, I'm just not seeing it. If it was palm reading and Lubriderm, I'd understand but I'm not sure I'm grasping this correlation. To add insult to befuddlement, I totally got weaseled out of my tarot card reading. I do believe one of the organizers was standing behind me giving the "wrap it up" motion about two minutes into my session. I was quickly told to embrace my "odd ways" and to stop being so hard on people. On the upside, I'm going to fall madly in love next year and I was encouraged to either have kids or write a children's book. Apparently, I'm "bursting with content." I personally think the astrologist is bursting with shit.

I then F-trained it downtown to attend a birthday dinner at 1492 where we partook in sangria and yummy tapas. As good as the food was, I'm not sure I fully appreciate the whole sharing of food with complete strangers concept. Half of the table was comprised of people I never met before but that didn't stop them from making short work of my fried calamari. Perhaps it's the PMS but I found myself getting really territorial with my porcini mushroom croquettes. I practically had to throw elbows and slap hands to get one when the waiter brought them to the table. I know the whole tapas thing is supposed to be a communal, shared experience but this was more like a feeding frenzy. Oddly enough, there was a woman sitting next to me named Mako who was super predatory and really efficient whenever a new round of food hit the table. I dared not put my hand in her path for fear it would be mistaken for chum. Personally, if I shared a name with a fierce killing machine, I'd be a bit more mindful of my eating habits.

since i'm up now anyway...

The phone rang this morning at 6:45am. It wasn't until the third ring that I realized I wasn't dreaming and someone was actually calling me before my alarm went off (a mortal sin if there ever was one). When I finally came to, I heard my mother's voice leaving a message. Was someone ill? Did someone die? Why was she calling me at this ungodly hour of the morning?!?!

Because my apartment is a REALLY REALLY REALLY small studio, I have a loft bed -- okay, adult bunk bed -- to save space. Because I'm six feet off the ground, nothing, including the phone, is within arm's reach. As I climbed down the ladder and made my way over to the answering machine, all sorts of horrible scenarios played out in my mind. I thought I'd be attending a wake before the week was out. With a quivering hand I reached for the playback button and out came the soft, Scottish-tinged voice:

Uh, yes hello. It's Mum. Just calling to remind you that today is a holy day of obligation. Okay, bye bye now. BEEP!

What the hell?! That bit of news couldn't wait until later? I guess in a way it's good because I can now formulate a white lie about going to Mass instead of her ambushing me (oh yes, I HAVE been ambushed). I disagree with my parents about many things but I've learned to choose my battles. If believing I go to Mass keeps the mother happy, so be it. I'm saving up the heartache for when I finally reveal that her daughter's a big ol' rug muncher. Well, perhaps I'll be a bit more tactful than that...

I don't even remember what holy day it is. Okay, it's May so it must have something to do with Mary, correct? The Assumption? I racked my feeble, sleep-addled brain in the minutes following that message trying to figure out what month, nevermind what religious observance, it is. I hate starting the day off all guilty and confused. I can get myself into that state very well on my own, thank you.

fear and loathing in south amboy

This was originally written on 07.08.1997 for a writing class I was taking at The New School. The assignment: Write about a truly frightening experience. I was trying to improve my descriptive writing abilities with this piece. As I read it now, I see that I'm a bit heavy-handed with the comparisons and my current tendency to write rambling, run-on sentences was really taking root.

The Honda maneuvered through pitch-black darkness. The dense late summer tree cover eclipsed the moon's attempts at illumination making the road ahead all but invisible, even with the aid of high beams. The chirping of crickets mixed with the low hum of the engine and the gravel popping under the weight of the tires were the only sounds on the deserted stretch of road.

The thick foliage abruptly ended to reveal a large, wide-open space similar to a crop circle in the middle of an Iowa cornfield. Beyond the clearance sat an odd-shaped structure shimmering with dazzling, chasing lights. We inched closer and pulled into a vacant spot.

