tell it like it is

In addition to viewing hundreds of images of cute and scary babies at my day job, I also sort through gorgeous photography of redecorated homes, well-kept gardens, delicious-looking food, etc. I've worked for several publications in the women's service field throughout my career and the art direction and set decoration in the photo shoots is always the same -- completely unrealistic. Most of the "after" rooms are absolutely stunning and sometimes, surprisingly affordable. But mostly, the stuff is out of reach for the average person. I have no beef with that because I think it's the function of these magazines to try to incite and inspire readers to create lush, luxurious surroundings. What really rings false with me are the little details added to create "authenticity."

A major trend in home improvement is either painting a wall with chalkboard paint or hanging up a large -- yet not unsightly -- blackboard/message board in the kitchen. To give the room that lived-in look, children's artwork is tacked up with state-of-the art fastening devices (God forbid anyone use Scotch tape!) and the mandatory half-finished game of tic-tac-toe is drawn on the chalkboard in addition to reminders and notes composed in perfect, legible cursive writing. But what really gets me is the shopping list. Today's photo assignment revealed that the residents in this particular home are in desperate need of the following:

:: Basil

:: Ginger

:: Lemon

I have all three ingredients in my home as we speak so it's not an altogether outlandish and highfalutin rundown. But, really, is that ALL they need? Just once I'd like to see a REAL itemized list that's hastily written and includes some things that most of have used or will need at some point in our lives:

:: Canned ham

:: Toilet paper (quilted, none of that scratchy stuff)

:: Squeeze cheese

:: Heavy-flow tampons

:: Beano

The notes on these boards are equally white-washed: "Pick up So-and-So at soccer practice at 4:00!" or "Charity Ball at 8pm." Again, just once, I'd like to see something along the lines of "Remember to call doctor about that persistent itch," or "Con Edison's Service Reconnection-after-Non-Payment Hotline -- 800-75-CONED."

I don't ask for much -- just a dash of realism to accompany my "oohs" and "ahhs."

melodramatic mad libs

After a morning of commiseration and emoting over Instant Messenger, I pleaded with the lovely Jess to write a deliberately maudlin poem. If you can't have fun with pretense and angst, what can you have fun with? To help her out, Jess found the best website ever -- The Bad Poem Generator. Go and read her poem and check out the comments section for some fabulously bad poetry. To give you an indication of what you're in store for, here's mine:

disgusted manure
I feel so disgusted and elated sometimes,
sometimes i want to heave my uvula and die,
the manure is so hearty and sad,
the chickens sound like The Ghost of Christmas Past.

I feel so disgusted and elated,
nobody understands my sullen, dreary pain,
I want to levitate and sob in the rain
the manure reminds me of feeling elated, the chickens mock my heartache.

sometimes i want to heave my uvula and die,
underneath the hearty, ridiculous sky

wanna see what i look like?

Oddly enough, just as I was comparing myself to Garbo (scroll down), the fabulous Jake was likening me to another star of yesteryear -- Mary Astor of The Maltese Falcon fame. I've gotten Winona Ryder and Helena Bonham Carter in the past but this is a first. I wasn't too sure if I looked like the other two but I'm in agreement with Jake this time. I think I like this business of resembling a starlet from the Golden Age of film as opposed to looking like a notorious shoplifter or a homewrecker. That's right, Helena, I'm talking about you. I do believe both Emma Thompson and Lisa Marie have a bone to pick with you.

Someone once told me that I was the vocal twin of Helen Gurley Brown. Um, isn't she like ancient or whatever? I never heard her speak so I can't agree or disagree. I'm not sure if I should be pleased or offended. I know that she's older than dirt so I would imagine her voice has that old lady element to it. By that rationale, shouldn't I sound all shaky and scratchy and address everyone as "young man" and "young lady" while I suck on butterscotch candy? I don't even like butterscotch. If this was a high compliment I was paid, someone please let me know.

Random note post spell-check: The name Winona is not recognized by Blogger's dictionary. It flagged it and suggested "inane" instead. Indeed.

pride, puking and pop

Um, where did the weekend go? I cannot believe that it's Sunday night already. I spent every second of this weekend in the company of others and it seems that time rapidly accelerates under such conditions. I had to beg off attending a cabaret show at Joe's Pub this evening because after a whirlwind weekend, I just needed to come home and unwind. I love socializing and being active but I began feeling overstimulated and needed to just be alone. I can get very Garbo-like at times.

I spent Saturday afternoon in Coney Island gawking at the Mermaid Parade attendees. We never made it to the actual parade because our subway got stuck behind a stalled train on the approach to the Coney Island station. But we managed to get an eyeful nonetheless. To the stringy-haired, really pale man sporting nothing but a flimsy g-string with a long tusk attached to the front, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for the dry heave. I haven't done that lately and my gag reflex and abs needed the workout. On a positive note, your translucent, sickly-looking complexion made me feel a bit better about my fair British skin. Hell, I looked like Malibu Barbie in comparison.

The latter half of the day was spent at several Pride-related functions. The first one we attended looked like a convention of softball coaches. I was not pleased. I may play softball but I don't wear the apparel off the field. The addition of a visor or a pair of Tevas to the ensemble is especially irksome to me.

While getting ready for the evening's festivities, I consumed two Yuenglings. Throughout the course of the evening, I drank several Coronas (the beer selection was rather lacking) and several more Sam Adams Summer Ales. I enjoy the latter but when I drink it on tap, there are dire after effects. I have yet to learn this lesson. I must also learn to eat heartily before going on a bender. I had nothing substantial in my belly to absorb the ridiculous amount of beer I was pouring into it. Late in the evening, I staggered outside with a friend for a cigarette. I totally should not smoke but once in awhile, I get the hankering. My friend's brand of choice is American Spirit. Apparently, the fiberglass and chemicals in other cigarettes are more compatible with my system. A few puffs on one of these all natural cigarettes totally went to my head and well... there was vomiting. Luckily, I was outside when this occurred so there was no embarrassing dash to the bathroom knocking down and/or spraying all in my path. I was sitting on a bench and felt the rumblings so I turned my head and quietly let fly. NO ONE noticed. I was quite proud of my stealth puke. My friend was off getting me a soda when this happened so I thought I got away with the shame of public puking. She returned with the soda and I took a few sips before she went to the bathroom. While she was away, I do believe I fell asleep on the bench. Yes, I was clearly the bar's most notorious sloppy, drunk girl last night. Someone poked me and asked, "Are you okay?" I opened my eyes and thanked them and waved them off. Just as I was saying I was fine, I got the uh-oh feeling again and, well, there was more vomiting. This time there was a barking noise and splashing involved. It was not a casual barf whatsoever. God bless the women around me because before I knew it, I was handed a bottle of water, two Tylenol and a poppy-seed roll (there was a deli right next to the bar).

