someone is on your side

I am heartbroken over the news that Bernadette Peters' husband, Michael Wittenberg, was killed in a helicopter crash earlier this week. In a way, I take her loss personally.

I'm going to ramble a bit so please bear with me...

I know it sounds funny to some but I adore Bernadette Peters. In fact, my blog name, Curly McDimple, is lifted from a short-lived off-Broadway show Peters starred in many years ago. I take some ribbing about her sometimes but I'm unapologetic and devout in my belief that this woman is a brilliant force of nature.

I cannot even begin to adequately describe how much I idolized her when I was younger. She first knocked my socks off when I saw Into the Woods in high school. A few years later, she was back on Broadway in The Goodbye Girl and that's when my fascination with this woman really kicked in.

My appetite for information about her was voracious. But she was reticent to talk about herself. She spoke about her work but not herself necessarily. Her life was spent on the stage and that was the only part of herself she was really willing and prepared to share. Personal details were not easy to come by. I wanted to know everything about her but at the time, my resources were limited to scouring the pages of the Daily News and the New York Post every day trying to find her name in bold-faced print. Sometimes I got a tidbit but mostly I was left cursing the fact that I wasn't obsessed with someone a bit more palatable to the gossip pages. It was a tough fascination to foster.

I didn't have much to go on so I treasured my Into the Woods and Sunday in the Park with George cast albums. I listened to them daily and was continually floored by the nuance in her voice combined with the sheer brilliance of Stephen Sondheim's music and lyrics. Peters and Sondheim formed quite a formidable duo. There was a spell in the 1990s when you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a Sondheim tribute. I relished that because I knew Bernadette would be in attendance and PBS would be there capturing it for broadcast during annual pledge drives.

My favorite was Sondheim: A Celebration at Carnegie Hall. I sat impatiently through all the appeals for money and performances by Patti LuPone, Glenn Close, Daisy Egan, Karen Ziemba and scores of others. Bernadette didn't appear until the final hour of the broadcast but it was worth the wait. She stood on a darkened stage with that unmistakable hour-glass figure and those teeming curls in silhouette. The lights came up and the image was striking. She looked like she was poured into her long, black gown. Her pale skin practically glowed white in contrast to her scarlet lips and hair.

I held my breath. And then the camera moved in close and just stayed there throughout her interpretation of "Not a Day Goes By" from Merrily We Roll Along. The director rightfully called for a mix of close-ups, slow pans and dramatic fades to punctuate the magic on stage. She finished on a long, cascading note and was met with thunderous applause in Carnegie Hall and goose bumps in my bedroom.

I was on vacation in Florida about 11 or so years ago. I turned on the television in my hotel room to find this Sondheim tribute underway. I was happy to be on holiday but slightly homesick for New York and my beloved theater scene. So I plopped down on my bed and started watching. I changed the channel during one of the pledge breaks and when I flipped back a few minutes later, I was horrified to discover that the local PBS affiliate decided to yank the show in favor of Yanni: Live at the Acropolis. I think the switch was due to lack of interest or something but I can't be sure because my ranting speech about the "uncultured morons in Orlando" totally drowned out the station manager's explanation. Um, no offense, Orlando. It's just that Yanni and his puffy blouses tend to set me off, you see.

I was mostly pissed because they cut away right before Peters' performance. I wanted to see it again. She gets emotional every time she sings but when she tucks into a Sondheim song, she brings it to a whole new level. She contorts her face, throws her head back and rolls it from side to side, clenches her fists and swings her arms far and wide. Her entire body gets in on the act. Her curls rattle and often fall in her face. She sweeps them away but they inexplicably end up there again. She bellows and snarls one minute and then sweetly coos the next. More often than not, she tears up. The whole thing is most definitely theatric. Some think she overdoes it and I agree that it can seem over-the-top, but I don't think her performance is ever fake. She believes what she's singing and she feels it deeply each time.

The quality of her voice is debatable to some. I know several professionally-trained singers who complain that she sings "wrong." They prattle on about her breathing technique and how she loses her voice frequently. But I like that her voice can be hoarse and husky. I think the imperfections make it all the more interesting. I love that her voice gets ragged and coarse in between the soaring high notes. It adds texture.

At the risk of sounding like a total drama queen, Bernadette changed the course of my life. In a roundabout sort of way, she's the reason why I'm here working and writing on the internet. Back when I was foaming at the mouth for Bernadette-related info, I signed up for AOL so that I could access Playbill Online. I saw an ad in Playbill magazine promising active message boards, news, archives, and all the information a theater lover starved for information could possibly want. I can safely say that I was on that site every day chatting with people and exchanging information. I learned a lot about Bernadette -- her background, ex-boyfriends, rumors of ex-girlfriends (gasp!), lesser-known projects, pet causes and all that other fun stuff. I also gained knowledge of an array of plays, musicals, performers, composers, lyricists and playwrights. I was always well-versed in pop culture but through my exposure to Bernadette, I became more well-rounded. Theater was a gateway to dance, opera, avant-garde performance art, etc.

