for your viewing pleasure

Fellow homos and those who love us:

Tonight is the launch of LOGO, MTV's new gay cable network. It promises to shower us with a kick-ass mix of gay and lesbian entertainment. Now even though I have little to no use for most lesbo films, this whole endeavor pleases me. I plan to tune in regularly to watch documentaries, original programming and the like. At the first sign of Better than Chocolate or Bar Girls, I'm flipping back to CNN or, you know, The Real World: Austin.

Check out LOGO's website to see if the channel is available in your area. If it's not, there's a nifty feature on the website that allows you to politely nag your cable provider. For those of us lucky to have it already, you can write a wee note of thanks to the powers-that-be at Time Warner, et al.

Tune in and enjoy!

it lives!

Okay, so remember how I said I inadvertently invited 200 people to join some online network? Okay, so I'm still suffering the shame of the initial deployment... and now the damn thing just started sending out follow-up REMINDERS! I got three of them already. Fucking A!!! I fear that the recipients are going to surround my tiny wee studio with torches and then burn it down... with me in it.

Sorry one and all!!

reading is fundamental

I consider myself an intelligent individual. I got very good grades in school. I'm enjoying a successful career in my chosen field. I don't embarrass myself when playing along with Jeopardy. In fact, I surprise myself with some of the things I get right when I watch that show. I blurted out something about photosynthesis once and nearly died of shock at both the speed and accuracy of my response.

Sometimes I even run whole categories! Granted, they're usually about TV and movies but sometimes Daily Doubles are hidden in there and one good wager can really create a comfortable lead for the rest of the game. It don't matter if the subject is The War of 1812 or The War of the Roses (starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, directed by their Romancing the Stone and Jewel of the Nile co-star, Danny Devito), a right answer is a right answer. Or rather, question, in this scenario.

Of course, I usually fuck it all up in Final Jeopardy because the category is often about canals, treaties, ancient Rome and crap like that. Seriously, once I earned my six required Intro to Western Civ credits in college, my mind developed a scorching case of the after-Taco-Bell trots and expelled most of that info right quick. I'm not proud of it but it's just the way it is.

But even though I can't speak at length about the Battle of the Bulge or the rise and fall of various empires, I'm still quite smart in other disciplines. However, in recent months, I've noticed a decline in both common sense and memory retention. Ask me a question about something that happened more than five minutes ago and you will smell the wood burning as I try to piece together a coherent response. My natural expression has gone from blasé and indifferent to pained and puzzled.

I fear this doesn't bode well for me in old age. I will be that old lady wearing my underwear outside my clothes asking everyone if they've seen my cat. And the thing is, I won't even have a cat because, even in the late stages of senility, I know I still won't like them! But other people won't know that and they'll all be on a wild goose chase looking for a tabby that doesn't even exist! And then they'll get all pissed off and jaded and it will totally sour them on being Good Samaritans ever again. That's really sad and I don't want to be responsible!

Maybe I'll come up with my own version of a DNR. Like, I don't want the plug pulled when I'm really sick and on the verge of dying. No, no. Instead, I want to be bumped off when I start getting flighty and acting totally out of character, even if the rest of me is in good health. Friends, the day I willingly eat butterscotch or ribbon candy is the day I need to die. Got that? Say, does a blog entry count as a valid living will?

An emerging trend in my mental decay is poor reading comprehension. Now I've never been good about reading instructions. I give things a whirl first and then back up as needed to repair the damage (if applicable). Haste doesn't always make waste, you know. A good portion of the time, I get things right off the bat. And when I don't, I usually just need to loosen a few screws with an Allen wrench to get me back on track.

Not this week.

It began innocently enough. I received an email from a friend inviting me to join some sort of online network. It had a nice wee note that said, "This will be a good way for us to stay in touch!" I thought the message was a bit out of character for my friend but I appreciated the sentiment and began the process of signing up.

I blew through the Terms of Service like I always do. It's a compulsion of mine to click "Next," "OK" and "Submit" without reading anything. For all I know, my vital organs are being auctioned off on the black market as we speak because I didn't deselect a check box somewhere. Well, if so, the joke's on them because I have a heart murmur, asthma, astigmatism and I'm pretty sure my liver's been irreparably damaged, particularly in recent months.

But as I was saying, I raced through the sign-up process barely even skimming the accompanying text. And then I got to a page that had a Gmail logo on it. Oooh, I have Gmail! I assumed I could complete the registration process with my existing Gmail account. I thought I embarked on a wonderful shortcut.

Yeah, not so much.

Because I failed to read the fine print, I unknowingly imported all of my Gmail contacts into this service and it proceeded to send out "This will be a good way for us to stay in touch!" invites to everyone in my address book.* That's over 200 addresses!! For those of you who don't use Gmail, it automatically stashes addresses in your contacts even if you've exchanged just one email with someone. In other words, I inadvertently spammed friends, family, my web hosting company, The Bank of New York, eBay, Target customer service and even worse... a couple of girls I'm blowing off. Can you imagine their reactions when reading, "This will be a good way for us to stay in touch!" after months of not hearing from moi?! Dumb, dumb, dumb.
* My apologies to those of you who received one of these emails.

