on why the newspaper guy must think i'm a complete asshole

Every morning on my way to work I buy a paper at a newsstand located on the Manhattan-bound 4/5 train platform at Borough Hall. The proprietor of the stand greets me every day with a, "Hello, my friend!"

I adore him. He has the best smile -- dazzling white teeth and just the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. His eyes twinkle with every grin. I look forward to my daily hello along with my copy of the Daily News.

Occasionally he gets forgetful and says to me, "Long time, no see, my friend!" Mind you, he had just greeted me like a lifelong buddy the day before. But no bigs. I don't take it personally. Perhaps I have one of those morphing faces where I look different from day-to-day? Or maybe he just has that many customers where he can't possibly keep track of all of us? To the latter I say, awesome! He works hard and deserves to have a bustling business.

But today I feel bad. Our exchange went a bit awry, you see. He went beyond the usual "Hello, my friend" and chatted a bit while handing me my change. Slightly jarred by the change in our routine and partially deaf due to the din of the subway station, I thought he said, "Yesterday's weather was very, very nice!" So I cheerfully replied, "I know! SOOOOO nice!"

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. I didn't understand his reaction but whatevs, who has time to quibble over such things? I wished him a good day and walked over towards the 2/3 platform.

Just as I was about to step on the train, my knees locked and I gasped. I was frozen in a moment of horror and mortification as his thickly-accented words echoed in my head with brand new clarity: "Your dress today is very, very nice!"

Clearly, my foggy, pre-caffeinated mind was operating on a 60-second logic delay. That is SO NOT what I heard during our encounter. Oh.my.God. His perplexed response made so much sense now. Oh.my.God. After he complimented me, I totally said, "I know! SOOOOO nice!" Oh.my.God. What must he think of me?!?!

Well, for one, he must think I'm a complete beaver. An immodest, stuck-up beaver, at that. Oh, the shame! I swear, I'm not a complete beaver! Only a partial one! And that behavior is usually tied to hormonal changes anyway! I'm usually very gracious and well-mannered!

What to do in a case like this? I guess I'll just have to swallow my shame. I can't very well go up to him tomorrow morning and say, "Hey, remember when you complimented my outfit yesterday and you thought I acted like a right cunt? Well, it turns out that my seemingly inappropriate response was due to the fact that I didn't understand you because of your REALLY heavy accent..."

I'll look like an even bigger asshole. And it just won't fly. I have to leave it alone. It's like thinking up a devastating comeback hours after being paid a nasty insult. If you don't issue the proper response within a few seconds, that window of opportunity is slammed and nailed shut forever. You cannot revisit it at a later time or date. You just can't.

Oooh, maybe there's a chance that newspaper guy will think today's snatch was his "Longtime, no see, my friend!" friend, not his daily, "Hello, my friend!" friend. I might be off the hook. Perhaps I can even plant the seed of mistaken identity with a well-executed, "Can you believe the nerve of that conceited asswipe yesterday? Some people have no couth." Desperate and sad, yes, but still, it's worth a shot.

more subway stories:

:: my left foot
:: on matrimony, new additions and accidental hand jobs
:: but when you shake your ass, they notice fast
:: abdicating the throne
:: a real-life bugle boy moment
:: it's hard to be humble

pardon our appearance

As you may or may not have noticed, I made a few changes to this here blog. I'm still teaching myself how to deal with style sheets and the rest of that confusing, mind-numbing stuff. Translation: Some things are jacked up.

Kindly disregard any duplicate blog titles or other weirdness for the time being. I'll have it cleaned up soon.

Thanks!

dude, that's soooooooo gay

Next month's WYSIWYG Talent Show line-up has been announced. Kindly join me and this very talented roster of fellow homos as we tell our "Way Gay" tales at the Bowery Poetry Club on June 20.

:: Greg Walloch
:: Spinster
:: Joe.My.God
:: Rod Townsend
:: Joel Derfner
:: dj:ayden

Please visit the WYSIWYG site for ticket info, directions, etc. See you next month!

a wee bit o' schmaltz

I don't normally post syrupy, feel-good things like this but, well, it's just one of those days. I hope you all find this as uplifting as I did...

