...and I'm begging to drag you down with me

I don't know if y'all have heard but this PMS biznatch is a real drag. It's been shadowing me since Friday and well, it's high time the bitch left me alone. I mean, if I had my way, the whole bloody kit and kaboodle would just fuck off entirely. And by bloody, I mean the somewhat vulgar British modifier, not a literal description of the evil that overtakes our girly bods every 28 days (give or take a day or two). Actually though, I'm quite delighted by the word's gross double meaning. I take back what I said... I'm officially referring to both meanings. Don't you "Eww!" me!

A week from now I'm sure I'll feel dandy. The pesky issues that seem so enormous and devastating right now will soon be forgotten. You know, this whole lack of an attention span coupled with pronounced short-term memory loss ain't half bad at times. Every now and then, it's good to embrace your shortcomings and nurture them a bit. After all, they have the potential to be a soothing balm on a rough patch or a legitimate excuse for appalling behavior (when used sparingly). Trust me.

But Sweet Jesus, Flo's precursor is making me really sad and schmoopie this month! It's not good to have a broadband connection under such conditions. I fear that over the course of the next week, this here blog will be loaded with Morrissey lyrics and atrocious sonnets. Consider yourselves warned.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take my tired, my poor, my huddled masses and wrap them in the mopey comforts of The Cure's entire discography.

unsubscribe

Dear Christian Debt Relief:
Hi guys! How's it hanging? Quick question for you... I've noticed an inordinate amount of emails from you lately promising to hook me up with guaranteed loans and overnight cash advances. While the offer is tempting, I'd be remiss if I didn't ask about the fine print.

Namely, I have to wonder if these offers, made in the name of Christian charity, will be rescinded once you discover that not only do I lick beaver, I also enjoy it. Very much so, in fact. Oh and I plan to do it again! Sooner than later, with any luck!

So, like, if I were to use one of your loans to buy me, say... a strap-on at Toys in Babeland or a subscription to On Our Backs magazine, you guys would be cool with that? Or does my penchant for poking around in another girl's No-No Place disqualify me? If not... where do I sign?!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go troll the Christian Singles Dating site. They're also showing a lot of interest in my business lately. If their policy is as liberal as yours, well, I think I may have just hit paydirt! You see, I have it all worked out -- I'll take the dough you provide to book a trip to P-town where I'll use my newly acquired stash o' toys from Babeland to pleasure one (or several) of the hot, repressed ladies I meet on that site. Don't you just love synchronicity?

God bless you,
Curly McDimple

an oral report, so to speak

Okay, so I don't normally pitch merch on this here blog but I've recently discovered a wondrous new product or two. For those of you with canker sores, gum disease, dentures or just a fucked-up grill in general, this one's for you...

I had some dental work done recently, you see. Between the allergist tearing up my arm and the dentist jacking up my gums, it's been a delightful week for moi, let me tell you. Anyhoo, my mouth... she is not happy. My gums are puffy and inflamed and I'm rocking an irritated inner right cheek. Mouth cheek, people. Mouth cheek!

It got so bad at one point that I was THIS close to calling the dentist to beg him for some Percoset or something. However, he wasn't available so I managed to sally forth without the aid of a controlled substance. Bummer.

Instead, I went to Rite Aid and made a beeline for the toothpaste aisle to see what sort of over-the-counter numbing agents were at my disposal. I picked up this stuff called Rincincol which is touted as a "soothing oral bandage." So far, it's been pretty good. I could do without the subtle licorice taste (not a fan of the stuff) but otherwise, it's a keeper.
Grade: B+

The real find though was Ora-film Fast Dissolving Pain Relieving Strips. They are made of the same material as those Listerine Breath Strips with the delightful exception that they don't taste like a urinal cake, if I may be so bold as to quote the venerable Janeane Garafolo. They have no taste at all, as far as I can tell.

My cheek was giving me grief earlier today so I wallpapered the inflamed area with said Pain Relieving Strips and lo and behold, it worked! Now I know it's only temporary relief but I'll take what I can get until my follow-up with the dentist on Friday, yo. In the meantime, I'm just grateful that I no longer feel like a prize fighter beat on my face.
Grade: A

hi-yahhhhhhh!

I'm tres excited because I just enrolled in an introductory training class at SEIDO Karate. I want to whip my ass into shape... and learn how to bust shit up. You know, like bricks, wooden planks, noses, that sort of thing. And I guess that whole business of learning how to focus and be disciplined will come in handy as I'm driven to distraction quite easily and at lightening speed, let me tell you.

I foresee many Karate Kid references in my future. Although, since I can barely eat with the things, I can safely say that I will not try to capture flies with chopsticks. I may try macking on Elisabeth Shue though. If that husband of hers gives me shit, I'll just have to crane kick him.

Um, I think maybe I'm missing the point of martial arts. Watch me become the William Zabka type. I'll form a gang and pick on people and resort to dirty tactics and cheating during competitions and people will be rooting for my downfall. Actually, that's kinda hot...