For a time, I was an education major in college. After I did some student teaching, I realized the mistake I was making. I was bored and disenchanted. It was a far cry from the passion I felt when discussing theater, movies, award shows, et al. I knew I could write and make a living at it so I changed my major to Communications/Journalism. As I filled out the necessary paperwork, I totally fancied myself an entertainment reporter specializing in the Broadway scene. Um, that's so NOT what I do now but I did actually work for an industry publication for a few years. However, I soon discovered that I enjoyed theater more as a fan rather than an industry insider so I quit. I bounced around in print for a bit before finding my way into the world of interactive media where I eventually met The Lovely Jess who encouraged me to start this blog. And there you have it.

Life-Changing Issue #2: While I can't attribute my being gay to Bernadette, I can say with confidence that she's somewhat responsible for my finally acknowledging it. I met THE EX through a shared love of her work. What started out as two straight girls with a mutual appreciation for Bernadette, eventually evolved into a passionate and intense romance. The relationship may have ended but that's where my new life began in a sense. I came out to people. I stopped hiding. I'm still secretive in many respects but I don't lie anymore. I reached a new level of understanding and connection with people, in particular the gay boys I had befriended through our mutual Broadway diva adoration. I would have accepted this truth about myself eventually but it was far more entertaining to get here via Bernadette.

Even though I don't technically know her, I'm still saddened by her loss. She gave me so much without realizing it. I've seen her numerous times in person but I can't adequately thank her... and I don't even try because, well, that would be weird and scary. The best I can do is wish her the strength and inspiration she helped me discover.

oh mandy

Dear Mandy Patinkin,

Does the pharmaceutical industry own your ass or something? The reason I ask is because every time I turn on my telly, there you are, informing me how one little pill will lower my cholesterol or ease the side effects of chemo.

It's honest work I guess but I'm just baffled is all. I mean, you're the man who tore Evita a new one! You hammed your way through Chicago Hope with aplomb! Um, I would cite your work in Yentyl as an example but I bailed on that movie after five minutes so I can't speak authoritatively on the subject.

BUT! You had the best line in one of my most favorite movies ever -- The Princess Bride. Say it with me now... "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!" And now you're reduced to saying things like "Side effects of Crestor may include diarrhea, nausea and vomiting...." That's sad.

Also, nothing on your recent resume seems to be suitable for people with liver problems, pregnant women or those who are nursing. While I don't have your official demographics handy, it seems to me that you're severely alienating your base.

So in summary, Mandy, kindly cease and desist with the pushing of pills with gruesome side effects. While your howling yelp may add some punch to even the most pedestrian Andrew Lloyd Webber tune, it doesn't quite wash in the commercial realm. I can't really explain it but something about the pitch and timbre of your voice makes diarrhea and edema seem even more vile than they already are.

Why don't you give old Steve Sondheim a call? I'm sure he can put your intense schmacting to better use.

Thank you in advance,

Curly McDimple

priorities

Yours Truly: For the past two weeks in the w4w area on Craigs, there's been a deluge of posts about the Israel/Palestine conflict.

Jess: Really?

YT. Yeah, and now all these self-righteous lesbos are yelling at each about which side is right.

Jess: Ew. They need to take that shit somewhere else.

YT: I know, right? Some of us just want some pussy without all the politics.

sour puss

During Saturday's impromptu basement clean-up, I found another interesting item which I will now to share with you...

Because really, is there a better way to chase a tale of lusty lesbo lit than with a photo of myself at age 4? I think not.

Cute, right? I vividly remember sitting for this picture in Two Guys, a now-defunct retail store. The photographer really earned his money that day because I refused to smile. I wasn't deliberately being insolent or contrary. I just didn't find the situation entertaining enough to show my pearly whites.

It wasn't for lack of trying on the photographer's part though. The man danced and pranced around, sang, snapped his fingers, spoke in stupid voices, you name it. In other words, he made a real asshole of himself. And there I sat stone-faced. My poor mother tried everything but my lips wouldn't budge. The best the photographer could do was capture me in a state halfway between sullen and bored.

Some things never change.

near-miss

Before I moved out of my parents' house, I carefully went through all of my stuff and made sure to take anything incriminating or incendiary with me. All that was left behind in my closet was one box of mementos containing things that were too sentimental to toss but not so important that they needed to be schlepped through the Lincoln Tunnel and up several flights of stairs in a pre-war walk-up.

I was at the parents' house on Saturday and noticed that the box was sitting on the basement floor. Apparently, my father removed everything from my closet so that he could clean and paint it. Normally I don't like people touching my stuff but since I thought I had taken all of the daming evidence with me, I wasn't too concerned.

And then I saw it. Sitting right next to the box was a small, yellow Pier One Imports shopping bag. I didn't realize what was in it at first but when it finally dawned on me... well, I nearly shit twice and died right on the spot. That bag, ladies and gentlemen, contained some VERY racy lesbian fiction. I totally forgot to pack it when I moved out! So much for being all careful. As long-time readers of this here blog know, I've been very good about covering up my beaver-loving tracks. This was just a sloppy and uncharacteristic oversight.