Click on the image to launch a PowerPoint slideshow. Hit the arrow keys or spacebar to go to the next slide.

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
:: Season's Greetings from Curly and The Hoff
:: Soap from a Dope
:: Wax On, Wax Hoff

what about prom, blaine?

Last night I had a front-row seat as The Lovely Jess triumphantly returned to the WYSIWYG stage to tell the throngs her personal tale of Prom Trauma.

I sat nervously anticipating her turn and silently willing her luck, confidence and mojo as Jess made her way to the stage. Turns out, she didn't need my help. Girlfriend grabbed the mic like an old pro and entertained the audience with her tale of cheap vodka, backstabbing friends, child corruption, crying boyfriends, Rage Against the Machine sing-a-longs and late-night games of Spit. You were awesome, my dear!

Joining Jess on the bill were the equally-awesome Lang Fisher, Fiffe, Jason Boog, Nichelle and The Vandervoorts. Excellent job, everyone!

Oh and guess what? Next month, it's my turn. Yes, ye loyal followers o' Ham & Cheese on Wry, I'm making my illustrious WYSIWYG Talent Show debut on June 20 @ The Bowery Poetry Club. I will be joined by some of NYC's finest and funniest 'mos as we kick off Pride Week with Way Gay: Even Gayer Gay Gayness.

Won't you come and get your homo on with us? I'll totally vouch for the quality of the evening. Last year's show was a total wheeze-fest for yours truly. Here's hoping I can return the favor and inspire a few chuckles next month.

Oh man, I've already got the jitters. Mmm... Valium.

on salty sign language

I had a very enlightening email exchange with my good friend Rebecca today. Thanks to her, I now have another questionable term to add to my already-filthy lexicon: The Shocker.

Actually, I was already aware of this particular poking practice, albeit under a different phrase entirely: "Two in the pink, one in the stink."

God, I can't say (or type) that without giggling and cringing simultaneously. I'm down with the scatological humor but my ass is for outbound traffic only, yo.

Anyhoo, Rebecca then pointed me in the direction of her friend Lubes's blog where I found a veritable treasure trove of alternate naughty nicknames for the aforementioned dexterous deed. My favorite: "Two in the lemonade, one around the corner where the fudge is made."

There's plenty mo' on that big ass (tee hee hee, I said ass) list. Check it out.

gettin' more mileage

Every now and then I address the rather dubious search terms that bring visitors to this site. And by every now and then, I mean whenever I'm fresh out o' original ideas. Deal.

Here are some recent, notable keyword searches:

sapphic lesbian strap on
As opposed to what? A sapphic heterosexual strap-on? Now I ain't no fancy Google expert or anything but I dare say redundant search terms don't sit too well with the various search engines' algorithms. Hee hee. I said "algorithm."

lesbian crotch cheese
What sets lesbian crotch cheese apart from plain old crotch cheese, you ask? Why it's organic and vegan-friendly, of course!

man's biggest beer belly ever seen
Oooh! Ooh! I know this one! I know this one! You're in luck, wayward searcher! I saw him at Brighton Beach last summer...

Want to see more jacked up keyword searches? Check it out:
:: a public service announcement
:: customer service
:: the keyword is... random
:: more fun with keywords
:: my unhealthy obsession with statcounter

on shooting blanks

The McDimple Girls pooled our money this past Christmas and bought our parents a computer. As expected, they were thrilled with the present and then lovingly chastised us for spending our "hard-earned money on such a pricey gift." We get the same speech every year and every year we choose to ignore it.

So for the past few months my sisters, brothers-in-law and I have been taking turns showing the parents how to turn on/off the computer, print things, sign on to the Internet and retrieve/send email. Here's what I just found in my inbox:

--------------------
From: Ma and Pa McDimple
Sent: Friday, May 19, 2006 8:31 PM
To: curly@curlymcdimple.com
Subject: Re: Pictures



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

Let's grade their progress, shall we? Turning on the computer? Check! Signing on to the Internet? Checkerooni! Retrieving email? Affirmative! Sending email? Uh, improvement needed.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go schedule an email refresher course...

a minor breakthrough

I am what you'd call fussy. And impatient. I like things to be just so. I am very particular about what I eat, where I'll eat it and where I'll buy and prepare what I eat. Shades of Lloyd Dobler, no?