I just have to say that Billy Zabka was really typecast back in the 80s. He always played a monumental dick (see his portrayal of Greg, the bully whose preferred form of torture was the atomic wedgie, in Just One of the Guys and his turn as Audrey's loutish boyfriend in European Vacation as proof). But! As it turns out, Billy was a mild-mannered Bible thumper in real life. I remember reading that in like Tiger Beat or Bop! or whatever back in the day and just being blown away. Who knew teen rags were capable of such shocking exposés?

a subway fable

My dear friend Christina, she of the psycho feline who terrorized me during an unfortunate catsitting episode, recently sent me the.most.awesome email ever. I ate it up like motherfucking candy. And lucky for you, Christina has graciously granted me permission to reprint this gem in its entirety. The girl cracks my ass up. So, without further ado, I present to you A Subway Fable...

My subway ride home was slightly more entertaining than usual this evening...

I entered the train and, as there were no seats, was standing near the door. Just before the door closed, two guys got on the train and, when the train lurched forward, the guy who was not holding on (and was seriously drunk), stepped hard on my foot. I made some sort of pain-induced noise, just overly-dramatic enough to display my irritation and looked at him to wait for some sort of acknowledgment that he had just stepped on my (sandal-ed and therefore unprotected) foot. He eventually looked over at me and put his hand on my back, apologizing, "Sorry sweetheart."

After a couple of stops, two seats opened up. I took one and the drunk guy's friend took the one next to me. I was mostly trying to ignore them, but it sounded like there had been some sort of incident with a woman they know and they were discussing what would happen next ("I don't give a fuck what she thinks," "Man, she's gonna blackmail your ass, that's what she gonna do."). Next thing I know, Drunk Guy (who is standing in front of me), is trying to get my attention by tapping on my New Yorker magazine.

Drunk Guy: "Uh, excuse me..."

I give him the "I'm just a New Yorker trying to get home on the subway, don't bother me" hand.

Drunk Guy: "Nah, nah, don't give me the hand. I just want to ask you a question. Let's just say -- now I know that I could never get with you -- but let's just say, hypothetically...."

Me (head in New Yorker, not looking up): "..."

Drunk Guy: "Are you listening to me?"

Me: "No."

Drunk Guy: "Okay, well at least you answered me."

Drunk Guy (to his friend): "Now see, this is a perfect example of what I'm talking about. You see the way she just brushed me off? Did you see the way she brushed me off? Now how are you gonna ask me about Betty? The same thing is gonna happen there. And if I ask this other young lady on the other side of you, she gonna say the same thing."

(Further discussion on this same topic went on for a long time, most of which I successfully ignored.)

Then Drunk Guy decides to address the entire subway car as his friend cringed in embarassment and said, "Aw man, this motherfucker's crazy."):

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Moe, at least that's what people call me. I ain't out here to ask for money or sell you anything or preach the Gospel. I simply want to ask a question: If someone who you didn't know, asked you 'Can I get with you?', would you get with them? I'm being serious, okay? If a stranger came up to you on the subway and asked if you would get with them, would you go with them? Can it happen? I'm not asking any one of you to get with me, I'm just asking if it can happen. So anyone who thinks it can happen, raise your hand. Come on, let me hear you raise your hand..."

Silence.

"Aw man, come on, I am trying to find out, can this happen? HEY YOU. WAKE UP. Can it happen? Can you find love on the train? I mean, we're all looking for love, right? Isn't that what it's all about? We're all looking for a relationship. So now none of y'all want to say that you're thinking about it, but I know you are. You're looking around the train, thinking, 'Is it him? Is it her? Can it happen to me?'"

He proceeded to ask nearly everyone on the train if they thought it could happen. But he got to one dreadlocked guy who was not interested in playing around. When Moe asked him, he said, "I know people probably listen to you all day at work and that's fine, but I ain't interested. Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Yes, but I'm asking you can it happen?"

Dread: "Don't talk to me."

Moe: "Can...it...happen..."

Things escalated until Dreadlocked Guy stood up and said, "Get your hands off me." At this point Moe's friend came over (as did several other "heroic" men) to calm things down. At the next stop, Moe's friend dragged him off the train. As we were waiting in the station, Moe kept running up to the train doors to say "Find love," "Don't give up. It can happen" and "Find love or you'll end up alone...like me."

I love New York.

Thanks for sharing, Christina! I take comfort in the knowledge that I'm not the only one among my friends who encounters lunatics on the subway. For you newbies, click here, here and here.

i have arrived!

I got my first piece of angry hate mail, everybody!!! You know, I always thought I'd get an email bitch slap from some humorless dyke who didn't quite care for my jabs at the Sisterhood (see here and here). But it seems that most people are in on the joke and recognize that I'm a self-loathing lesbo who means no harm. You get that, right? RIGHT?!

I even thought that some rabid fans of The Tesh or The Hoff might take umbrage with my not-so-lovable tweaks of their idols. Or others might have been miffed at my insinuation that something crawled into Jeff Goldblum's mouth and died. Or some fans of Peppermint Patty might have been up in arms that I called her the c-word.

