spell checker is an idiot savant

Just as I was forced onto a yellow school bus parked outside of my Catholic school to help rid me of my whistling "s" sounds each week, Blogger needs to enroll its spell checking tool into some remedial courses. It doesn't even recognize the word "blog" for fuck's sake!

It's really become rather amusing each time I spell check an entry before publishing to see what words it stumbles on and what it offers up in exchange. In my previous post, I used the term "knockoff." I laughed for a good five minutes when it suggested "conceive" instead. Hmm... Spell Checker doesn't understand or provide alternatives for a simple word like "musn't" but somehow, whether intentionally or not, it assumed I intended to say "knock up." Brilliant.

tales of halloween past and present

Happy Halloween, everybody! Here's hoping you are all enjoying a candy-filled holiday weekend. I'm not doing anything Halloween-related today (although some of the dust bunnies I will be battling soon are certain to be quite scary).

I'm debating whether I should go out and buy some candy. The past two years, NO ONE rang my bell even though I stocked up on goodies. The first year, I was eating fun-sized Three Musketeers and Hershey bars for weeks (okay, days) afterwards. Last year I bought candy that I don't like so that I wouldn't be tempted to eat it if no one came a-knockin'. Sure enough, no one rang the bell and I got stuck with lollipops and some other stuff that I don't care for. I can't remember the exact candy but I can say for sure that it wasn't Mary Janes. I HATED getting Mary Janes as a kid. I don't know that I ever even ate one but the wrapper was so ugly with that mustard and red coloring. Tres unappealing.

Truthfully, I never had first-hand experience with this candy but the information that it was bad was passed down to me by others. That was enough for me to stay away. Kinda like Ishtar.

Speaking of Ishtar, I once found myself trapped in a room where it was being shown. When I first got together with THE EX (who was a good 6 years my junior), we were watching television with her younger brother. He was flipping through the channels and settled on Ishtar for whatever reason. Maybe he was intrigued by the sight of Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman covered in sand. I just don't know. So needless to say, THE youthful EX and her brother had no idea about the reputation of this film. I found myself giving them a little lesson in notoriously bad movies -- Heaven's Gate, The Bonfire of the Vanities, Staying Alive, etc. I summarized the lecture by informing them that one mustn't watch these movies to verify the awfulness -- one just has to take history's word for it. And then we ended up watching something with Kevin Costner in it. Sigh... Thankfully it wasn't Waterworld or The Postman.

But back to Halloween. My younger sister had a Halloween party the other night and it was AWESOME. She's 5'11" and her roommate is about 6-7 inches shorter so they made quite the striking couple as Popeye and Olive Oyl. The costumes were all outrageous, save for the one girl dressed like a slutty angel. Although, she did throw off bets by not dressing like a slutty nurse.

I had no idea what I was going to be but inspiration hit on Thursday night. After work on Friday, I visited K-mart, Target and Modell's in search of a toy tennis racket and an Adidas track suit. I found neither. I have Adidas track pants but they're swishy-sounding and didn't fit the bill. I wanted those soft fabric ones. Modell's was my last stop so I ended up buying a tight-fitting velour Juicy knockoff sweatsuit. It's ridiculously fabulous. I also picked up an Adidas headband. I wanted the toy tennis racket so that I could smash it into oblivion but, alas, no stores had any. So I dug out my really old racket and took a knife to the strings. I tried breaking the frame but it was surprisingly resilient. I did manage to knock a bunch of books off the shelf in the process though. Can you see where I'm going with this?

I put on the jogging suit and laughed hysterically at the sight of me in this ghetto fabulous get up. I stuck on a pair of Stan Smiths and pulled the headband down over my hair creating a puffy mass of curls at the top and bottom. With smashed racket in hand, I was John McEnroe's doppelgänger. If the weather was warmer, I would have worn really tight white shorts but it was far too nipply outside. I spent the evening throwing fake tantrums and screeching, "You CANNOT be serious." I should have brought an article reporting his atrocious CNBC ratings and Tatum O'Neal's new tell-all to complete the picture. Maybe next year.

Most people think I'm nuts because I don't really like dressing up. I get the same response when I tell them I don't like those crunchy things in between layers of ice-cream cake. I don't know why they react in such a way. I give them first crack before I touch my cake (remember, no dairy share). They totally benefit.