The second spew was the one that returned me to normalcy. Sometimes you just need a good ralph to set you straight. And sure enough, I perked right up and became bar friends with my saviors. They were a lovely couple from Brooklyn and I thanked them profusely before I left. The cab ride home was slightly dodgy with the constant stop-go movement and the way that NY cabs seem to catch air when going over potholes. That bouncing around didn't do me any favors. Luckily, my cab driver was the nicest man. I got yelled at once before when I entered a taxi on the brink of puking. The driver threatened to kick me out of the cab but I managed to convince him that I could hold it in. Thankfully I did hold it in but that driver was the biggest bitch about it. Last night's driver was really compassionate and offered to adjust the air conditioning and try alternate routes to get me home faster. He was quick on the draw to open and close my window based on the shade of green I was turning. He checked in with me and asked how I was feeling throughout the ride. If I wasn't an exhausted sloppy mess, I would have made note of his medallion number and sent a note of high praise to the Taxi and Limousine Commission. He did me a solid but sadly I was too drunk to return the favor.

I'm happy to report that there were no additional bouts of chundering. I took a shower, put on my pajamas and passed out in bed without once waking up wondering if another heave was on deck. I rolled out of bed at 1:00pm, cursed myself while cleaning the shrapnel off my cute Spanish slides and then made my way into Manhattan for the Pride parade. I played social butterfly for a bit and then settled in with some good friends at a bar off the parade route. With a stomach still slightly off-kilter, I stuck to seltzer. Later, we went to a party on a rooftop in Little Italy and I maintained my sobriety, even passing up a bong and 'shrooms. I was tired of being in an altered state and just needed to be aware and in control. Instead, I took in the scenery and inhaled the brisk breeze on the rooftop and that was enough for me. I also had a lovely conversation with a guy who was actually one of the kids in a Jell-o commercial with Bill Cosby years ago. Of course, he could have been lying but it sounded good. We were all captivated and asked lots of follow-up questions: "How is Billy Cosby? Was he nice?" "Did you get tons of free pudding?" "How do you feel about Jell-o Pudding Pops?"

So now I'm ending my weekend with a cup of tea and the Subway Series (go Yankees!!!) The sounds of the game and the soothing rattle of the A/C are a welcome change from the whistle-blowing and screaming and the disco and pop that filled the past few days. I seriously reached my limit with "Toxic," "Hey Ya!" and "Yeah." They are all catchy tunes in their own rite but the three formed an unholy alliance and tailed me the entire weekend. I'm so happy to be home alone, no longer battling a hangover and finally free of the tyranny of Top 40.

toni time

Dear Toni Senecal,

Even though, right now, you're small potatoes in the world of TV journalism, I forsee big things for you. Truthfully, I'm not fan. To be quite frank, you annoy the piss out of me. Your insistence on using terms like "peeps" and "holla" during your insufferable segments makes me want to saw off my ears with a dull, rusty blade. While I occasionally say these phrases myself, unlike you I'm not an annoying ass munch. There's a difference.

But back to my point. You are on the verge of something BIG I tell you. Is it because of your journalistic prowess? Nah. The way you get to the heart of the story as you pound the entertainment beat? No again.

It's because two different people have arrived at my site under the mistaken assumption that they were going to see/read about your nekkid body. You see, I mentioned your name in an earlier post and in separate and unrelated entries, I used the words "naked" and "boobs." They were not in the context of YOU, however. Google is smart but it doesn't understand not to bunch these terms together when providing results to people eager to see your cooter. It's quite the little mixup we have here.

But -- and here's where I forsee your career taking an upturn -- the fact that people are Googling "toni senecal naked" and "toni senecal boobs" leads me to believe there are damning photos of you out there. Oh the publicity you'll reap! Perhaps they're not damning at all because maybe you posed quite willingly for them. Or maybe it's just someone's wishful thinking. Who knows? Either way, I just thought you'd like to know that the possibility of seeing your bare ass is starting to drive traffic to my site. Feel free to add that to your resume under Skills or Special Abilities. I'll keep the logs handy should anyone want to verify this feat.

Sincerely yours,

Curly McDimple

the requisite essay on pride

I just returned from a reading at Bluestockings on Manhattan's Lower East Side. David Boyer, the author/editor of Kings and Queens: Queers at the Prom, read several selections and introduced us to one of the subjects of his book. It's a really interesting book because it doesn't just chronicle same-sex couples who rocked the prom and made the local news by showing up together. It's quite the opposite, actually.

Many of the profiles are of people who either were closeted or like myself, completely unaware of their orientation in high school. They knew they had different feelings towards people of the same gender but couldn't make sense of it. They went to the prom because that's what high school kids are supposed to do. As adults, they retell their stories as acknowledged homosexuals and the accounts range from funny to heartbreaking to empowering.

My favorite part of the evening was when a graduate of the Harvey Milk School, one of the subjects of the book, spoke candidly about his prom experience and his education at this revolutionary institution. I was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO clueless and SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO far in the closet at that age that I cannot even fathom how he and his classmates can deal with this so honestly and articulately at such a young age.

At 30, I'm still not completely comfortable discussing it. I admire this graduate's strength and sense of self. I'm also a bit envious of it. I'm a reluctant lesbian in a lot of ways. I squirm and recoil when sexuality is politicized. I don't devour essays on gender politics nor do I take to the streets to protest or demand much of anything, really. What I respond to though are events like this where universal feelings and emotions are on the agenda. Who can't relate? Regardless of gender and sexual preference, it's discussions of loneliness, confusion and isolation that cause me to form bonds. I came away from this event with such a sense of attachment to the homosexual community and a real sense of pride. I'll definitely attend various Pride events this weekend but mostly for the social aspects. I connect to the community in other, more intimate ways and often when I least expect it.

