on nauseating films, new frontiers and newark

How is it Monday already? HOW? Someone really needs to look into reversing the ratio of weekdays to weekend days. This 5:2 business blows big hairy... toes. Yes, toes. I'm trying not to be so vulgar. It's a stipulation in my taxi-cab contract, if you'll recall.

Did you have a good weekend? Mine was rather decent, I must say. On Friday, I saw Pan's Labyrinth with The Adorable Meg. I didn't know a whole lot about the story going in but I knew that the film was on a bunch of Top 10 lists and I wanted to see it. I was warned ahead of time by The Hot Russian that it was "brutal" but I assumed she meant that it was brutal in the "bring tissues" sense. But now that I think about it, The Hot Russian, while very Americanized, does not tend to color her vocabulary with alternate and additional meanings of words. She's all about the standard, primary definition. Although, she's a little less literal when she calls me things like "shit head" or "bitch." My head is not comprised of feces nor am I an actual female dog, you see...

I loved Pan's Labyrinth but sweet Jesus, it was gruesome! One moment, it was a visual feast for the eyes and imagination and the next... well, it was just gnarly. Meg was good enough to help me cover my eyes, you know, when she didn't have her face buried in my shoulder during some of the more horrifying scenes. This may sound like a bad review, but I swear, it's not! Go see it. Just don't go without a barf bag if you're the queasy sort.

On Saturday, I got a very cute cut and color. My hair is a rather sweet shade of red and I got an angular cut (shorter in the back, longer towards the front) that makes my curls all springy and bouncy. Later that night, I poured myself into a pair of ass pants, made up my face, applied a shiny pomade to the new coif and made my way into the West Village for a singles mixer. I told NO ONE that I was going because if it sucked, I didn't want to have to relive it in excruciating detail to enquiring minds. I also wanted to spare myself a lecture in case I decided to ditch at the last minute.

But I didn't ditch. I went and I didn't hate it. In fact, I got a couple of phone numbers. I'm very proud of myself. I won't go into too much detail because I've become rather superstitious about dating. It seems the minute I share details with a third party, something goes wrong and then I'm left shame-faced trying to explain what happened and most of the time, I have no idea why. Oh, I hate that! It makes me cranky. Fear not though, if something interesting occurs, you'll be the first ones to know. Until then, patience, my friends.

Last night, I went to Iberia in the Ironbound Section of Newark for dinner. Mmm... Portuguese food. I do believe the restaurant emptied out the Atlantic Ocean to provide the seafood on our table alone. Even better, the bill was $70 for three people and we were all packed to the gills. So awesome.

And yes, I went to Newark, NJ willingly. I grew up not far from there so I have a soft spot for the much-maligned mini metropolis. Shitting on the city of Newark is a well-worn punchline that is most often trotted out by people who've never been (and no, the airport does not count!)

Vitriol directed towards Newark is viral, just like making fun of films like Ishtar or Waterworld. I never even saw those movies but I know enough to cite them as examples of box-office bombs and critical failures. My opinion is based more on osmosis than experience.

I dare say the same goes for Newark's bad reputation. Granted, there are some of you who may have been and legitimately loathe the place but the general consensus seems to be based on hearsay. So, in a sense, Newark is the Howard the Duck of cities. It makes sense that I defend it because, after all, I not only saw Howard the Duck back in the day, I liked it.

Shut.up.

deese people need ay-uh

It's 7:38am and I'm not only up, I'm functional. Shocking. I am not what you'd call a morning person so my alert state at this ungodly, for me, hour is not natural. It's born of necessity.

About 20 minutes ago, there was a bang on my door -- loud and angry banging, followed by a series of impatient doorbell rings. I was rousted from my deep sleep after the first round of knocks. But I remained tucked in and inert because when I first wake up, I'm confused as hell and uncertain of my whereabouts, even when I'm home. The look of confusion and panic, I have to say, scores me major "Awwwwwww!" points whenever I spend the night with a lady friend. They see the look of befuddlement on my face and then proceed to dote on and reassure me. And I eat that shit up. I suffer from Middle Child Syndrome, you see, so I'm a little needy in the attention department.

Moving on.

So I wake up and after the confusion subsides, I realize that my alarm clock is blaring away. It's not so much an alarm clock as a stereo... with the volume set to 17. [Insert the obligatory, paraphrased Spinal Tap riff here]. Anyhoo, my stereo has a programmable timer and since I don't use it to play CDs anymore (yay, iTunes!), it earns its keep by heralding the arrival of 7am each workday morning.