But if I do dress up, it's rather begrudgingly. I also assemble costumes that easily blend into normal clothes so that I can travel on the subway without comment. One year I put on army green pants, high-laced Doc Marten black boots and a white t-shirt (couldn't find a green one) and showed up to a party as Private Benjamin. I look nothing like Goldie Hawn so I made a "Hello, My Name is PRIVATE BENJAMIN" sticker. I rolled up my pants, slapped on the sticker, removed my coat right before entering and voila, instant transformation. It went over well.

My dislike of costumes must stem from an incident I had at an early age. When I was about seven-years-old, my mother got the idea from one of her coworkers to dress me as a crayon. I was asked to pick out my favorite color (at the time it was yellow) and we went to the store to buy big sheets of stiff yellow poster board (oak tag, if you're from Jersey). My father cut one of the pieces and formed it into a cone for the hat. I was given a black marker and told to write Crayola on the side and draw the squiggly lines, etc. When the big day came, the pointy cap was secured on my head with an elastic thingy and I was stapled into the yellow cylinder. I wore yellow pajamas underneath to avoid any yellow-peach confusion.

Remember when we were younger and the word on the street was that bees are attracted to the color yellow? I don't know about the rest of the country but we have a shit load of bees in Jersey in September and October. And they're all pissed off trying to get in their last stings before they die off (or go into a hive or whatever the hell they do in the winter). I got as a far as around the block before a bee started buzzing around me. I swatted at it a few times but it persisted. Finally, I decided to run from it. Um, not a smart idea considering my legs were mostly covered by a narrow tube. I can still remember the ripping sound. It wasn't even a clean break that could be fixed with Scotch tape. I ripped that muthafucka asunder.

I sadly walked back home and rang the bell. My mother came to the door thinking I was a trick-or-treater but instead of getting candy, I got a high-pitched "What on earth happened?!?!" She muttered and told me I was daft as she rummaged through her drawers to find a suitable replacement. She finally found a pair of pirate pants one of my older sisters wore a year or two before. Truth be told, I was a half-assed looking pirate because she couldn't find the hat, eyepatch or knife. In the end, all I was wearing was shredded jeans and a white shirt. I looked more like a castaway or someone victimized by a pirate.

But I still got lots of candy and did my yearly tradition of trading all of my Mary Janes in for the better candy in my Mom's bowl. The trade-in was the best part. I ditched all my bad candy and pennies for the good stuff. My rate of exchange benefited me rather generously, I might add. One penny = two boxes of candy corn or three Dum-Dum lollipops (cherry, preferably). My Mom made us remove Sugar Daddies, Now & Laters and Laffy Taffy from our bags because of their superior teeth-ruining properties. So we'd put those in the bowl in an uneven exchange for the Mom-approved (and much better) candy. Funny how she didn't seem to mind rotting some other kid's teeth.

Happy Halloween!!

on friendship

I received a forwarded email from my friend Christina today (the owner of the lunatic cat who held me hostage). When Christina forwards something, I can usually be sure it's not one of those so-sappy-I-could-die email things that I vehemently despise. So I was a little concerned when I saw an email from her with the subject line: "FW: Friendship." But I should have known not to doubt my faith in my dear friend...

>> Are you tired of all those sissy "Friendship" poems that always sound good, but never actually come close to reality? Well, here is a series of promises that really speaks to true friendship:

When you are sad -
I will help get you drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

When you are blue -
I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

When you smile -
I will know you finally got laid.

When you are worried -
I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be and to quit whining.

When you are confused -
I will use little words.

When you are sick -
Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.

When you fall -
I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass -- then help you up.

This is my oath ... I pledge it till the end. Why? You may ask. Because you are my friend.

Send this to 10 of your closest friends, then get depressed because you can only think of two and one of them isn't speaking to you right now anyway.

Remember: A good friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a body. <<

it's all good today

I was in the foulest of moods last night. Work this week has not been fun. There's a woman here that no one likes and she was in full annoying mode yesterday. She's a worthless piece of shit and none of my colleagues can understand why she still has a job. Oh wait, right... she's best friends with our boss. How else would someone who stinks of booze at meetings -- when she decides to show up at them -- stay so gainfully employed at a major company which prides itself on reputation? Furthermore, she disappears for hours on end and when she returns, she's buzzing like there's no tomorrow. I always look for traces of white powder around her nose but so far, she's managed to do a thorough post-snort clean-up job.