The thing is, if the parents found it and cornered me, I wouldn't be lying when I exclaimed, "I swear it's not mine!" No, I mean it! It's not! It honestly belongs to someone else. I swear!! You see, when I first came out, an older lesbian sort of took me under her wing. She was forever giving me unwanted advice, inviting me to gay events and encouraging me to "join the community." As part of her ongoing sales pitch, she often loaded me down with bags full of lesbian books and videos, most of which were bordering on porn. Not that there's anything wrong with the porn, of course. In fact, I watched the videos tout de suite and promptly returned them as to encourage her to entrust me with more.

Nope, I didn't mind the videos one bit. However, I didn't have much use for the books. They were good and trashy but when trying to get one's rocks off, who has time for such things as character development and narrative thread? Certainly not me. So I focused my energies on the dirty-yet-informative videos and stashed the bag of books in my closet out of sight.

And that's where they remained... until my father moved my shit. Dude! My Dad had a bag of raunchy dyke porn in his very Catholic hands and didn't even realize it. Granted, the books don't really look like bodice rippers with scantily clad women in compromising positions on the covers but still... one only needs to thumb through a few pages to get the gist. Luckily my father can't see shit without his reading glasses so he couldn't possibly know what filth he was transporting.

I should add that the parents have been cleaning out their closets and the basement in order to donate stuff to a flea market held at their church. Um, can you imagine if that particular stash of literature made its way into the sale along with all the John Grisham and Mary Higgins Clarke books?!?!

Actually, that's a very funny visual. But it won't ever happen since the dirty, filthy books are now back in my possession. Furthermore, I went through the rest of my stuff like a mad woman to make sure there was nothing dykey in nature left behind. I think I'm safe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some reading to do...

an ode to my itty bitty titties

Someone just found my site by searching for "poems about itty bitty titties." While I'm THRILLED that I'm the in the top 10 results on Google for this search term, I do feel bad that I don't have anything of the sort on this here blog. However, it doesn't mean I can't write a homage to my less-than-bountiful boobies now, no?

So, without further ado...

An Ode to My Itty Bitty Titties
My titties are perky and really quite small.
They are as wee as the rest of me's tall.

I don't mean to disparage what the Good Lord hath made,
But mine are on par with a girl's in third grade.

But I've discovered an upside
That's rather convincing,
I can run bra-less up and down stairs
Without even wincing.

As gravity sets in
My girls won't droop down to my gut,
Unlike Dolly's,
That big-chested slut.

I also won't have chronic back pain
When I'm all old and crusty.
When others are hooked on Doan's,
I'll be glad I'm not busty.

And while other boobies are subject to catcalls and "Moooooooooo!"s,
I continue to take comfort
That I can still see my shoes.

Thank you.

a rebuttal

According to a recent study 90% of women wash their hands after using the bathroom whereas only one in four men do. Over the past day or two, I've seen this study cited in numerous publications and newscasts and the headline is always the same: "Women are cleaner than men!"

Um, no they're not. Clearly they did not include corporate women in this study. Now I'm no fancy researcher or anything but I am a keen observer of people and I can say without hesitation that a lot of "professional" women are filthy bitches sorely lacking in basic manners and social skills.

The biggest offender of all was a former manager of mine. Not once did this woman wash her hands in my presence. In fact, on one occasion I saw her emerge from a bathroom stall EATING A PIECE OF PIZZA. I stared at her in disbelief but she was unfazed and just smiled, waved at me and kept on walking. No shame. No embarrassment. No soap and water. My coworker also saw her leaving the can with a half-eaten sandwich. Now, I admire those who can multi-task but there has to be a limit, you know?

Actually, there were several people at that job who had issues. Those of us who did wash our hands and you know, not eat lunch in the john, were forced to form a support network. We tipped each other off to the bad bathroom habits of our coworkers. We disseminated the information and maintained a stash of alcohol wipes and hand sanitizers in the event that we couldn't avoid direct contact with the guilty party or something he or she touched.

Those of us in-the-know abstained from eating the fruit salad at the holiday potluck when we discovered that a person guilty of the pee-and-run prepared it. It was all very, "Don't drink the milk! It's spoiled!" (Little Rascals, anyone? Anyone?)

Furthermore, Instant Messenger windows flared open on multiple desktops whenever a social taboo was spotted (i.e. "Don't touch the Fast Company in the common area. I just saw so-and-so come out of the bathroom with it!")

But gross bathroom behavior is not limited to hand washing and the defiling of shared periodicals. Far from it. I've worked in several different office buildings in my career and there's always one common element -- bombed-out stalls. Oh, and bad coffee too.

I've witnessed the same piss on the seats, clogged plumbing courtesy of tampons/pads, and the ubiquitous ring around the toilet comprised of half-dry, half-soggy toilet paper. I'm assuming these piles form when so-called "careful" bathroom users line the seat with TP before parking their asses on it. The result: Some of the paper "catches" after flushing and goes to its rightful destination. The rest either lingers on the seat or falls to the floor. While the culprits are trying to be all sanitary, all they're really doing is leaving a gross, disgusting mess for the next person. Since obviously it's their biggest fear, I cannot help but wish hemorrhoids on these people.