In other words, there's plenty of bile-fueled rants in my archives that could have gotten me in trouble. But little did I realize that my take on The Coreys, of all things, would warrant this missive:

--------------------
From: theGonnies_toddler
To: curly mcdimple
Date: Jul 23, 2005 8:23 PM
Subject: heyy,,, i love ur site!! =D

hi my name is u shouldn't fucking care.... but just to tell u i like corey feldom and corey haim there fucking awsome ..!!!!!!!1 there the best !!! and there so fucking hot!!!! .... hahaha.... this thing u wrote about them is telling me tht u have no life ... like come on... please people who fucking spend time doing an atricle about ppl tht they don't like anymore b/c there old or whatever the fuck! have no life u and all those sons of bitches tht wirte this shit .... like holyy fuck can u just leave them alone..... let them be! like seriously .. if u did have a life u would have never done this in the first place and u think corey haim is a loser ... who do u like britney fucking spears??? one thing NO ONE FUCKING CARES WHAT U HAVE TO SAY ABOUT OTHER PPL !!!! ... i bet if i made a website about u saying all this shit and more stuff tht i personally made up about.... u wouldn't like it one bit.... most of the things the media says is fucking lies!!! ...i would go on but ur probley at a point to cry b/c u just realized u have no life!!!

sinserly, , , from me =D

--------------------

I really need not say anything about this tool since the email really speaks for itself. Although, from what I can tell thanks to the wonders of Statcounter.com, theGonnies_toddler is from Canada. Say... doesn't Corey Haim live in Toronto? Hey, Toronto is in Canada! Just a thought...

I'm particularly amused by theGonnies_toddler's threat to create an anti-Curly McDimple website. That might concern me if I thought this moron was capable of writing something legible. Sure I was "at a point to cry" but I assure you those were merely tears of frustration as I tried to decipher the baffling Tard Code.

Ah, fame.

on patch tests and popeye chasing the dragon

As you'll recall, I had a gruesome allergic reaction some weeks ago. After sitting through a blood test, keeping a painfully detailed food journal and being poked and prodded by three different doctors, we finally got down to the nitty gritty -- I had my first skin test done yesterday.

And the results are in... my allergist is insane. For the third straight visit, she has taken an object (first a tongue depressor and then the plunger part of a hyperdermic needle) and raked it down the length of my forearm to test the epidermal response. Now I'm no doctor but I can safely say that when you scrape skin, it will get red and angry looking. After one experiment, you needn't run any more tests. I'm confident in my belief that there's a direct cause and effect relationship there. In other words... knock it the fuck off! That shit hurts!

The test itself was rather unpleasant. First of all, the doctor took a red marker and made evenly-spaced dots down my arm. Attractive! It was quite the attention-getter on the subway ride home, let me tell you! I looked like I got into a fight with a Sharpie and lost.

Next up, the doctor dabbed various liquids to the left and right of the red hash marks. Easy enough. I thought the last step was to just wait for a reaction. Wrong. She then pricked each and every drop of liquid with a needle. That totally sucked! Some of them started to bleed and others got all red and itchy. I was rocking quite the puss on my face, let me tell you.

That allergist is a total weirdo. My primary care physician warned me about her. When he was writing up the referral, he mentioned that she was "neurotic." I should note that my PCP is high-strung, somewhat pissy and has a serious God complex. After he, of all people, issued such a warning, I gulped loudly.

And he was right. She's got an unsettling nervous energy about her. While she was inspecting my arm yesterday, she instructed me to turn my head. At first I thought it was for some medical purpose (you know, like a hernia test) but then I realized that she just doesn't like being watched. My fixed gaze on the gnarly happenings on my own arm was freaking her out or something.

Truthfully, I didn't mind not looking at her. She's got an ashen complexion, thick eyebrows, a broad nose and beady eyes. However, I think a quick application of some tweezers could vastly improve the nose and eye situation. But the rest of her is beyond help. She's really skinny and bony, so much so that her latex gloves don't fit snugly on her hands. I've never seen baggy latex gloves on a doctor before. They looked better suited for scrubbing pots and pans rather than examining patients.

And I have to do it all over again next week! With a brand new batch of allergens which promise to be more potent! The "mild" test already caused red dots and raised bumps on my arm so after next week's round, I'm sure I'm going to have hideous track marks and forearms the size of Popeye's. If Popeye gave up the spinach in favor of smack, of course. Although, methinks Popeye would be more fond of the 'roids.

Olive Oyl is a prime heroin candidate though. She, along with the Sea Hag, are grossly underweight so they could very well already be addicted. And while I'm not certain, I'm sure the Sea Hag has some fucked up teeth which would lend credence to my addiction theory.

Ugh, wouldn't that be awful if they got Wimpy hooked? I mean, fat boy could stand to drop some weight but judging by his eat hamburger now/pay later tactics, he'd forever be bogarting their stash. That's not cool, Wimpy. No one likes a mooch. But I'm sure Popeye could dispatch Alice the Goon to collect the owed money so it would all work out.

