boom-baba-boom-baba-boom...

I don't have much in the way of inspiration in the blogging department lately. Not sure what's up exactly. Perhaps it's because over the weekend I discovered that I'm no longer thin. Hell, I'm pushing the limits of "average build." Gasp! This is not sitting well with me. God, even my mother gently suggested I go to Curves with her on Saturday. I didn't, of course, but the mere mention sent shockwaves throughout my fragile ego. It was a blistering wake-up call.

Now when my already-brittle self-esteem starts to take a dip, I don't self-medicate with food or shopping trips. Puh-lease! That would be far too predictable and mundane. I opt for a slightly different approach -- I unleash my inner masochist and engage in brutal self-critique. Lest you think this is a healthy exercise, I should state that this is a far cry from self-reflection. Don't confuse the two. When I engage in the latter, I acknowledge my tardiness, my irresponsibility, my self-centeredness, my appalling lack of discipline, among other things, and work to curb these flaws. Emphasis on the acknowledge. I don't claim to have made progress on any of these points, people.

The self-critique is a far more vain and ridiculous ceremony. I situate myself in front of a mirror and scrutinize what sags, poke at things that protrude, tsk and sigh at those parts that should protrude more but sadly don't, etc. And sometimes I try on hats and/or make sultry model faces. Common tools of this sadistic practice include: a tri-fold, full-length mirror and/or an illuminated magnifying mirror; tweezers, the Finishing Touch personal trimmer; spackle, a vast array of Clinique and Physician's Formula brick-a-brack; Puffs Plus with Lotion (to mop up after all the sobbing, you see); The Body Shop Soothing Eye Gel (for use after the Puffs Plus); and finally, a bathroom scale.

Lacking most of those vanity tools at my mother's house, I had to settle for just weighing myself. Since I don't have a scale in my apartment, I haven't been monitoring my increasing girth in pounds over the past few months. Sure, I've seen my body expand but I wasn't able to quantify the junk in my trunk before. Imagine my shock when I caught a glimpse of the record-breaking final tally! I've been lying about my weight for about a year now but what was once a wee fib is now a brazen and deceitful fabrication. It's positively shameful. Don't even ask 'cause I'm not telling.

I've also been fixating on pictures from my sister's recent wedding. Others may disagree but I feel like my arms look like big, flabby white sausages. Gone are my chiseled guns courtesy of those years of playing softball, slinging pizzas at my college-era restaurant job and hoisting children skyward while collapsing strollers during my stint as a Manhattan nanny.

Aging blows. I now have to work to retain some semblance of a figure and it fucking sucks!! But I'm on a mission to lose the flab and return to my former sinewy state. And I will DAMMIT. There is currently no beer in my fridge and there won't be for the foreseeable future. Actually, there is one bottle of beer -- Sam Adams Cream Stout. I got two in a mixer pack and I took a sip of one, cursed God's name and then poured the evil potion down the sink. The second one is still in the fridge but seeing that it's bloody awful, there is absolutely no danger of me drinking it. Anyone want it?

Mark my words: The Kick-Ass K-Mart Bike will be propped up on one of those pedestal things to make it a stationary bike for the winter. In addition to eschewing the Hoegaarden, I'm going to pedal my ass back to its former glory. I realize I'll have to forfeit what little headway I've made in the boobie department but I'm willing to go back to less-than-a-handful if it means I can pour myself into some cute ass pants again. Sadly, I must, I must, I must decrease my bust.

And as God as my witness, the dimples will once again only exist in my facial cheeks and not the ones I sit on. Boo-yah!

weekend update

I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving! Mine was fabulous save for the unexpected trip to see Finding Nemo On Ice on Friday. I was asked to escort my niece to the extravaganza at Continental Airlines Arena while my sister went to the doctor, you see. Overall, it wasn't too horrifying. The costumes were a bit on the creepy side but up in the nosebleed seats, we weren't privy to the form-fitting details, mercifully.

Other than that, the weekend was rather sedate. Since I can't regale you with kooky McDimple dinnertime tales, I will share with you this little gem that was waiting for me in my inbox when I got home. That was about four hours ago and I haven't stopped laughing since. (Source: 89X Radio)

on thanksgiving and why i think peppermint patty is a big ol' bitch

I'm heading out to New Jersey tomorrow to spend the holiday with my family. I love Thanksgiving... even though I don't eat turkey or most things that cluck, oink or moo. However, my mother makes enough veggie side dishes to keep me good and bloated the entire weekend. [Note to self: Wear pants with an elastic waistband.]

Fortunately, my mother now lets me sleep late on Thanksgiving morning. She used to wake up the family and make us go to church, you see. This was always a bone of contention because all I wanted to do was lounge around in my PJs and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. But she won the battle (like I had a chance!) and off we went to church.

Truthfully, it was a nice service. During the Mass, each family received a small loaf of bread to be shared at the dinner table that evening. After the bread was distributed, the priest asked the congregation to hold it up so he could bless it. This took one family by surprise because when they sheepishly lifted up their loaf, there was already a big bite out of it. My younger sister pointed it out and we giggled until we got The Church Death Stare from the mother.