The pattern of piss on the toilet seats really blows my mind. Sometimes, it looks like the urine was deliberately and maliciously applied. The distribution is all scattered, swirling and angry-looking with pooling in certain areas. It looks like a fucking Pollock painting or something. For most of us, it's a toilet seat. For others, it's a blank canvas apparently.

If it's a light sprinkling concentrated in one area, that clearly means that the stream of pee became a tad unruly while the pisser was hovering over the bowl (as I do). An errant sprinkle of tinkle happens to us all. However, when normal people spot the misdirected flow, they reposition themselves accordingly. If not for the sake of the person who has to mop up at night, we do it for the sake of hygiene. Pee bounces, yo. Both porcelain and plastic are reflective surfaces and if you pee on them, they'll pee right back.

I could further belabor my point with examples of smells and people forgetting to courtesy flush (or just flush period) but it's all been said many times, many ways. In fact, I'll wrap this up right now with links to some suggested related reading:

:: The Sarcastic Journalist: If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle...
:: PoopyJoe.com: The Work Poop
:: PoopReport.com: Splatter Stopper
:: The Random Muse: Potty Politeness

Enjoy!

soldiers burping

I'm having a renewed love affair with Depeche Mode. They have a new album coming out AND! they're also playing the Garden in December (thanks for the heads up, Adena!)

I'm SO there and WILL be screaming like a silly little girl. Depeche Mode/Nitzer Ebb was the second concert I ever attended (The Cure/The Pixies/Love & Rockets being the first.) Depeche Mode put on an amazing show. I chirped about it in school for weeks afterwards to anyone who'd listen. Unfortunately, the only one interested was Kenny, the art student who was always in dire need of a breath mint. He had a retainer, you see...

I love this band dearly and cannot pass up the chance to see them live. Oh and FYI, boys and fellow lesbos, if you give a mix tape with a Martin L. Gore-penned song on it to the right girl, you WILL get ya some, get ya some. Trust me on this. In my case, I used "A Question of Lust." Worked like a charm. Subtle, right?

Anyhoo, I'm listening to Violator right now and "Enjoy the Silence" just finished up. When I first heard the song, which, as I recall, was on Earth Day 1990 (I was watching an Earth Day concert on MTV all day and they world-premiered the video during the show), I fell instantly in love.

Speaking of Earth Day, I was REALLY insufferable about the environment in the early 90s. Oh how I wanted to be aboard the Rainbow Warrior in Alaska with The B-52s, Alec Baldwin and the rest of that Greenpeace ilk ramming into oil tankers and freeing Flipper from fishing nets.

Instead, I was stuck in Jersey lecturing people about the horrors of animal testing while imploring them to cut up their plastic six-pack holders and buy dolphin-safe tuna. Furthermore, I wanted to be a filmmaker in the worst way so that I could piece together the torture of bunnies and space monkeys into a powerful snuff film with The Smiths' "The Draize Train" providing the soundtrack. Again, subtle.

Yeah, I was one of those.

But I digress... I got the Depeche Mode CD as soon as it was released, namely so that I could open up the liner notes and check the lyrics. Up until that point I was confused by Dave Gahan's warbling of a certain line so I just made do and sang along as best I could. This was my take on it:

"Pleasures remain / Soldiers burping"

I was all, "Soldiers burping? Wait, that can't be right. What the fuck, Dave?! This is such a nice song and you're talking about gassy servicemen? What.the.fuck?"

And then I read the lyrics: "Pleasures remain / So does the pain."

OOOOHHHHHHHHHH! Now that made sense. But, I still can't listen to that song without inserting my own lyrics. I kinda like mine better, come to think of it.

So, in the spirit of 'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy and my own retardation, here are a few lyrical crimes committed by me and certain people I know:

"Take your pants down and make it happen."
The "Flashdance...What a Feeling" lyrics my friend's father misheard thereby causing him to ban the song from his household. Real lyrics: "Take your passion and make it happen."

"Ah... pussywillow!"
My sister's friend's take on "Push It" by Salt-n-Pepa.

"Two Pop Tarts! I need you. I need you!"
My friend's sister interpretation of Stacy Q's "Two of Hearts"

"Daddy-o! If you daddy-o! You daddy-oooooooooooo!"
Um, that's what I swore Mick Jagger was singing in "Start Me Up." NO IDEA where I got that from. NO FUCKING IDEA.

"Girls WHAT the boys?!?"
This one's courtesy of my mother. Years ago I was watching MTV and "Cum on Feel the Noize" by Quiet Riot came on while she was fishing around in a nearby closet. The chorus was a bit muffled through the sheet rock, you see, so naturally, my mother assumed there was all sorts of fucking going on in the song she could barely hear. She thrust her head out of the closet and exclaimed the above line in a shocked tone. Truthfully, I don't think my reassurance that the girls were in fact rocking the boys made her feel any better.

As it was, she was threatening to cancel the channel from our cable service. She thought it was a bad influence on us. Sheesh, you sing Cheap Trick's "She's Tight" in front of company one time and suddenly the MTV's in jeopardy. Such a tyrant.