What's awful is that after she gets caught doing something really stupid, she tries to make up for it by crafting emails to her coworkers (with her best friend/my manager) cc'd where she makes suggestions or critiques some of OUR work. It's all in a bid to deflect the glaring spotlight from her and to ingratiate herself further to the boss. I can't see that she has much worth here other than creating the allusion that we're all idiots in desperate need of her guidance and direction. For example, when she calls a 9:30am meeting and shows up 45 minutes late, I can expect her to rebound later with a list of "enhancements and other suggestions" about the job I'm doing. Ain't projection grand? I want to soundly beat her ass into an unrecognizable mass of gashes, bruises and welts. Alas, she's a ticking time bomb -- not to mention a complete mess -- and will most certainly self-destruct before long. Bygones.

Issue #2: I have a major pile of laundry in my apartment in desperate need of attention. I went home last night with every intention of doing at least one load to get me back on the plus side of the sock and underwear ledger but the machines were occupied all damn night. I live in a very small apartment building where one washer and one dryer is usually enough to satisfy the tenants. However, the buildings to the left and right of mine share a landlord and a front door key so those asswipes always use our machines. I can only surmise that they are the biggest bunch of smelly dirtbags because they are always washing load after load after load. What's worse is that they leave their fucking wet clothes in the machine long after the final cycle is complete. I came home last night to find both the washer and dryer -- not running -- loaded with clothes. I don't want to go pawing through people's stuff so removing the clothes from the machines myself is NOT an option. One day, I arrived at the machine precisely 1 minute after my load was washed and someone had placed my clean clothes on top of the dusty dryer. That person is lucky I didn't catch him/her doing it because I would have shoved enough Snuggle sheets down his/her throat to choke a horse. So last night I checked in from time to time to see if the stuff had been removed and somehow, someone else managed to sneak in and load up the machines... and then leave their fucking clothes in there for hours afterwards. Next to the coked-up waste of space I work with, these people are high on my shit list. I hope someone accidentally leaves something red in the machine when they are doing a load of whites.

And then, finally, the fucking Red Sox won. I'm not pleased but now maybe they and their fans will once and for all stop their bellyaching. Speaking of the World Series, I have a coupla questions:

1. Um, did St. Louis even show up? Wasn't this the team with like the best record in baseball? I think I could have put up better batting numbers, boys. And don't get me started on your base running!

2. And why the hell is Manny the MVP? I despise Curt Schilling but Good Lord, the man was hobbled, played through the pain and inspired his team. Again, I hate him but I think he was more of a standout than Hairy Bloated Manny.

But, this morning, all is good. My boy Philip Roth was on the Today show discussing his new book, The Plot Against America. That man NEVER does interviews yet he granted one to Katie Couric. Um, Phil, what's up with that? I figured you more for a Charlie Rose or 60 Minutes man myself. I'm still trying to figure how Katie of all people landed this plum get but whatever, the point is, I heard Philip Roth speak. ::swoon:: Nothing else matters now... except those fucking Red Sox ads that keep appearing on my blog. If you'll excuse me, I need to go to my Google AdSense account to continue aggressively filtering out any mention of that much-loathed band of hairy beasts.

tales from the wedding

So the sister's wedding is over and done with. I can't quite believe it's come and gone already. As expected, I was asked at least a dozen times if I was "up next" but I was able to deflect all questions with panache. And by panache I mean, "Oh get the hell out of here and leave me alone!" It worked well.

Saturday FLEW by even though it was an extremely long day. I slept at my oldest sister's house in order to keep the shower and bathrooms free at the mother's house for the bride. The niece insisted I sleep on the trundle bed in her room which was all fine and good until she woke up at 7:30 and promptly commenced with her yapping. My hair appointment wasn't until 11:00am so there was no reason for me to be up at that ungodly hour.

I was a bit nervous about getting the hair and makeup done because both people accomplishing this task were untested by me. I had to rely on faith that I wouldn't end up looking like a scary-ass clown. Fortunately, the makeup guy (Larry) often works for Dior so subtlety and class were his order of the day. Ooh and the hair lady (Amy) worked my curls into a delicate and loose pattern framing my face. It was almost like a flapper hairdo. After the makeup was done, I was told I looked like one of the dancers from Chicago. It was hard not to break out into the "Cell Block Tango" right there in my Mom's living room.

The ceremony was beautiful. A bagpiper played outside the church before and after the ceremony. I guess by the time we assembled on the steps afterwards, he had run out of songs because he started playing the themes from Jesus Christ Superstar and Star Wars. VERY interesting compositions on the pipes, I must say.