In other news, ABC will be running A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving on Thursday night. You know, out of all the Peanuts holiday specials I've seen, this is probably my least favorite. [Full disclosure: I've not seen the more recent Easter, Valentine's Day and New Year's specials.]

The reason I don't like this particular installment falls solely on the shoulders of one Ms. Peppermint Patty. She's a tiresome figure in this outing. Actually, she's dreadful in all of her appearances but this one is particularly cloying. And yes, I have seen Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown (And Don't Come Back!) where she typifies the ugly American. But I maintain that her galling lack of etiquette on Thanksgiving, of all days, completely trumps her appalling behavior abroad. In fact, while I'm normally loathe to use this term, I'd go so far as to say that Peppermint Patty is a cunt.

Yeah, I said it.

Some background: Charlie Brown and Sally were all set to go to dinner at their grandmother's house. Then Peppermint Patty called and invited herself over for dinner. He tried telling her they wouldn't be home but she wasn't hearing it so being the sensitive and well-mannered young man that he is, Charlie Brown decided to host his own impromptu Thanksgiving dinner. He recruited Snoopy, Woodstock and Linus and together they assembled a feast of toast, pretzels, popcorn and jelly beans.

While the menu was rather unorthodox, you have to applaud their responsible and forward-thinking approach: There was no use of an oven without parental supervision nor was there risk of a salmonella outbreak caused by a bunch of rookies trying to cook poultry. Um, not sure how I feel about a dog and a bird preparing food but under the circumstances, I'll let it slide.

So Peppermint Patty arrived rocking her usual look -- shorts, a green-striped polo and Birkenstocks. The bitch could have at least dressed up a little. Oh and if her behavior thus far wasn't appalling enough, she had Marcie and Franklin in tow and not one of those assholes thought to bring the host a gift! And then when dinner was served, Peppermint Patty had the audacity to criticize the food and the table setting!! God, could she be any more callous and inappropriate? I want to punch her in that round, freckled face of hers.

Um, okay, I'm ending this now before I have aneurysm.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!!

cavorting with the coworkers

All week long I looked forward to Friday night. It was Girls Night Out, after all. Actually, this one was Girls (and Michael P) Night Out. He was the lone boy amongst a gaggle of acid-tongued dot-com chicks and he most definitely held his own. To adequately illustrate my adoration of this boy, let's just say the he played air keyboard right in my face and I didn't strangle him. I really detest when one pantomimes the playing of a guitar, drums, etc., you see...

Random tangent: I was on a date with a stupid girl once and she knew of my distaste of air instruments. Or at least she thought she did. We met up the night before St. Patrick's Day and the sound of bagpipes could be heard in the distance. My Scottish-Irish pride compels me to stand at attention and swoon when I hear that familiar, comforting wail. I expressed my pleasure at the sound and she said, "I'm surprised you like the bagpipes. You hate air instruments, remember?" Now I'm no musician but even I know the proper classifications. I was like, "The bagpipes are a WIND instrument. I have nothing against horns and tubas and stuff. But if someone was pretending to play one of these instruments by blowing into their thumb or something, it would annoy me." Dumbass.

But back to Friday's festivities -- some of us have since moved on from the job and some are still hanging in there. We still meet up every couple of months because our past and present job-related misery was such a powerful bonding agent. Our wit, sarcasm, empathy, sympathy and all other coping mechanisms served as the grout in our disgruntled mosaic. Actually, The Lovely Jess and the equally lovely Sheila are two of my most prized possessions from that otherwise-awful stint. Unfortunately for us, Sheila couldn't make it to our latest bash but fortunately for her and certain counties in Ireland, she's in her ancestral land tearing it up. Go read her gorgeous account.

So we drank margaritas and Hoegaarden at Cowgirl. Okay, I drank Hoegaarden and everyone else enjoyed the establishment's highly-regarded margaritas that come served in wee Mason jars. We ate lots of things smothered in cheese and talked lots of smack. Oh, how I adore these outings.

Some of our group hails from Long Island and New Jersey and had to leave early because of their unforgiving train schedules. I remember the days of hauling ass and sweating bullets in the hopes that the subway or PATH train would miraculously defy the rules of the universe and slow down time to get me to my connecting train. Sometimes it worked but most times I found myself cursing at the conductor of the departing train at the Hoboken station. Apparently, they have to "stay on schedule." Bureaucratic bastards that they are.

Eventually our numbers dwindled until only Jess and I remained. Our conversation went a little something like this:

"Um, do you wanna go home now?"

"I dunno, do you?"

"I mean, I could go somewhere else and have like one drink or something."

"Okay, let's go."

So off we two enablers went and had way more than one drink. Just for shits and giggles, we walked up the block to Rubyfruit. I had never been there before but I knew of its old lesbo granny bar reputation. And the reputation was well-earned. It was a karaoke-singing softball coach convention in there. There was a lot of bad fashion on display including a woman with pre-Doc Billy Ray Cyrus hair. Come to think of it, there were several Doc-era Billy Ray Cyrus hairstyles too. And lots of high-waisted jeans and vests. The girls hit the clothing department at Sears before going to Rubyfruit apparently.