Feel free to add your own mangled lyrics to the comments. J'adore this sort of thing. Danke.

why i'm still single

Yours Truly: So some online dating chick emailed me... I read her profile and there was a link to her website

Jess: And?

YT: It's hosted by Geocities and has embedded midi files and bad clip art...

Jess: 'Nuff said

mmm... tetanus

You know what's awesome? Accidentally stepping in a puddle of mystery moisture near a construction site while wearing flip flops. Even better? When the flip flop slides off the wet foot and shoots about 10 feet ahead gathering dirt and schmutz along the way thereby "breading" my damp foot when I put the flip flop back on.

SO awesome.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to disinfect my feet...

get crackin', bitches

Since I love to talk about myself, I'm participating in a little exercise I found over at Sheila's. Here are 10 albums* I recommend you add to your collection (no compilations or 'best of' collections permitted):

1) The Cure / Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me

2) Morrissey / Bona Drag

3) Radiohead / The Bends

4) The Beatles / Abbey Road

5) Mazzy Star / So Tonight That I Might See
(Ed. note: Makes for some excellent sex music)

6) Concrete Blonde / Bloodletting

7) R.E.M. / Document

8) Depeche Mode / 101

9) New Order / Substance

10) Björk / Post

* I reserve the right to go back and change these because well, I can.

redemption

I added another cool celebrity sighting to my collection tonight. I was walking up Lexington Avenue and was just about to bang a left on 58th Street when I saw a short, familiar-looking man with glasses and spiky hair. As I rounded the corner, I got a full glimpse of his face and there was no doubt I knew him.

I was just about to acknowledge him and then thought the better of it. Why? Because while I know his face, I can never remember his name (Paul Williams; thank you, IMDB) and the words that were about to roll off my tongue were as follows:

"Hey, you're that wee fella that always hung around with the Muppets!"

While I'm not certain he has an issue related to his diminutive stature or penchant for associating with felt puppets, I clammed up just to be on the safe side. You see, I still carry the memory of the horrified look on John Glover's face when, at a loss for his name, I said, "Hey! You're the guy who burned his son! You're the guy who burned his son!" Um, I was referring to his portrayal of Charles Rothenberg, the man who deliberately set fire to a hotel room occupied by his child in the made-for-TV movie David. But, I'm not sure passers-by realized that... Mr. Glover had every right to take a torch to me but he was very polite considering.

I think it's safe to say that I've made tremendous strides with my celebrity encounters, no?

juvenile constituent

Yesterday was the Democratic Mayoral Primary here in NYC. Prior to going to the polls, I discussed our choice of candidates with a coworker. Here it is a day later and I'm still giggling at the thought of me, a big ol' lesbo, saying, "I'm voting for Weiner."

Tee hee hee.

the trunk

There's a trunk in the middle of my apartment that serves a dual purpose -- coffee table and storage unit. Inside, I keep a hodge-podge of items -- photo albums, yearbooks, small appliances, important papers and keepsakes.

Even though it contains practical items that I often need (including my Vicks Personal Steam Inhaler), I'm leery of opening it for fear of the green Rubbermaid box that also resides there. This box holds old birthday cards from my deceased grandmothers, certificates of achievement, citations, newspaper clippings and other touching mementos.

While it's nice to rummage through that stuff sometimes, it's also an exercise fraught with peril because pictures and letters from THE EX are also relegated to that box.

On days when I'm feeling invincible (or wheezy), I can retrieve what I need from the trunk without incident. Just the same, I sometimes prefer to ride out the asthma spell or find alternate paperwork to avoid the temptation to punish myself with painful memories.

The trunk is almost like a mausoleum for a long-dead relationship. I don't actively grieve over its death anymore but I still experience an almost daily twinge of sadness because of the absence. She was a best friend and a sister in addition to a partner. I lost many people when I lost her.

But time, maturity and the natural progression of things have distracted and fortified me adequately. I've been able to integrate the memories and the lessons into my life and move on. Her presence is always felt but sometimes I have to remind myself why. I've done a good job of burying her.

But the contents of the trunk still give me pause. The pat answer is to just toss all of the stuff and rid myself of it once and for all. But THE EX was the first and only person I've ever experienced a mutual mad/crazy/blinding/everyone-else-can-go-fuck-themselves kind of love with. She was the first and only person I trusted. It was HUGE for me to get to that point with someone. And I'm proud of what we had so I keep those letters for the same reason I keep my diplomas and awards. That shit was hard work and I earned it.

Tonight I opened up the trunk in the hopes of finding inspiration. This blog has been a wasteland of late so I was looking for a creative trigger. Making fun of myself is always a rich subject so I was hoping to find some embarrassing old poems or essays I'd written years ago.

Alas, I didn't find any. Although, I did come across some really bad pictures of myself when I played softball in high school. My coach was really good about taking photos of us and assembling them along with newspaper clippings into scrapbooks each season.

I have to say that while I was a rather forgettable-looking teen, I was quite impressed with some of my feats on the field! I got several mentions in The Star-Ledger and The Jersey Journal. I remember my best friend's father calling me to congratulate me when the Star-Ledger reported a three-run homer I hit. My English teacher even mentioned it right before it was my turn to read from Julius Caesar in class. I did a regal wave to my adoring public and then launched into some really nasty Jersey-soaked Shakespeare.