Um, I think it's safe to say that only I could start off a post discussing an allergy test and wind up with an entire cast of cartoon characters strung out on H.

last night

Last night's WYSIWYG Talent Show was another rousing success. The Lovely Jess more than held her own with her charming tale of fierce competition for the elusive single boy at summer camp. I was a bundle of nerves for her as I sat in the audience waiting for her to perform. But Ms. Thang stepped up to the mic, struck a sassy pose and delivered her spiel with a winning combination of confidence and excellent comedic timing.

Eventually I'm going to get up on that stage and tell one of my ridiculous stories and when I do, I hope that I'm as composed and kick ass as Jess was. I'm so proud of you, toots!

I just have to say that I completely adore these shows. Each month I cackle hysterically and discover fabulous new writers to add to my already unruly Blogroll. Last night's finds were Susie Felber and Jonny Goldstein. The two of them actually had me yelping with laughter. Not chortling. Not guffawing. Yelping. Um, speaking of which... my apologies to my neighbors to the right. I hope the ringing in your ears has subsided by now.

Well done, everyone!

little fish, big fish

Happiness is having an office with a door which I can close. To hold a critical meeting? Nope. To dial in to a crucial conference call? Aww, hell no. It's even more important than that... P.J. Harvey's "Down by the Water" came on iTunes and I needed to sing back up.

The closed door also comes in handy if you want to inhale a grilled cheese and fries for lunch without getting a disapproving once-over from the carb-eschewing fembots roaming the halls. Just an FYI...

on baby showers and being the seed of chuckie

We threw a baby shower for the second oldest McDimple Girl on Saturday. She gots lots of nice stuff including a GORGEOUS handmade quilt from the lovely and talented Filomena.

I really despise showers but I have to say that we ran an efficient and relatively painless one. The good thing about baby showers is that most of the presents are big (strollers, bouncy seats, etc.) so, unlike a bridal shower, you don't have to sit through the torture of opening one place setting after another. I seriously want to commit hari-kari at bridal showers.

I'm just glad it's done. The sister started her maternity leave so all that's left to do now is to patiently wait for the end of August when the newest member of our brood arrives. Her girth is mostly contained to her belly so if I'm to believe the old wive's tale, I'm going to have a nephew to spoil (as opposed to the belief that a girl "steals your beauty" which means the face, ankles and everything else spreads and widens to freakish proportions.) My sister is all belly. But really, boy or girl makes no difference to moi. I'm just looking forward to another baby's powdery head to smell and kiss.

It was a really enjoyable weekend. Lots of giggling and good food. I stayed at the oldest sister's house on Friday night. The youngest McDimple was there already so we had a few drinks, chatted and half-watched General Hospital on SOAPnet. I used to follow that show religiously but I'm completely lost now. Who the fuck are these people? And how come Mac is no longer Australian? Isn't he Robert Scorpio's brother? I distinctly remember Mac washing ashore in Port Charles with a thick (yet very fake) Aussie accent. And now he sounds like he's from Ohio. WTF?! I guess the powers-that-be can add and drop accents without worry since they have no qualms about completely replacing actors mid-run. Like, who is this broad playing Felicia now?! Again, WTF?!

ANYhoo, as I was getting ready for the shower on Saturday morning, The Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece joined me in front of the bathroom mirror. She likes to help me get ready so I usually let her put a tiny bit of pomade on her fingers and work it through my hair. She believes that by doing that, she's solely responsible for the curl. She takes great pride in it, as a matter of fact.

After putting the finishing touches on my mop, the Niece watched intently as I applied lipstick. When I was done, she said, "You look like a doll."

I wasn't sure if that was a compliment because, well, some dolls are really scary looking, what with those freaky eyes and that dull hair.

"Excuse me?" I asked as visions of Chuckie danced through my head.

"You look like a doll."

"Um, is that a good thing?"

It turns out it was. She couldn't quite articulate why but she was at least able to reassure me that she meant it in a nice way. It's a little bizarre to have a kid who's five tell me, a 31-year-old woman, that I look like one of her play things but whatever, I'll take the compliment.

save the date

The Lovely Jess will be taking to the stage at the hallowed P.S. 122 on Tuesday, July 19. Jess will entertain us with tales from Christian summer camp in the certain-to-be hilarious Greetings from Lake WYSIWYG: Stories from Summer Camp. As you'll recall, I laughed like a hyena at last month's WYSIWYG and I have every intention of doing so again. Get your tickets now!

P.S. As part of her continued quest for world domination, Jess's Bedroom Blog is also featured in this month's Cosmo! Pick it up now!

these [gay hands] of mine

When it comes to gaydar, Supah and I are in the same boat... we ain't really got it. Actually, hers is MUCH better than mine since she's been at it much longer than I have. Me? I'm truly at a loss when trying to play the "Is She or Isn't She?" game.

However, Supah has taken a valiant stab at laying out some of the leading indicators that someone is a member of The Tribe Who Ain't Too Fond o' the Dick (Unless It's Battery-operated or a Reasonable Facsimile Attached to a Strap).