Elsewhere on the dance floor, a geriatric with nary an ounce of rhythm was shaking her polyester-encased rump with two very young chippies. And she kept trying to sing along to the song but clearly didn't know the words. I give her a 1 for accuracy but an 8 for effort.

Jess and I were visibly shaken by the sight but what was most upsetting was the bony lady wearing an oversized red Tweety bird t-shirt. My back was to her but Jess tipped me off to her alarming choreography. I turned around to take a gander and was NOT prepared for what I saw. Admittedly, my dancing will never get me invited on Soul Train but Jesus, this was bad. It was like she was doing The African Anteater Ritual while having a seizure in between occasional bouts of finger snapping.

And then we got distracted when an androgynous figure walked past us. So we spent the next few minutes playing Guess the Gender. This individual looked like The Amazing Jonathan but without the facial hair. It remains the night's unsolved mystery. Well, it's actually a toss-up between that and a discarded car door wedged in between some trash on Hudson Street. However, I definitely think the unidentifiable gender was the more perplexing of the two.

Next up: Cubbyhole. For those of you not in the NYC area, this bar is nestled in the labyrinth otherwise known as the West Village. I've been to this place a dozen times and can get there from the subway, no problem. Trying to get there from points north or south when slightly inebriated is another story. So we tramped around a bit until we got our bearings and found our destination.

Jess managed to snag a seat at the bar and within minutes, a woman was talking to her. I thought I would have to step in and play girlfriend to discourage the prowling lesbo but it turns out, it was just a very drunk girl pleading with Jess to watch her seat while she went outside to smoke. She promised to buy her a drink in exchange for the favor. However, she never made good on it. Bitch.

That girl was a sloppy drunken mess with a really unfortunate hairdo. Out of nowhere, she of the burnt perm and crunchy bangs started arguing with a bunch of unsuspecting women to her left. The exchange of slurred words culminated with her hurling a GO NYC magazine at her rivals. I feared drinks being thrown and a fist fight so I dusted off my diplomacy skills and distracted the messy drunk with a request to clink glasses and just enjoy herself. It worked. She stopped trash talking and flinging reading material... and then set her sights on befriending me and Jess. Oy.

Oh, but she was frightening! She had a crazed look in her eyes and sounded like Coalminer's Daughter. I resumed chatting with Jess and another friend but Coalminer's Daughter kept poking her nose into the conversation. Literally. She didn't say anything necessarily but she repeatedly jutted her face into our little circle and stared at us all creepy-like. She'd then lose interest, walk away and wander back. At one point she asked me who I was and I answered, "Oh, nobody." She stuck out her hand and said, "Well, Nobody, it's nice to meet you." And then she declared her love for me, asked me to save her seat and staggered away. She swung by a few more times trying to remember where her seat was. She'd point at us, begin to say something, stop, then shake her head in confusion before resuming her patrol. Perhaps it was wrong of us, but Jess and I never tipped her off to her seat's location. Truthfully, it was a rather enjoyable floor show.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go apply a soothing balm as the flames of Hell are licking at my feet.

and we have LIFT OFF!

Just got back from the date with The Opera Singer and um... hubba hubba. She's gorgeous and smart and funny and nice and easy-going and can keep up with me in the beer drinking department.

She totally broke with dating protocol and emailed me after she got home to ask me out again. Normally that shit freaks me out but this one isn't a scary lunatic in the least. Oh and did I mention she's hot?!?! WOO HOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'll keep you posted.

t-minus 180 minutes...

So I've got a date tonight at 8pm with an opera singer and it's looking promising. She's artsy and well, I likey. But given my track record of late, I won't hold my breath. But I'm also trying to stay positive. Hell, I'm even going to shave all appropriate regions just in case.

Kindly send good thoughts, people. As always, I will fill you in later. Or maybe tomorrow if all goes well. Ba dump bump.

anyone, anyone?

So I had a kooky dream last night. I think it took place on a commuter train like NJ Transit or the Long Island Rail Road. It definitely wasn't the subway. But then again, part of me thinks that the setting may have been a restaurant because I was sitting at a table with my friend. It's hard to decipher the location.

At one point, I stood up to say something to the waitress/conductor (again, not sure) and I noticed THE EX sitting alone in a row seats of against a wall. I have not seen her in over two years and I often wonder how I'll respond if I were to bump into her randomly. In my dream, I cordially sat down next to her and was quite friendly considering the emotional torture and anguish the girl heaped upon me a couple of years ago. Repeatedly.

Anyways, she looked like ASS. Mind you, THE EX is a stunner in real life but in my dream, it looked like she tried to dye her gorgeous chestnut brown hair blonde and well, there was burning and discoloration. It was also all long, wild and ratty-looking as opposed to her usual stylish, well-kept hairdo. In my dream, she kinda looked like Witchie-poo.

During our encounter, THE EX was really abrupt with me and seemed embarrassed to see me at that moment. I think she gave me a booklet or something and then I went back to the table where my female friend was sitting. To the untrained eye, it would appear that my friend and I were a couple and I relished the thought that it would make THE EX jealous. She walked past and looked at us in passing and that was it. I noticed a handwritten note in the pamphlet she gave me but I didn't bother reading it. Instead, I went back to the conversation with my friend completely unfazed.

