the best o' '05, relatively speaking

Despite my earlier proclamation, I have one last entry left in me for the year. I was going to do a Top 10 Posts of 2005 list eventually but I saw a slightly different format on Sheila's site (via Ann Althouse) that I quite like. Here, dear readers, is a monthly breakdown of notable posts:

January

Boobwatch, Indeed
This, my friends, is when The Hoff sickness began. 'Nuff said.

Long Before Ben and Liv Stunk up the Screen...
A cable airing of Jami Gertz's Jersey Girl riled me up and made me a tad defensive of my home state. I mean, there's a reason I left NJ but I'd still like to issue this rule o' thumb: I can make fun of Jersey as can other former (and present) residents all I/we want. The rest of y'all sound tired when you do it. What else is in your sad cannon? "Why did the chicken cross the road?" and a bunch of knock-knock jokes? Seriously, get some new material. Or go pick on Connecticut or something. Move on or I'll be forced to open up a can of Coors Light on your asses.

But When You Shake Your Ass, They Notice Fast
Any post which contains the line "Seriously I'm so white, I make Debbie Boone look ghetto fabulous," needs, nay BEGS, to be resurrected.

February

The Tesh Experiment
The birth of Harriet McNamara, the rabid John Tesh fan/mail room clerk/ace bowler.

A Couple of Quick Niece-isms
Several gems uttered by the Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece when she was still the Adorable Four-Year-Old Niece.

March

On Movies and Molestation
I'm quite confident this is the only site out there on the Internets [sic] that can discuss Capturing the Friedmans and the diddling of Dudley on Diff'rent Strokes in the same post. If I'm wrong, please let me know because I might need to marry this equally-twisted writer.

She Bops
And lo, the birth of a new phrase on par with "Life is like a box of chocolates..." is born.

Next Week We Teach Her How to Funnel
The Adorable Four-Year-Old Niece begins training for her first keg stand.

April

A Public Service Announcement
I decided to give some much-needed assistance to forlorn Googlers. Lest you think it's a stuffy, tech-heavy tutorial, fear not. One of my lessons was the proper use of the term "tart cart." Never doubt my ability to be completely inappropriate.

And Now Is Zee Time When I Kiss My Own Ass
Because I'm always late, I missed my own one-year blog anniversary. But I had a brain fart several days later and marked the occasion by showcasing some of my lesser-known posts. Whoa... a list of posts WITHIN a list of posts. I think I just blew my own mind.

Chug! Chug! Chug!
A rare photo of Yours Truly... making short work of a pitcher of Brooklyn. 'Cause I'm classy like that.

May

Adam Sandler Doesn't Dice My Onions
Once again, The Lovely Jess and I take the English language to new and interesting heights. Or, like, you know... butcher it.

My Other Talent
I can "cook" too, y'all.

Sex Smells
Some pyschological insight into what makes me tick. It's as disturbing as you've no doubt imagined.

June

Resurrection
A desperate plea to a love nearly lost forever.

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'
Here's where I took on the tools standing outside the courthouse in support of that horror show, Michael Jackson. Bunch of ass munches. I shake my fist at them.

Question
The first chapter in The Saga of the M-o-u-s-e (to be continued in July).

July

I Have Arrived!
This is when I knew I had made it as a blogger -- I received my first piece of hate mail. It was a beautiful thing.

Breaking News
The conclusion of The Saga of the M-o-u-s-e. Here it is months later and I'm still twitching.

I'm a [Last Name] Girl
This entry was a departure from the usual dopey tone of this here blog. I talk about my half-in/half-out of the closet status. I was really drained by the time I finished and I pretty much sobbed my way through it. But I'm proud of it and it helped me tremendously by writing about it. Once again, THANK YOU to everyone who commented and emailed me. I've never had such a response to a post before. Your words of support and encouragement helped me in ways you can never possibly know. So thank you.

August

It's a Boy!
I became a proud and doting aunt for the second time. Despite the grumpy face in the photo, my nephew has the biggest, best smile and he wears it often. His cheeks are the chubbiest I've ever seen and like his adoring aunt, he relies heavily on his woobie to help him sleep. In case you can't tell, I love my wee boy to bits.

The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project* or What I Learned from TV
The first in an ongoing series of life lessons and observations I gathered by watching copious amounts of television as a child. Perhaps the best quote of the bunch: "Charles Ingalls was a bit of a buttinsky."

Thomas
This is a story about the grandfather I unfortunately never met. This was another one I blubbered my way through.

Flirtation
The post where I punk'd my audience.

Traveling Show
This tale illustrates why Jess and I will never and SHOULD never become exterminators.

September

The Trunk
Despite the heartache and emotional shit storm she unleashed on my life, this is a loving tribute to the good stuff THE EX brought to it as well. Yet another tearjerker. Man, I was mopey this year.

An Ode to My Itty Bitty Titties
Small-chested girls represent!

Someone Is on Your Side
Some thoughts on my beloved Bernadette Peters after she suffered the tragic loss of her young husband.

October

The New-Age Cheese Diet
Just what you always wanted -- health advice and tips for a better life from the former cohost of Entertainment Tonight... The Tesh.

All The Small Things
Here's where I started my list of 100 things about me. I think I got as far as 40 before I quit. Maybe I'll get around to finishing it... maybe not.

#41. I rarely finish things I start.

November

I'll Have the Big Gulp, Thank You
A charming tale of mortification courtesy of my overactive pie hole.

Inside the Actors Studio with Curly McDimple
When I become famous (and I WILL), this is how I'm going to answer James Lipton's questions. Oh and I also go off on Rosie O'Donnell. In truth, it doesn't take much to prompt a Rosie rant from moi. In fact, I could launch into one right now. I'm totally serious.