I'm sure that sounds dreadful to you and you're probably pitying anyone with the bad sense and misfortune to get mixed up with me. To that I say, fuck off, you judgmental asswipe!

But I kid the judgmental asswipes... I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a pain in the ass because I do try to keep my neuroses contained. I don't expect others to work with or around my quirks. I will ask that people not slather my portion with mayonnaise and/or leave the cole slaw off the plate entirely, but beyond that, I don't issue When Harry Met Sally-like directives to family/friends/waitstaff about how things should be prepared. I keep it simple. And I stick with what's safe and tested. It works for me.

When it comes to shopping for clothes, I'm just as fussy and narrowly-focused. I have a handful of stores that I am very loyal to. I know without even trying things on which size I am in each of them. I utilize the wonder that is online shopping whenever possible. Rarely do I have to return anything because it's too big or small. I've got ecommerce down to a finely-tuned, anti-social science.

I favor the organized, crisp layout of the Gap's, Anthropologie's and J. Crew's online offerings. Their actual stores are decent... provided you go at the right time of day. Ideally, everything is folded or hung on a rack according to size. It makes for a convenient and thus, pleasant, shopping experience for moi. If the stores are looking at all bombed-out, I leave and come back at an off-peak time. For me, a quiet, orderly store is pure bliss.

Neat stacks, organized loose-fitting racks and logically-located size stickers are a requirement for me. Stores that don't adhere to this policy do not get my business. I don't peruse jammed, bursting-at-the-seams racks nor do I sift through comingled bins. If the layout isn't clean and ordered, I get quite pissy. Before you protest, I fully realize that I miss out on many a bargain because of this. However! My disdain for disorder is far stronger than my desire to save 20 percent on famous maker goods. Ew, I just said "goods." I hate that word.

Shopping is not a sport for me. There is no thrill in the hunt. No satisfaction from a bargain gained. Well, that's not true. I loves me a good sale but I'm not going to throw elbows and stampede the less fit to get it. If I happen upon something reduced in price, awesome. Bargains come my way through happenstance, not through strategy or effort. God forbid.

So yes, I miss out on bargain blowouts but that extra money I don't save ensures my sanity. Those few dollars (and 15mg of Paxil) go towards keeping me stable and good-natured. I don't see the value in paying less for a designer top or some shoes when I'm guaranteed to be wearing ill-fitting cranky pants for the rest of the day. It does not compute.

Yesterday I ventured out from behind the computer and did a bit of actual shopping. I left the satisfying and safe confines of virtual stores and went face-to-face with people who don't know how to say "Excuse me" or yield to the right of way. Fucking bastards.

Oh and what's this business with cashiers saying, "Can I help the following guest?" Following? What's that about? Is that supposed to make feel better than the cashier yelling "NEXT!"?!?! 'Cause it doesn't. They're still snotty about the whole thing. For me, it's the tone of the cashier, not what he/she says. The phrasing is secondary to the 'tude that presents it. Apathetic rudeness is apathetic rudeness no matter how fancy and calculated the spiel is. I'm sure tons of market studies were done and training sessions held so that the employees of Bath and Body Works would robotically utter this statement but I'm still not sure why. Anyone? Anyone?

But, as usual, I digress... As I was saying, I did a bit of shopping in the 'hood yesterday. Against my better judgment, I went into Daffy's. I surveyed the scene, turned around on my heel and walked right out. What the fuck are T-Fal pots and pans doing right next to the shoe racks? And why are smelly candles and pot pourri kissing the clothes racks? That store (at least the one in Brooklyn's Atlantic Center) is a complete shambles. It made me instantly irate so I fled the scene.

I then engaged in a bit of retail therapy at the nearby Target. The savage inner beast was soothed and my appetite for materialistic possessions was satiated. At very reasonable prices, I might add. God, I would fuck Target if I could.