My niece was one of three flower girls. In her time on the altar, she managed to show the entire congregation her undies, yawn several dozen times during the vows and then upstage the monsignor by standing behind him and gesturing dramatically. She assumed the pose of an opera singer and began lipsyncing to the soloist's rendition of "Ave Maria." I can't wait to see the video of that. Little heathen that she is.

The reception was fabulous. I was having a grand old time with my Irish, Canadian and Scottish cousins out there on the dance floor. We could have a fun time dancing to static, truth be told. The brand new brother-in-law is extremely quiet and shy, as is most of his family. I'm just about certain that they think my family is nuts. We outnumbered them but even if we didn't, we totally commandeered the dance floor the entire night. My cute 78-year-old uncle (the Mother's oldest bro) came up to me and put his hand out and said, "Come on Curly, let's go shake it!" How could I resist?!

No McDimple wedding would be complete without some traditional Scottish and Irish music. After a few polkas to satisfy the new in-laws, the fiddles, accordions and pipes took over and before long, I was doing the Gay Gordons with the best of them. Um, it should be noted that I don't actually know how to do most Scottish and Irish dances but I can fake it pretty good. My dress was really long and it covered up my clumsy feet and I was able to prance about quite believably while yelping like the good Celt that I am. It also helps that I have bouncy hair.

One of the Canadian cousins got a wee bit carried away during "Oh Mickey" and she accidentally walloped the oldest flower girl in the mouth. The flower girl recovered quite nicely and was laughing again soon after. However, we then proceeded to say, "Hey look, I'm Kathleen!" while throwing punches and other violent moves to make fun of the cousin. Um, I tried a Tae Bo like-kick and well... the lining in my dress was rather unforgiving and whoosh! I landed on the floor with a flourish. However, my softball ability kicked in and I bounced right back up. It looked like I slid safely into home. I was congratulated by all for my impressive re-entry. It hurts like a mutha today though. Yeeouch.

My Uncle George was wearing a kilt and one of the waitresses was apparently dared by the rest of the wait staff to ask him what was under it. She got the shock of her life not only by his answer but also when he dragged her out on the dance floor. That should be some interesting footage on the video. "Hey, who's that girl in the pantsuit with the gold buttons and tapered legs getting down to 'Last Dance'?"

Speaking of the video, the videographer had a serious B.O. problem. I was dancing away and got a whiff and automatically assumed it was me. I don't know why I did because I could run a marathon, roll around in mud and not shower for a week and I still wouldn't stink like that. The smell was atrocious. All of a sudden, a friend I was dancing near said, "Whoa! The videographer is ripe!" Several other people overhead and we all said at the same time, "Oh thank God! I thought it was me!!" Yesterday at breakfast, those not within earshot of this revelation discovered the smelly truth and were equally relieved. It was like a phantom fog that filled the air in such a way to make normally good-smelling people second guess their brand of deodorant. Oh it was but a mighty stench. Some people can throw their voices, this dude can throw his stank. In a way, it's rather impressive I guess.

nooooooooooooooooo!

I'm stunned. I admit it. But I'm not too pigheaded to congratulate the Red Sox. I can only tip my hat and admire their amazing come-from-behind victory. It makes me ill to do so but what can you do? All that's left to say is GO CARDS/ASTROS! Naturally, I will aggressively be cheering on the National League this Series. Fucking crap-ass Yankee pitching squad.

i say it's my birthday...

Na na na na na na na nuh!

Today I turned 31. I'm a little weirded out by this. I don't feel 31 nor do I look 31 but I'm still unnerved. I'm now in my 30s. Scary stuff.

My birthday has been rather uneventful. It's a cold, wet day here in NYC and I'm saddled with a cold so I'm not out whooping it up. I have no voice with which to whoop. I'm also in a race against the clock to get well because the second oldest McDimple girl is getting married on Saturday. I fully intend to be going full blast this weekend with family and friends doing the "Cha Cha Slide" and whirling about to "Cotton Eye Joe" like nobody's business. I will also need all my strength to fend off the myriad "So, are you next?" inquiries. ::shudder::

My birthday shindig will take place in early November when the funk is long gone and the wedding dust has finally settled. In the meantime, I'm popping the vitamin C like it's my job and nursing myself back to health. However, tonight I'm allowing myself a beer while watching my beloved Yankees. I've got my rally cap on in the hopes that they'll roar back to life and win the pennant on my birthday. Of course, I'll accept this gift belatedly. I mean, I won't say no to an ALCS championship later in the week either. But all the same, let's try to wrap this up tonight, boys. I seriously cannot look at Johnny Damon's ridiculous bouncy mane and his George Michael-Faith-era facial hair one more day.

it's hard to be humble...