It was loneliness, confusion and isolation that ultimately made me come out to my friends. And I couldn't have asked for a more accepting, beautiful bunch of people to share this with. Not one of them disappointed me. Whatever preconceived ideas they had about lesbians quickly melted away. Distaste for butches with bad hair and flannel shirts and a general discomfort with the notion of strap-ons and dental dams gave way to something well beyond stereotypes. They were confronted with something they hadn't experienced in the history of our friendship -- a shattered, broken version of me. I held it together for years without ever letting them get to know the questioning, confused, fractured me. They thought I was impenetrable. I was the strong one who offered the shoulder to cry on. It was never the other way around. I fostered that and worked at it for years. I dealt with my fears alone... until I met my first girlfriend (THE EX). She, in a sense, rescued me from that scary, desolate place. And then it felt like she abandoned me there.

When that relationship ended, it just leveled me. It was in the midst of summer yet I never felt so cold in all of my life. I dropped about 20 pounds in less than two weeks. I was physically and emotionally frail. I was incapable of keeping up an appearance of strength. Too tired to juggle pronouns and tell lies anymore. Too wrecked to hide behind that feeble wall I had assembled over the years. It was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do but I finally gave in and told my inner circle.

For years, one of my best and oldest friends said horrible, disgusting things about gays in my presence. Naturally, I was scared to tell her but she was part of the select few and I had to. She was on vacation when the break up actually occurred. When she called me to tell me she was home, she knew something was wrong. I tried changing the topic but she gently pressed and persisted. When I spoke, my voice was so tight and small. It shook and quivered. Most of what I said was completely inaudible despite my best attempts to project volume. It finally cracked and made way for the deluge of tears and admissions. I think that phone conversation went on for about five hours. We would have talked longer but both of our cordless phones started beeping as the batteries begged for a charge.

Even though she wasn't in front of me and I couldn't see her, I could see and feel her face soften and her eyes moisten when I finally said the words. She couldn't hug me but her reply of "I know" was the embrace that I needed. She quickly followed up with a blanket apology for all the dumb ass things she'd said throughout the years. It's a truly amazing thing to be acutely aware of a moment when you're experiencing a breakthrough with someone and reaching a new level.

While not as historically significant as the Stonewall riot, what she and I achieved in that moment did so much to promote understanding and tolerance. I've had similar experiences with a few other people since. These completely organic, spontaneous moments have become my form of activism. Some people are like, "No, duh!" and others are surprised. Regardless of the reaction, it's intimate and personal and never forced. Those quiet conversations are as electrifying and invigorating to me as a protest march. Maybe next year I'll take to the streets sporting a t-shirt with a cheeky slogan but for now, I'll continue with the "think globally, act locally" approach.

should I stay or should I go?

I hate quitting things. Even in the worst situations, I try to stick things out as long as humanly possible, look for the silver lining, and all that crap. In certain cases, I'll abandon ship quickly if gut instinct is screaming at me to do so. It's never with a cavalier attitude that I make such a decision. I've got the one-two punch of Irish-Catholic guilt and the daughter-of-a-Teamster work ethic (exnay on the union jokes. I'm originally from Jersey and I know people. Capiche?).

Now what was I saying? Right... quitting. I don't like to do it. However, I feel that I may need to uproot myself once again. Not in terms of my job, relationships, apartment or anything like that. This dilemma pertains to something much more important: corporate slow-pitch softball.

I HATE MY TEAM. They are the worst bunch of obnoxious fucking bastards I've ever the had the misfortune to share a dugout with. It's a co-ed team comprised of various men and women (mostly men) from two interrelated departments in my enormous company. There are several softball teams floating around under the same name but we're in different divisions and never square off. My team is made up of mostly IT guys, internet techies and programmers. You know... not traditionally the most athletic types.

Because of the popularity of computers and our reliance on the trained people who understand the innards of these things, the tide has shifted you might say. The people who excel in this field were often viewed as the nerds in school and perhaps they got picked on. I understand that and I feel for them. However, their need to retaliate now is often aimed at those of us who never once knocked the books out of their hands or shoved them in a locker. Don't crucify me for the sins of the football team! If my computer repeatedly has a system failure, you need to deal with it in a professional and courteous manner and go passive-aggressively work out your issues elsewhere.

It would seem that the time has come to pass when they are getting the payback they dreamt about for years. Fist-shaking declarations made while dislodging the underwear firmly wedged into their ass cracks or uttered while playing Dungeons and Dragons with fellow misfits on a Saturday night are coming to fruition. To them, it's go time.

Do they administer purple nurples in return? No. They refrain from giving wet willies and Indian rug burn. Instead, they treat us like shit when we ask a computer-related question. These fuckers belittle us and suggest restarting whether the computer is frozen or if the thing's smoking and on the verge of blowing up. They tsk and sigh when asked to slowly repeat the mouthful of jargon they just haughtily spewed. Some of them are real dickheads, plain and simple. I know a lot of nice tech people and they're helpful and wonderful so please don't think I lump the lot of them into the same category. Not true. I'm referring to the unhelpful, condescending ones.

Now just imagine this attitude on the softball field. I can only guess that some of these people on my team sucked in organized sports and were the bench warmers and the last ones picked in gym class. I can't say I relate because um, hello? I'm a lesbo and I kick ass in most sports! HOO WA! Want to see my letters? But as I was saying, this meathead-like, boorish behavior can only be attributed to the fact that they are perhaps trying to rid themselves of some childhood trauma and scarring... while playing on the company team. Go do it in a shrink's office like the rest of us, assholes! I am not exaggerating when I say that these are deplorable conditions to play under.

In sports, it's an unwritten rule that smack-talking, conceit and immodesty are somewhat acceptable as long as the player has the goods to back it up. In other words, if you're going to squawk at people incessantly and remind them to play "tight D" (Jess, can we add that to the list?), please make sure you're competent and capable of executing such things yourself. Call me overly sensitive but when I'm throwing runners out, sliding into bases to break up double plays and driving in runs, I'd thank the team's sure-out not to offer suggestions on how to improve my game.