So several days passed pretty much free of fucktard behavior on my part. I thought I was on a roll but true to form, the streak ended as quickly as it began. While I was out and about yesterday, I saw an ad for a new online community with local directories, classifieds, personals and various other tools. It randomly popped into my head this morning so I visited the site and began the registration process.

I submitted my email address, gender, age and zip code. Normal. And then I worked my way down the page and hit a wee snag. What's this? When was the last time I went to synagogue? Wow, that's a specific house of worship. Imagine the befuddled look on my face and the smell of the burning wood as I tried to make sense of it. I then assumed the site was trying to be inclusive in its wording so synagogue was interchangeable with mosque, church, temple, what have you. Just the same, I selected "Never" from the dropdown.

I scrolled down a little further. Do I keep kosher? Huh? No. Well... I guess I do but it's not by design. I mean, I don't ever eat meat and dairy together but that's because I don't ever eat meat period. With anything. It's safe to say that the cheese almost always stands alone on my plate. Unless there's some pasta or some sort of soy-based product to go with it. What a strange question.

It wasn't until I got to the Religious Affiliation: Secular / Reform / Conservative/ Modern orthodox / Orthodox / Hassidic / Reconstructionist / Unaffiliated dropdown menu that I realized that perhaps this site wasn't geared towards an Irish-Catholic girl like myself.

My face turned red. I blushed even in the privacy and solitude of my office. Sweet Jesus, how did I miss that? In my defense, there wasn't a big ol' Star of David staring right at me and nothing was in Hebrew nor was there klezmer music blaring from my speakers. I didn't get confirmation that my shikse ass was in the wrong place until I found the About Us page. How embarrassing! Even worse, I saw no direct means of deleting my account so I had to email them and explain my stupid mistake. I started out with, "Hi, I hope you see the funny side of this..."

I am such a schmuck.

pictures of pride

I spent the weekend having a gay old time at various Pride events. I'm on a personal crusade to be more productive at work so I'm going to hold off on posting a proper recap until I get home tonight. In the meantime, I have some pictures up on Flickr to hold you over. More to come!

question...

I was up REALLY late last night pounding out the last few bits and pieces of my latest freelance gig. The site launched! All concerned are happy. There are some small follow-up things to deal with but it's done! And now I can finally sleep... or can I?

Last night I was doing the whole Photoshop, Javascript, HTML thang into the wee hours of the morning. I was bleary eyed and exhausted and every part of me hurt. My body was screaming for my bed. But I kept pushing myself hoping to get as much done so as not to prolong the work for yet another day.

Despite my fatigue, I persisted. I was loopy and out of it but that wasn't nearly enough to make me quit for the night. I felt like nothing could keep me from finishing my work once and for all. I was on a mission.

And then I heard a noise. And it sounded like it was coming from my pokey wee kitchen but I wasn't quite sure. I listened for a few more minutes and then decided that it was the rattle of my upstairs neighbor's A/C. Its churning and gurgling sounds often echo throughout the alley that connects our windows and seep into my kitchen.

And then I heard it again. It was most definitely not an air conditioner. I couldn't quite place my finger on it though. It sounded... metallic almost but it was hard to tell. With what little faculties I had left at that hour, I was able to localize the sound to the general stove area. Mind you, I didn't get up to investigate. I sat, feet up, on my swivel desk chair which is a good 30 feet or so from my kitchen and squinted in that direction, only half wanting to locate the noise.

I was delirious and it hurt to think so I did my best to focus on my work so that I could finish up and finally go to bed.

I heard the rattle once again and that was it for me. Mission aborted! I was in the midst of uploading files to a live site but I didn't care. I abandoned that shit so fast. I yanked off my glasses and sprinted up the ladder into my loft bed and pulled the covers over my head. I then summoned the nerve to poke my head between my chenille throw pillows and look down towards the kitchen to see if anything beastly had emerged from the shadows.

The coast was clear, as far as I could tell, so I lay there debating and plotting my next move. It was so tempting to just stay up there with my clothes and makeup still on but visions of plaque and pimples danced in my head. Leave it to me to be concerned with such matters in the midst of a crisis. Oh and it WAS a crisis, believe me.

You know, I don't recommend exhausting yourself to the point of late-night dementia but I will say this... it did give me some balls. I descended the ladder and ran into the bathroom for a quick pee, brush and foaming face wash combo. I slipped into my pajamas, turned off the lights and raced back to the other side of the apartment, up the ladder back into bed. I did this all in my bare feet and without any weapons!! That's a first for me.

I listened carefully for a bit but didn't hear the noise again. Somehow I managed to convince myself that it was all in my imagination and drift off to sleep.

I woke up this morning and went about my usual routine. I was getting ready to leave for work when I realized I didn't have my glasses. I had misplaced them during last night's melee and had to search the apartment for them. I snuck a quick and hesitant peek in the direction of the kitchen... and noticed something on the floor.

The light was off and I'm blind so I couldn't quite make out what it was. So I backed out of the kitchen and for reasons that I can't fully explain, I decided to get my flash light instead of just turning on the fucking light switch. Perhaps the item would seem less threatening in a small follow-spot as opposed to a glaring 100 watt overhead bulb.