I used to gobble up emails and letters from her like they were Krispy Kremes. Not this time though. Man, that feeling of "I couldn't give two shits!" was on par with some of the very good sex dreams I've had. I wish I could bottle it and take a swig whenever I start feeling mopey.

So does this mean I'm over her? What the hell is going on? I'm a complete dunce when it comes to allegory and symbolism so kindly feel free to take a stab at what's going on in this muddled mind of mine. Please and thank you.

dingleberries by definition

I was just looking through some pictures from my sister's wedding and I came across one of a childhood friend who lived in our old neighborhood. We'll call her Tilly to make things easier on both reader and author. So years ago when Tilly was best pals with my recently-betrothed sister, I often hung out with Tilly's younger brother (let's call him Arnold).

Arnold and I could almost always be found playing with Star Wars action figures and Matchbox cars. Lest you think I was a total tomboy lesbo in-the-making, I'll have you know that I was playing with Barbies on alternate days. And for the record, the dolls were always impeccably dressed and not one of them ever played golf or worked for a non-profit. Oh, and when I did play with Matchbox cars, I always selected a Le Car (mustard yellow with an open-and-close hatchback) or a ragtop red Lincoln Continental. Make of that what you will, armchair psychologists.

ANYhoo, the mother of these neighbors was a stay-at-home mom who often passed the time with various crafty projects. One day we entered their backyard to find signs hung on the privacy fence around the pool. Because many neighborhood kids used to swim there and because she had the time to do it, the mother made her own signs similar to "Welcome to our ool. Notice there's no P in it. Let's keep it that way." Her homemade signs were neatly printed in blue ink on beveled wooden boards and were suspended from the fence by blue-and-white waxy clothesline rope. A few of her ground rules:

:: No running

:: No P'ing (I remember she made the "P" really big and thick)

:: Please don't pee in our pool. We don't swim in your toilet. (She obviously felt strongly about this)

:: No diving

:: No dingleberries

On the latter sign, the neighbor's mother drew three little circles in a triangular formation right next to the lettering. I remember questioning the meaning of the word dingleberry and was told by Arnold that it was another word for fart. So I gave the sign a closer look and surmised that the three little circles represented tell-tale air bubbles. I was on board with the whole no diving thing but I didn't think that farting in a pool warranted a whole rule devoted to it. It's not like it tore the lining, clogged the filter or caused permanent paralysis or anything like that. I felt it to be frivolous. Regardless, I was delighted with the new word I had learned and called everyone a dingleberry for months afterward.

Fast forward several years later to me in a car listening to The Howard Stern Show. As frequent listeners know, Howard often regales the audience with tales of his battles with post-pooping clean-up. In short, the man is the King of All Skidmarks. So in the course of the broadcast, the term dingleberry came up often and not in the context to which I was accustomed. I became confused and voiced my befuddlement to a friend. Luckily, she was able to fill me in on its actual meaning. Imagine my surprise in a later conversation when my 70-year-old uncle used the term properly. Well, he called it a "dangleberry" truth be told but at least he knew that it was a wee ball of poop in question and not a toot, if you will. Don't even ask why this was being discussed.

It then occurred to me that the put-down I used for years was a far more wicked and diabolical insult than I had realized. The looks of shock and hurt it registered now made much more sense. Some of those kids really deserved to be called a piece of shit dangling from one's ass. But not all of them did. In that moment, I felt victorious and remorseful in one fell swoop.

Now here's where it gets slightly Telephone Game-like -- was the neighbor's mother mistaken when she made the sign or did her son interpret it wrong? Because of Arnold, I taught other kids that dingleberry=fart. A wealth of misinformation sprung from that boy. But that's not to say that his mother was in the wrong. Maybe she knew the real meaning and those three little balls she drew didn't signify air bubbles at all. Perhaps she grew tired of skimming mini turds out of the pool and decided to lay down the law. What I do know is that between this incident and his insistence that we watch the likes of No Retreat, No Surrender and Raw Deal, Arnold gave me many a bum steer during our friendship. Bum. Hee hee hee.

quality time

For a long time, my 11-year-old second cousin was the only child in the next generation of McDimple kids. Since the population boom in my family, she's been relegated to the sidelines so I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time with her in NYC this weekend. She's got two younger sisters who hog the spotlight and totally mess up her shit so she jumped at the chance to be away from them for two whole days.

Because I can't plan my way out of a paper bag, my idea to get tickets to Wicked went belly up. We walked into the box office about an hour before curtain to discover that the show is sold out through the end of the year. Last minute Hairspray tickets were equally elusive. There was a time that I was so plugged into the Broadway scene that if Stephen Sondheim farted, I not only knew about it in advance, but I also had tickets complete with pre- and post-event drink plans with a gaggle of fabulous gay boys. Not anymore.