We have a loud-mouthed catcher and self-appointed team manager who um, can't catch, throw, hit, run, etc. She'll tell people to "call their catches" and will give them what for if an error is made, yet she hasn't caught a single pitch thrown to her. And she's the catcher!!! I say yank her and just let the backstop do its thing. The batter can kick the ball back to the pitcher or, as is often the case, the umpire can catch it barehanded and toss it back. The girl sucks. Bench her sorry ass! She told MOI -- the person who went 2 for 3 and slid into two bases thereby distracting the fielder while allowing runs to score -- to change bats after the one at-bat where I flied out and didn't reach base. Um, thanks. Perhaps I WILL go with the heavier 34... when I ram it up your ass sideways, Sucky. That's one suggestion I'll happily take.

She prattles on endlessly telling others what they're doing wrong and how to improve their swing, fielding, etc. Again, no ball sticks in her mitt nor has she ever hit her way onto base. She has the most horrendous batting stance and don't even get me started on her swing.

And then there's her partner in crime... a boy who fancies himself an ace pitcher and intimidating home run hitter. To my knowledge, he's the only person on the team besides the Sucky Loud-mouthed Catcher who has whiffed at the plate. In slow pitch softball. As far as his pitching goes, he walks EVERYBODY. And it must be said that he has really bad hair. It's totally dry and damaged yet he keeps it at a puffy length. It's just awful. When he's giving someone a tongue-lashing, I have to restrain myself from saying in return, "Can I interest you in some softball lessons and perhaps a hot oil treatment?" Note: If you add an element of cattiness to your trashtalking, it works wonders. And to review from an earlier post, when all else fails, call your victim a "booger-eating moron."

Now as I was saying, the gruesome twosome suck to high heaven and despite their lack of skill, they unabashedly criticize and chastise other players, argue with the umps and sometimes even get into it with the other team. It's mortifying and appalling. It's corporate softball and it's supposed to be fun and light-hearted but sadly, it's the opposite. I just don't understand getting all bent out of shape over it. Sure, no one wants to lose but if you do, who gives a fuck? No one is waiting to ship off the dead weight to the minors for not performing well. Simmer, people.

Sucky announced proudly after the game that despite the lopsided score (we were trounced), we are going to win because she's filing a protest. A PROTEST! She's irked about some minor infraction in the rules so she plans on raising quite a stink with the governing agency. And her goofy minions -- my teammates -- applauded. I don't want to win a game like that. Who the fuck cares? As if whining, pissing and moaning over calls throughout the game aren't bad enough, now she's going to bitch via fax and email. I hate them. Hate them, I tell you. HATE THEM.

But what really raised my ire was the fact that Sucky Loud-mouthed Catcher made a point of standing up and waving in the outfielders whenever a girl got up to bat. She was obnoxiously yelling, "Move in guys! Play shallow, everyone!" That's just wrong. Why not just say, "Everyone, may I have your attention please? This girl sucks and it will be a miracle if she sets foot on first base. Just start heading to the dugout now. It's a sure out." Even though the batter was not on my team, I wanted her to suddenly get a jolt of inspiration and brute strength and launch one into the outfield over everyone's heads. If she did, I would have high-fived her as she rounded the bases.

Not that it's ever okay to belittle opponents but again, if you're going to play the role of obnoxious jock -- and I can't stress this enough -- please don't suck. It's kind of a requirement, I think. So, I called them on it. I'm not very popular amongst my teammates tonight because I took exception and told Sucky and the Puffy-Haired Whiffer that I found their behavior to be lacking in class and good sportsmanship. And Puffy got in my face about it. He was super agitated and midway through his tirade about the weaker sex and reasons why it's okay to expect less from female athletes, I turned my back on him and walked away.

Puffy, when I dislodge the bat from Sucky's ass, it's going up yours. I was not trying to be the Billie Jean King to his Bobby Riggs (although he made Riggs look like a mild-mannered feminist in comparison, the colossal douche bag that he is.) I'm talking about decent behavior on the playing field. He suggested it was strategy similar to players shifting over when a lefty gets up. The fuck it is! If they think the girl batter is so weak and incapable of hitting anything with even an ounce of force, why do they need reinforcements from the outfield? I play various positions in the infield. Based on the stance of the batter, previous at-bats, etc., I make adjustments. I'll move to the left or the right, I'll play in if it looks like a bunt situation or I'll back up if I know the batter is going to belt one my way. That's strategy. Me moving in and standing next to the pitcher when a nervous-looking woman gets to bat up is not. If they wanted to play in, whatever... Just don't make a big production out of it. I'm sure it embarrassed the woman. Or maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. Regardless, I still think it's a shitty way to behave.

If a boy creeps in on me the first time I step up to the plate, he learns quickly NOT to do that again. Just ask the boys from the 5th grade in my grammar school. My 6th grade class played them in an intramural softball game. The third baseman made quite the scene as he moved in thinking I was an easy out. It's a wonder he's not sporting capped teeth thanks to my line drive that made a beeline for his smirking face. You can also check in with the band of assholes from some investment bank who yelled "Infield in!" and waved in their outfielders when I stepped into the box last season. Um, yeah... that bases-clearing double I roped quickly learned 'em.

So do I quit? The team doesn't want me to because I can actually play. Do I spite them and leave them short one girl or is it better for me to show up and continue to play well and with class? If they were loud-mouthed dumb jocks, this wouldn't bother me so much. But the fact that the stench of suck can be traced directly to the two most obnoxious people on the team just doesn't sit right with me. What to do? What to do?

foul language

As you may already know, The Lovely Jess and I tend to IM like the wind on a daily basis. Today's discussion turned somehow to words and phrases that make our skin crawl.

Much fun was had as we giggled and grossed ourselves out by listing our most-hated phrases. For example, the term "slacks" makes me irate. Similarly, Jess cannot abide the use of the word "dungarees." In writing this, I also realized that I detest the the term "canoodling." Must every gossip page use this?! Stop it. Stop it now.

I'm also put off when people say "bucks" instead of "dollars." It's just so... so crass sounding (hmmm... this coming from a person who had to train Blogger's Spell Checker to recognize the words piss, shit, fuck, crappy and asshole to streamline the publishing process.)