I fixed the flash light on the circular object and made a quick ID. I now had the answer to the metallic rattling noise...

It was the peel-off lid to a Dannon La Creme yogurt (vanilla, if you're feeling nosy).

Now, I'm not one to just pull the lids off of yogurt and "fire them at my backside" as my Scottish mum would say. I keep a very clean apartment anyway but I'm particularly anal about the removal of things of the dairy persuasion. I have my issues with this line of products. I eat yogurt because I have to, not because I like it. I realize it's rather fatty but Dannon La Creme is the only kind that doesn't make me gag. I've tried other brands but they taste like ass, in my opinion.

But I'm not here to discuss my fussy diet. My point is that my distrust of dairy ensures that I dispose of all collateral materials in a timely and responsible fashion. In other words, I put that lid in the garbage tout de suite. I know I did.

So, much to my horror, I surmised that SOMETHING crawled into my garbage in the wee hours of the morning... and crawled back out with the lid on its... uh, can I say person? The aluminum foil was making the metallic pinging noise as the thing, whatever it was, worked diligently to remove it from my trash.

Now, you all know that I don't dig the bugs (see here, here and here). It's no secret that I hate them and kill them in a spectacularly brutal fashion whenever possible. They terrify me but I get the job done when needed. I don't welcome them into my home but I'm seriously hoping that it was a bug who paid me a visit last night. Because, if it was a mouse... well, I can't even imagine.

So, dear readers, please help set my mind at ease. My question is this: If a mouse crawled into the can, wouldn't it have made more noise than the somewhat gentle rustling I heard? 'Cause the noise I heard was noticeable but not crazy loud. If a mouse was fishing around in the plastic bag that lines the garbage, it would have made a distinct racket, no? A bug, on the other hand, is lighter on its gross, numerous feet and could be a little less noisy as it explored my refuse, yes? Please tell me it was a bug. Please.

The next question is if it was a, you know, roach... can they pick up big things like foil yogurt lids and transport them? I know ants possess the ability but does it extend to their inner-city cousins as well?

Even though I don't want to entertain the thought that there is something four-legged with a tail in my midst, I'm totally getting a trap on my way home. Please don't lecture me unless you plan on coming to my apartment in person to trap and remove the fucking thing yourself. If you want to keep it as a pet or set it free in some field, be my guest. I, on the other hand, am going to (indirectly) snap its motherfucking neck... and then cry and beg someone to dispose of it.

It's official: I'm never sleeping again.

whoa, nellies!

Last night I attended one of my new favorite things in the whole wide world -- The WYSIWYG Talent Show. And I had quite the time. And just like the last one, I made a complete and total spectacle of myself with my less than dainty laughter.

If you present me with some funny shit, I don't titter politely. I find it near impossible to delicately chortle to myself. My laugh is booming. People usually turn around to locate its source. Sometimes it infects them and others.... well, let's just say that I've been given the stink eye more than once. Sheesh. Engage in an ill-timed fit of loud, uncontrollable laughter during Good Friday Mass one time and suddenly you're a bigger douche than Judas.

Anyhoo, my laugh is much like a snowball rolling down a hill -- it gathers mass and momentum quickly and it can AND WILL flatten all in its path. Sometimes it comes out like a burst of dynamite and others, I emit a giggle that, at first, is well within the bounds of respectability and social decorum. But then I chew on the joke a little bit and it becomes increasingly funny to me and, well, that's when I lose my shit.

You see, I possess the ability (or defect) to copy and paste a well-told anecdote, sight gag or pratfall into the forefront of my memory and keep it there, fully intact, for quite some time. It loses none of its luster or quality in the transfer. I can then rewind and relive the moment repeatedly. And with each replay, a new cycle of raucous laughter begins. The volume increases. I make inhuman noises. My feet come off the floor. My eyes water. I become congested. I cover my entire face in my hands in an attempt to suffocate the caterwauling. But my laugh is like motherfucking Houdini and it will not and cannot be contained.

So yeah, that's kinda what happened last night. As the talented roster of performers regaled us with their howlingly funny tales of Extremely Gay Gayness, I responded in kind with an array of wheezy guffaws and hysterical yelps. I constantly mopped the tears from eyes and worked hard to regain my composure when everyone else did the appropriate thing and simmered down and listened intently. Me? I was gone! I filled the performance space with my ridiculous mixture of sounds.

I honestly don't remember when I laughed that hard. Excellent work, everyone! And thank you for the giggles, or in my case, the disturbing-does-that-chick-need-an-ambulance? cackling. And a special nod to one of my favorite gay boy bloggers ever, Joe.My.God. You were outstanding once again! Oh and Dan Fishback, you are a total find. I look forward to checking out more of your work.

For those of you in the NYC area, get your asses to one of these fabulous events. Even if you're not in the tri-state, make the trip! You will not be disappointed. As an added incentive, The Lovely Jess will be rocking the mic at next month's show (July 19, 2005). I'm already getting all "Sing out, Louise!" on her with my heavy-handed tactics and stage-motherly advice.

Thanks again for a great time, WYSIWYGers! See you next month!

eavesdropping

Once again, I'm busy launching a website so I ain't got time to keep this here blog current. The next week will be rather hairy but I'll do my best to regularly entertain and assail you with my tasteless humor and observations. I make no guarantees though.