So we bagged the matinee idea and headed over to that den of schlock otherwise known as Ellen's Stardust Diner. One mediocre grilled cheese and an insufferable rendition of "Back on the Chain Gang" later, I found myself schlepping around the Toys 'R Us in Times Square. If you ever need to exact revenge on me, just force me to go into this store again on a Saturday afternoon. If you want to really break my spirit, make me stand on line to buy something. Shopping at this place is only slightly less traumatic than a pelvic. Fortunately, the kid has a short attention span and a hypersensitivity to temperatures so she quickly grew bored and hot in the store and we left shortly after she saw the mighty T-Rex roar a few times. Yee haw.

Next up on the agenda was a trip to Dylan's Candy Bar where the cousin loaded up on baseball-sized Jawbreakers, something called Pucker Powder and various chocolate bars to distribute on the school bus tomorrow. I also bought myself some chocolate thinking it would be the chocolate bar to end all chocolate bars. Sadly, it wasn't. It was surprisingly bland and tasteless. I don't recommend.

Because the Broadway show idea was a bust, I needed to find something to do with the kid that didn't involve feeding our faces and getting hopped up on overpriced candy. So I hailed a cab and up we went up to the Hayden Planetarium at the Museum of Natural History. We saw SonicVision which is like a big screensaver projected onto a domed ceiling accompanied by a bunch of songs mixed by Moby. I looked over at the cousin during the show and her eyes were THIS WIDE and she had a big ass smile on her face. I know she had a lot of fun during the day but this made the trip officially cool. I -- and the baseball-sized Jawbreakers -- will no doubt be the talk of the school bus tomorrow.

What I really like about my little cousin is that in one instant she's a little girl absolutely giddy over Fun Dip and the next, she's giving dirty looks to a woman waddling up Fifth Avenue in a pair of ill-fitting black acid-wash jeans. The look of disgust on her young face was priceless. Between that and her identification of a Kate Spade knock-off, I was positively beaming with pride. I want my 4-year-old niece to stay young forever but I'm sort of looking forward to the day when we too can be all judgmental and spot fake designer bags together. I mean, isn't that what being an aunt is about after all?

friday afternoon slack

As you can see, The Lovely Jess and I are once again hard at work...

Jess: I am making the fattiest fatty dinner ever on Sunday. The Roommate and I have been conspiring

Yours Truly: Ha ha ha. Conspiring. I just had the funniest visual of you two holding clandestine meetings with blueprints and rubbing your hands together all evil-like

Jess: I'm making individual chicken pot pies in a puff pastry and baked apples with butter and brown sugar for dessert

Jess: "How to make our dinner guests have heart attacks"

YT: Are you plotting the course of the cholesterol that will clog up the arteries? "If I add an extra 1/2 cup of butter, it will ensure rapid arterialsclerosis (sp?) beginning HERE!" [points dramatically at map]

Jess: HA!

YT: "However, if I go easy on the butter and increase the amount of sugar, we're looking at a good chance of diabetes. That might take longer to kick in though and at best, we might only get an amputated limb or some cataracts."

YT: I'm sick. Sick, I tell you. Sick

Jess: That's why I love you

YT: My mother would hang her head in shame if she only knew. You know, I think she'd be more upset about my irreverence than my lesbionic ways

Later...

Jess: Did you watch The Apprentice last night?

YT: Yup!

Jess: I cannot believe how horribly Apex did. It was mind-boggling

YT: I could not figure out why they were at Penn Station handing out ads

Jess: It was really dumb

YT: That's not targeted marketing at all. Stupid, stupid, stupid

YT: I wish the show wouldn't end. I like it far too much

Jess: Me too

YT: Ewwwwwwwwwwwww! Guess what?

Jess: What?

YT: My friend's in-laws somehow indirectly know Raj and they gave Raj her cell phone number!!!! She hasn't watched the show this season so she asked me about him...

Jess: Oh my god

YT: She will HATE him. She is a fiercely independent woman who will kick a man in the balls if he even looks at her funny. I mean, she wishes airborne viruses on people for fuck's sake

Jess: Oh dear

YT: I hate him so much. We were walking around DSW last weekend and I trash-talked him all the way from boots to sneakers

Jess: That's a great line

YT: Why thank you

Jess: You could start a novel with that line

YT: Yup. It's right up there with "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

Jess continues this theme on her blog with another of our deep and probing discussions...

curly does d.c.

I had to go on business trip yesterday 'cause I'm important and crap. Thankfully it was just a one-day thing and I wasn't forced to sleep on scratchy Embassy Suite sheets or use a shot-sized bottle of shampoo that does absolutely nothing for my hair. Nope, yesterday's jaunt was a quickie to Washington, D.C. and back again. I heart the Delta Shuttle -- we took off and landed again within 45 minutes. Furthermore, the shuttle has its own terminal at La Guardia that dispenses free coffee and an array of newspapers and magazines. Rock on.

I spent the days leading up to the trip working on a presentation that I had to deliver in tandem with my manager. I was surprisingly composed in front of a room full of people considering I hate public speaking. However, I was explaining a process that I invented so I felt close enough to the topic to speak comfortably. Otherwise, I'm a splotchy, jittery-sounding, dry-mouthed wreck when thrust into the spotlight.