December

Season's Greetings from Curly and The Hoff
Here are some Hoff holiday greetings to print out and share with your friends... or enemies. You can also hang them up at home and the office to ward off evil, scare away would-be burglars and the occasional annoying coworker.

The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project: Holiday Edition
Among the lessons learned: The Bradys should run FEMA; Shermie schooled whitey on the art of The Running Man; Santa really dicked Rudolph around; and Rankin-Bass is staffed by a bunch of ugly motherfuckers.

And that was my 2005 in a someone wordy nutshell. Thanks for being part of it. May you all have a happy New Year! And to my Scottish peeps, a very Happy Hogmanay!

All the best,
Curly

an unexpected sob and the power of shuffle

After a night out with The Lovely Jess and Azee drinking the booze and watching these guys perform at Galapagos in Williamsburg, I was a wee bit tipsy. Just a wee bit.

Because I loathe the G train, I decided to subway it back to Manhattan and catch an express 4 train back to Brooklyn. To you non-New Yorkers, that might seem a bit roundabout. "Wait, she was already in Brooklyn but went to Manhattan to go back to Brooklyn? WTF?" For those of you ever held hostage by the G train, you know exactly why I avoided that mofo at all costs.

Anyhoo, I apparently just missed a 4 train at Union Square so I had a few minutes to kill. Reading is usually my preferred method to pass the time but well, the eyes were tired but my groove, well she was alive and kicking. I was feeling the need to get said groove on. And by get said groove on, I mean tapping my foot and maybe nodding my head in time to the music. Mind you, this subdued behavior is limited only to the subway. Getting my groove on in a bar or in the Tiny Wee Studio usually involves death-defying leaps from furniture, props, chants of "Go Curly! It's yo birfday" and things of that nature. On the downtown 4/5/6 platform, not so much. I tend to limit my choreography to the white man's overbite, rhythmic head nod and the occasional hip wiggle, surreptitiously of course.

So out came the music. One of the playlists on my recently-synced iPod is a mix of 80s/90s alternative/new wave/modern rock I had just burned onto a CD for my sister. Mmmm... themed sequence. The Smiths, Peter Murphy, Big Audio Dynamite and Love & Rockets entertained me from the East Village to downtown Brooklyn. This made me so very happy.

Just as I stepped off the train, "Goodbye" by The Sundays (from the Blind album. I highly recommend!) began. I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE this song. Seriously, you have no idea. But in truth, it can make me a touch misty depending on my mood. The booze + the holiday season + being a miserable fuck in general = well, welling up in public. A few blocks into my walk home, the song found a soft spot. Harriet Wheeler's overlapping vocals rolled in like a blinding fog smothering the forces patrolling my vulnerable areas. The song is like fucking chloroform for my emotional defenses.

The pretty Brooklyn Heights brownstones became blurry and the Christmas lights streaked before my very damp eyes. As the song was winding up, I was on the brink of full-on sniveling but then, like a gift from heaven, the shuffle feature picked the antithesis to this emotional, gut-wrenching ballad... "Head Over Heels" by The Go-Go's.

Ain't no cryin' goin' on during that number, let me tell you. It's delightfully vapid and oh-so-catchy. I defy anyone to sport a sour puss while it's playing. Can't.be.done. Crying spell was officially over and done with. I thank thee Belinda, Jane, Charlotte, Gina and Kathy for rescuing me from my sudden despair! You did me a major solid.

Mmmm... Belinda Carlisle.

I'm not sure I'll get to write again this week so I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year. Thanks so much for making me a part of your '05!

Best wishes,
Curly

what about BoB?

The Best of Blogs Awards are back, ladies and germs. As some of you will recall, I was nominated in the LBGT category last year... which is sort of funny to me because I am, after all, The Worst Lesbian Ever ™.

Alas, I did not win but I made a very respectable showing -- third or fourth place (out of 10) I think? Well, out of the two women nominated, I came in first at least. Um, woo hoo? Actually no, that sucks. We need more women among the ranks! I love my gay boys but there are far more than two BoB-worthy lesbian bloggers out there!! If you know of any, please nominate them.

Kindly read the rules first. For example, your submission doesn't automatically guarantee that the blog will be a finalist. There's a committee or some such that whittles the nominees down to 10. Oh, and exnay with the nominating of your own blog. It's frowned upon. Not that I tried. I swear I didn't. It's in the rules! Read for yourself.

Truthfully, the contest stressed me out a little bit last year so I'm not going to lobby hard for a nomination. If the honor is bestowed upon me, I will accept it humbly and graciously... and then set about stuffing the ballot box with renewed efficiency and vigor. If I'm not given the nod, I'll genuinely root for my fave among the nominees.

Speaking of my favorites, kindly peruse my ever-growing BlogRoll below. There are a lot of great LGBT blogs on there that I think you'll really enjoy. I've got lots o' awesome breeder blogs on there too that I love equally. Feel free to nominate them in one of the many other categories.

Thanks and good luck!

kipper

One of the items on the Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece's Christmas list was a parakeet. She took quite a shine to her friend's bird a few months ago and thus a wish was born. Since then, she's fantasized about having a bird and even named her prospective pet well in advance: Kipper. Deciding that it was a more manageable pet than the puppy the niece has been requesting for years, her parents decided to grant this wish.

I went to PetSmart or Petco or Petwhateverthefuckit'scalled with my sister on Christmas Eve to help select the much ballyhooed bird. The plan was to pick up the thing and then bring it back to my parents' house where my father had a cage ready and waiting with bird seed, fresh water and myriad toys to keep it entertained and safe from the niece's snooping.