I'm in the market for some new jeans and some cute summer-y tops so I walked over to Old Navy to see what they had to offer. I've got money left on a gift card and it's positively scorching a hole in my pocket. But nothing really jumped out at me and the line was ridiculously long so there was no danger of an impulse buy. I tend to buy stupid stuff with gift cards, you see. It's like a sickness.

Despite my aversion to that breed of retail, I went into Marshall's, which is right upstairs from Old Navy. I'm on vacation this week so my temperament has been recharged and restored to near-calm levels. I've also got time to burn so I figured it couldn't hurt to go outside my comfort zone and take a quick gander at the discount merch in this much-ballyhooed store. I'm in need of a cute pair of sneakers and I thought I might score a nifty pair of Pumas or some such. I don't want running ones or anything practical like that. I just want some cute kicks to finish off some of my more casual ensembles. Which is, um, all of them.

So I walked in and it was like my worst nightmare come true. Shoes and sneakers bound by those plastic cord things in overflowing, randomly-placed bins; row after row of garments practically popping off of the overstuffed racks trying desperately to contain them; the aforementioned illogical juxtaposition of housewares and clothing. It was chaos. There was no rhyme nor reason to it. I was appalled but I decided to brave the mess and see what was what. My desire for sneakers was surprisingly resilient.

My will, however, was not. It held strong for a total of five minutes and then I wanted to leave. Really bad.

This particular Marshall's is a bit of an anomaly. I know stores spend millions on market research. I know that the music that is pumped over the speakers, the temperature and the colors on the walls and floors combine to cast a psychological spell on consumers. We are subliminally enticed to stay and spend. I don't think this Marshall's got the memo from corporate headquarters. I was not in a comfortable mental space in this branch and I wanted out tout de suite.

As I made my way towards the exit, mismatched hangers clung to me and boxes fell from their sloppy piles as I tried to squeeze through the tight quarters. My exit was hindered by this disorganization. I guess that's the genius of it. The merchandise comes alive in a sense to trap you there.

Because I'm a conscientious customer (and because I worked in retail and had to clean up after asshole customers who went through the aisles like a mofo tornado), I always pick up what I knock down... even in disgusting, hellish environments such as this where it makes no difference whatsoever.

I was in quite the snit as I tried to force the woeful culottes back into their presumed rightful place and then... What's this? Oooh! A white, lacy blouse covered with eyelets! I fell instantly in love. It was just like macrame only with short sleeves, pearl buttons and a Mandarin collar. It looked JUST like one I saw in the window of a fancy schmancy Lower East Side boutique (remember that one, Jess?) And now, here was its doppelgänger hanging haphazardly from the end of a whatever-the-fuck-the-employees-decided-to-stick-here rack in the Petites section of Marshall's in Brooklyn.

It totally didn't belong on that rack! Score! For a moment in time, I applauded disorder. Someone's second thought on the way to pay (and sheer laziness to hoof it back to the "proper" rack) was my good fortune. I gasped at the ridiculous price ($14.99) and practically squealed when I saw that it was my size (none o' yo damn biznatch).

Mark this down: May 18, 2006 was the day I made my first purchase at Marshall's. I'm feeling so emboldened that I might even take at crack at T.J. Maxx. Loehmann's is a bit of a stretch at this point. I'm going to have to work up the energy and courage to battle that behemoth.

Baby steps, people, baby steps.

all you need is 'midol'

The American Midol blog finally got its long-awaited makeover. I'm a procrastinator, what can I say?

But the labor of love -- mine, The Lovely Jess and Mejack's -- has much more than dense jpgs and a tweaked style sheet! Check out the American Idol episode recaps, polls, news round-ups and tons more crap to help waste some time.

American Midol promises to scratch the itch for you Idol fans... and further outrage those of you who hate the show and just don't get it. We're multi-purpose like that.

A big thank you to Layne for the promotional buttons (see above and the to your right in the sidebar) and all the upcoming back-end stuff he is most likely going to regret offering to do!