For some, picturing the audience in only their underwear helps soothe frayed nerves. For me, knowing that I was wearing Hello Kitty underwear under my pin-striped power suit gave me an edge. Snowboarding Hello Kitty underwear to be precise. Even though I now have to attend important pow-wows, it's helpful for me to secretly inject a ridiculous undercurrent to the proceedings. Or in this case, a ridiculous undergarment.

I had a couple of interesting cab rides yesterday. There was nary a peep out of the driver from Reagan National to the meeting location. Cool. The driver from the office to the airport, on the other hand, was a regular Chatty Cathy. A flirtatious one at that. He loved the fact that four young women from NYC were in his cab. He offered to drive us all the way to New York but we politely declined. Our refusal mostly stemmed from the noxious cologne fumes he emitted. P.U. I was so relieved when my coworkers all discreetly cracked their windows.

So he proceeded to chat us up until his cell phone rang. He then conferenced in at least two other drivers and had a very loud discussion in Hindi. Apparently there is no Hindi expression for "piece of junk" because that bit of English was sandwiched in between a bunch of other stuff I didn't understand. And there aren't many cell towers on the road from Dulles to Reagan National because every five minutes his called was dropped. It went a little something like this:

"Hindi Hindi Hindi piece of junk Hindi Hindi Hindi. Hellooooo?!?! Hindi Hindi
Hindi 4-wheel drive Hindi Hindi Hindi. Helloooo??!? Hindi Hindi Hindi.
Helloooooooo?!?!"

The cab driver from La Guardia had a gray, curly mullet and the thickest Brooklyn accent I've heard in a long time. I just wanted to zone out and sleep through the traffic snarl on the BQE but he insisted on bringing me up to speed on his life. In case you're interested, he now lives in Port Jervis with his wife, two kids and a Rottweiler that will chew your face off if you look at him funny. The scary dog needs to get a rabies shot today so the driver was on his cell phone shoring up support because the 150-pound beast needs to be muzzled and held down at the vet's office. Charming.

I'm back in my office today basking in the glow of a good meeting and fielding the follow-up questions and tackling the new tasks it spawned. I'm now officially on the radar of some higher-ups. Good thing I wore my Mickey Mouse underwear.

a letter to my menstrual cycle

Dear Ms. Menses,

Do you mind if I call you Flo? I hope you don't find it too presumptuous but we have, after all, been together for about 18 years now so I don't think it's entirely inappropriate for us to be on a first-name basis. If you'd prefer to keep it formal, I admit that you have just cause.

I realize I may have made you feel unwelcome in the past what with the damning you to hell business and the research on hysterectomies I performed from time to time. That was rather rash and I apologize for any hurt feelings.

And please don't take it too personally that at the first sign of you, I always slipped into a week-long-Advil-fueled coma. I hope that this behavior didn't come off as standoffish or anti-social as it was not my intent.

I appreciate that when your colleagues pay their monthly visits, some women fall to their knees thanking a higher power. I myself have never had a pregnancy scare and well, since an exposed penis hasn't been in my vicinity in quite some time (save for the occasional bit of porn or Vincent Gallo film), it's safe to say that no baby will be occupying any womb of mine.

In other words, there's no upside for me.

With that said, I see no reason to continue your employment within my body. As you know, I'm gay and won't be having children so the very thorough monthly clean-out you perform is just a waste of your time and my energy.

I wouldn't mind keeping you on as part of a contingency plan but, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, you really don't make for very good company. The bloating, swelling, frequent urination, headaches, joint paint and fatigue are most unwelcome attributes. Furthermore, you're extremely messy and you constantly fiddle with my internal thermostat. Not cool, Flo.

Frankly, I'm not too keen on the crying and emotional upheaval you cause. It makes me look very undignified. But in your defense, I appreciate the accompanying bout of grumpiness you bring to the table. I tend to be a very laid-back, non-confrontational person three out of the four weeks in a month so that one week of crabbiness keeps friends, family and coworkers on their toes. We mustn't let people become too complacent, you see.

In summary, the work you do is very admirable despite your off-putting side effects. If circumstances were different, I would be forced to keep you on board. But we must face certain truths and well, there's just no valid reason for me to make my uterus hospitable for anyone or anything. I mean, I guess I could use the extra storage but, no, I'm standing firm in my decision.

Thank you for your dedication and valiant efforts, Flo. In your time with me, your attendance has been near perfect. And after a few erratic arrival dates, you really buckled down and improved your punctuality 100 percent. Naturally, I will enthusiastically vouch for your consistency and reliability should you require a reference.

I am confident your conscientious work ethic and plumbing skills will be put to good use in a more deserving host. Now kindly leave the premises.

Sincerely,

Curly McDimple

sweetness follows

I unexpectedly got a ticket to last night's R.E.M. concert at Madison Square Garden. It was very fortunate for me as I adore the band and our seats were dead center about one short level above the floor. Unfortunately, the reason I received the last-minute ticket was because my younger sister was stuck home with a nasty stomach bug. Not fun. So while she was being a hurly girly, as she and I like to say, I was in the presence of my favorite boys from Athens. It was bittersweet.