Go check out the list and feel free to add to it. You'll find that unleashing your inner neurotic weirdo is both fun and cathartic.

dad's turn

Since my mother got a few paragraphs the other day, I feel compelled to devote a few to my Dad. Not necessarily because Father's Day is approaching, but rather because he's unwittingly entertaining and I don't know what the hell else to write about.

Some background:
My father is a tall, muscular man. He had a shock of black hair before four daughters and a bad thyroid turned it gray. For a Scottish man, he's got the complexion of an Italian. I envy his ability to tan while I merely turn a shade of pink and then freckle.

He's got the stiff upper lip and emotional reserve of a true Brit but he easily softens up when his daughters or his beloved granddaughter enter the picture. He won't ask me directly about my feelings or troubles. Instead, he'll check in by following up on one of the mechanical tasks he performed in my apartment. "How's that dead bolt working out for you?" "Is the A/C keeping the place cool?" Apparently, he'll gush and brag to other people about his girls but to us directly, he maintains more of a super/tenant relationship. But we just eat it up and treat him in kind. When I asked for a drill for Christmas, it was just as meaningful to him as an "I love you." When I told him how I assembled my IKEA loft bed with the aforementioned drill, it was the equivalent of sharing with him my innermost thoughts and dreams. He was touched.

Unlike my ma, my father is an easy crack up. He has a real wheezy, chesty laugh (which I inherited) and it's quite infectious. He derives endless enjoyment from his four girls and laughs mightily at our antics. It frustrated my mother that he egged us on while she was trying to get us to behave and/or act "lady like." Which is not to say that he was the good cop to her bad cop/Emily Post. My father has a booming growl when he gets pissed and knits his thick black eyebrows and just glowers in a truly frightening fashion. He didn't have to spank us because his yell was powerful and painful enough. He may have paddled my bum with his enormous hand once or twice because I was a real punk but a stare or slight raise in volume usually whipped me back into shape. Usually.

His humor is corny and predictable at times. He's often his own best audience... until friends or relatives visit. They just think he's the funniest thing ever. This makes the father happy. What makes me happy are the times that he's funny without meaning to be. He's provided endless hours of enjoyment to his family -- and by extension, our friends -- without him realizing it. My brother-in-law's favorite tale is my father trying to spell our last name over the phone to a salesperson. Smack dab in the middle of my last name is the letter R. As you may or may not know, this consonant often rolls violently often the tongues of Scottish folk. Pity the poor telemarketer with little or no exposure to this "language" trying to make out what my Glasgow-reared Dad said. The brother-in-law could only hear one side of the conversation but that's all he needed to surmise that my father was clearly misunderstood:

Dad: "R(rrrrrrrr)!"

Assumed Operator's Response: "I'm sorry sir, can you repeat that?"

Dad: "R(rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)!"

AOR: "A?"

Dad: "Nooooooo! R(rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)!"

AOR: "L?"

Dad: "Nooooooo! R(rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)!"

AOR: "Sir, do you speak English?"

Dad: "R(rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)!!! What don't you understand?"

AOR: "I'm sorry, did you say Q?"

Dad: "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! R(RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR)! As in R(rrrrrrrr)obbie Bur(rrrrrrrrrrrr)ns!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

AOR: "Who?"

Dad: "Will someone pick up the bleedin' phone and tell this twit how to spell our(rrrrrrrr) name?"

Now, that's comedy. Happy Father(rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr)'s Day!!

the streak continues

Just got back from a date. The fact that I'm writing this at 10pm should be some sort of indication as to how it went. The date was perfectly nice but REALLY quiet and not all that charismatic. The best way to my heart is through my funny bone. Failing that, compelling discussion where we reach common ground and discuss shared experience will suffice. None of the above.

And now is when we commence with the shallow (okay, MORE shallow) portion of the post: The date wasn't unattractive but she didn't do it for me either. She had really bony fingers which kind of unsettled me. They were like the hands of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come pointing at Scrooge's tombstone. The jeans and sensible black shoes combo didn't bowl me over either.

I'm awful, evil and wrong, I know. But this online dating thing just isn't working. So I hereby say, fuck you Spring Street Networks! I'm through with you. Between the winks/collect calls, the bony-fingered mutes, the Champion sweatshirt-wearing-and-allergic-to-everything-without-a-trace-of-a-sense-of-humor twits as well as the inordinate amount of butchy correction officers who contact me, I've had enough. I've got a few credits remaining -- who wants 'em?

damn yankees

Jess and I got a pair of tickets to the Yankees-Padres game this past Friday. Despite the stellar company I kept and copious amounts of beer and mmmm...nachos, the game itself absolutely sucked. My beloved Yanks were soundly spanked... by the Padres. Oh the humanity!!

Yesterday's lucky fans saw the return of David Wells and two, count them TWO, comebacks! We got to see the Yanks have their asses handed to them... by the Padres. Not only did they strand runners galore but their defense was sorely lacking. They made two consecutive errors by throwing the ball around the infield. It bounced off a runner and went into the outfield. Matsui scooped it up but his ill-fated throw to second bounced off the base and went... somewhere. I don't know exactly where because it was then that I hung my head in shame. Apparently, aura and mystique had the night off. It was painful to watch. All that was missing was a foul-mouthed Tanner kicking dirt and throwing his mitt with selections from Carmen providing the soundtrack. [Random Bad News Bears aside: Tanner provided me with one of my favorite put downs ever -- "booger-eating moron." It's hard to deliver with a straight face but its effect is unparalleled. Victims are simultaneously perplexed, offended and amused. Go on and try it. Trust me.]

But the evening wasn't a complete waste -- Jess got to observe me in a somewhat different light. As my former coworker she's heard me bitch about work. As my friend, she's patiently listened to me complain about, well, everything. As the person sitting next to me at a baseball game, she got to witness [insert echo] TRASH TALKING CURLY. While not as annoying as the dude behind us who commented on EVERYTHING (with bad breath to boot), I usually chimed in only after a pivotal play/out/error (with an astute, informed opinion if I do say so myself. This is where I earn my dyke stripes. I fail miserably on the Indigo Girls front but I more than make up for it with my baseball/softball acumen). For instance, I bitched out Posada for his aggravating tendency to field plays at home too far in front of the plate. He would need to be Elastic Man or Inspector Gadget to reach around and tag the runner with the way he positions himself. Basics, Jorge, basics!! I have full faith in the pitches he calls and he swings a mighty bat but I just assume the opposing team will score when there's a play at the plate.