I'm going to print out this guide and keep it in my black, man-like wallet in the hopes that it will help me navigate the murky lesbo waters. Failing that, it will at least soothe me and make me giggle after I've once again guessed incorrectly. Go read it!

treating myself

I recently got myself into a wee bit of financial trouble. Well, that's not true. My trouble was years in the making. I spent the past five years living in apartments I could not afford. Well, technically, I could afford the rent but my budget for everything else was extremely tight thanks to the monumental bills I had acquired throughout college and my early twenties.

Things caught up with me this summer and there was positively no more room to juggle finances, shift balances around, delay payments, etc. I was at the end of my tether.

My credit had taken a major hit during my days of poor accounting so there was no way I could get a bank loan to consolidate my debt into a more affordable payment. So I asked my parents to float me a loan and they graciously obliged. From this point forward, I'll send them a modest monthly payment (no interest!) that will help replenish their savings account without decimating mine.

Today the check they sent cleared and instead of going on the shopping spree to end all shopping sprees, I spent the day paying off various credit cards, student loans and other nagging bills. I brought my cable, phone and utility accounts current. I have one outstanding line of credit that I won't be able to pay off in full (a slight miscalculation on my part) but I'll get the balance down considerably and then pay it off within a few months.

It's a good day for me. I used to blow through money like it was job but I finally did the responsible thing and got all of my creditors off my back. However, I'd be lying if I didn't confess to buying myself something today. Wanna see what I splurged on?

Hot, right?

breaking news

As some of you may recall, I reported a strange noise and an errant yogurt lid in my Tiny Wee Studio some weeks back. Against my better judgment, I convinced myself that it was merely a roach of freakish size and strength that found its way into my garbage can, removed a yogurt lid, licked it clean and abandoned it several feet away from the trash can. Despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, I did not want to believe that it was a m-o-u-s-e.

Just the same, I armed myself to the teeth with Tomcat Snap Traps. I was hesitant to use glue traps because I'm not in the business of doling out slow death via an adhesive but at the same time, I'm not keen on having filthy vermin as a roommate.

So for the past few weeks, I made the rounds to CVS, Eckerd and Duane Reade and picked up a variety of weapons to help me in my task. I proceeded to create a treacherous perimeter around my stove since all evidence pointed to that area as the place of entry/exit. I even dropped a poison packet behind the stove and said, "Eat this, bitch." And why, just yesterday I added four more glue traps to the minefield.

You know, between the rodents, the violent asides, the weaponry and the barricades, this story is a little bit Ruby Ridge, Raw Deal, Les Miserables and Stuart Little all rolled into one. If Stuart Little ate from my garbage can and didn't wear pants, of course.

Anyhoo, after several weeks of frayed nerves, I was finally beginning to relax, safe in the knowledge that the area around my stove was secure.

That was premature of me.

I got home around 9:30 tonight. As usual, I flipped on the light and cautiously peered around the refrigerator to see if I had netted me any rodents. Truthfully, I never wanted to catch anything. I don't like killing stuff nor do I like disposing of bodies. In particular, I simply did not want to deal with the possibility that one of the victims might still be alive and squealing bloody murder because its fucking feet were glued to a gooey piece of plastic.

I was seriously hoping that any intruder would see the obstacles in its path and think, "This shit ain't worth it," and then turn around and go back where it came from. Alas, that's not what happened tonight.

Much to my horror, three of the glue traps were flipped over and two of them were stuck together. The Snap Traps were scattered far and wide. In my head, I heard that siren alarm thing that goes whoop! whoop! whoop! The perimeter has been breached! I repeat, the perimeter has been breached!

As far as I was concerned, a monstrous-sized m-o-u-s-e or dare I say, r-a-t, had taken a battering ram to my force field and made its way into my sacred space. So I did what most soldiers would do in the face of such adversity -- I leapt onto my Pier One love seat, sweated through my clothes in a panic and began whimpering.

I tried paging The Super on the emergency line but I couldn't get through because the number had changed. I called his office and tried copying down the new number left on the recording but my hands were weak and shaking violently and the end result looked like something a toddler scrawled.

I knew I had The Super's cell number on my computer so I turned on my PC to retrieve it. While waiting for the computer to start up, I leap-frogged across some furniture to get a sensible pair of shoes and a flashlight.

And then I heard a noise coming from the radiator. Abandon ship! Abandon ship! I grabbed the flashlight, my keys and the cordless phone and got the hell out of my apartment.

I banged on The Super's door to no avail. I ran out to the building's entrance and repeatedly pressed his buzzer but there was no response. I was near hysterics. I was about to call The Masseuse and beg her to let me crash at her place for the night, but then, like a miracle, The Super walked by!!! I totally pounced.

"There is something in my apartment! You should see what it did to my system of traps! You have to come and kill it!"

My voice was trembling. I was sweating and shaking like a leaf. I surprised even myself with my histrionics. The Super took pity on me, investigated the noise and promised to be back shortly to plug up the holes. But first he had to drop off a friend a few blocks away.