You know, when I first started keeping a blog, I thought my forte would be mining my misadventures as a half-closeted lesbo. I thought my dealings with my clueless Irish-Scottish parents plus my issues of insecurity, depression, Catholic guilt and a general distrust of the populace would be equally fertile ground for my blogging career. Little did I realize that my feet, or more accurately, the reaction that men on public transportation have to them, would be a recurring theme in this here venue.

Yes, folks, there was another subway incident involving my lower appendages. What's really creepy is that it happened again on the same train in the same location as last time. As God as my witness, I will never ride the R train again!

I was on my way home from work the other day, fully engrossed in my copy of the Daily News. As I was reading about the brilliant postseason performance of one Bernie Williams, I could feel someone hovering near me. I looked up and a rather deranged-looking man perched atop a red and silver Razor scooter was looking at me funny. I thought that perhaps my freakishly long legs were blocking his path so I quickly pulled them in, tucked them under the bench and resumed reading.

He didn't move. I looked up again to find his eyes cast downward examining my feet. I had a moment of "Not again!" but this time, my feet were protected by calf-length boots so I knew there was no danger of unwelcome suckage. Furthermore, I was in no mood. I was sporting a serious "Fuck off! Your nuts are not safe!" puss on my face so I thought for sure he'd take heed and keep scooting.

And then he spoke. It was rather unintelligible but from what I could glean, he was interested in my boots. He kept pointing at them and saying, "Shoe! Shoe! Shoe!" At the risk of sounding callous, I thought he was deaf because well, he sounded like it. I had no idea what he could possibly want with my boots so I thought about it a minute and then said, "Shine? No, no shine." He shook his head impatiently, sat down and pointed emphatically at them once again. I gave the feet a quick once-over to make sure I wasn't trailing toilet paper or trekking dog shit around. I saw that there was nothing out of the ordinary so I gave him a snotty, "I don't know what you're talking about!" and back to the sports page I went.

That's when he reached down and pulled up his pant leg revealing his hairy calf. He then pointed at my pant leg trying to get me to do the same. He wanted to see some skin. This dude didn't want to buff my boots... he wanted to knock them, if you will. I declined his invitation and he persisted. He'd stab his finger at my leg and I'd say, "What the hell are you going on about?" Back and forth we went with the pointing and refusing until I finally tuned him out.

I'm usually quite skilled at ignoring crazy people but my eyes kept darting to the side because I just didn't trust this guy. I reread the same sentence in my paper over and over again. Sure enough, moments later he got agitated, lifted the scooter up over his head and shook it rather menacingly. Thoughts of reconstructive surgery and physical therapy sessions flashed through my head. I was certain I'd be kissing metal before long.

But then -- and here's where it gets weird -- he lowered the scooter, leaned over to me, pumped his bent arm in a "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" gesture and asked quite innocently, "Sing along?" He went from pervert to preschooler in the span of two minutes. The train pulled into the station and I scurried off praying that I wouldn't be followed. Luckily, he remained in his seat and asked the guy across from him to join him in song. I'm not sure if he obliged.

I used to think the curly hair and dimples were my most prominent physical assets but in recent months, the feet have made a strong showing. In fact, I might have to change my name...

Yours,
Tootsie McSniffmyfoot

here's an interesting question for ya...

What do you suppose it means when a big ol' dyke has a dream about Alec Baldwin where said lesbo straddles him, gives him a right good snog and then lets her hand wander south, giving Baldwin an ending far better than in most of his movies?

Um, you know, hypothetically of course. Not saying it happened to me or anything. I'm just curious.

the last of the famous international playboys

Oh Morrissey, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

As you can see, I'm still riding high on my memories of seeing Moz at Radio City Music Hall last night. He was nothing short of fucking brilliant. His playlist was a touch heavy on the new stuff but since You Are the Quarry is a kick-ass album, I have no complaints. Would I have liked to hear "Sing Your Life," "My Love Life" and "Suedehead"? Absolutely. But it was hard to be disappointed when he, much to my delight, mixed in some Smiths songs!