'code' blew

The early reviews are in and, apparently, the critics at the Cannes Film Festival are pooh-poohing The Da Vinci Code. To that I say... HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Um, not because I'm an obedient Catholic or anything. I never read the damn book and even if I did, well, works of fiction don't offend me.

My jubilation today is courtesy of one thing and one thing only: I loathe Tom Hanks.

God, schadenfreude is fun.

intuition

Overheard in the McDimple family room while we were digesting our gargantuan Mother's Day brunch...

Mom: What time are you heading home tonight?

Yours Truly: I don't know... about 6:00-ish?

Mom (giggling): Better watch out that you don't get your feet attacked by that weirdo on the subway.

Yours Truly (mouth agape): ... Um, uh...

To clarify, my parents know NOTHING about my personal run-in with the toe sucker.

Yours Truly (only slightly recovered from the shock): Oh my God, I know, right? [forced laughter] Say, did I tell about my friend's friend's friend who got her armpit licked on the subway?

I successfully changed the topic (armpit licking is good that way), took the focus off of me and put a stop to the knowing looks and concealed gasps and giggles circulating amongst the other McDimples girls.

My mother's intuition is so fine-tuned and spot on... even when she doesn't realize it! And it FREAKS.ME.OUT.

in honor of mama mcdimple

I'm on my way out to meet the McDimples for Mother's Day brunch... Um, after I stop at the store and pick up a few cards. I SUCK at getting cards ahead of time. Regardless of the holiday or occasion, I'm in the store at the last minute with all the nervous husbands and lazy kids picking through the sorry selection in the bombed-out-looking card aisle. Nothing's ever left at this point which means I'm most likely going to be giving my mother and sisters cards that are in either in Spanish or are part of Hallmark's Mahogany line. Eh, they'll just think I'm being cheeky and laugh it off.

But enough about me being a bad daughter. I'm not a complete waste of space, you see. I've written some posts about my mother over the years. She's quite a character at times. And other times, she really typifies the heart-tugging sentiments written in a Mother's Day card... you know, the ones I can never give her because they're already sold out by the time I drag my sorry carcass to the store.

Anyhoo, here are a few stories about my mother:

:: My Mum
:: I'm a [Last Name] Girl
:: Erin Go A-cup Bragh
:: The Snowsuit
:: Since I'm Up Now Anyway... (aka Mum's Messages, Part One)
:: Mum's Messages, Part Deux
:: Misdiagnosis

Happy Mother's Day!

in the criminal justice system...

What a week! I feel like I'm living out an episode of Law & Order or something. It started on Saturday when I saw that a toe-sucking suspect had been nabbed on the subway. Given the unique nature of the case and my history with unwanted suckage, I contacted the Daily News to see if my toe sucker was the same guy featured in the paper.

As a result, I was put in touch with the authorities. Having deemed me credible, I filed a police report and, this is where it gets really exciting, went to a police station to pick the foot dude out of a lineup! [insert Law & Order theme music]

I'm tired and a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing. I don't want to say too much for fear of tainting the case. I don't think I can but, you know, just in case... I'm opting to zip it.

If you'd like to read up on the story, here are some links:

:: Cops Lick Foot Fiend
:: She Was in Grip of Foot Fetish Fiend
:: Another Sole Survivor on Train
:: Lick Her's Quicker to Meet Gals
:: Enough Already!
:: Talk About Kinky Boots
:: We're Not Pulling Your Leg -- But Maybe He Was
:: Google News Round Up

P.S. Thanks to everyone who sent me links. I've been giggling over the various subject lines in my inbox -- Toe Sucker; Foot Licker, etc. Thanks for mixing it up a bit!

the tale of the toes continues...

Dude! For the first time in this history of this here blog, I'm getting linked to from one of the big guns! Gothamist.com mentions the trials and travails of my put-upon toes today!

While I was sort of hoping that it would be my charming wit or one of my heartwrenching tales that got me noticed, I'm no less thrilled with the publicity. I am a whore, yo.

under a [hot pink] sky

After a weekend away, it's always nice to return home on a Sunday night so that I can kick back, watch The Sopranos and brace myself for the busy week ahead. Tonight's homecoming was better than usual because I was greeted by this sight as I made my final approach...