I did a quick mental calculation and realized that I would have to be alone in my apartment with the beast for at least 20 minutes. That was unacceptable. So I said, "I'm going to wait for you outside."

With phone and keys in hand, I walked out to the front stoop and made frantic phone calls to The Masseuse and Supah and they both talked me through my bout of crazy until The Super came back. (Thanks again, ladies!)

The Super entered my apartment and within five minutes, he came back out to announce that he had found the m-o-u-s-e. All he needed was a stick and a bucket. Um, what? I was horrified but sort of elated at the same time. Again, I don't condone murder but I was more than willing to turn a blind eye to the brutal beating that was about to go down in my Tiny Wee Studio. That fucker had terrorized me for the past three weeks and well, I was feeling less than compassionate.

Another five minutes passed and then The Super emerged triumphant from my apartment. He carried the body of the lifeless victim in a Target bag. I peppered him with questions about its size and whereabouts. Apparently, the m-o-u-s-e got its foot caught in one of the Snap Traps near the stove (score!) and then got stuck in a hole near the radiator on its way back out (hence, the creepy noise I heard that sent me scurrying for the exit).

I'm sure the thing freaked out when the plastic contraption clamped down on its foot so it started running around in a frenzy thereby upending the glue traps and scattering and snapping the other traps in its wake. Oh.my.God. Can you imagine if this happened when I was home?!?! If I saw that scene unfold with my own eyes and heard the traps snapping like castanets, I would have run out of the Tiny Wee Studio never to return.

I tried piecing together the forensics when I returned to my apartment but it's too gross to even think about. It's almost comical in a sick way but I do feel sort of bad for the dumb thing. Just the same, I'm glad it's gone.

And now I have the task of fighting off a serious case of the willies. I feel a little bit better now that I've finished scouring every surface in my apartment with Clorox Clean-up. Furthermore, I have an area rug, a kitchen mat and a bath mat all rolled up and ready to be thrown out. Why you ask? Well, for one, I'm a lunatic and b) the deceased dragged a trap clear across my apartment in an effort to save itself. Call me a fuss pot but if I can't disinfect an object in the presumed path of the m-o-u-s-e with bleach, it's going in the garbage.

And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Dumpster and then I'm going to take the longest shower of my life.

country doctor

Aww! Doc Baker from Little House on the Prairie passed away. I had a wee crush on Doc Baker when I was little. Oh shut up! It's not like I said I had it bad for Reverend Alden. Doc Baker was quite handsome with his sharp features and his generous spirit. He let his patients pay him with apples, for fuck's sake. If I tried forking over a bushel to my primary care physician, I'd be given the boot but good.

And even though he claimed to be just a country doctor, the man bravely battled through some very tough pregnancies. Little known fact: The reason that I don't want kids has nothing to do with my being a big old lesbo. Rather, it's because I was traumatized as a child by the wailing, sweating, howling and sheer torture that every pregnant woman on Little House endured. Granted, there have been advancements in medicine since the days of Laura Ingalls but still. Between one horrific child birth after another on that program and every 70s and 80s sitcom that relied on the "woman gives birth in an elevator that is stuck between floors" plot device, I wanted no part of that baby business. I have enough problems as it is so you'll forgive me if I don't want to be shooting large objects out my wee beaver in a fucking broken elevator, no less!

Jesus, leave it to me to use the word "beaver" in a eulogy. Goodbye, Doc Baker.

Photo: Courtesy of Irwin Allen News Network

notorious p-i-g(gies)

I knew the day would come. My feet have made me famous. Well, if you can consider placement in a foot fetish link farm fame... But hey, I'll take what I can get. Autograph, anyone?

london images

These pictures from the Flickr London Bomb Blasts Pool make up a compelling collection of eyewitness photos and screenshots of TV and internet coverage. My thoughts and prayers are with you all.
-- via Lifehacker

on timing, live 8 and my scottish granny talking smack

I subscribe to the Real Simple.com Daily Thought newsletter. Call me sappy but I like receiving a snippet of wisdom and/or inspiration every day. The emails are sent to my work address so I had several to catch up on this morning after the very long weekend. I found this one to be particularly fitting considering my recent financial distress:

"I'm living so far beyond my income that we may almost
be said to be living apart."
— e.e. cummings

True dat, e.e.

I also find it equally fitting that on the day I went to Jersey with my tail between my legs seeking financial aid from my parents (Saturday), a series of concerts was held the world over to promote debt forgiveness. I don't mean to place my self-imposed sentence in debtor's prison on the same level as severe global poverty but the timing didn't go unnoticed my moi. 'Cause I'm self-absorbed like that.

Speaking of Live 8, I completely support the purpose and intent behind this massive undertaking. At first I was all skeptical of the free tickets and the bold, "We don't want your money" declaration. Huh?! I was all whatchoo tawkin' bout, Willis? But then I thought about it and I understand now. The concerts headlined every newscast on Saturday and Sunday. I watched various roundtable discussions and debates on poverty, fair trade, self-sufficiency, et al. MTV and VH-1 correspondents broke down those very complex topics for their viewers. Some might say that it was one-sided or overly simplistic but you really can't argue with helping people. Whether Saturday's concerts resonate or are quickly forgotten, awareness was at least raised. And maybe some people will take the extra step to write a check, volunteer or help in some other way. Even I can't be cynical about that.