With some apprehension, we made our way on foot to the parting doors where mist and smoke rolled out to greet us. The movements of the people inside were like stop-action figures in a flip book intermittently lit by a strobe which flickered at a dizzying speed. We saw the moonlight peering through an open back door beckoning us to join the rest of our group. We dodged and weaved through a semi-organized cluster of participants engaged in a ritualistic dance until we reached our destination.

Down the stairs and under a big-top tent, various groups of females -- young, middle-aged, old and ancient -- flooded into rows of chairs that surrounded a long, green indoor/outdoor carpet-lined runway protruding from the stage. Shortly after, club music blared from the speakers as scantily-clad males skidded across the stage and pranced down the runway into a sea of outstretched arms. Wrinkled, fake-tanned hands with liver spots, protruding veins and fluorescent-colored fingernails clawed and pawed at the bronzed mass of oiled muscles writhing before them. Soggy dollar bills were transferred from sweat-drenched hands into the tight straps of red G-strings. The orderly system of seats was leveled in an estrogen-fueled stampede as the crowd clamored for an up-close glimpse of the gyrating forms scampering about.

Our fortress in the back behind some tables was penetrated by "Tonto" in his attempt to escape the posse in hot pursuit. Our refuge was reduced to rubble with overturned folding chairs and beer cups left in the wake of the female mob. We were now vulnerable to further attack as "Joey the Cop" and "Vinnie the Baby" seized upon the moment to hit us up for a donation.

I still remember that night vividly. It was over 10 years ago but I won't forget it. Ever. There was this one woman in particular who was really bold in her pursuit of the dancers. She looked and acted like Carla Tortelli on Cheers. Despite the creepy, dirty old ladies, I think the scariest part of the evening was what we noticed on our way out -- a very well-attended Trixter reunion going on in the main bar. ::shudder::

cleaning out my closet

For the next few installments and perhaps more in the future, I'm going to shamelessly steal from the lovely Sheila and post some of my old writing. Sheila cracks open her old journals on Fridays and generously shares her teenage angst and tales of young adulthood. I find myself captivated and comforted by her honesty and willingness to share such personal accounts.

I used to write feverishly in my journal. And then I'd lose interest. Sometimes I'd get a new journal as a gift or I'd see a pretty one at The Museum Company and it would inspire me to start up again. But again, my interest would wane so now I'm left with a bunch of half-filled Georgia O'Keeffe unlined books and a really uneven, scattered personal history. I did have a rather prolific period right after graduating college. I was working for a publishing company and after the initial excitement wore off, I quickly became disillusioned. To battle boredom and occupy my downtime at work, I'd rehash some of my more mortifying childhood moments (most of them were courtesy of the Sisters of Charity at my Catholic school). It helped me work through some of the embarrassment and it entertained my friends when I finally got over my shyness and let them read my work.

Today I was looking for some paperwork and I found a bunch of old notebooks that have scribblings from this era in them. For every comedic tale and nutty diatribe, I found some really eloquent entries chronicling my see-sawing emotions throughout my twenties. I'd forgotten about some of the problems and issues that seemed SO earth-shattering back then. With others, it was far too easy to recall the pain and torment and I got misty all over again. I came across some correspondence between myself and THE EX. It was all the notes we exchanged after we broke up. Instead of rereading them and torturing myself, I tore them up and tossed them in the garbage. Because I don't always have willpower, I dumped water on the letters to blur the ink so that I couldn't retrieve them later in a moment of weakness. And then -- bear with me because here's where it gets a tad scary -- I spit on them. It wasn't even out of disrespect -- I just knew there would be NO danger of my addiction getting the better of me since I would NEVER touch anything with spit on it (knowingly). I'm so glad my neurotic aversion to gross stuff exceeds my lack of self-discipline.

bad influence

In spell-checking my previous post, the dictionary stumbled on a lot of my crass vernacular. So I taught it to recognize words like "shit" and "asshole." I'm not going to lie to you... I feel a little guilty now.

coming soon to a theater near you

Jess and I cover a lot of territory in our daily Instant Message sessions. We rarely get into heavy topics but when we do, we engage in a political discourse that just begs to have its own Sunday morning show... or at least a slot on Air America.