Before I depart, I will share with you the transcripts of a message accidentally left on my answering machine. I don't know what it is about my land line but I'm constantly getting wrong numbers and weird messages. I cannot believe how many people ignore my personal greeting and proceed to leave lengthy tomes for people who are decidedly NOT ME. Sometimes the messages are in Spanish. Sometimes I'm treated to someone else's medical history when the receptionist from a certain doctor's office leaves very detailed messages about test results and billing issues... that are NOT mine. Privacy schmivacy!

Another time I got a message that was positively filthy dirty. The man wanted to forcefully stick something of his somewhere in my vagina's vicinity or something to that effect. At first I gasped but then I considered calling him back.

Yesterday's message was rather unique. From what I can gather, a convict phoned a friend and the friend used his three-way-calling to dial the con's mother but they accidentally got a hold of my answering machine instead. Most of it was hard to decipher but here's what I could make out:

The Con: Yo, what's that the answering machine?

3-Way Caller: I think so.

The Con: Call my mother, right, tell her if she gonna do that to four people or whatevah, and tell somebody's gonna drop that. I ain't got no more calls after this. You know what I'm sayin'?

3-Way: A'ight. A'ight. I'm gonna get your Mom on the cell phone.

The Con: A'ight. Tell her I said if she's still going to do that to get in touch with me and do that. You a'ight though?

3-Way: Yeah, I'm breathing. I'm breathing.

The Con: Ha ha.

3-Way: ::garbled garbled garbled::

The Con: I've been trying forever but that shit is fucked up. ::garbled garbled garbled:: I'm going to find Chi Chi and go back--

::sound of microphone feedback::

3-Way: Mmm... hmm... hmmm

Then I heard the distinct sound of urination. I think 3-Way dropped the call with The Con to go hit the head. From the sounds of the Sling Blade-like grunting, 3-Way was having himself a rather satisfying pee.

And then, sadly, my machine cut off and that fascinating glimpse into someone else's personal business and bladder function was over. Sigh... I have so many unanswered questions though! Did 3-Way make good on his promise to call The Con's mother? Is The Con going to get an unlimited calling plan? Is Chi Chi a person or is The Con referring to the restaurant chain? Why didn't 3-Way say a proper goodbye to The Con before taking a vocal and vicious whiz? Questions, questions, questions!

Oh man, I SO hope they call back.

i'll stick with the clam dip, thanks

Last night I dreamt that I was halfway through a Jimmy Dean sausage when I suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, what am I doing? I don't eat meat!" and then I spit it out with a loud and dramatic "Patooey!"

Now, I'm not usually very good at dream analysis but I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that this was some sort of subconscious exploration of my sexuality, no?

Let's break it down, shall we?

For a good portion of my life, I tried eating the sausage, if you will, and then realized I didn't quite care for the taste. So by spitting out the Jimmy Dean in my dream, I was solidifying my rejection of bangers and, specifically, the men they are attached to.

The timing of this dream makes sense because just this week I briefly considered jumping back over the fence to play with the boys after my recent futile attempts to score me some girly ass.

The dream also serves a dual purpose: It reinforces my true Sapphic desires plus gives a wee nod to my adherence to a mostly meat-free diet. I don't consider myself a true vegetarian because I eat fish... which is quite fitting given all the seafood-type euphemisms for what we lezzies do with one another between the sheets... and at bars/clubs with lax policies concerning how many women can go into a onesie bathroom at the same time.

So, in closing, I'm pleased with my ability to analyze this dream because I'm usually quite dense when it comes to symbolism, allegory and all that other stuff that doesn't slap retards like me right in the face. Hell, I'm feeling so encouraged I might even take a crack at decoding some tough poetry or performance art while I'm on this roll. Or, you know, maybe just read The Onion. Whichever.

wanna be startin' somethin'

I'm not going to say much about my personal response to the Michael Jackson verdict because, well, what is there to say that hasn't been said already? And, besides, this ain't that kind of blog anyway. Informed, lucid discussion of our legal system?! Surely you MUST be joking.

I want to focus instead on what I do best -- criticizing people. Namely those dumbass Jackson supporters standing outside the courthouse for the entire trial.

Let's gloss over their obvious signs of mental distress and dementia: sobbing uncontrollably and/or collapsing at the sight of that half-plastic monstrosity; skipping work for weeks on end to scream themselves hoarse while holding up signs such as "Innocent Until Proved [sic] Innocent"; releasing doves after the verdict; apologizing to him on behalf of all mankind for his ordeal, blah, blah, blah.

To poke fun at this sort of behavior is like shooting fish in a barrel. What I want to focus on specifically are the "taunts" MJ fans hurled at the prosecution and members of the media they considered biased against the defense. I'm hesitant to even use the word hurled because their taunts were so lame and sophomoric that they fell limply out of the mouths of the gathered throngs. Ain't no hurling that went on there. Their delivery was more like a weak toss from the spazziest kid in gym class.