After my wee stroll down softball memory lane, I noticed an envelope with THE EX's handwriting. I took a deep breath and opened it up. It contained a card and pictures she sent me several years ago. I hesitated at first but then I sifted through them. She wrote some really funny captions on the back of the photos. For the first time since our break-up, I was able to laugh genuinely and fondly at her memory.

I felt strong enough to continue my excavation.

I then found an overstuffed medium-sized mailer envelope. I opened the flap, looked in and saw TONS of pieces of paper folded into neat, tight squares. To complete the memory circuit, I looked up at the shelf over my couch and located the hand-painted circular wooden box that originally held the slips of paper. (After the break-up, I was able to keep the box on display but the contents were too painful a reminder so I hid them.)

For my birthday, THE EX wrote personal messages, quotes, song lyrics, poems, etc. on each piece of paper and packed them into the wooden box. There were hundreds of them. On the outside of the box, she attached a Post-it explaining that I should reach into the box and pull out a note whenever I needed inspiration, a pick-me-up, a reminder of her… or just because.

To this day, it remains the single most beautiful, thoughtful and amazing gift I've ever received. I don't think anyone can ever buy me something more valuable or precious.

Truthfully, I couldn't restrict myself to a diet of one a day, so I cheated and opened up every slip of paper and read them in one sitting. I couldn't open them fast enough. The notes and sayings were an amazing and beautiful mix of love, honesty, support, optimism, inside jokes and so much more.

The papers fluttered and rustled as my hands shook. I couldn't believe that I was capable of inspiring such a gift… or worthy of it. I was elated and petrified and completely overwhelmed.

That girl always came up with new and fascinating ways of saying, "Trust me. Confide in me. Just give in."

And I did. For years, we relied and depended on each other, content to hide away from the world in our special, safe place. We protected each other with ferocious strength and determination. I think what was most shocking and devastating about our breakup was how quickly and cruelly we both let that all go.

Tonight I reread some of the notes she stuffed into the carved wooden box. In one of them, she summarized the doubts and fears we had about our "special" relationship:

"I don't think this is supposed to make any sense. Do you? The minute we understand it, it could all fall apart."

And sure enough, it did fall apart. Just like she said it would. Our fear, our families' expectations, probing questions and gossip combined with the force of a wrecking ball and demolished our private little space.

I've gotten over my grief but I think I still haven't fully forgiven reality.

untitled

Corner of Fulton Street and Broadway
September 11, 2005

normal triglycerides: hot or not?

At the risk of sounding immodest, I'm beating the girls off with a stick these days, yo. In the past week or so, I've stepped up my efforts, reclaimed a bit of my old mojo and well... things are looking up.

Some of the "resumes" I've received from interested parties seem promising and others... um, perhaps it's just better if I provide an excerpt from one email:

"I have low cholesterol and great blood pressure."

Well if THAT don't inspire a tingle in the old cooch, I don't know what does...

W.T.F?!? Call me overly fussy but that's so NOT the appropriate response to my appeal for... well, ass, if I'm being honest. If I was seeking a candidate to cheat on a stress test for me or something, maybe I'd give this chick a call.

Unless that's her roundabout way of saying she's got a lot of stamina in the sack, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to make of this bit of info. In other words, what's in it for me? Oh, I know! She'll live a long, healthy life... in which to irritate and annoy me! She also used the word "sporty" which to me suggests that she wears a visor and umps softball games on the weekends. Um... NEXT!

miss tanya's hurricane relief recap

Last night, I raised a glass (or you know, 12) with Jess, Sheila, Miss Tanya and scores of others to raise funds for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. Tanya organized the shindig and did an amazing job. Lots o' money was made, fun was had and kick-ass prizes were raffled off.

I had some crappy numbers on my raffle tickets but I still managed to score two retro t-shirts thanks to the kindess of Suzie and Miss Tanya herself. One of them is nice and tight and makes my itty-bitty titties look like a set o' knockers to be reckoned with. It's a rather impressive sight, if I do say so myself.

Click here for pictures from the event. Despite my bragging in the paragraph above, there are no pictures of my deceptively large boobage. Sorry to disappoint.

Update: As Mitch pointed out in my comments, I'm mad lazy when it comes to adding captions to my photos. I inserted a few in the photos where I actually know the people in the shot. However, I left the rest blank because of a) a pitiful recollection of names on my part and b) I also don't know if certain people want to be identified. If you're in a picture and want a caption, please leave a comment on Flickr and I'll update. Thanks!

how can i refuse?

I posted something on Craigslist recently. In case any of you have forgotten, I'm a big ol' lesbo and as such, I added my remarks in an area set aside for "my kind."

Except for one lone emailer, I've gotten a nice response from fellow girls who like girls. Very nice and um... go me!!

Now, since the aforementioned lone emailer contacted me seeking a service, I thought I'd do him a solid and post it here in case any of you can help him out. Either that, or you know, crash his in-box with nasty emails and virus-laden attachments or whatever.