Jess: I can't even deal with what's going on in the world right now.

Yours Truly: I know. I've been avoiding the news myself. I'm moving to Canada if that idiot gets elected again. I mean, how can someone who speaks like him even get elected? His statements sound like cheesy dialogue from bad action movies.

Jess: Ugh. I know.

YT: "Ours is a righteous and just cause."

YT: "We will bring the evil-doers to justice."

Jess: "We will defeat the enemies of democracy and those who love freedom."

YT: Who is behind his administration anyway? Jerry Bruckheimer?

And scene.

i'm like mature or whatever...

I'm about midway through my 30th year and I'm happy to report that the promises of well-adjustment and grace under fire are for the most part true. I'm finding that I can handle life's curveballs with a bit more dignity... and no one is more shocked than I. For example, I got a random Instant Message the other day from one of the best friends of THE EX (she warrants all caps to help convey the impact and devastation unleashed on my fragile psyche several years back. I'm hoping you will all hold me to the following declaration: I really don't plan on giving her any more thought much less bandwith. However, should the topic come up again, please make note of my shorthand.)

Anyhoo, THE EX is back in town and has asked about me. I did not bother to find out what it all entails... because well, what's the point? There was a time I would have lapped up that information with the voracity of a starving person finally eating a meal. This time I surprised even myself with my blasé reaction. But fate isn't always kind to me. Much like a bird shits on a just-washed car, I always have a "character-building experience" come in and soil a rather carefree time in my life. Just a short while ago, I was boasting about the fact that I couldn't be pissy even if I tried. I should have kept it to myself.

If the unsolicited IM wasn't enough, I also ran into THE EX's friend at a bar in Park Slope the other night. I haven't seen nor heard from these people in ages and now they're on me like flies on shit. What are the chances?!?! I learned that evening that THE EX has got herself a serious boyfriend. But -- and here's where I tie in my theme of the joys of being 30 for those of you who have stuck with me so far -- upon hearing this, I only felt a slight kick in the stomach as opposed to the usual crippling depression and scary crying jags. I've got some residual sadness but not nearly what plagued me a few years ago. I'm a little pissed that reminders and updates find me like a heat-seeking missile but instead of crying "Why me?" and feeling all victimized, I'm taking it in stride. But if I could wish for impossible things, I'd ask for a memory wipe... and a billion dollars. However, I'll settle for a meaningless tryst or a nice crush. I'm still accepting applications...

sing out, louise!

It's been awhile since I've seen legitimate theater so I hightailed it over to the TKTS booth after work to get a ticket for Gypsy. It's closing at the end of the month and there was NO way I was going to miss out on the chance to see the divine Bernadette Peters (all bow) playing the mother of all stage mothers. Oh my God, she did not disappoint.

I scored an orchestra seat and was so close, I saw spit fly out of her mouth. In case there's any confusion, that's a good thing. Well, no, not always... I saw Tommy about 10 years ago and the gentleman playing Tommy sprayed so much when he sang that the theater management really should have issued tarpaulins along with the Playbills. With all that moisture hitting the front rows, I felt like I was at a Gallagher show.

Interesting Gallagher aside: I attended a press event sponsored by Black and Decker last year and Gallagher was the "entertainment." He wasn't even playing with the power tools -- he just walked around and said, "Hi, I'm Gallagher." I found myself face-to-face with him at one point and he shook my hand and gave me a piece of watermelon taffy (which I didn't eat because it was rather soggy thanks to his sweaty palms). It was one of the weirdest moments of my life. I'm guessing it wasn't all that great for Gallagher either. He should take a sledge hammer to his booking agent.