Here are a few that caught my eye:

1. "Cut your filthy hair! Cut your filthy hair!"
This was said to Santa Maria Times columnist Steve Corbett who has a rather unruly 'do. Yeah, I'm sure he ran right out for a shampoo and cut after that scathing critique. Seriously, was that the best they could come up with? The length and cleanliness of a man's hair? The dude's schlubby, knows it and doesn't care. Move on.
Grade: D

2. "Tom Sneddon, you're a cold man!"
At first I was all "What the fuck?!?! They consider that mean and hurtful?!?!" But apparently, they were paraphrasing an actual Michael Jackson song called "DB" which was written several years ago as a thinly-veiled slap at the DA (after his failed attempt to convict Jackson the first time). Whatever, it's still weak.
Grade: C-

3. "Diane Dimond is very, very ugly."
The Court TV correspondent really felt the brunt of it. The mob not only ragged on her appearance, but they also saddled her with monikers such as "Diane Demon" and "Diane Dipstick." Oooooh, the torment! I'm sure Diane went home and cried into her pillow each and every night. Lame.
Grade: D-

4. "Michael: Ireland Believes in You"
This was a sign held up by Seany O'Kane of Northern Ireland. Um, I have a problem with Seany speaking for an entire country. If Bono was accused of diddling a wee'un, I'd have no problem with Seany's declaration of support on behalf of all of Ireland. He's Bono, for fuck's sake. But MJ, while an international superstar, is quite the polarizing figure and psst!... not Irish.

Seany, you're entitled to your opinion but kindly speak for yourself and you know, maybe NOT millions of people. I know for a fact that several of my Irish relatives and friends think that Michael Jackson is a wanker of the highest order. So you might want to rethink your wording. Like maybe drop the "reland" and then fix the subject-verb agreement accordingly. Because, after all, according to your man's website, "The truth runs marathons." If that's the case, your bold proclamation tripped over its shoelaces and did a face plant right after the starting gun.
Grade: F

You know, I considered writing a sentence or two warning the Jackson trolls to fuck off if they took issue with my thoughts. But then again, what's the worse they can say to me? My five-year-old niece is capable of throwing down a better diss. As it stands, she could house these fools with a well-executed raspberry. And don't think I won't unleash her if and when the time comes. Look out!

weekend highs and lows

I normally adore the weekend but this past one was a mixed bag. Here's a recap of its pluses and minuses:

High: A blissfully free Friday night spent watching the first season of The Office and recovering from the rather strange week of swelling, steroids and my rather noxious personality

Low: Bailing on my plans with Jess and Katie and missing the opportunity to rock out with the talented Michael P and Shark Hat in order to have my quiet night alone with Ricky Gervais. Sorry, Michael P! Next time, I promise!

High: Spending a gorgeous and sunny Saturday at Brighton Beach with Jess and Nicola

Low: Witnessing a man turn his boxers into a Speedo to maximize sun exposure on his rump. No lie. The man gave himself a near-atomic wedgie so that his upper thighs and cheeks could see the light of day. It was like nothing I've ever seen before. I really regret not having my camera with me so that I could share this outrageous specimen of pallor and gumption with you.

High: Hanging with Supah and company at Brooklyn Pride

Low: The parade down 7th Ave in Park Slope was a little... um... what's the word? Lackluster. Although I did receive a sticker that said, "Vaginal Pride" and while I never really thought about it before, I realize that, yes, I am quite proud of my cooter. Knock wood, it's healthy and hospitable and gets the job done. So, in summary, yes, I do give mad props to my snatch. To my devoted readers of the female persuasion, I invite you to join me in the beaver adulation. Yours or mine.

High: Attending a raucous Pride party at the newly-opened Cattyshack right after the aforementioned lackluster parade

Low: Having my recently deflated tootsies mashed into oblivion by enthusiastic revelers. 'Twas my bad as I should not have worn flip flops to such an event. Next time I'll be sporting a hearty pair of shit kickers to protect my much put-upon feet.

Low 2: The place was packed with wall-to-wall women which is totally awesome but at the same time, the crowd was rather young and rambunctious. I know I'm only 31 and by all definitions still a spring chicken but I did feel a bit old and out of place. By night's end, I felt so discouraged that I convinced myself that I should maybe take up with the boys again since the girl-on-girl thing ain't working out lately. And then on the way home some greasy guy in the Borough Hall subway station leered at me and said, "Hey, you fine! Maybe I can buy you lunch or dinner?... Hey baby, where you goin'? Oh what... you ain't trying to hear that?" And that right there helped put the brakes on my thoughts of giving heterosexuality another whirl. Well, for now at least.

High: Meeting up with Filomena and Sweet Thomas for dinner at Mary Ann's on Second Avenue

Low: Discovering a stray piece of beef on my otherwise vegetarian plate. It was weird how it just appeared because I swear it wasn't there when I began eating my spinach and artichoke quesadilla. Maybe the person at the table next to me was sawing into their entree and some of the meat broke free and shot over onto my plate when I wasn't looking. At first I thought it was just a weird looking mushroom but upon further examination, I realized it was most definitely NOT. It's funny how the idea of eating fungus doesn't bother me yet eating a cow is completely unacceptable, no?

on consumer ed

I'm a firm believer in writing strongly-worded letters of complaint when one is at the receiving end of shoddy customer service. But truth be told, while it makes me feel better to actively do something about the problem, I've never received an adequate response from the recipients of my missives. And now I know why. Perhaps I should have written my letters in longhand and included diagrams to illustrate my displeasure. Case in point...

juiced

I've been out of sorts the past few days. Sometimes it hurts to think. Sometimes I have no patience. Sometimes I overreact to the most ridiculous, benign things. I've been on the 'roids, you see. And I've got the PMS. In other words, I have been an absolute beast. As my Scottish mum would say, I've been walking around with a face tripping me. That's a more charming way of saying I look pissed all the time. I would even go so far as to say that I have a deranged, murderous look about me this week.