We pulled into the pet store parking lot and the first thing we saw was a dog wearing reindeer antlers and a baggy t-shirt. We uttered a simultaneous, "What the hell?" before my sister deduced that Santa was in the store posing for pictures with pets. "God, I hope this store isn't filled with freaks," she spat. "Yeah. And if you're going to dress up your dog, don't make it look like a dirt bag. Look at that grungy t-shirt! How about a nice sweater or something?" Yes, even poor wee dogs are not safe from the patented brand of Curly McDimple cattiness.

Inside the store, I peered into all the cages and said hello to the various birds. I even silently debated getting a bird myself. Those finches are quite cute! But then I realized that they shit all over the cage and I'd have to clean it up plus they make a lot of racket with all that chirping. So, um, no on the bird.

The sister remained focused on the parakeets and eventually selected an ice blue one. He's really pretty! Actually, I'm not entirely sure that he's a he. My sister inquired about the sex and the clerk said, "We don't know. In order to find out, we'd have to do a blood test but we only do that if requested because we don't want to traumatize the birds." The sister and I gasped and said, "Ew" in unison as we visualized the bird getting blood drawn.

See, me and the oldest sister are a bit more squeamish than the other two McDimple girls. Actually, those two aren't squeamish at all as they're both in the health field and deal with funky shit on a regular basis. I work in publishing, yo. I stay as far away from blood and guts as possible. I'm not the least bit curious about my innards or your innards or anyone else's innards for that matter. Hell, I watch most of ER with my eyes covered and ears plugged on account of all the suction and squishy organ noises. Blech. My mouth is starting to foam just thinking about that program. Excuse me while I go eat a Saltine...

Okay, so back at the pet store my sister asked the clerk if the bird's wings were clipped. We both heard the clerk say, "Yes. We clip all of their wings." Please note that I do feel bad about this practice but well, that's a debate for another blog. Don't give me any grief if you disagree with the procedure. It ain't my bird.

Anyhoo, satisfied that Kipper wouldn't take flight, the paperwork was signed and the bird was placed in a cardboard box with air holes. While waiting for the cashier to ring us up, I found it kinda funny that we had to put Kipper's box on a conveyor belt near the cash register like he was groceries. I was half expecting the cashier to swipe him over a scanner to price him. I similarly wondered if he would have made a beeping noise if we tried to skip out without paying. Thoughts?

Next up was a 15-minute car ride to my parents' house. I sat in the passenger seat holding the box tightly on my lap and chatting with the bird and doing my best to shield him from bumps and potholes. When we arrived at the McDimple house all ready to release Kipper into his fancy, toy-filled cage, we were informed that my father forgot to set everything up. His water bottle, jingly key thing, beak scratcher hoozamawhatzie and several other items were still in their original packaging. DAMN!!!

We didn't want to take the bird out of the box, put him in the cage only to keep opening the door and rattling the cage while trying to fasten various devices throughout. The poor bird would have flipped out. So in the box he stayed while me, my mother and my father frantically opened the packages and engaged in a few rounds of "What's this thing for?" and "Where do you think this is supposed to go?" Mind you, the oldest sister had scheduled a facial so she was out the door and left the rest of us holding the bag of bird seed, if you will.

So we fastened, tied and snapped things in place and finally Kipper's home was ready. I volunteered to make the transfer from the box to the cage. I opened up the flaps and greeted the bird warmly and informed him of my intentions. "Okay buddy, just relax. Oh, and please don't peck me."

I should point out that the McDimples are not pet people. We never had any save for a couple of suicidal goldfish years ago. I love dogs and am very comfortable around them but even so, I wash my hands after I pet them. All other domesticated creatures make me a bit uneasy. I've grown to love The Lovely Jess' cats but when one of them, that would be John Brown on the right, stares me down, I get a bit nervous and flustered. Cat stares totally make me lose my train of thought. Oh and don't come near me with ferrets and shit like that. I will break down in hysterics (click here for evidence of my rodent-inspired dementia).

My point, and I do have one, is that it was rather brave of me to volunteer to fish around in a box for a nervous bird and move him to his new digs.

So I tried talking him through the procedure assuring Kipper that it would be a quick and painless journey from cardboard to cage. I clutched him gently but then released my grip because I was scared that I'd break him because of his small size. He must have sensed my trepidation because he then flapped his wings violently causing me to scream and jump back 10 feet.

Realizing I was being silly, I composed myself and went in for a second attempt. Denied. Um, yeah, that promise the clerk made about the clipped wings? Not so much. Kipper had no trouble flying right out of the box with his very much intact and highly-functional wings.

The McDimple house was officially in a tizzy. I ducked and screamed while the bird raced around the living room in a panic. My mother came running out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was and then promptly ran back in when she saw the bird dive-bombing us and her furniture. My poor arthritic father had to dodge, weave and duck to evade Kipper's erratic flight path and then do it all over again on the bird's return trip.

Kipper then made a crash landing in my Mom's Department 56 Dickens' Village. He looked quite cute sitting next to Victoria Station, I must say. But my father was in hot pursuit so Kipper fled old-time London and did a few more laps around the living room before landing atop a framed painting.

We let him calm down for a moment and took that time to compose ourselves as well. When my father made his next attempt, Kipper once again took flight right over my Dad's head... and smack dab right into the mirror over the fireplace. My father, mother and I let out a sympathetic groan similar to the audience's response when some poor slob gets hit in the nuts on America's Funniest Home Videos. OUCH!

"That bird is going to kill himself! Missus, hand me a tea towel*!" commanded my father.

"What? My good tea towel?" my mother protested.

"We'll wash it. Just get it!" I exclaimed.