I watched bits and pieces of the concerts both on TV and on the web. It was exciting but, at the same time, I felt that it lacked some of the punch of the original Live Aid. Not in terms of effort or emotion though. In 1985, the concert wasn't available on multiple cable channels and the internet. We had to make do with MTV's whim as their coverage jumped back and forth from Philadelphia to London. As odd as it sounds, the availability and abundance of choice for this year's event restricted my enjoyment somewhat. The original played hard to get. It turns out I like that as much in a global event as I do in a girl.

I was so excited on the day of the original Live Aid. It was a gorgeous summer day but the streets of my neighborhood were barren. Everyone -- including me -- was holed up at home watching the concerts on MTV.

Make fun all you want but I nearly peed when Wham! took the stage. I called up my best friend to gush about George and Andrew. We then discussed which city had the better lineup. She was all about America but I felt compelled to take up for the Brits. Sorry but at the risk of sounding un-American, Do They Know It's Christmas? kicks We Are the World's ass. But we put our issues of nationalism aside and agreed on several other key points: Paul Young looked really cute during his set and Mick Jagger danced like a tard in the video for "Dancing in the Streets." I also added that I didn't quite care for David Bowie's pants in that same video. My best friend agreed. Meeting adjourned.

I nearly lost my shit when Madonna performed with the Thompson Twins. My granny from Scotland was visiting us at the time and even she watched the show. My granny was pretty cool. It was during that same visit that her American grandkids introduced her to the wonders of professional wrestling. By the time she went back to Rutherglen, she was bandying about terms like "sleeper hold" and complaining about the "dirty tactics" of The Iron Sheik. She also became quite fond of the Smurfs, as I recall.

So I cozied up next to my gran to share my excitement with her. Up until then, she was really enjoying the concert and was particularly chuffed while Elton John performed. But then she changed her tune when Maddy took the stage. She tsked and spat, "She's got a load of cheek, that one." I scowled at my granny. Hard.

But I got over it and quickly fell back in step with the show. I remember all of Wembley Stadium clapping and pumping their fists with Rockette-like precision during Queen's "Radio Gaga." I thought that was the coolest thing ever... until Phil Collins dropped his drumsticks in London, hopped aboard the Concorde and made it to Philly in time for the American finale. I thought that was pretty kick-ass as I'm far too lazy and jet lag-prone to do such a thing. I'm exhausted after visiting two boroughs in one day, nevermind two continents.

Oooh! I just found a list of every Live 8 performance by every singer/band in every city on AOL Music. Okay, so I take back what I say about my lack of excitement. This shit's cool.

yankee doodle dandy

I've been in a funk lately. See my last couple of posts as evidence. Tonight, however, I feel good. Excellent, in fact. I just played host to an amazing party. Sometimes my get-togethers don't work out so well but tonight's was, without a doubt, a runaway success: Good food, tasty beverages and awesome company.

On a mild, breezy New York night, we climbed the stairs of my 4 story building and watched the Macy's Fourth of July fireworks in all of their unobstructed glory. It was beautiful. Old bonds were strengthened, new ones were forged, sparklers were lit (Note to my super: I promise to go back up there tomorrow with a dustpan) and best of all, I captured the.best.fireworks.picture.ever. Take a look at this particular pair of bombs bursting in air:

Don't it look like a big ol' hairy ass? Oh man, I will be giggling about this shit for days.

P.S. A special thanks to everyone who emailed me and commented on my recent post. I promise to send you each a personal response. I really do appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts. Thank you.

i'm a [last name] girl

When my mother calls to check in on me, she asks about my health, my overall well-being and the rest of the usual mom-kid topics.

I tend to answer the questions about my health with extended and detailed reports. I'm a middle child and totally crave the attention so she gets an answer and then some. I freely answer those questions because they aren't personal. Thankfully my areas of medical woe don't pertain to my girly bits and pieces (knock wood). If they did, mama would be in the dark, let me tell you.

Questions about my overall well-being, however, are indeed personal so they're met with a canned "Things are fine" response. My mother tries to dig deeper but I'm quite good at stonewalling her. If I've learned anything over the years, it's how to hide things. I'm incredibly resourceful in this task and alarmingly quick with a believable ruse.

I might elaborate on certain elements but I'm careful to avoid conversations that could possibly segue into discussions about who I'm dating. My mother is always on the prowl for an "in," you see. Of course, sometimes she throws contextual relevance to the wind and will slip a question in there anyway. She can find boyfriend potential in a discussion about my switching from All to Tide with Bleach. It used to make me all hyper and crazed but now I can dismiss it with a casual, "When there's someone worth mentioning, you'll know." And I do mean that.

You see, I'm a control freak. I moderate and modulate the course of conversations. Rarely do they get away from me. I'm in charge of the information and emotions I share. If there's going to be a big reveal, it's because I orchestrated it.