But I only need to pop two more of these bad boys and then I'm done! I'm starting to feel better. I'm still pissy and tired but not nearly as bad as before. The first round of blood tests showed nothing abnormal but I will need to get my skin poked and prodded by an allergist to see what exactly inflated my appendages to NBA regulation size. The mystery continues...

Dude, I don't know how people take oral steroids regularly. As an asthmatic, I have to inhale steroids daily to keep my lungs and passageways open but the side effects are nothing compared to those that accompany the pill form. Say, what's the word on Jerry Lewis? I know he's twice the man he used to be size-wise but do we know if he's become a chronic raving lunatic as a result of his daily pill popping? If his reaction is anything like mine, that professor is as insufferable as he is nutty. In fact, I bet Jerry Lewis is a real dick... through no fault of his own, of course. It's the meds, man. The meds.

But if there's one upside to my altered personality, it's the rather aggressive response I had to a bug in my Tiny Wee Studio this week. The minute I saw it scuttle across the floor, I went into instant attack mode. Normally, I stand on a chair or my coffee table and panic while I try to summon the courage to kill the bastard. I'm quite proud of my swift response this time around.

If my past battles with bugs have taught me anything, it's that less is more when it comes to Raid. You don't need to saturate the thing to kill it. A quick spray and some patience will do the trick. So after two economical blasts, I waited for the bug to kick off and die. But! Instead of scurrying into a corner, he tried seeking refuge in my laundry basket of clean clothes... much to my horror! Um, you DO NOT fuck with my clean clothes or, however indirectly, my carefully hoarded stash of laundry quarters for you will be spittin' Chicklets if you do.

I knew the spray would eventually take effect but the idea of that little turd getting all comfy in the crotch of my clean undies cut short my plan to be patient. So I got myself some tongs from the kitchen, climbed up on the coffee table, assumed a squat position and emptied out the laundry basket onto the floor. I methodically sifted through the contents with the tongs in one hand and Raid in the other. Much to my dismay, there was no bug to be found.

That made me uneasy. I am the quintessential Doubting Thomas -- I NEED to see the body to believe. So I put on my sandals and maintained a safe distance from dark corners and other hiding places and went about locating the perp with a flashlight. I credit the 'roids with giving me the courage to go on this little Stand By Me-type excursion while wearing nothing more than a t-shirt, underwear and open-toed slides. I normally suit up in thick-soled shoes/sneakers and more sensible leg attire but my new-found aggression dictated that I make like a Minuteman and do battle as is. While red, lacy little-boy-short undies are cute, in retrospect, I hardly struck an intimidating pose. Cute maybe but not certainly not intimidating. Perhaps that's why the bug opted to burrow into to my clean skivvies. Maybe he liked the pair I was donning and was looking for something similar to bring back to the nest for the missus.

So I searched for a good 20 minutes before I finally found the bastard belly up and twitching near my dresser. Cue the 'roid rage! I began YELLING at the bug while teasing him with intermittent blasts of bright light and Raid. "Tell your friends, motherfucker!" ::squirt squirt:: "Tell your friends!" ::agitated waving of flashlight::

Of course, there was no way the bug could go back home and warn its brethren to forever steer clear of the curly-haired psycho's apartment but torturing that little shit until his last gasp made me feel powerful and invincible. It felt like a symbolic slaying or something. Of course when I recovered from my murderous rage, I felt a bit sheepish as I recalled my reading the riot act to a double-bagged lifeless insect. But the thrill of the kill and the hope that other bugs witnessed and learned from the carnage quickly made the embarrassment fade away.

Mmm... blood lust.

a flashback to the good days…the 80's

Behold, the first-ever guest blogger on this here blog!! Please give it up for Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