My mother came back from the kitchen with her good tea towel and my father promptly draped it over Kipper. As he scooped him up, my father experienced that same bout of "I hope I don't crush him" that befell me earlier. So the bird seized the moment and made a break for it... and smacked head first into the painting that served as his previous perch. Another groan arose from all humans present.

Finally my father was able to subdue the panicked parakeet and after much ado, place him in his cage. The poor thing's heart was pounding a mile a minute and he clung to the side of the cage for a good hour or two. We were certain we had just rendered the Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece's brand-new-and-highly-anticipated parakeet retarded.

We each tried talking to him to calm him down but it wasn't helping. My father was the worst of all. Every time he clucked, chirped and whistled at the shell-shocked bird, the thing dropped a deuce. There's nothing soothing about my father's deep, gruff voice, let me tell you. It still makes me a bit incontinent, yo.

Fearing that Kipper would be scarred for life, I sought advice in the book on parakeets my sister bought. Armed with a few skimmed chapters of knowledge, I informed everyone that we had to give the bird some privacy for a few hours. Oh and we also had to refrain from using non-stick pans and cooking surfaces. The fumes, you see...

So we covered Kipper's cage and left him alone and sure enough, we heard him eating, flapping his wings and playing with his toys, safely away from our gawking and pathetic attempts at socialization.

I'm happy to report that by Christmas morning, Kipper was jumping from perch to perch and swinging from his toys in full view of everyone. So he's not retarded after all. I wish I could say the same for his adoptive-extended family...

______________________________

* The British term for dish towel.

speaking of christmas specials...

The Lovely Jess came over the other night to help me decorate my wee Christmas tree. We also watched a couple of Christmas specials, including Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Together we questioned the sexuality of several characters (I'll see you at Pride, Charlie-in-the-Box!), called out Santa on his prick-like behavior and made various and sundry other observations. For example...

Yours Truly: Why is that doll on the Isle of Misfit Toys? As far as I can tell, there's nothing wrong with her. What's her damage?

The Lovely Jess: Check out those fat ankles.

YT: Mystery solved.

the alan alda sensitivity project: holiday edition

Here are a few lessons I gleaned from holiday specials during my impressionable youth and beyond. (Items 1-10 in this series can be found here. Number 11 is here.)

12) If a loved one is trapped under rubble and cannot be rescued by emergency personnel, start singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" and your family member will suddenly extricate him/herself from the wreckage and walk away from the accident scene with only a bump or two and some scratches. Note: All limbs and appendages will be intact. The victim will not have to free himself by say, sawing off his leg with a pocket knife or a rusty piece of shrapnel. Suddenly bursting into song will miraculously lift the heavy rubble thereby releasing said loved one sans paralysis. This knowledge comes courtesy of A Very Brady Christmas.

13) Santa was a bit of a dick in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. One minute he's ripping Rudloph a new one because of his funky nose and then when he realized the fog totally fucked him over, he was all up in Rudolph's stuff asking him to guide his sled. WTF?! I'm a bit disappointed that Rudolph didn't tell that user bitch to fuck off. I certainly would have.

14) Speaking of Rudolph... Hermey the Elf and Charlie in the Box? Totally gay for each other.

15) Even though he fails to get credit in the annals of dance history, Shermie (right) totally invented The Running Man in A Charlie Brown Christmas.

16) This is more of a question than an observation... How come nobody kicked the shit out of Albert in 'Twas the Night Before Christmas? Dude, if some asshole pissed off Santa by writing a letter on my behalf claiming Santa was a "fraudulent myth," I'd calculate the value of my Christmas list and then take it out of his ass. I don't care that he fixed the Santa clock. Albert was a total douche bag.

17) I would go hungry in Who-ville. Roast beast? Who-hash? Ew.

18) Someone who worked at Rankin-Bass was one ugly son of a bitch what with all the big ear/big nose plotlines (Rudolph, Nestor the Long-Eared Donkey, Baby New Year). Clearly, someone was using claymation to work out his/her issues.

As always, feel free to tack on your observations in the comments.

i sit by and watch the traffic go

I've never had good timing. My luck, in general, is bad. I've often bemoaned my cursed fate... except this week. Dude, I'd have to say that the sun is shining out my ass. I had to burn off some vacation days so I selected this week well over a month ago. An impending transit strike wasn't even a factor in my decision. I knew I'd have Christmas shopping to do and friends in town so voila! Vacation time requested and instantly granted. Thanks, boss!

I haven't done an ounce of schlepping because of this transit strike. Sure I've altered some plans, which is unfortunate, but I'm not hauling ass over the Brooklyn Bridge in arctic temperatures. Nor am I shelling out money to take dollar vans, livery cabs, etc. For those of you who are, I'm really sorry. It really sucks and with any luck, it will be over soon.

I'm sort of enjoying the vacation in my neighborhood. I did all of my Christmas shopping here, save for a couple of purchases on Amazon.com. The Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece is getting The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper and The Muppets Take Manhattan from her favorite aunt. Oh and I also got her The Neverending Story. I just need to get her a classic book and I'm done. I've been stocking her book and movie collection with my favorites since she was born.

I've also been getting caught up on movies. So far I've watched Rize and I'm halfway through Crash. I started getting sleepy and turned off the latter last night. I'll resume today. So far, I'm not really digging it. Everyone seems to be conveniently racist and super mouthy about their views. But perhaps that's the filmmaker's intent? Don't know. I have to watch the whole thing before I can legitimately critique the film.