I'm pretty sure it's pollution that causes this visual effect, but damn is it pretty.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go take a tug on some Albuterol...

last licks?!

As you may recall, mah poor wee toes were subject to some serious violatin' back in August o' 2004. The violator of said wee toes was never caught primarily because I was too grossed out and shocked to summon a police officer afterwards.

Anyhoo, I'm watching NY-1 this morning and a story during the "In the Papers" segment caught my eye. Today's Daily News is running an exclusive on the capture of a serial subway toe sucker. Alas, there was no photo to accompany the story but I'm hoping one will surface soon. Could the man who took advantage of my tootsies two years ago finally be behind bars?

If a picture becomes available, I'll be sure to let you know if the perp is one and the same as my pedi paramour. Until then, the mystery remains unsolved. Dun DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!

meet gong lu

This morning I "met" a five-year-old girl on the Today show. Her name is Gong Lu and she's from China.

Gong Lu was born with a hemangioma on her nose. She was abandoned by her parents shortly after birth.

Through the determination of a Chinese adoption agency, the kindness of an American foster family and the amazing work of Love Without Boundaries, Gong Lu came to America for surgery and to find a family.

After surgery, adoption was Gong Lu's fondest wish... and today, it came true. Dr. Buckmiller, the surgeon who performed the procedure announced this morning that she and her husband have started the adoption process. With any luck, Gong Lu will be their legal daughter very soon.

Truthfully, I'm a little jealous. Two minutes into the segment, I wanted to snatch that wee girl up. She's had a tough five years -- abandoned by her parents and saddled with a condition that I'm sure has subjected her to cruel stares and ignorant finger-pointing. But you'd never know her hardship by looking at her because that little girl is all smiles.

She charmed me immediately. She also humbled me. Here is someone who has every right to be sullen and self-conscious... and she's not. She's the happiest little girl ever. She moved me to tears this morning with one word: "Beautiful." That was her reply when Couric asked her how she felt the first time she looked in the mirror post-surgery. In that moment, a reel of some of my more narcissistic moments played in my head... and I was ashamed. I have a lot to learn from this little girl.

I had never heard of Love Without Boundaries before today. Based on the research I did this morning, I want to quit my job and go work with them. While that's not the most practical option at present, I do intend to open up my wallet and send them a little something. I'm also going to enlist the aid of my good friend, Filomena, and see about sending the organization some handmade quilts.

For more information on the organization or to find out how to donate, please visit the Love Without Boundaries website. If you'd like to follow the escapades of Gong Lu, please check out the LWB blog.

Photo: Gong Lu after her first surgery; courtesy of the Love Without Boundaries Blog

delayed gratification

I started working at my present employer just a little over two years ago. In an effort to meet my new coworkers and tame the jiggle that had been creeping in around my middle regions, I signed up for the department's softball team. After one game, I regretted my decision.

I didn't care that the team was lacking in skill and that we lost every game (except the one that was forfeited by the opposing team because they didn't have the required three female players.) It mattered not that we sucked. I was there to have fun and after years of neglect, my softball abilities were quite rusty as well.

My major concern was that what the team lacked in talent, they made up for in 'tude. It was awful. People yelled at each other and were all super critical. Mind you, most of the people sucked and had no business whatsoever passing judgment. In my day, I could knock a 100 mph fastball out of the park so I'd thank some high-waisted-nut-hugging-pants-wearing douche who couldn't catch a ball with glue in his mitt to not give me pointers! If you think I'm exaggerating about the speed of the pitch, I'm not. My high school coach placed a pitching machine and large garbage can full of softballs on the mound and set the machine at the highest speed -- 100 mph. We each hit an entire container of softballs. I creamed a bunch of them into the soccer field behind deep center field. So, I dare say I've got skills. Oh, and I'm a lesbian. Need you any further proof?