Early into his set Morrissey sang "Bigmouth Strikes Again" and I nearly peed. The place just erupted when he did "How Soon Is Now." I was in heaven. For his encore, he favored us with "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" and I screamed like a silly little girl. The crowd, while rather sedate throughout most of the proceedings, totally roared along with me. It was quite funny to look around and see everyone happily singing along and bopping in their seats to a song with the lyrics:

And if a double decker bus crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die.
And if a 10-ton truck
Kills the both of us,
To die by your side,
Well the pleasure,
The privilege is mine.

The level of glee and joyful participation was akin to the hysteria that washes over preschoolers when prompted to sing "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" or "The Wheels on the Bus."

Seeing Morrissey completed my wish list of must-see-concerts-before-I-die. His is now amongst my Cure, Depeche Mode, New Order, Björk, 10,000 Maniacs, Violent Femmes, PJ Harvey and REM ticket stubs. The Pixies will soon be joining these illustrious ranks. Technically, I already saw them when they opened up for the Cure but now I get to see them all by their lonesome in December!! Woo hoo!!!!

Oooh "Sing Your Life" just came on iTunes. I will now bid you adieu because I must get up and dance my happy wee tail off.

more fun with stock photography

I'm taking a quick break to come out from under the pile of work I'm trapped under to say hello. Work has been a bitch this week -- 12-13 hour days of working at a frenzied pace. And I have PMS. Pleasant would not be a word to describe me this week.

I've been doing LOTS of photo research the past few days. In the process of looking for financially-strapped mothers and irritable babies (separate stories, by the way), I came across two very interesting pictures. Let's take a look at the first:

Corbis

Am I wrong or is this not Stacie J. from The Apprentice? I knew she was a model but frankly, I'm hoping her career consisted of more than posing for crappy royalty-free photos. It's not the most respected gig. In fact, in terms of prestige, I think it comes after modeling for a K-mart circular or the JC Penney catalog. You're so busted, Stacie J.

And here's number two (pun fully intended):

PictureQuest

This image, without question, blows my first encounter with a scary baby stock photo right out of the water. What parent would do this to a child? Again, I see what looks like hair spray in this kid's ridiculous 'do. I'll avoid the obvious mullet criticism but is that a comb over? And those bangs!!! He doesn't even look like a baby. He looks like a smaller version of some of the men I've seen wandering around Paramus. Poor thing. Here's hoping that when he's older, parental emancipation -- and a good mirror -- will right these wrongs.

damn

It's now Week 4 of the Daily News Scratch n' Match sweepstakes... and I still haven't won shit. I've even resorted to praying to help me win but alas, I have nothing to show for my newfound spirituality.

I don't have much luck when it comes to contests like this. I entered countless raffles in grammar school where top prize was a bike, a VCR, a computer, etc. And I never won. However, if the teachers put names in a hat to decide who was going to do a reading in front of a church full of people at the Confirmation ceremony, my name was miraculously selected. I also "won" the honor of doing a reading at my graduation right on the heels of my Confirmation performance.

Furthermore, in fifth grade, I was appointed to be the official welcome wagon when the parish got a new pastor. I had to sit through a REALLY long Mass attended by bishops and stuff and then go up and shake the priest's hand and say, "Welcome!"

I also had to crown the statue of the Virgin Mary at a well-attended church gathering on another occasion. Years later, I heard the song that goes, "Oh Mary We Crown Thee with Blossoms Today" and I believe I actually experienced a bout of panic. May Crownings are stressful! What if the wreath fell off Mary's head? What if I missed my cue and crowned her too early or too late? I was never good with the timing thing. In the third grade Christmas pageant, I forgot to stop rocking around the Christmas tree and continued circling it long after everyone else sat down. It was tres embarrassing.

I HATED doing these things. There were plenty of attention-starved and outgoing kids who would have jumped at the chance but instead, me -- the quiet, super self-conscious one -- was thrust in the spotlight and forced to perform. It was especially painful at the Confirmation because our public school peers -- the enemy -- were receiving the sacrament with us. They infiltrated our small, tight-knit group and scared the shit out of us quite frankly. We had a few smart-ass boys in my class and even they were speechless in the presence of the more wordly publics.