But during yesterday's check-in, I was forced to concede some power to my mother. I'm in a bit of a financial bind so I asked for help. And, thankfully, she and my father are going to provide.

Our conversation was varied and rather freewheeling (for us, at least). We covered a lot of terrain as my mother tried to get to the bottom of my financial aches and pains. I didn't foresee this happening but one topic led to another and before long, I confessed to my mother that for the past five years, I've been seeing a psychiatrist and taking antidepressants.

Whoa, where'd that come from?

My mother's voice started to shake. She fought back tears... but not for the reasons I feared. I used to worry that her stiff upper lip and British reserve would make her scoff at therapy. I thought she'd find it silly. She gave me no reason to believe that but, in my head, it was a very real fear.

There was a momentary silence. Her voice shook when she finally found the words. She was angry and hurt that I didn't tell her. I felt such shame in that moment. My mother was completely crushed. I apologized and assured her that it was my own fears and insecurities that made me hide it so long.

But that's not entirely true.

I always knew that if my mother knew of my condition, she'd ask why I was depressed. And sure enough, she did. She asked if it was just my money situation weighing me down. Yes, my debt is a huge problem but really the biggest anchor in my life is the secret I carry around with me day in and day out.

But was this the time to tell my mother that her daughter is a lesbian? I considered it briefly but then decided against it. So I continued to blame my finances.

My mother pleaded, "Are you sure that's all it is?!" It's like she knows and was hoping that for once in my life I'd stop being selective with my revelations and fully confide in her.

But I continued my lie and said quietly, "No, it's just the money."

I'm not sure if I missed my opportunity or perhaps opened the door to one. I'm going to see my parents today. Maybe I'll fully open up. Maybe not.

Part of the reason I keep a blog without my real name on it is so that I can write freely, without expectation and without limits. Anonymity liberates me. My real last name carries weight. Certain behavior is expected of those of us who bear it. I don't mean to seem overly dramatic but that's honestly the way it is. It's not even my parents who put that pressure on us -- it's always come from teachers, clergy, friends, relatives and acquaintances.

We were well-adjusted, well-behaved kids who didn't cause embarrassment or shame for our parents. We did our homework and our chores. We were polite to our elders. We wrote thank-you notes. We were far from perfect but when we partook in naughty dealings, we were smart enough to cover our tracks.

In grammar school, my sisters and I were in an exclusive set -- we were the [Last Name] Girls. The principal addressed us as such and it trickled down. We were among the families who were judged as a whole. We weren't allowed to ever waiver or falter in our studies. Whereas teachers abandoned hope and didn't expect much from other kids (sadly), we were raked over the coals in a spectacular and very public fashion.

[Last Name] Girls only received good grades. Extra-credit assignments and extra-curricular activities weren't optional for us -- we were expected to do those things. If we didn't volunteer or participate, we were shamed and accused of laziness. We were reminded of our Last Name and then subsequently bludgeoned with it.

Each of us was held to a high standard set by the older sister. Comparisons were made constantly. If I had trouble with math (oh, and I did!) I was reminded that my sisters ran circles around me in the subject. I was mocked and told I was "nothing like the rest of the [Last Name] Girls." Even though I heard that quite a bit, it always shocked me and took my breath away. That was so painful. I felt like I disappointed my family and tarnished our good name. And then I'd lower my head so that no one could see the hot tears quickly filling my eyes and overflowing onto the lined sheets of my marble notebook.

Mercifully, I went to a large public high school where teachers didn't know one [Last Name] Girl from the next. For the first time, I worked my ass off to get good grades and joined activities for ME and my future, not to uphold some legacy someone else saddled me with.

To this day, the [Last Name] Family is known for having its shit together. We're happy and well-adjusted. My parents have a cute house with a lush green lawn, sun catchers in the windows and a bird feeder in the backyard. My father is an usher at 9:00 Mass every Sunday morning. My mother attends the same service. She arrives early and waves to her friends sitting in their usual pews. The Monsignor knows the [Last Name] Girls by name, occupation and location. He delights in telling us how proud our father is of his four girls. He marvels at our loving, cohesive unit and reminds us how lucky we are. I get the same speech every time I see the Monsignor but despite the repetition, he speaks with conviction and enthusiasm.

While the Monsignor gives his spiel, I put on a false face of unequivocal agreement. But inside, I think of my secret. Would my father still be proud if he knew? Would we still be a cohesive unit? Or would I fracture my family beyond repair? What would people think of the [Last Name] Family if they knew one of them was gay?

Sometimes I visualize how revealing my secret might play out. I revel momentarily in the relief being unburdened provides. But the comfort is short-lived because the pressure of being a [Last Name] Girl creeps in. I'm reminded of the nuns' admonitions and taunts that I'm "not like the rest of them." And that still shocks me and takes my breath away. At the same time, I'm proud of what makes me different from my sisters.

My mind is in a million places right now. I feel like the truth is playing tug of war with obligation and for once, obligation isn't winning.