I had a dream last night that was SO cool I didn't want to wake up. I was disappointed when I realized it wasn't real. I was in a diner having lunch with Ally Sheedy. What?! For some reason, I started talking about Andrew McCarthy like I knew him. And then Ally said, "He's a great guy. I know him well." And I said, "Oh right! You did a couple of movies together!" And then we talked about how much we both loved Andrew McCarthy. Yes, I know I'm a lesbian but I was positively smitten with the boy. How could you not love him in St. Elmo's Fire?!?! Or Pretty in Pink? His charm and cuteness completely transcended my sexual orientation. That is until he made Mannequin with Kim Cattrall and I was all, "Helllllllllllllooooooooooo, nurse!" I thought Kim was hot, yo (as discussed here).

Wow, this might be my least coherent and most random post ever (but do let me know if you have other nominations for this distinction). I don't have the mental energy to compose anything with a theme. Perhaps after a full vacation, my mind will once again be buzzing with activity. As it stands, my brain has not fully congealed after months of punishing it at work. It still has a mush-like consistency, you see.

I'm outta here. I'll check in again before Christmas. In the meantime, I've got presents to wrap, clothes to launder and blessings to count that I don't have to travel this week. Again, my sympathies and best wishes to those of you hoofing it back and forth!

let them suck wind

I really love how the fat cats in upper management at some companies are advising employees to walk or ride bikes to work in the event of the transit strike tomorrow. Mind you, these are the very same people who haven't set foot on the subway in ages. They don't need a contingency plan since they can go about their usual routine -- car service to and fro the office, usually at the company's expense. Either that or they live in the suburbs where the mass transit systems are not affected by the strike.

You can question my "New York grit" all you want but if there's no contract in place come midnight, my ass ain't budging from Brooklyn tomorrow morning. In case upper management hasn't noticed, it's a bit nippy outside, it being December and all. Walking a couple of blocks is rather unpleasant in this weather so hoofing it from borough to borough just ain't in the cards. The suits (and the MTA) can, how you say, suck it.

Normally, I welcome the opportunity to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. However, I like to do it at a leisurely pace and, you know, when it's not AS COLD AS ALL FUCK OUTSIDE. As it is, the winds blow a gale across that gorgeous span on a summer day when it's hot as balls outside. In July, for example, the breeze provides a lovely and most-welcome respite from the heat. Now I'm no fancy weather expert or anything but I don't imagine those same winds would be nearly as pleasant in fucking December. Call me an overly delicate sort but being slapped in the face by an icy gust and possibly blown off the bridge into the chilly waters of the East River below just ain't all that attractive an option for moi.

Thank God I'm on vacation next week.

as free as the wind blows...

As some of you may know, The Lovely Jess is the talent behind Cosmo mag's Bedroom Blog (in addition to her own fucking fabulous blog.)

Up until recently, the Bedroom Blog was password-protected by the powers-that-be at Hearst. But the curtain has gone the way of the dodo and zee blog is now FREE and OPEN to all. Check it out!

My girl has talent and it would behoove you to get in the ground floor of her certain-to-be-meteoric rise to fame. So, get cracking!

on the wish book and going back to school

Oooooooooooh! The New School Spring 2006 course catalog arrived in the mail today!!! I'm all giddy and hopeful and junk. I feel like I did when I was a kid and the Sears Wish Book arrived.

Ah, the Sears Wish Book. The minute that catalog entered the McDimple household, a massive tug-of-war broke out. I fought my sisters mightily so I could be the first to peruse the pages and dog-ear all those containing my desired toys.

FYI, it was a widely-held and undisputed belief in my house that the elves merely phoned in their toy orders to Sears and did not, in fact, build a goddamn thing. Being the sad gullible fucks that we were, the McDimple Girls also believed it to be a total coincidence that Santa wrapped our toys in the exact same wrapping paper my mother kept stashed in her bedroom.

Every year.

But whatever! I had no time to quibble over such details. That Christmas list was not going to write itself.

And thus began the painstaking process of toy selection. I knew I was limited to only a few things since Santa had to satisfy my three sisters as well. I did NOT want to be the kid who fucked with Santa's budget, you see. So I took my time when compiling my wishes. I thought it through. My list went through several drafts and revisions before the final top-edit by the parents.

It was during this final phase that the younger sister's drum set was nixed as was my request for an organ. Mind you, there is not now, nor has there ever been, a speck of musical talent between the two of us. Why we were lobbying long and hard (and unsuccessfully) for instruments is beyond me. Clearly I wasn't using my head that year and most likely ended up with second- or third-strong toys. What a dumb ass.

Now when handling the Wish Book, I would start at the back, which, as I recall contained all the boys stuff. However, starting from the front of the book meant trudging through housewares and tools and shit like that, so I'd flip the book over and then grab a chunk of pages to approximate where the girls section started. Naturally, after the initial guesstimate, a bookmark was inserted in each end of the girls section for easy future reference. The McDimple girls had it down to a carefully-orchestrated science.

I slowly flipped through each page, reading the descriptions and taking notes. If a McDimple sister leaned in and started crowding me, I'd administer a shove all while maintaining a fixed gaze on the goods. Such focus!

Each page held so much potential. I had butterflies in my stomach as I worked my way through. I was always upset when I neared the section containing the ventriloquist dummies because, well, those fuckers are creepy (especially that one in the top hat and tails who wears a monocle) and b) it meant the toy section was drawing to a close and was beginning to segue into... oh the horror... CLOTHING!