At the time, I was an awkward, pale and shy skinny little kid. The public school girls seemed so glamorous and mature to me. They wore makeup and gave their phone numbers to boys. I never concerned myself with such things before but suddenly, I was painfully aware of our differences. I dreaded getting up in front of them. I was certain they'd ridicule me. During the rehearsal, I read my assigned bit and was immediately chastised by the principal for not speaking loud enough. About 10 other students (both public and parochial) read yet she only picked on those of us who attended her school. Truthfully, she didn't expect much of the public school kids. In fact, we were always warned to take our valuables home on Mondays and Tuesdays when those kids attended catechism after we left for the day. Nice, right?

In addition to criticizing my volume, the nun took exception to the way I said the word "because." I guess I said it more like "becuz." She cut me off and yelled, "Miss McDimple! The proper pronunciation is 'bee-caawwwwwwse.' Now speak up and speak properly! You know better than that!" I just wanted to get up there, blurt out my bit and sit back down. Instead, she embarrassed me in front of all those kids and made me repeat myself about a billion times. At the risk of eternal damnation, I wanted to kill that fucking nun right then and there.

The worst was that the teachers actually tried to spin these gigs of forced public speaking as the most valuable prize of all. If by valuable they were referring to the small fortune I'd later have to fork over to a shrink and the makers of Paxil, then well, yes, I suppose they were right. I still would have happily "settled" for the Commodore 64.

a real-life bugle boy moment

So I'm on the subway on my way home from work tonight minding my own beeswax and listening to "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths. At Times Square, a rather large family got on the train. Among them, one was in a wheelchair, another was wearing rollerblades, one had bad bangs... and all were loud and insane. The minute they entered, the atmosphere on the train immediately turned from the usual indifference to dread. It was about 10:00 pm and the locals were tired and not in the mood. We collectively sensed that these people were going to annoy the shit out of us.

A word to the wise to those of you planning to use the subway on your next trip to the Big Apple: If you're attending with a large group or organization and find yourselves using public transportation, kindly congregate in one general area of the train and use your inside voices.

Oh and while I'm on the topic of subway etiquette, either sit down or HOLD ON TO THE MOTHERFUCKING POLE! Unless you're a regular rider, you WILL lose your balance when the train moves. Hell, even regulars get wobbly once in awhile. It's simple physics, people. If you do go flailing about the car, quickly compose yourself and suffer the shame of your clumsy ways in silence. Contrary to popular opinion, we don't think it's entertaining or all that original when people make a spectacle of said loss of balance with flapping arms and repeated exclamations of, "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" Seriously, Shecky, grab onto something bolted down when you get on and let that be the end of it. Repeat after me: Pratfalls are NOT funny, especially during rush hour.

But back to the merry band of big mouths... the youngest girl took an immediate liking to me and practically sat on my lap. When her mother commanded her to sit closer, the girl protested and grabbed on to my leg to hold her ground. Again with the strangers and the unwanted touching on the subway! What the hell?!? Luckily, she relented shortly after and left me alone.

I immediately went back to my newspaper and iPod and let The Smiths and the dire state of the world numb the pain. And then one of the rowdies addressed me. Her voice cut right through Morrissey's hypnotic warbling: "YOU HAVE AN iPOD!" I looked up at her and kinda went, "Huh?" She repeated,"YOU HAVE AN iPOD!" To which I shrugged and replied, "Uh... yeah?" I waited for a follow-up but that was the end of it. Not another word from her. Instead, she seamlessly rejoined the hyperactivity already in progress.

The girl likes to think out loud I guess. I bet she reads signs out loud in the car too. Not for informational purposes -- just because. My mother is the same way. She simply cannot pass a billboard or mileage sign without announcing its contents. It's totally annoying. But then again, I can't go near a Pier One Imports without doing an Elwood Blues impersonation. We all have our quirks.

But given my subway luck of late, I'm seriously considering investing in a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Either that or a glock.

roll out the barrel

It's a gorgeous fall day in New York City but unfortunately, I'm not out taking advantage of it. I was gone most of the weekend and had to come back home so that I could do some work today. This past week was rather trying in the workplace so I just spent a few hours getting caught up. I got a nice chunk done but I think I'll have to go in early tomorrow to get a head start. Pardon me while I laugh uncontrollably at my own naivete. Me up early? HA HA HA.

I'm so happy that the weather is turning brisk. I love October -- post-season baseball, my birthday, crunchy leaves under foot, pumpkin-flavored stuff, autumn color schemes and the appropriate weather to showcase my rather large sweater collection. I'm not really a fan of football but I have the Jets game on in the background because it just helps further the fall-like feel. It's the perfect soundtrack to the season.