I also tore Giambi a new one... repeatedly. I'm not happy with him. Tino Martinez was a fabulous first baseman and a clutch hitter (with a cute bum, I might add). Yes, he had his slumps but his well-timed homers and grand slams saved some pinstriped hide more than once. And did I mention he has a cute bum? The only reason I don't feel entirely horrible that he's been banished to the Devil Rays is because he originally hails from Tampa. I'm also pleased that he's back in the American League so I have a better chance of seeing him at the Stadium. I defiled myself by going to a Mets game at Shea when he was on the Cardinals. No one should have to do that. No one.

It's because I love those boys that I cannot sit idly by while they lose to teams like... the Padres. Ditto for the Rockies, the Brewers and despite their two World Series championships, the Marlins. It's not that these teams stink. It's more like, I dunno... who cares?

Disagree? Don't like what I have to say? Bring it. [insert echo] TRASH TALKING CURLY will be fielding all complaints. You've been warned.

my mum

I'm about to head out to NJ to attend a family dinner celebrating my mother's retirement. After 17 years, she's finally saying goodbye to her secretarial job at the Salvation Army (or the Sally Anns as she and her fellow Scots like to say). Whenever I told someone that my mother worked for the SA, they automatically assumed that she was one of those people in uniform standing next to a kettle ringing a bell at Christmas. Nope.

Anyhoo, after stints at Cunard Lines, Hahne's department store, King Tours and the SA, my mother is finally calling it quits. She's off to Scotland for about three weeks and then returning home where she can spend her time with my also-retired father. He worked at NYU from the day he landed in this country. Similar to the confusion surrounding my mother's employer, most assumed my Dad was either a professor or a doctor. Nope. He's a skilled carpenter who won the respect and admiration of those doctors and professors with his fine craftsmanship.

But back to my mother. She's quite an interesting character. Soft-spoken and sweet and sometimes stingy with a laugh. She holds tight to her religious convictions and vocally objects to profanity and "crude" talk, as she says. But that doesn't mean she's all stodgy and doesn't have a sense of humor. When my mother cracks up, it's because something is REALLY funny. Saying the word "fart" won't send her into fits of laughter. Instead, it will send her into a lecture. We were totally not allowed to use that word. She'd prefer that we not discuss gas at all but as children, if it came up, we either "banged", smelled a "bang", protested that we were not responsible for said "bang," etc. She hates scatological humor and won't tolerate it. I, on the other hand, giggle uncontrollably when it comes up. I guess it's still a novelty with me since it was forbidden in my house. Kind of like soda.

My mother is quite good at impressions too. I've been told that I'm a good mimic and this is where I get it from. Stories from her childhood, encounters at work or retelling of conversations with her Scottish and Irish friends are always accompanied by a dead-on delivery of the appropriate accent. She's got quite a gift for it. One of my favorite stories involves a parent-teacher conference when my oldest sister was in kindergarten. She had an awful teacher who should not have been allowed anywhere near kids. Only a few weeks into the school year, the teacher pissed off many parents with her ridiculous assessments of 5-year-olds. A fellow Scot named Betty (who despite having lived here for over 30 years has not lost a speck of her accent) is rather rough and tumble. She smokes like a chimney and is quite salty. She's also barely over 4 feet tall but when she speaks, she strikes an intimidating pose. The "daft" teacher said to Betty, "Your daughter doesn't know how to use scissors." Betty bellowed in her thick Glasgow accent, "That's because I don't let her play with scissors!" Written that way, it may not seem all that funny. With my mom's delivery it's a hoot: "That's cuz ah don' let her play we scessors!"

So Mum, even though you'll never read this blog and because we're British and don't say much of this crap out loud, I'm so proud of you. You've worked hard and deserve to spend your time doing what you love -- worrying about your daughters, telling stories, hanging out at church, baking Irish soda bread and Empire Biscuits... and then working them off at Curves.

Ta gra agam ort.

busted!

I was riding a very crowded F train to work this morning. At one point, four people, including myself, were surrounding a pole and clinging for dear life as a new train driver was being broken in... either that or the driver was drunk. The commute this morning was on par with one of the attractions at Six Flags. I felt like raising my arms at times and going, "Wooooooooooooooo!"

But I digress, the gender makeup of this circle was three women and one obviously straight man listening to his iPod. His mp3s are like mine in that the volume fluctuates from song to song. I didn't hear any of the songs he was listening to until late in the ride when the familiar strains of "Do do do do do do do doot do!" hit my ears. As if on cue, the three women surrounding him all looked at each other with the same look, "Dude, he's listening to Duran Duran!" He totally realized that we were on to him at which point he feverishly poked around in his bag to find the iPod and rid himself of "Rio."

I don't judge the man. I just found it surprising is all. I've had many a sing-along to DD, Erasure and the Pet Shop Boys... just never with straight boys. I have my fair share of guilty pleasures. I even labeled them as "Uncharacteristic Cheese" so that I can easily sort them and banish them from my playlist if company is coming over. No one needs to know that I adore Linda Eder's gender-bending rendition of "I, Don Quixote." Damn, I just busted myself.

primate couture

My friend Vera sent me this picture today. She couldn't bear to look at her stuffed monkey in the buff so she whipped out the knitting needles. "I was really bored, so I made the hippy monkey a dress. It looks weird naked." Vera lives in Ogden, Utah. 'Nuff said.

I love a monkey in a dress. I think the only thing cuter is a chimp wearing a diaper or suspenders. Yes, I was a big fan of B.J. and the Bear.

why oh why do I do this to myself?

I stayed home from work today because the funk is still infesting my body and the voice is still MIA. Sick days really suck as an adult. I'm going to have a mountain of work waiting for me tomorrow and more importantly, daytime television does not hold the same allure as it once did. I used to love to stay home from school and watch reruns, game shows and Divorce Court. The current crop of shows leaves me uninspired. The news is just awful and I'm pacing myself with the Ronald Reagan coverage since it's going to go on all week (at least). Thanks to the beauty that is In Demand, I escaped for a few hours while watching Party Monster and 28 Days Later.