a flashback to the good days...the 80's
I know you cringe at the mention of the 80's. Any of us folk who grew up during that inexplicable time period knows exactly what I’m talking about. Oh yes, you do! The Keds. The triple-sock-style. Acid washed jeans. Aqua Net. Oh, f'in Aqua Net! I used to go through a half of a can of that toxic crap in one morning while frying my sweet ringlets straight so that I can achieve that ever so desirable 'fanned out style'...which if you remember, resembled nothing other than a goddamn peacock sitting on the top of a human head. Combine that sexy look with blue mascara, blue eyeliner, red lipstick and you have your own personal, circus freak-show. That was me. I went to school like that every day and no one ever told me how terrible I looked. I wonder now, WHY didn't anyone tell me how terrible I looked? But hey, I was only 15 so it's okay, right? RIGHT?! Anyway, I think back now to the days when my parents ruled my financial existence. What a nightmare. They never bought me anything that was even kinda cool. No, I had to live the sad life as an outcast; a full on nerd-ass geek. And boy, did I get shit for that. My poor self-esteem is still recovering from that traumatic time. My parents insisted on only buying me practical clothing...and while in ever so stylish Sears or J.C. Penny's they would loudly declare their stipulation that if they were to buy me that ugly Coca Cola t-shirt, was I sure I really liked it? Was I sure I would wear it at least 3 days out of the week? My face burning with embarrassment would say, yes, yes, anything you want, just stop...please stop yelling loudly in the J.C. Penny dressing room...which had no separate dressing rooms...while I cowered in the corner taking off my shirt to try on that ugly Coca Cola tee. Oh, I remember those days well. My parents decided that at the ripe age 15 they need not support me so much anymore. So, cool clothes were out of the question. Now unfortunately for me, this was during the time when stirrup pants and Keds were all the rage. Would my parents buy me those ultra cool items? No. I had to suffer with knock-offs. Then one day...one fine day when I was up to my ears with being a nerd, I somehow ended up in a shoe store with a razor blade in my pocket and my eyes focused on the blue tabs of those damn Keds. "Yea, I’ll just slice of two of those little blue tabs...a little Crazy Glue and bam!! I'm f'in cool." I never did go through with my plan... mostly because I chickened out when I noticed the store clerks were eyeing me. But the Keds were just the beginning of the madness. In my mind, the stirrup pants were the real prize. Oh, how badly I wanted those stirrup pants. I wanted them so bad that visions of staples and the elastic band of a pair sweat pants started to flow sweetly through my warped mind. Oh, I WILL get me some of those stirrup pants! I will! So, I ravaged through my closet and pulled out a pair of sweat pants. Scissor in hand, eyes crazed with desire, I sliced through the waistband. The elastic was waiting for me...wanting me to staple it to the ends of my black leggings...no one will notice, right? I did it. I went through the whole sick process of stapling the shitty, ragged edged elastic band to the ends of my leggings. I stayed up late that night crafting my creation. I could hardly sleep. I was filled with the excitement with the thought of leaving my house with my stapled stirrups. I would finally be cool... and I was cool... at least in my world... until the staples started to bust. They let me down. They exploded out and left me with hanging, ragged elastic bands. Something had gone horribly wrong. Horribly wrong! This was not supposed to happen! Not to me! My plan had been cruelly exposed! I remember begging my teachers to borrow their stapler. But it was too late. They saw. The cool kids saw. It was all over. I was now not just a nerd but a freak too. And oh, if I only knew what the future would bring...

Up next: My decision to cut my own hair. I mean, what's a few bald spots anyway? Stay tuned for details.

it's with great pleasure...

That I present to you a talented writer, stellar photographer, all-around kick-ass person... and someone who is very dear to me. In other words, I dig this person and I want to share her with you.

My friend was recently bitten by the writing bug so I wanted to give her a forum to scratch the ensuing itch. I've given her carte blanche to post whatever she wants whenever she wants on this here blog. She just created a blog of her own so my diabolical and not-at-all-secret plan is to get her off to a running start by sharing my wonderful audience and whetting a few appetites. As we all know, it's easier to stay motivated and inspired to write when you know people are reading.

But before you go wandering off to her sassy new space, she is going to grace my blog with a tale of adolescent horror that I'm sure we can all relate to. This story makes me howl with laughter and wince with painful recognition. It simultaneously tugs at my heart and tickles my funny bone... and won't stop tickling it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I pissed off my neighbors with all my hooting and hollering when she told me this story on the phone the other night. I couldn't quite compose myself even though it was well after the acceptable hour to be making that sort of racket. Whatevs, I put up with my neighbor's shit so they can deal with a bit of late night giggling. For example, the people upstairs have loud arguments all the time. Based on some of the things they say, I'm not quite sure if they're legitimately duking it out or if they're translating and acting out a Spanish telenovela. I often stand near my kitchen window to try to get the full story but sometimes the yelling becomes so shrill, it's hard to comprehend. The one chick in particular is prone to screaming about how much she hates her roommate/girlfriend (hard to tell). The roommate/girlfriend then tells her to keep her voice down which prompts the screamer to get even screamier. It's all very dramatic, you see. It gets VERY heated and escalates into hysterics but, to my knowledge, no one has been slapped or pushed down the stairs... yet. I'll keep you posted.

Anyhoo, as I was saying, please stay tuned for posts from... drumroll please... Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. She's a brand new blogger and a dear friend so please give her a warm Ham & Cheese on Wry welcome. Um, whatever the hell that is... I really appreciate it.

Thank you,
Curly

the reviews are in

Today I discovered that my site is the #1 Google result for "farting sandal noise." I love that! It does me proud. In fact, I told Jess that if I were to ever create fake reviews of my site, I'd totally use that statistic. Hell, since my mind is hobbled by a rather potent prescription drug cocktail and I don't feel like thinking too much, I'm going to go ahead and do just that. So without further ado, I present to you phony reviews of my site based on some other keyword searches...