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From: Roger20007@aol.com
To: Curly McDimple
Subject: I WANT A BJ WILL PAY $50 ASAP MALE HERE

[EOM]

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Take it away, spambots! It's all nice and hyperlinked for your added convenience! Oh and friends o' Ham & Cheese on Wry, do feel free to trackback and forward!

Cheers!
Curly

bang the drum all day

In honor of Labor Day, I'm kicking off a series chronicling some of the more interesting jobs I've held. And there have been a few. My inspiration for the series is Blown Sideways Through Life, a fabulous one-woman show written and performed by Claudia Shear. (Some of you may remember her as the chick whole stole Monica's identify on an early episode of Friends.) The book is available on Amazon.com, in case you're interested. Shear also performed it on PBS' Great Performances so if you can get your hands on a VHS/DVD or a rerun, please check it out!

First up: B-I-N-G-O!

When I was about 12 years old until the age of 16, I worked the weekly BINGO game at the local church. No, I wasn't the person who called the numbers or handed out the BINGO boards. Instead, I was among the gaggle of young girls who worked in the kitchen fetching coffee, soda, hot dogs and pizza for the aging crowd.

The kitchen girls arrived at 6:00pm, a solid hour before the actual event began. In that time, we'd make sure the hot dog water was boiling, the pizza oven was preheated, the coffee was percolating and all supplementary materials were stocked and ready to go.

Despite our early arrival time, the hall was already buzzing with activity. The doors opened at 5:30 so the BINGO diehards came early to stake out their regular spots and assemble their boards, chips, ink stamper things and their various and sundry good-luck charms in intricate patterns. The lucky charms were often those garish trolls with the Einstein-like hair or the prizes that came in a cereal box or Happy Meal. I never saw anything so run-of-the-mill as an actual rabbit's foot or four-leaf clover. These women prayed to the gods of General Mills and McDonalds for good fortune.

Before the game actually started, the customers came into the kitchen to make their purchases. Once the game got underway, we had to brave the smoke-filled air and load up trays and bring the coffee, tea, soda, etc. to them.

It was a risky business, let me tell you. We had to take great care not to advertise our wares while the caller was yelling out a number. One ill-timed "COFFEE!" would solicit violent shushing and deadly glares from the assembly. I once yelled "SODA!" in tandem with the caller's "B 12!" and my ass was swiftly handed to me by a bunch of old biddies. I skulked back to the kitchen and refused to go back out on the floor until my shame and embarrassment subsided.

You know, for a game that took place in the basement of a Catholic church, the participants were less than Christian-like. In addition to the aforementioned nasty "Shaddaps!" we were also privy to some hard-core greed and envy. When someone yelled "BINGO!" a less-than-magnanimous groan arose from the crowd. They tsked, sighed and muttered as they waved magnetic wands over their boards to snatch up all the chips and make way for a new game. If some poor sap made a mistake with her chip-laying/ink-dabbing, the crowd would actually cheer as the caller announced, "No BINGO!"

What a bunch of nasty, dusty-beavered, old bitches they were.

However, there were a few regulars that we had come to know and love. For example, the wee Scottish lady that came into the kitchen like clockwork each week and said, "One tea, please." When she handed over her money, she'd inform us of our tip by saying, "Take a dime." But with her accent it sounded more like, "Take a dame." Naturally, we imitated this EVERY week right after she left the kitchen. We were shocked -- SHOCKED, I tell you -- the week she came in and said, "Take a quarter." We were pleased with the increased profit margin but that phrase wasn't nearly as easy to imitate, even with my superior Scottish mimicry abilities.

Then there was the chubby "Two Diet Tabs!" fella. Every week, he'd walk into the kitchen, thrust two fingers in the air and place the order for his soda of choice. Unlike the Take a Dime Lady, this guy was Jersey all the way -- with a lisp -- so his request sounded more like: "Two Doy-et Taaaaaaaabth!" Again, the minute he was out of earshot, we'd reenact the exchange.

I distinctly remember Two Doy-et Taaaaaaaabth's hands. They looked jaundiced because of all the nicotine stains and he positively reeked of smoke. The minute he walked into the kitchen, we could smell him. His fingernails were all brown and crusty-looking so we were always careful to not make any contact when handing him his change. I admit that I take the occasional puff on a cigarette but memories of this man's hands will forever prevent me from developing a full-blown habit. Nicotine-schmicotine. My vanity can defeat addiction, any day.

In the last 45 minutes of the evening, things slowed down as interest in food and caffeinated drinks started to wane (I'm assuming because of issues with insomnia and poor bladder control). However, it was too early to close up shop so we'd sit around chatting (quietly, of course, or else the old bitch brigade would come into the kitchen and tear us a collective new one).

At one point during my BINGO tenure, I worked with my best friend and my younger sister. The combination of the three of us mixed with downtime yielded one result… MISCHIEF. One night, we got tired of BSing (at a low volume) so we did what comes naturally while working in the basement of a Catholic church -- we threw wet paper towels at each other and the ceiling.