I have a tendency to make fun of Sears now but that store was the shit when I was little. They had quite the stellar collection of Barbie accessories. Mind you, they weren't Mattel brand but they were light years ahead of the latter's shoddy line of pink merch. I was the envy of the neighborhood girls with my vast Barbie assembly which included: Birthday Barbie, Western Barbie (with a button on her back that, when pressed, caused her blue-eyeshadowed eye to wink. Um, it's worth noting that I would most likely be scared of this doll today. Ah, regression!); Western Ken; Malibu Ken; a Jeep; a motor scooter (which I could rev up! Um, too bad Barbie always took a header off it about two inches into the ride. Tres unsafe!); a beach house; a supermarket (with working conveyor belt and cash register); a gym (with working treadmill); a hamburger stand (with working soda fountain); a backyard (with a pool, cabana, chaise lounge and patio set); and much more.

I curated a rather impressive collection, if I do say so myself. It was a well-known fact in the neighborhood that Barbies just weren't worth playing with if Curly McDimple wasn't around to share her stash.

It really blows that the Sears Wish Book is no longer. Sorry but the Target circular can suck it. Ditto for every other flyer Wal-Mart, K-mart and all those big box stores distribute. It's just not the same. Bring back the Wish Book!!

In happier news, the aforementioned New School course catalog is here!! I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be happy about the prospect of going to school but I am! I've been in a rut for the past few months and I need a change of scenery. Perhaps I'll learn some new shit and meet some cool people. And score! The beauty of continuing education is that I don't have to adhere to some stodgy curriculum. I can take whatever the hell I want!

Now, the practical side of me suggests taking a business writing or a web development course because it's good for my career and my company will pick up the tab. That's all fine and good but well, I don't wanna. I mean, do I really want to deal with cascading style sheets when I can be Discussing Dylan for 12 Wednesdays? Oh, fuck no! Do I want to concern myself with information architecture while there's a class going on down the hall called Premium Vodkas: Are They Alike? Again, fuck no! I'm taking the fun classes with the cool kids, yo.

First up: Women's Rights, Human Rights. What's so fun about that you ask? Helloooooooo, a classroom full of chicks who, after each session, will most likely be all pissed off at men! Do the math, people.

Now if you'll excuse, I'm off to dig out my Trapper Keeper...

at the movies once again with curly mcdimple

Now that I've completely indulged my addiction to 24, my Netflix queue has returned to its normal film-heavy state. This weekend I watched Heavenly Creatures, starring a young Kate Winslet and directed by a pre-Lord of the Rings Peter Jackson.

I had a completely bipolar reaction while watching this film. I went from really liking it to completely loathing it.

For the uninitiated, Kate Winslet moves to New Zealand and becomes fast friends with a misfit girl. Their connection is intense, so much so that they can mentally escape together into a world of their own creation. Like, they independently zone out and reconvene in their shared imagination. Do you understand? THEY MEET UP THERE. It's freaky. Even freakier because this is based on a true story.

Naturally, their families don't fully understand their unusual friendship and give them all sorts of shit about it, which makes them retreat to that secret place even more.

This really spoke to me because it sums up the relationship between me and my first (and really, only) love (so far). Our friendship was of the "just add water" variety. Instant yet complete. What it lacked in history, it more than made up for in intensity. God, it was so much fun at the beginning before we had to go complicate things by getting involved romantically. But we had to take that step because the longing was suffocating us. It's taken me a long time to realize this but the pain of denial is far greater than the pain of loss.

Oh, but enough about me and my drama! So Kate Winslet and the other chick forge this incredible yet really fucked-up friendship. Before long, they're mutually adoring Mario Lanza whilst snogging and fiddling with one another. Eventually they declare that they positively cannot live without each other and ridiculous plans are made to run off together and start a new life, blah, blah, blah.

Okay, I hate to keep making this all about me but my God, talk about a parallel existence! This is precisely the sort of thing that happened between THE EX and myself. Well, except for the Mario Lanza stuff. Spooky.

Again, I digress... So, the movie takes a really dark turn and this, my friends, is where I jumped off the ride. As it was, I was barely hanging on by a thread. Jackson repeatedly took the audience to the aforementioned girls' made-up world where we saw the girls frolicking in the meadow, pointing at unicorns and, um, socializing with life-sized terra-cotta statues (don't ask). I found the plot to be strange and really disjointed. Like, I knew what was going on but I wasn't following, if that makes sense.

Normally I quite like imaginative flights of fancy and tales of distorted reality. Terry Gilliam movies, for example, tend to make me giddy. This movie? Just plain weird. It's got talking clay in it, for fuck's sake! Some of the clay even sings opera. There is a life-sized Mario Lanza cast in clay! What the fuck, Peter Jackson?!?! What.the.fuck?!?!

But I can't in good conscience crap all over the movie. The scenery is breathtaking (New Zealand is SO on my list of places to visit) and the performances are really good. It's especially interesting to watch Kate Winslet because she's a little over-the-top in certain parts. If you admire her work, as I do, it's satisfying to do a comparison to see how far she's come.

Speaking of which, have you seen Extras?!?! Winslet guest-starred in the first episode and stole the show, which is no small feat considering her costar is the brilliant Ricky Gervais (The Office). HILARIOUS. Even better, there's not a stitch of talking clay to be found in the program. Always a good thing in my opinion.

pleasure little treasure

Last night I saw Depeche Mode at Madison Square Garden. The Lovely Jess was in attendance as was The Younger Sister, The Roommate of the Younger Sister and my friend, who for blog purposes will be called The Designer.

Today I'm tired but exhilarated and a wee bit gravely-voiced (from all the screaming, you see). But I'm so glad I went ('twas my 4th DM show and counting.) The new stuff ain't so bad if any of you are contemplating making the purchase.

Much to everyone's delight, Dave and the boys got the newer songs out of the way early in the evening and closed out the second half of the show with the well-worn likes of "Behind the Wheel," "Never Let Me Down Again," "Personal Jesus," "Everything Counts" "Just Can't Get Enough," et al.