"Four stars! A reliable source when wanting to know 'five pounds of ham feeds how many people?'"
-- MSN

"Ham & Cheese on Wry scores with its winning portrayal of a 'nun eating shit out of a priest's ass'!"*
-- Yahoo

"The undisputed authority on 'foot sniffing.' A real crowd-pleaser!"
-- Google UK

"Plaudits! There's no finer resource for 'removing cat urine from suede.'"
-- Yahoo

"When it comes to providing 'peed dry swimsuit' information, Curly McDimple has no peer."
-- Google UK

* Um, I've NEVER written about such a practice on this here blog. OMG, ewwwwwwwww! I may have used all of those words separately, but not in that foul context, I assure you. I have my issues with The Church but that's just naaaaaaaaaaazzdy, yo. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to say a good Act of Contrition...

bloat on

I'm writing to you with fingers fatter than Scott Savol's. I seriously could put my hands on a plate and surround them with sauerkraut and they'd make for quite an appealing Polish dish. Or I could serve them with potatoes for you Brits who favor bangers and mash.

All of my extremities and joints have ballooned to a freakish size. I woke up this morning in severe pain. I winced as I rolled out of bed and nearly fell over when I tried to walk. I looked down at my feet and my toes were abnormal in size and I was rocking some pretty nasty cankles. To round out the freak show, my knees, elbows and wrists are also all swollen and tender. I'm a mess.

I was in Central Park one day and stopped to pet a long-haired dog. Within an hour, my hand doubled in size. I'm assuming I had a reaction to the dog's hair or flea powder or something. Since all of my extremities and joints looked like that this morning, I decided it was an allergic reaction and took an antihistamine. It didn't help. After clicking around on WebMd and scaring myself silly with self diagnoses, I called my sister, a registered nurse, and she told me to get to a doctor ASAP.

I had to go to a drop-in emergency care facility because I'm in New Jersey this weekend. After waiting an hour, the doctor finally saw me and sent me on my way with a steroid shot, some Allegra, a prescription for Medrol and stern instructions to follow-up with my primary care physician in two to three days. He thinks it's an allergic reaction to something I ate yesterday but if I haven't deflated by Tuesday or Wednesday, I need to get blood work done to rule out rheumatoid arthritis, among other things.

Um, this sucks. But it could be worse I guess. I kinda want to stick a pin in me to see if that will take care of all the extra water I'm lugging around. Alas, I'll just have to wait it out. So if you'll excuse me, I need to go elevate my gross feet.

resurrection

My love,
I saw a flicker of recognition and then you went blank. Cold... dead. I was stunned. And then forlorn and choking back tears. My future looked bleak. My life didn't seem worth living without you. The longing was too much to bear. The ache eclipsed all else. I stayed frozen, not wanting to move because standing up would propel the moment forward. If I stayed still, perhaps so would time and I wouldn't have to face the harsh reality of starting over without you. How would I cope?

I stared at you for a long time hoping to will you back. But you remained motionless and unresponsive. My attempts at resuscitation thus far were futile and I thought about giving up. My heart felt like a cinder block in my chest. I blinked quickly to stifle the tears that were just raring to flow freely.

All seemed lost but there was one last bastion of hope that I hadn't exhausted. So with a quickened pulse and my heart thundering at an unhealthy rate, I keyed in the address to a website that I knew could provide the remedy to your dire state.

My hands trembled as I navigated towards the support page and made the appropriate selections from the dropdown menus. I impatiently but dutifully sat through a Quicktime demo offering first aid suggestions for your seemingly lifeless body. I squirmed and fidgeted while my fingers itched to adminster the proper treatment.

My Tiny Wee Studio was quickly converted into a fast-paced O.R. as I barked orders to myself. Hold switch off? Check! Charger plugged in? Check! Cable connected to the computer? Check! What's this? Reboot you? You mean I can do that?!?!

With renewed hope and vigor, I held down your Menu and Select buttons simultaneously. (Please don't think me fresh but it had to be done.) But... nothing happened. I was just about to emit an anguished and impassioned plea to St. Jude when the notion struck to connect you to the charger once more for good measure.

I snapped the cord in place and there it was! A glorious sight to behold! Your Apple icon! And then the main menu! And my carefully and lovingly edited playlists! You were no longer flatlining, my beloved blue mini iPod! You came roaring back to life! Your vitals were once again normal! "Side" by Travis bellowed from your ear buds!!! I wanted to pee, puke and bawl in that moment but instead I found the energy and inspiration to rejoice in a more appropriate fashion. Okay, so maybe there was a little bit o' tinkle and a tear or two here and there but there was nary a trace of spew, that I can assure you.

Um, I'm sorry about the sloppy wet one I planted on you after you awoke. I'm sure that was quite the jarring wake-up call. Oh, and the caressing was meant to be a loving gesture, not the creepy fondling it turned out to be. So I'm sorry if that weirded you out. Hey, hows about we make a little pact? I promise not to get all freaky with you again if you promise not to slip in and out of any more scary comas. Deal?

All of my love,
Curly

just asking...

Is it just me or does Mark Felt look like the love child if Frank McCourt and Kirk Douglas mated?

Photo credits: Frank McCourt: pbs.org; Kirk Douglas: actustar.com; Mark Felt: Associated Press