The ceiling was REALLY high so it became quite the competition as we tried to scale the monumental height with enough velocity and force to make the paper towel cling to the masonry. An added obstacle was the system of heating and plumbing pipes blocking the ceiling. We squealed (quietly) with delight when one of our soggy missiles wrapped itself around the pipes and valves. And, somehow, we managed to keep things to a dull roar when I finally made contact with the ceiling.

Years later, I was in the kitchen visiting my father as he helped out with an Ash Wednesday fish and chips dinner. I looked up and sure enough, our handiwork remained intact.

You know, I think defacing church property, more so than carpet munching, will be the deciding factor in my banishment to Hell. Well, that plus the time I babysat two kids, ages 7 and 4, and taught them how to make prank calls and send pizzas to their neighbors. FYI, if you tell the pizza place you want the pie well done, they always believe the order is legit. Of course, this was before Caller ID had to come in and fuck things up…

Up next in the series: My stint as a janitor. Oh sorry... "custodial engineer."

a bit of good news

After several days of uncertainty, my dear friend Filomena found out that her brother and his family safely made their way to Baton Rouge. Unfortunately, their home in New Orleans was destroyed but at least they're safe.

The kicker: They've been "adopted" by a local Girl Scout troop who showered them with gifts and cards of support. It's amazing how a small, thoughtful gesture from a group of little girls with some crayons and construction paper can rescue a family -- and all of us -- from such despair.

renaissance

One of the great pleasures in my life is rediscovering albums. Sometimes CDs in my collection fall by the wayside and will go untouched for months or sometimes years. But somehow, I always find the inspiration, whether it be a snippet overheard in Duane Reade or just some vague nonsensical reminder, that will prompt me to dig out the album and give it a listen.

I love rediscovering what once moved me. But what's even better is finding a new brilliant lyric, catchy guitar hook or textured melody in something familiar. Listening with fresh ears paves the way to find a new level of passion, longing and want in a singer's throaty wail, guitar solo or even a subtle key change. I'm always so pleased whenever I find one of these "Easter Eggs" in an album.

This week I resurrected U2's Achtung Baby. I forgot how good this entire album is. Not one song sucks, in my opinion. Granted, this was the beginning of the era of Bono as the forever bespectacled-and-leather-clad-kinda-smarmy-rock-star which I've come to sorta loathe, but still, it's an hour's worth of solid music. I likey.

This CD reminds me of good things. I believe it came out in the summer of... 1992? Is that right? If so, that was a good summer. My friends and I screeched along to every song on a very long road trip deep into the Appalachian Mountains in North Carolina. U2, King Missile and the Violent Femmes helped pass the time along with our attempts to make truckers honk their horns and get boys in passing cars all hot and bothered with our "Elephant Shoes" trickery. If you're not sure what the latter is, situate yourself in front of a mirror and mouth (don't say out loud) the words "elephant shoes" and take note of what it looks like. Tricky, right?

Later that summer I remember squeezing... one... two... eight people into my '85 Plymouth Horizon and going to see the Zoo TV tour at Giants Stadium. The driver and passenger seats upfront were both bucket seats (with the gear thingy in the middle) so we were restricted to two up front while four of my friends shoehorned themselves into the backseat. My younger sister and her friend sat dutifully in the hatchback (with the cooler of beer) facing (and maniacally waving at) the incredulous drivers behind us. The back bumper was practically scraping the ground because of all the weight but somehow I managed to get us to the Meadowlands without losing a muffler or getting a ticket.

As we putzed around the parking lot looking for an ideal tailgating spot, people pointed and laughed at the overstuffed clown car in their midst. When I finally brought the car to a stop, the doors opened and everyone sort of popped out of the car rather than exited it.

As we waited for the show to start, David Bowie's "Young Americans" was pumped over the sound system. Just as the song started, a group of about 10 girls my age took the row of seats in front of us. Instead of just filing into the row and sitting down, they performed what looked like a choreographed routine. But it was totally spontaneous! The song started as they approached their seats, they all recognized it and began the most awesome, impromptu dance ever.

I particularly loved that people in my age group were dancing to David Bowie instead of say, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. Not that I don't enjoy me some "Head to Toe" once in awhile but most of the music that was popular in my high school/early college days was so crappy and forgettable. A lot of the kids in my school were totally fine with it but it left me empty. I was one of the few who sought out older bands and/or newer artists inspired by them. I felt an instant kindred spirit with the like-minded dancing girls and wanted to jump over the row of seats and boogie with them. But then the stadium lights went down, the stage lights went up, the show started and me and my friends sang ourselves hoarse.

Note: I actually started writing this post the other day but had to put it aside. It's hard to write my usual goofy stuff considering what's going on in Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi. But I stopped by Sheila's blog today as I do every day and followed a link to a great post. Among other things, the author, Mitch, talks about those moments in songs that grab you and make your hair stand on end. His post is way more thorough and well written than mine but the sentiment is the same. I thought it was funny that we were both talking about the same thing more or less so I dusted off my draft and well, here you go. It's one of my more half-assed efforts but finishing it provided a welcome distraction from the horrifying headlines at least.

For those of you in NYC, Tanya, a friend of The Lovely Jess, is organizing a benefit to raise funds for Hurricane Katrina Relief.