But back to Gypsy... it was thrilling. I don't know if I've ever seen someone pour so much of themselves into a performance. I was exhausted for Peters by the time the show was done. It's even more mind-blowing to think that she does it eight times a week. Shee-it. I'm not an emotional person AT ALL but I felt weak in the knees during "Rose's Turn." She tore through that song with such ferocity and her voice was totally raw by the end. I could actually feel the anticipation in the theater build as the audience waited to applaud. As much as I dig film, it's just not the same. Not that I ever fell out of love with the theater, but I rediscovered my passion for it tonight. Good stuff.

ho, ho, ho

Now that I've rid myself of the job from hell and have managed to tame my wild spending, I've got the focus and the will to devote my time to more amorous pursuits. I am shamelessly using my blog to announce the formation of my exploratory committee. Furthermore, both Jake and Jess have generously provided ringing endorsements of my candidacy to become the next lesbo Don Juan (buttons, bumper stickers and t-shirts from CafePress.com to follow). By the way Jake, thank you for using the term "rack" in the same paragraph when referencing moi. It's the first -- and probably the last -- time that will ever happen but my perky A-cups thank and salute you nonetheless!

It has occurred to me that this may all seem really lame and pathetic, however, I don't give a rat's ass. I go out on a lot dates and lately, they've all sucked. The conversion rate of dinner to um... you know... dessert has hit an all-time low. I blame myself, really. I think as I'm getting older, I'm becoming increasingly crotchety and my fussiness is just out of control. Some of my reasons for dismissal rank right up there with man hands and the enjoyment of Dockers commercials as the most shallow justifications ever.

So Jess is pimping me out. She will carefully weed through the potential applicants since I'm too damn fussy. After all, I would, according to Jess, jettison an email if it arrived composed in the Comic Sans font. I won't even argue that because while it wouldn't be a deal breaker, it would be mentally noted and filed away for future reference.

Now who wants some of this?!?

Fine print: Sorry boys, I'm a lover of the ladies and no, you can't watch.

paradise lost

So I was home visiting the parents today in honor of Mother's Day. During the usual Sunday morning post-Mass fry (you Brits and Irish will know of which I speak), we were chit-chatting about various things: recent headlines, marriages and deaths of people we know, etc. Somehow Nintendo managed to sneak into the conversation (but doesn't it always?!) Before long, I was engaged in a good 15 to 20-minute long Duck Hunt and Double Dribble-inspired reverie. Ask me what I ate for dinner last night and I'm stumped. Hand me a Nintendo control and I can unearth every hidden coin bank and secret passageway in each level of Super Mario Bros. I'm terrible with names but to this day, I can remember and capitalize on the weaknesses of most of the opponents in Mike Tyson's Punchout! I actually dusted off the Nintendo a couple of years ago and played a few games with a friend. I fully recognized the absurdity of the moment as I assumed the role of ring-side trainer and barked orders:

Give him a quick jab in the stomach first! When his trunks fall down and he goes to hitch them up, unleash a series of left and right hooks to his unprotected mouth!

Sure enough, King Hippo staggered backwards and was down for the count. As my friend savored her victory (and dramatically yelled, "Adriaaaaaaaaannnne!") I felt just like Mickey... except not all grizzled and decrepit.

I'm totally fiending Nintendo now. I looked for it in my mom's basement today but couldn't find it. You see, my father has a bad habit of "organizing" things in such a way that no one can ever find them again without tearing the house asunder. He has been known to put things in the rafters and behind drop-ceiling panels. Now, normally I would applaud such space-saving ingenuity if only he could remember his secret hiding places. So, while my craving goes unsatisfied, Nintendo is no doubt buried in the backyard or propping up a support beam in the attic never to be found again. If by some miracle my father has a brain fart and remembers the location, I'm taking that bad boy back to Brooklyn with me where I will host a party in its honor. Come to mama, Rad Racer.

adventures in babysitting

At the risk of sounding conceited, I'm a kick-ass babysitter. I just returned from watching two boys, ages 9 and 6, and left them wanting more. Is it wrong that I feel some sense of satisfaction when they are disappointed when the parents return?