We had a talkative row of Irish dudes sitting behind us who were quite funny. While the rest of the audience screamed, clapped, held up lighters and stomped our feet to coax DM back onto the stage for an encore, one of the guys took an altogether different approach. With shirt off and beer belly swinging to and fro, he bellowed: "COME BACK OUT, YA CUNT YA!"

There were TWO encores. Coincidence? I think not.

Update: I forgot my camera (grr!) so I didn't get to snap any pictures at the show. However, Xtine had a camera and, judging by the pictures she took, amazing seats! Far better than my nose-bleed ones. Eh, but I was there and that's all that matters.

personal best

The much-adored Joe.My.God is once again doing something cool over on his blog. Inspired by the American Film Institute's 100 Years, 100 Movie Quotes program on Bravo, Joe has begun soliciting quotes from his readership. However, given his demographic, the list has been modified slightly. His compilation is entitled Gay Men's 100 All Time Favorite Movie Quotes. At last check, he's got 92 comments and still going strong!

I can't do a similar lesbian-flavored list on my site because well, a lot of lesbians aren't big on camp... unless it involves sleeping bags and tents and shit like that.

And unlike gay men, we don't have that many film icons. Let's see, there's Jodie Foster, Angelina Jolie, Gina Gershon, Miss Piggy... Who am I missing?

Yes, Jodie was in the highly-quotable Silence of the Lambs but that's not really a movie embraced by lesbians, per se. And, yes, it's easy to moan and speak nonsense like Nell, but really, that doesn't quite count, now does it?

Angelina, well, she's mostly known for her lips, not necessarily what comes out of them.

Gina, of course, was in the craptastic Showgirls but helloooooooooooooo?!? The gay boys have already claimed that one. And even if they didn't, I honestly would not fight them for the right to quote Nomi and Cristal.

Miss Piggy has her "HIIIIIIIIIIIII-YAHHHHHHHHHH!" I guess, but then again, she's a confirmed breeder so she cancels herself out.

In terms of movie selection, lesbians lack the "wink wink nudge nudge" gene. Gay boys dig fabulous schlock like Mommie Dearest while lesbos tend to throw their arms around the likes of Desert Hearts and Lost and Delirious. See my point?

Personally, I think most lesbian movies reek of self-importance and just plain suck. Hard. I can barely sit through them, much less quote them! So compiling a cinematic lesbo list is damn near-impossible for moi (you other dykes can feel free to have at it though).

Instead, I've made up my own list of movie quotes. There's no common element here. I don't care if the general public finds them memorable. I don't care if they come from garbage movies or classics. The point is not to list things like "I coulda been a contender" and "Are you talkin' to me?" and the rest of the usual suspects. We've heard them all before. Me? I like 'em random, quirky and unexpected. With that said...

1. "I want to be a woman. From now on, I want you all to call me 'Loretta.'"

-- Eric Idle as Stan in Life of Brian

2. "Felix, you were in the war, weren't you?... Did you jump out of a plane and land on your face?"

-- James Spader as Richards in Mannequin

3. "I don't patronize bunny rabbits!"

-- Veronica's Dad in Heathers

4. "Son, you got a panty on your head."

-- Truck driver in Raising Arizona

5. "I hate being Scottish. We're the lowest of the fucking low, the scum of the earth, the most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization. Some people hate the English, but I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. We can't even pick a decent culture to be colonized by. We are ruled by effete arseholes. It's a shite state of affairs and all the fresh air in the world will not make any fucking difference."

-- Ewan McGregor as Renton in Trainspotting

6. "Sometimes I dance around the house in my underwear. It doesn't make me Madonna. Never will."

-- Joan Cusack as Cyn in Working Girl

7. "Well, I see it still smells like pine needles in here."

-- Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life

8. "I want a divoooooooooooooooooorce!"

-- Michelle Pfeiffer as Angela de Marco in Married to the Mob

9. "Lard Ass! Lard Ass! Lard Ass! Lard Ass!..."

-- From a short story told by Gordie (Wil Wheaton) in Stand by Me

10. "My first show was Barefoot in the Park, which was an absolute smash, but my production on the stage of Backdraft was what really got them excited. This whole idea of 'In Your Face' theatre really affected them. The conceptualization, the whole abstraction, the obtuseness of this production to me was what was interesting. I wanted the audience to feel the heat from the fire, the fear, because people don't like fire, poked, poked in their noses... you know when you get a cinder from a barbeque right on the end of your nose and you kind of make that face, you know, that's not a good thing, and I wanted them to have the sense memory of that. So during the show I had someone burn newspapers and send it through the vents in the theatre. And well, they freaked out, and 'course the fire marshall came over and they shut us down for a couple of days."

-- Christopher Guest as Corky St. Clair in Waiting for Guffman

Feel free to add your own. Oh and extra credit to anyone who does find a lesbian thread in these 10 quotes! I will do my best to reward your creativity.

customized content

In response to my last post on dating, New York Ex requested that I share the checklist I've compiled for prospective significant others. Already done! Long-time readers of this here blog have already witnessed my fussy tastes and the ensuing ups and downs my often-ridiculous guidelines have caused.

So, for your convenience, New York Ex (and other interested parties), here are some of my dating tales all bundled up into a nice, neat package. God, I'm thoughtful.