My biggest gripe two years ago was that the sucky catcher (a female) made a big production every time a woman on the other team got up to bat. She stood up, waved her arms in a dramatic fashion and screeched at the top of her lungs for all the outfielders to play shallow. She just assumed that because the batter was penis-less, she couldn't hit the ball much farther than the batter's box. As a female who has surprised/embarrassed many an opposing team who dared inch forward when I stepped into the box, I took umbrage with a) the assumption that the female player wasn't good and b) the public spectacle someone from my team was making. That showed a lack of class and it was a reflection on me as her teammate. I wanted no part of it. I exchanged words with the catcher between innings and somehow, on this fucked-up team, I was considered the asshole. So I took my ball and went home and found a much cooler team to play with the following year.

Fast forward two years later. All of those people on the team have since left the company. I thought it was safe to rejoin the team. It turns out that the catcher is still playing on our team! And, true to form, during our first game she started waving her arms and summoning the outfielders to play on the rim of the outfield in her usual loud and grating fashion. I cringed and cast a sympathetic look towards the batter. And then -- and this is beautiful -- the umpire YELLED at the catcher and pretty much told her to cut that shit out. He made all the outfielders return to their positions. She looked like an asshole and I couldn't have been happier. I couldn't contain my smile and snickering at second base. Even when it arrives two years later, vindication is still quite sweet, I must say.

By the by, I went 3 for 4 and picked up several RBIs in the first game. Last night, I went 1 for 3 with another RBI or two. I even slid into second base! Thirty-two schmirty-two! Of course, I'm limping a bit today but that also has to do with the fact that I collided with the first baseman when he had the unskilled audacity to block the base path. As a former varsity first baseman, I know my rights offensively as well as defensively and well, I crashed into him.

And I was safe. And he said, "Ouch!"

I am lesbian, hear me roar.

a worthy time-waster at w's expense

It turns out that the appeal of bubbles has not lessened with age. I still love 'em. Click here to see what I mean.

If Georgie Boy gets stuck, give him a good yank with your mouse. It's tres gratifying and hours of fun, I assure you. Enjoy!

an announcement

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Blogger Trio Unveils 'American Idol' Blog

NEW YORK, NY (May 1, 2006) -- Three bloggers today launched a joint venture to feed their shared 'American Idol' obsession. This new blog -- the American Midol Blog -- will be updated at a frenzied pace, and will feature news, gossip and what Jess of Blind Cavefish calls "totally bitchy commentary."

The name American Midol was first thought up by Mejack of Mejack and You're Not.

"I was searching for a term that would really encompass how the show made me feel," Mejack said. "I realized it made me feel like PMS."

Jess and Curly McDimple of Ham and Cheese on Wry immediately proclaimed it as "genius!" and then decided to name the 'American Idol'-themed blog accordingly.

"We want to be a one-stop resource for all things 'American Idol'," Jess explained. "We spend so much time, especially on Wednesday and Thursday morning, firing show-related links at each other over IM. We want to give the 'Idol'-obsessed quick and easy access to a wealth of information."

The bloggers have several plans for the future of the blog. Site enhancements, Photoshop art and images that will probably get them sued are on that list.

"I'm making a seriously bitchin' logo," says Curly McDimple.

The American Midol Blog can be found at http://www.americanmidolblog.com.

happy 75th, big boy!

You don't look a day over 21!

I lived in the shadow of the Empire State Building my entire life. Now, as an adult, I occupy the same city as this soaring structure. And yet, the novelty has never worn off. I look at it every day and swoon. The skin around my eyes may have aged but the wonder in them remains forever child-like.

I take notice of and ponder the significance of the colored lights. Sometimes it's easy to identify the seasonal hues -- red and green for Christmas, yellow and white for spring, etc. For the more cryptic ones, I consult the sidebar in Time Out NY. Often times, the colors represent a cause or effort. Not only is this skyscraper pleasing to the eye, it's also socially aware, you see.

The observation deck of the Empire State Building tends to get all the attention but for an art deco nut like myself, the lobby is where it's at. Yes, you can see for miles in every direction from the storied top but the ground floor is just absolutely stunning. Want to see for yourself? Visit the Empire State Building's official site and click on Virtual Tour in the left-hand navigation. It's time well-spent.