Party Monster was interesting but I found Macauley's performance uneven and at times, squirm-inducing. 28 Days Later scared the shit out of me. Only Danny Boyle could make me sit through a movie about rage-filled chimps and blood-thirsty, vomiting zombies without me providing a sarcastic running commentary throughout. There was nary a wisecrack. Instead, I watched most of the film with my hands clasped over eyes while peering through the tiniest of peepholes between my ring finger and pinky. I realize it was a complete work of fiction but it's now several hours later and I'm still creeped out. The Silence of the Lambs was the last film to have this effect on me. I saw that movie at an afternoon showing but damn if I didn't stop every few feet and look over my shoulder when walking home from the theater. Now guess who's going to be sleeping with the light on tonight?

hear ye, hear ye

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
June 7, 2004

SAPPHIC- AND CIVIC-MINDED BLOGGERS CHRISTEN A NEW TERM

Feeling slightly left out of the current homosexual craze, female friends of lesbians are demanding the same recognition bestowed upon platonic pals of gay men. The much-touted "fag hag" is a universally-accepted member of society while her equally accepting lesbian-friendly counterpart has gone largely unnoticed.

In an effort to remedy this, Jess and Curly McDimple, the authors of Blind Cavefish and Ham & Cheese on Wry respectively, have decided to coin a catch phrase in the hopes that it will be absorbed into the mainstream along with the aforementioned "fag hag" and the ubiquitous -- albeit outdated -- "metrosexual."

After brainstorming and passing on "lessbian" and "sapphony," Jess and McDimple opted for the alliterative and clever "rug rat."

"We feel it's in the same fun-loving and innocuous spirit of its predecessor, fag hag," says Jess, the fashionable and quick-witted mastermind behind Blind Cavefish. "We hope to rank up there with 'bling bling,' 'Talk to the hand,' and 'Oh no you didn't!... except not as annoying."

"When the likes of Katie Couric or even Toni Senecal of the WB 11's News at Ten begin using this term, we will know our mission is complete," says McDimple, the duo's acid-tongued lesbian.

In addition to promotion on their respective weblogs, the women are relying on the viral nature of the blogging community as well as heavy use of the Comments and Trackback features common to most blogs to spread the word.

Adds McDimple, "We're not above carpet-bombing (no pun intended) comments sections and spamming those who post in these forums."

Blind Cavefish (http://www.blindcavefish.com) was founded in April 2003. It spun off Ham & Cheese on Wry (http://www.curlymcdimple.com) in April 2004. Both weblogs are updated daily and have attracted thousands of visitors monthly.

###

a wordy one...

I'm battling a wee cold and it worsened while I was out chasing skirts on Friday. Or more accurately while standing sheepishly by the bar and hoping someone -- ANYONE -- would chase me. It's a problem, really. Wait, let me rephrase that... people approaching me is not a problem. Me instigating a conversation is. A woman sporting liquid eyeliner and a bountiful rack chatted me up but I was too shy to finish the deal (I also wasn't fond o' the eye makeup. Meow!) The shyness sometimes scores me "adorable points" but lately, it's just been adding to my dry spell. I am frustrated on many fronts.

Anyhoo, in addition to losing my nerve, I also lost my voice by night's end. I had plans yesterday but I had to cancel them so that I could stay home and doctor myself up. I hate being home ALL day. I couldn't call anyone to pass the time because they wouldn't hear a word I said anyway. So I'm letting it all fly here. You've been warned.

I woke up from a nap just in time to see Smarty Jones lose in the Belmont Stakes. I don't really care about horse racing but I found myself rasping at the television (not yelling -- I can't, remember?) when Birdstone started catching up in the final stretch. I found myself getting mad at the jockey and croaking, "No! No! No!" Shocking behavior on my part. I had no money bet on this race and I'm kinda appalled by the whole whipping the horse thing but I was still bummed that Smarty Jones didn't win the Triple Crown. That really sucks. Methinks the winning jockey will need to go into hiding.

I've also been following an interesting thread on craigslist's Missed Connections. Someone floated the dating-related theory that boys named Pete are a dead end. Josh, Noah and Dave have also been added to this list. The fact that I don't like dick sort of disqualifies me from contributing but I will say here that I've had problems with women named Claire (or Clare) and a boy or two named Jay. Not all Claires and Jays are bad but a few stick out in my mind as being colossal beeotches/pricks.

On the political front, I was no fan of Ronald Reagan and his conservative views, but I was still saddened by his passing. His presidency straddled my childhood. I remember he liked jelly beans. I remember being petrified of the Soviet Union (especially after seeing The Day After). I remember being really scared after we bombed Libya. I remember impersonating him by saying, "Well..." in front of each statement. I remember writing a letter to Nancy Reagan in fifth grade telling her that I was currently just saying no and would continue to do so. Um... at that point, no one was even offering me drugs anyway but she didn't need to know that. Again, his conservative politics weren't my cup of tea but Reagan seemed like a nice enough fellow in his private life. I was struck by the love he and Nancy shared. I welled up one morning during a Today show segment when Nancy shared the letters he wrote her. That kind of love is really special and rarely do we see it on display.

On a much lighter note and more in tune with my superficial, self-centered writings... I enjoy the show Clean Sweep but I despise the contestants on it. I love before-and-after home shows because I like to see order restored and things made pretty in an hour's time. It feeds some obsessive need within me and it also caters to my short attention span. It's all good... except for the homeowners. I saw two episodes yesterday and I really discovered how much I detest these tasteless pack rats. I don't understand this mentality. If they were holding onto tax forms and other paperwork, I can understand but what do you need with hundreds of ceramic and stuffed frogs? After his home was gutted and redone, the homeowner exclaimed, "Holy macaroni and cheese!" Yet another reason to dislike this man. Ack!! I wanted to punch him in the face.

Watching this show reminded me of how much I abhor patrons of garage sales (not all, but some). My mother had two garage sales and I was outraged at the cheapskates that darkened our doorway both times. Things are already really cheap so why must they try to knock off five or ten cents from the ridiculously low price? Seriously, does that constitute a bargain? I sold my beloved Wilson baseball glove (with George Brett's signature) for a paltry quarter because the tight bastard didn't want to pay 50 cents. Argh! It makes my skin crawl.