I had a pretty good view of Michael Stipe flailing about the stage and he looked adorable in a white suit that hugged his wiry frame. However, I find his recent preference for airbrushing blue shit around his eyes and ears a bit disturbing. He's been rocking this look for the past year and I no likey. He looks like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner except without the unitard and gymnastic-like ass-kicking of one Harrison Ford. Tres creepy. But I do love me some Michael -- sunken cheeks, bald bony head, acne scars and all.

Peter Buck was in fine form with the guitar and was dressed suitably for a man of his age and experience. As long as he's not drunk and on the same flight as me, I have no beef with Peter.

Sadly, Mike Mills is still woefully misguided in his notion of what he thinks a rock star looks like. Dude, the goofy sequined jacket and the curly wedge hairdo have got to go. I just want to have a sit-down with that man and tell him to embrace the fact that he was and always will be a band fag. It's okay, Mike, sweetie, it's okay. You're no longer beholden to the polyester onesie with the braided trim. Cut the hair, get yourself a nice button-down shirt, loose-fitting jeans and a pair of black Oxfords and all will be right again. You have the potential to have decent hair. I mean, save for the middle part and ever-so-slight feathering, your hair wasn't that bad during the Out of Time era. Relatively speaking, of course.

The show opened with the old chestnuts "It's the End of the World As We Know It" and "Begin the Begin." I thought we were in for a stroll down memory lane but then the set list ended up relying on way too many new songs. Anytime the show gained momentum, the band totally killed it by trotting out stuff from the latest album, which judging by the tepid audience response, no one has or wants. I wish the band took heed that the place came to life during "Welcome to the Occupation," "Get Up," "Life and How to Live It," et al and adjusted their playlist accordingly. Fat chance, I know. The energy rose exponentially and then came crashing down when they launched into something unfamiliar. It was a complete buzz kill.

In fairness, the mood in the Garden was rather subdued because of the election outcome. Face it -- the band and all (or most) who love them share the same political vision. We were all miserable and depressed. Today's Daily News blamed the band's lackluster performance on their age. I think it had more to do with the fact that they spent the past few months vigorously touring and campaigning in support of regime change. I'm willing to cut them some slack if they're a wee bit exhausted and disappointed after the election results. God knows I know am. My ass has been dragging all week.

I enjoy going to concerts but if there is one thing that always kills the experience for me it's that cranky person who wants nothing more than to sit on his/her duff throughout the show. If you want to remain seated, that's your choice. However, I cannot tolerate when a person starts getting all pissy and yelling at people who want to stand. Sit at home and listen to the fucking CD then! There were people to my left who jumped up when "The One I Love" came on and this nasty old bitch behind them started yelling and poking them in the back because her majesty couldn't see. She got no support in our section though. In fact, she was shown the middle finger and more people (including me) stood up just to piss her off. I heart solidarity, rally I do. We felt no camaraderie with her so we banded together and wiggled our asses right in her face. Besides, she probably won her tickets on the radio anyway.

at a loss

Before today, I've had my heart broken precisely one time. That experience crushed me and took me several years to recover. What was so devastating about that experience was that I lost hope. I felt abandoned. My faith in something I completely believed in was all but destroyed. Today, I feel the same way. I never thought Kerry was a shoo-in but I tried to remain positive without kidding myself. The reelection of Bush is a bitter pill to swallow but the defeat of gay marriage in many states has just completely demoralized me.

As I explained to my homo-fearing mother, allowing for gay marriage doesn't mean two dudes in wedding dresses are coming to a church near you. For those of you who can't wrap your brain around the concept of same sex pairings, put aside your disgust, your misunderstanding and your "I just don't get its" and think about the joy, the happiness, the pain, the fear, the thrill, the exuberance, the worry, the loss, the desperation, the adulation and every other feeling, good and bad, that you've experienced via the love of your life. Now let yourself contemplate just for a second that we feel the exact same things.

I don't necessarily think that anyone who voted for Bush or against gay marriage is a card-carrying homophobe. I do feel, however, that this vote helps validate the religious fervor and intolerance already directed towards us. As it is, some people think they're justified and right in being grossed out by us. I was raised Catholic and the last time I checked, there wasn't a Commandment, Beatitude or parable that said, "Blessed are they who shudder in disgust and hurl thine most scathing insults at a man who lies down with another man for those exhibiting utter disdain for thine homosexual neighbor shall inherit the earth and win favor with God." Yes, the Bible does pooh pooh the notion of same sex lovin' but it also gives equal time to the "ungodliness" associated with eating shellfish. In other words, as you take that grain of salt when devouring your shrimp cocktail, kindly extend the same latitude to us homos.

When I had my first lesbian experience, my girlfriend (THE EX) and I -- thanks to our respective Irish-Catholic and Southern Baptist upbringings -- had managed to convince ourselves that we weren't gay. We were just "two people in love" as we were fond of saying. But deep down I knew I wasn't an impulsive person when it came to such matters. When that relationship ended, I was left to explore just how and why I had "abandoned" my heterosexuality. I knew it wasn't just a one-off deal for me. When the relationship was in full swing, I never felt so alive and comfortable in my life. But the desolation and despair that followed was like nothing I had ever known.