I used to be a nanny for these boys so every now and then, I make a return engagement to the Upper East Side when the 'rents are working late or attending some hoity-toity function. After letting them eat far too much candy, I got them nice and wound up with an hour-long session of keep away and a slightly more raucous version of hot potato. They were sorta disappointed when their Dad arrived. Given the choice between a Nerf ball-wielding lesbo and an attaché case-toting Frenchman, which would you choose?

These kids go to a well-to-do private school on the UES and I swoop in and in two hours manage to undo some of the stuffy training they are exposed to day in and day out. I add a bit of carefree beer and nachos to their regimented champagne and caviar existence. I don't know how it even came up but at one point they were transfixed by my recounting of those weird-ass Quiznos Subs ads (what the hell are those things? hamsters?) Regardless, the commercial delights me and I find myself screeching along to it whenever it comes on. And now two boys uptown are doing the same and I'm sure all of Buckley School for Boys will be infected by tomorrow.

I cherish the pure fun I have when watching kids. I get to experience that unbridled joy which I'm guessing is similar to what a toddler experiences when playing peek-a-boo or "I've got your nose." Even when I'm in the midst of full-scale juvenile behavior, I can quickly turn on a dime and become an adult again when a word like "retarded" or "gay" is thrown around as an insult or when expensive furniture is at risk. But, for a short time at least, I get to blend back into my childhood.

Sheesh... this entry is getting a bit too The Wonder Years for my liking. Eww, or even worse, Doogie Howser with his pithy yet oh-so-profound nightly recaps on his word processor. And to think I never thought I'd be able to draw a comparison to the wunderkind...

That is all. Good night.

like wildfire

I'm absolutely giddy because I started a mini blogging trend today. Sheila was kind enough to link to my post about my not-so-secret shame and it spun off quite a few lists elsewhere: Blind Cavefish, Emily, Bill and A Small Victory have taken up the cause. Not too shabby for a newbie. Pardon me whilst I go strut around my studio.

things I'm not ashamed to admit... but probably should be

1. I sucked my thumb until I was 10. Twenty years, a set of braces and a retainer later, I've kicked the habit but still sleep with a security blanket (my woobie). Next to habitual lateness and consuming mass quantities of Belgian beer (mmm... Hoegaarden), it's really my only vice and I don't plan on kicking it any time soon.

2. I am completely caught up in the intrigue and drama of The Real World, Road Rules and joy of all joys, the Real World/Road Rules Challenge. Do not disturb me when these programs are on even if it's a repeat. Seriously... don't.

3. I am not theatrically trained -- nor a gay man -- but I can sing Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods and Sunday in the Park with George note for note. I do admit that some showtunes really do suck. As a matter of fact, Andrew Lloyd Webber is a complete and total wanker.

4. I have an irrational fear of mayonnaise. Given the choice between Hellmann's and Chinese water torture, I'll take the latter, thank you very much. If you come to my home and fancy you some sandwich spread, BYO-Miracle Whip. When I am tooling around in someone else's fridge, I will not even touch the jar. If I want pickles or some other item unfortunately situated behind the mayo, I'll use another bottle or jar to push the offending condiment out of the way until my mission is complete. There are many people who share my aversion to the white slime -- see for yourself.

5. I've read Star Wars fan fiction... and liked it. I also went to the rereleases of the three original films at the Ziegfeld Theater and knowingly giggled at all of the unintentional innuendo.

6. I recently broke the towel rod in my bathroom. That in and of itself is not shameful but the way it snapped in half most certainly is -- two words: iron cross.

7. I had a major crush on Bobby Vinton as a child. Ain't nothin' hotter than a poodle-permed, polyester-clad man singing polka tunes. I also had the hots for Skip from Real People and the Professor from Gilligan's Island was no slouch either. Now I'm no shrink but I think it's safe to say that my preference for goofy, non-threatening men with zero sex appeal as a child was an early indicator of my Sapphic proclivities. To further prove my point, I also loved me some Fred from Scooby Doo (an ascot, hellooo?!?!) and Alan from Josie and the Pussycats. You do the math...