Before moving into the city a few years ago, I sold my cherished Toyota Corolla. The man who ended up buying it was so repugnant that I actually said, "Now get out of my driveway!" when the deal was done. He kept asking if I was sure I didn't want to check with my husband before selling the vehicle. What the fuck?!?! The fact that the man walked away with his nuts intact is nothing short of a miracle.

Even though it incites a rage within me, I will still watch Clean Sweep and "ooh" and "ahh" over the transformations while continuing to misplace my frustration on the schlubby contestants. My thinking is if these people and the high-fiving morons on Trading Spaces continue to feel the brunt of my wrath, it makes me much more well-adjusted in real life, no? Shut up.

analyze me

Okay, so I had a rather odd dream the other night. I'm not good at analyzing dreams anyway but this one really has me baffled. I was driving the Mystery Machine (you know, from Scooby Doo) and I opened the door and got out while it was still moving. I wasn't like Super Dave Osborne or anything... I think it had slowed to a roll so it's not like I made a death-defying leap. I got out and someone else stopped the van. About 10 minutes later, it tipped over onto its side. Shaggy, Scoob, Fred and the rest were not in the van. Please do not think that I offed a bunch of beloved cartoon characters. I also didn't dream in cartoon if that makes sense. It was live action -- bizarre live action at that.

Anyone want to take a crack at figuring out my scary subconscience?

at this moment...

... I am having an inner battle as to whether I should dash across to HMV to pick up the new Morrissey album. There's no question that I want the CD but the debate that rages is whether I feel motivated enough to get up off my duff and get it. Maybe on my way home...

... "Little Bunny Foo Foo" is stuck in my head. It has nothing to do with thoughts of Morrissey but it's noteworthy, don't you think?

... I'm engaged in an IM discussion of outhouses with the lovely Jess. She's flummoxed that I haven't peed in one. Besides brief glimpses on scattered episodes of Little House on the Prairie, I've never even seen one. I've tinkled in my fair share of porta-potties but never in an enclosed hole in the ground with a moon-shaped peephole (again, this description is based only on years of watching Little House).

... I'm sneezing like it's my job. At fifteen in less than an hour, I think I've surpassed my personal best. I'm also riding out an Allegra high. My doctor just prescribed it for me. It's obviously not helping the allergies but it makes for a nice wee buzz.

... I'm cursing myself out that it's already 4pm and I haven't done much work today. Instead of lighting a fire under my ass, I continue to blog about nothing worthwhile while discussing toilet habits of the early settlers. Still beats doing boring paperwork I guess.

what would I do without bunim/murray productions?

It's criminal how much enjoyment I derive from an episode of The Real World. It's positively shameful how I can -- and will -- talk about the cast as if I actually know them. Regardless, I am an unabashed fan of the show as well as its sibling, Road Rules (new season starts next week. Score!!) Hell, I practically cream when a new RW/RR challenge starts.

I'm always ready to discuss this cultural phenomenon but oddly enough, some people shy away from this conversation. Others foam at the mouth at the mere mention and wholeheartedly join me in dissecting each episode. If you're in the former category, be gone. For the rest, this is for you...

In tonight's episode, Frankie, the chick with cystic fibrosis, just left the show. I have mixed feelings about this. She was a total train wreck and I often found myself yelling (yes, yelling) at her but she was SO entertaining. I liked hating her. She follows in the unsympathetic, disease-ridden footsteps of Tonya from the Chicago cast. As you'll recall, she was the twit with the fake boobs and the ailing kidneys. Because of their medical histories, these people had an instant "awwwww" factor but their ill-tempered angst quickly frittered away my sympathy. But I liked having them there because they were the perfect foil for the rest of the cast. One of my favorite Real World moments was the freestyled ode to kidney stones Tonya's roommates sang (in her absence, natch). That's good television. I mean, I guess for the remainder of the season I can point and laugh at Robin's fake boobs and hope that she goes off on another Marine in a drunken fit but I think she's trying to clean up her act. Dumb bitch.

I'm also bummed that Real World/Road Rules: The Inferno wrapped for the season. I'm anxiously awaiting the next faceoff. If by chance the suits at MTV come across my humble blog, I beseech them to put a moratorium on the return of several cast members. If I had my way, Veronica, Coral, Mike, Abram, Syrus and Julie the Mormon would never have another crack at the 150 Gs ever again.

No offense to Syrus because he seems like a nice enough fella but seriously dude, just hang it up. You obviously scored a lot with the ladies while in Boston but you didn't put too many points on the board this last go-round.

Timmy is getting close to sad status but he's just so damn cute and funny that I'll give him a pass. I'll also give him my number if he's interested. I would hop back on the hetero side of the fence for that boy. He's tasty.

Don't even get me started on Coral. Girlfrien', if you're going talk that much smack, please don't get sidelined by a spider bite. It just looks bad. And don't pick a fight with a Mormon. Again, it doesn't do much for your self-proclaimed bad ass-itude. I'm sure there's a scrappy Presbyterian in the bunch or maybe even a disgruntled Seventh Day Adventist you can throw down with but step away from the Church of Latter Day Saints. There's no cred to be established there.

But that doesn't let Julie off the hook either. She's a crazy bitch. I find her very uncomfortable to watch. I don't know if its the teeth or her just-barely-sane status but she seriously creeps me out. I worry about her.

Which brings me to Abram. I hate you. I had your back when that fat load, Donell, got you kicked off the show last year but frankly, you scare me now. I hope you get the much-needed treatment for your condition.

Mike, you're just sad. You speak SO SERIOUSLY of your responsibility and obligation to be a team leader in a competition that makes contestants eat milk and cookies and assemble dominoes while wearing skates. I mean, really... just listen to yourself for a second.

Veronica... I want to call you the worst possible word you can call a woman (you know... the c-word) but I just can't bring myself to do it. I can think it though because you're truly deserving of such a moniker. I seriously hope Katie and Trishelle double team your ass one of these days. Oh, and the fact that I'm siding with Trishelle of all people is even more reason to hate you.

Okay, once again, I'm starting to scare myself. That is all.