I spent the past two days in NJ hanging with my niece and my oldest sister and brother-in-law. I arrived at their house late Friday night to find my niece's stuffed lion named Bushy on my bed "to help [me] sleep." She's a punk but she can be so incredibly sweet at times. I woke up yesterday morning to find Bushy right in my face making my nose itch. The niece thought that would be the appropriate wake-up call. She giggled as I opened my eyes and rubbed my nose. She then proceeded to chirp away -- without pausing -- for a good 30-45 minutes straight. She covered a variety of topics including different types of pumpkins, what she learned at gymnastics class, the roster of her classmates at school and some other stuff I don't recall/couldn't comprehend.

In the afternoon, I took her to my friend Filomena's shop to get her fitted for a velvet-y cape to complete her Snow White Halloween costume. Sweet Filomena was so incredibly patient as the niece manhandled EVERYTHING in the shop and fidgeted during the entire measuring process.

After that, we went to a feast sponsored by my niece's school where I ate enough pizza, pasta and pierogies to ensure that my recent weight loss was only a temporary thing. It was cold and damp outside but the event still had that nice autumn feel to it. Even better, I saw a bunch of people I know and had a great time catching up with them in between stuffing my face on a gusty day.

My sister's friend was there with her two children who were both recently diagnosed with autism. The younger girl has the more severe case. Her older brother is delayed but he's a lot more functional. I asked how the two kids got along and the mother said, "They don't interact with each other." That just broke my heart. I knelt down and looked at the little girl in her stroller. She's got enormous blue eyes and the chubbiest cheeks ever. It's hard to resist the urge to pinch them and smother her cute face with kisses. But she and her brother don't like people touching them. He talks and socializes with others but she just stares off into space. My first impulse was to feel sad for her but then I saw her occasionally smiling at her own thoughts. She doesn't talk at all but she keeps herself amused with a series of grunts, hums and the occasional raspberry noise. Much to my delight I discovered that she's ticklish. Getting a smile and a giggle out of her was a major accomplishment. The expression on her face was the greatest gift I got all day. She later took my hand and let me put her on a playground slide. It was quite funny because she just went limp and slid down very business-like. No whee sound. Nothing. She just laid there afterwards looking around sort of like, "That's it?"

The boy reminded me of my cousin Gregory. Gregory has Down's Syndrome and is the biggest mush, both in body shape and in deed. He throws his arms around people and hugs them with all of his might. He's so completely lovable and well-meaning... even though he tends to knock people down with his unbridled excitement. The little boy yesterday was the exact same way. When my niece climbed a rock wall, he squealed in delight and congratulated her heartily. He offered the same praise to all the kids around him. His heart is just huge and he runs around trying to share it with everyone. He crashes into people left and right but it's part of his charm. I saw him bolt off at one point so I chased after him to give his frazzled mother a rest. As a result, I ended up dancing with him to polka music as his chosen route was right across the dance floor. When I caught up to him and took his hand, he immediately started dancing to the music. Who was I to leave him hanging? So we whirled about for a few minutes before he was on the move again.

It was only a brief bout of polka-ing but it was enough to rekindle my relationship with Bobby Vinton. Yes, he's a regrettable crush looks-wise but there's no denying that he has a very pleasant singing voice. I defy any of you to not tap your toes to the "Beer Barrel Polka." It can't be done as far as I'm concerned.

mmm...cake

So I went to my first-ever CAKE party with The Lovely Jess last night. I'm exhausted this morning and sound like I gargled with gravel but damn, I enjoyed myself. Lez Zeppelin and Apocalypstik headlined and they both KICKED MY ASS. If that wasn't enough, there were GORGEOUS women dancing on platforms and dry-humping each other while wearing nothing more than sexy undies. Whenever I go to an establishment or event such as this, I can't help but get a brief pang of "What would my mother think?" But I quickly got over it last night and resumed my voracious ogling.

Jess was stroked and fondled by more than one party-goer but sadly, I got no play. Someone mistook me for a friend but that was about it. No matter, I was focused on the scantily-clad dancers anyway. I had a wad of Ones in my pocket and was ready to distribute them but when all was said and done, I chickened out. I simply could not approach the lovely ladies and show my approval. Two of them smiled at me but I immediately blushed and got all shy, dammit. I hate being shy. It sucks. Sucks I tell you! However, next time, I'm going to drink wine 'cause it makes me all fearless and affectionate and crap. Jess, don't let me drink beer at the next one! Kindly ply me with vino and let's hope for the best.