She broke up with me through a letter. I still lived at home at the time so I holed myself up in my room and read her words explaining how scared she was of our relationship and begging me to understand why she found herself a nice, safe boy. In essence, she said our relationship was "wrong." Because this came from the person I valued and trusted most, I believed briefly that she was right and that maybe we did do something wrong and sinful. I was at a loss. None of my friends knew about the relationship and I couldn't very well tell my family so for the first time in my life, I fully opened myself up to prayer.

By nature, I'm not really very spiritual. I'm culturally Catholic but most definitely not spiritually. I don't talk about my faith very often because it's so intensely personal and complex. But I will today. Or least I'll try. It's REALLY hard for me to discuss this, especially in this format, because I don't want to seem like a flaky kook. And more importantly, I don't want to trivialize or gratuitously capitalize on a really defining moment in my life.

Praying wasn't a foreign concept to me. Like the good Catholic school product that I was, I could rattle off the Our Father and Hail Mary like clockwork. I never prayed with meaning or purpose though. My heart was never in it. In this instance, I just lowered all of my defenses and opened myself up. The moment I questioned if I was a sinner and that perhaps the devastating heartache I felt was punishment for my sins, I had the most beautiful, serene feeling wash over me. It replaced the despair and loneliness that consumed me. Up until then, I was cold and shaking and felt isolated and alone. But within seconds -- if that -- came the warmth. I felt like I was enveloped in a warm embrace. A visual I associate with this moment is being cradled in a large set of hands very similar to the ones I'd seen on prayer cards growing up.

This comfort came instantly. I didn't have to plead with God asking him to forgive me. It didn't feel like God was finally relenting and saying, "Oh, okay. I'll spare you the eternal damnation this time, you selfish hedonist, you." On the contrary, comfort was given to me generously. I didn't have to make offerings or vows that I wouldn't love another woman again. The comfort came anyway.

At that point in my life, I was agnostic. I didn't know if I believed in God but I kind of had my George Bailey moment and reached out to the possibility in my hour of need. And I do believe in God now. And I don't believe he thinks I'm a sinner.

If I encounter a person trying to make the religious argument against homosexuality, I always comfort myself in the memory of my beautiful, little moment. But it still breaks my heart when the source of my comfort is weaponized and used against me by people who just.don't.get.it.

home safe

I just read about an amazing all-volunteer organization whose primary goal is to offer FREE rides home to women late at night. RightRides services certain neighborhoods where there's been an increase in crimes against women. I've had lean weeks myself where I chanced the subway in the wee hours of the morning because I couldn't afford a cab. I always knew it was foolish to do but I didn't think I had an alternative. I've been lucky but unfortunately, not every woman makes it home safely. Fortunately, RightRides is working to provide a solution.

Please visit the website to learn more about what they do and how to volunteer and/or make a donation. Thanks!

is that your hip out of place or are you just happy to see me?

As frequent readers of this here blog know, my dating life of late has sucked some serious ass. If I wasn't so tired at the moment, I'd try to make some witty quip suggesting that the ass sucking was a viable substitute for actual ass (and other body part) sucking but the fatigue is preventing me from getting it together. You have the pieces so consider it a do-it-yourself-er. It's tres Ikea, no? Mmm... Ikea.

But back to my sad love life. So I went on a date last week with yet another new chick. She came recommended by an ex I'm still friendly with so I thought the outlook was good. Yeah, not so much. I arrived fashionably late and left freakishly early. I think the whole fiasco lasted about 1 hour and 10 minutes. Tops. I think that's a record for me. We just did not hit it off. But no bigs, I didn't hinge my happiness on the outcome. If it worked out, gravy. If not, onward.

I mostly embrace my fierce independence but every now and then (usually in time with the monthly hormonal fluctuations), the need for companionship and all that jazz starts creeping in. I fell off the wagon today and did some online shopping on PlanetOut and Nerve but found nothing worth mentioning. I just checked another upstart dating site where I keep a profile and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that a message was waiting for me. Until I opened it.

Mark this down, ladies and germs, November 1, 2004 was the day a senior citizen with balls like brass (and horrid spelling) made contact with yours truly. I've had some creepy old gray hairs give me the wink and the nod before but never via the Internet. At the risk of pissing off some AARP types, I can't help but be surprised when someone over 60 not only owns a computer but is competent enough to use it beyond playing solitaire and making clip art-heavy greeting cards. Who knew they could tap into the potential to possibly get some? Plaudits, old people. Plaudits. Um, except when it's my ass in the crosshairs. Ew.

Seriously though, I just turned 31. What ON EARTH would I talk about with a 69-year-old? "Did they say this round was a regular BINGO or full-board?" She's older than my mother for fuck's sake. I'm beyond grossed out.

I will be out and about tomorrow night watching the election returns amongst fellow lesbos and, of course, The Lovely Jess. If this latest development with online dating doesn't snap me out of my public shyness, I don't know what will. Cheesecake, let's commence with the wine drinking early and often. The rest of you... wish me luck.