Curly's Dating Do's and Don'ts
:: The Streak Continues
:: Trekkies Need Not Apply
:: No Gas Shortage Here
:: Cotton/Poly Blend: Comfy Couture or Dating Disaster?
:: It's 11:00 PM... Do You Know Where Curly Is?
:: Cavorting with the Coworkers
:: Is That Your Hip out of Place Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
:: Well, That Didn't Last Very Long...
:: From the Home Office in Provincetown, MA
:: This & That
:: The Verdict
:: Normal Triglycerides: Hot or Not?
:: Priorities
:: Why I'm Still Single
:: Ew

And here's one courtesy of The Lovely Jess:

-- Operation Get Curly Laid

I realize this is a rather circuitous response (with some assembly required) to the question: "What is my type?" But it's really quite simple -- a hot chick around my age with a nice rack who puts out and doesn't nag me. And if she doesn't burp in my ear until, like, the third date, well then she's a keeper.

a rare movie review

... and by rare i mean it's not all smart-assy. So I just finished watching Mad Hot Ballroom and I'm still dabbing the tears from my eyes. OMG, I loved it. I can't recommend it enough.

You know, I've discovered I'm a real sucker for these documentaries about kids engaged in school competitions. For example, Spellbound... The movie is brilliant. It's got more suspense, intrigue and drama than most works of fiction. I was even able to identify villains in the film. I honestly hated some of those kids. I actually clapped when they spelled the word wrong. Um, I may have even yelled, "Take a seat, asshole!" and "Quit stalling! Admit you don't know it and sit down!" But the memory, she is fuzzy so I can't say for sure if such things came out of my mouth. I mean, it's very out of character for me to be so callous and impatient...

But Mad Hot Ballroom is structured a bit differently. It allows for multiple feel-good stories. I picked a favorite early on (namely Wilson from P.S. 115 -- LOVE HIM) but mostly, I was able to spread my support out over several different competing schools.

Now you may find this hard to believe but, well, I'm a bit of curmudgeon. I'll wait a few seconds for the smelling salts to kick in... Anyhoo, despite my sometimes grouchy demeanor, I smiled my way through this entire film. Well, except towards the end. That's when the crying started. I couldn't help it! The expressions on the parents' faces and their comments while they watched their children compete got me right here. I was, how you say, a puddle.

My favorite part of the documentary is the interviews interspersed between the dancing segments. The kids opine on a variety of subjects -- the opposite sex, drugs in their neighborhood, even gay marriage (briefly). While they're no more than 11-years-old, some of the kids have highly-evolved takes on these issues. Other kids really show their age but their opinions are no less refreshing and enlightening. If you haven't seen the film and plan on doing so, look out for the interviews nestled within the end credits. They are priceless.

Mad Hot Ballroom is available on DVD and Movies On Demand (on Time Warner Cable, at least). Watch it! And Spellbound too!

come out, come out wherever you are

Thanks to the help of my trusty StatCounter, I can see that ham & cheese on wry attracts visitors from far and wide. Here's a recent sampling of the countries whose citizens I've entertained/scarred for life/corrupted/offended and/or left unimpressed:

-- United States
-- Canada
-- United Kingdom (Scotland in tha hoose!)
-- Australia
-- France
-- Germany
-- Austria
-- Iran
-- Uruguay
-- Switzerland
-- Japan
-- Ireland
-- India
-- Greece
-- Norway

And check this out! Someone from Germany recently translated one of my pages into his/her native tongue. I love how my writing looks with umlauts on it. I think I'm going to start using them more often because they're just cool. If I ever get a wiener dog or a Schnauzer, that's what I'm naming it -- Umlaut. However, if I end up with a German Shepherd, I'm going to need a more menacing-sounding special character, methinks. Maybe something like Circumflex or Pilcrow...

Anyhöö, I think the geographical breakdown of my readership is rather cool and I love the fact that my butchery of both grammar and good taste has reached the far corners of the world. But um, I have a question: Who the hell are you people?!?! Stop lurking, come out of the woodwork and make yourselves known!

Oh I kid. I have no leverage in this matter whatsoever considering how anonymous I keep this here blog. (Psst! Curly McDimple isn't my real name. Shocking, I know!!) But! If you would like to I.D. yourselves, I recently created a Frappr map which allows visitors to pinpoint their location and see where other visitors are from.

Why should you care? Well, not only is it an interesting wee geography lesson but there's also the potential for you single (or married/committed -- I don't judge) folk to get you some ass. Two of Joe.My.God's readers hooked up through his Frappr map. How cool is that?

Kindly check out my brand spanking new Frappr map (and the pictures of possible future notches in your bedpost).

Thanks,
Curly

the tesh experiment: an update

I realize I should really stagger the cheese since my last post was about The Hoff, however, I can't contain my excitement. There's a major change to report in The Tesh Experiment, people!

The Live Tesh Cam moved! IT MOVED! As some of you will recall, it was stuck on the same dark, empty mailroom for months. It was tres aggravating. And now, it's pointing to, drumroll please... an empty corridor! But at least the lights are on!

Whatevs! It's progress and I credit the good work and persistence of one Ms. Harriet McNamara. I believe we all owe her a debt of gratitude. Thank you, Harriet. Thank you.

P.S. Don't forget to check out The Tesh Message Boards! As I've stated earlier, they are, in a word, craptastic!

season's greetings from curly and the hoff

Want to get a jump start on your Christmas cards this year? Well, I've designed a few cheeky greetings to aid you in the task. 'Twas my pleasure to do so because, really, nothing says "holiday spirit" quite like my continued harassment of The Hoff. Click on each pitiful image to enlarge.

Happy Holidays!

Want some mo' Hoff?

:: Boobwatch, Indeed
:: Irish Cheddar... and a Little Something for the Germans
:: The Hoff Super Fantastic Activity Fun Book
:: May the Hoff Rise up to Meet You
:: Soap from a Dope
:: Wax On, Wax Hoff
:: A Wee Bit o' Schmaltz