I have the volume on good and loud because I'm a heavy sleeper. I grew up in an apartment with five other people that was in the flight path of Newark Airport and situated just up the street from a very busy NJ Transit train station that frequently had express trains barreling through with horns blasting. My point is that with the exception of flatulent coworkers and the entire discography of Gloria Estefan, I'm not all that sensitive to noise.

Such auditory isolation has its ups and downs because while I have the ability to fall and stay asleep even under the noisiest of conditions, I also sleep through alarms like it's my job. Pretty soon, it will be if I don't get my act together and get to things on time. You know, like work.

Anyhoo, when I heard the frantic banging on my door mixed with the classic rock blasting from the stereo speakers, I immediately had one thought: "Fuck, it's the po-po!" I thought I was looking at a noise violation, fo sho. I muttered and cursed at the bunghole in my building who called 311 on my ass as I climbed out of bed, reached for the power button on the stereo and then shuffled towards the door to face my fine.

I looked through the peephole and saw a bunch of uniformed men milling about in the hallway. I thought it was the coppers for sure. I was suffering from tired eyes as well as my usual tendency to lazily fill in the blanks when I think I already have a handle on the plot.

I kept the chain latch on the door but unlocked the top and bottom locks and slowly opened the door.

"Yes?" I croaked.

"M'am, it's the fire department..."

I mentally interjected, "The fire department handles noise violations?! Why? So they can hose down the perp? I'm so confused."

"... We need to check your apartment for carbon monoxide. The apartment behind you reported an alarm this morning."

Second mental interjection: "No fine! Score!"

"Um, can you hang on a second?" I asked. I had some dangling bras and other potentially embarrassing brick-a-brack to stash before I let an entire battalion into the Tiny Wee Studio.

I opened the door and three HUGE firemen entered carrying axes and shit like that. One took a reading with some meter thing in my kitchen and determined that my apartment was "clean." Obviously, he was not referring to the pile of dishes in my kitchen sink... The other two regarded my apartment with a look of disdain, no doubt because of its puny size. Or maybe it was my case of crazy bed head in conjunction with my penguin fleece pajamas and fuzzy robe adorned with wee Scotty dogs they found so off-putting.

I no longer hear the firemen out in the hallway so I dare say, the scare has been averted. Just the same, if this blog goes too long without an update (longer than usual, I mean), uh... send help.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to put fresh batteries in my detector.

breaking [wind] news

The Gas Man is being moved. I repeat, The Gas Man is being moved. Apparently his intestinal onslaught was a bit too much for his cubicle mates and he and has stinky "musical" stylings will be banished to a corner, well out of ear- and nose-shot.

Even though it wasn't my doing to have him moved, victory is still mine.

the new pollution

As some of you may recall, I was recently downgraded from an office to a cubicle here at work. I did my best to suck up the disappointment and embarrassment because causing a scene is not really my style.

Um, usually.

Prior to the move, my office neighbor approached me and said, "If it wasn't shitty enough that you're losing your office, I hear that we'll both be flanked on either side by some obnoxious guy who's a real loud talker."

This was a troubling development but, again, I did my best to just suck it up and deal. However, after about five minutes of occupying my new seat, I discovered that the rumors were in fact true... and he was sitting right.next.to.me.

I believe this is what you call adding insult to injury, my friends. The situation is far from ideal. If he was at least friendly, I'd try to cut him some slack. But he's a complete douche. And an eyesore, to boot! He's all oily-looking and sounds winded whenever he talks.

He also visits the bathroom with alarming frequency. It's noticeable because he even walks to the john loudly. It's uncanny. Theories as to why he's in there so much range from chronic masturbation to coke addiction to frequent urination due to an enlarged prostate. Actually, those three are my theories and mine alone. I'm not sure anyone else has given it much thought.

Furthermore, he sniffles and clears his throat louder than I thought humanly possible. He fidgets and fusses at his desk and frequently peers over into my cube. I really don't care for this practice in particular. Since I can't really hang up curtains or some nice blinds, I think my only option is to aim a gun at him the next time he does it.

Picture it: He slowly rises into his creepy prairie dog pose and meeting him at nose-level is a double-barreled shot gun. You know, kind of like the one Elmer Fudd carried around when he was hunting wabbit.

Fear not, the gun would contain the same kind of ammunition used in cartoons where the only injury sustained is a blackened, gun powder-filled face and crispy, teased hair.

Or, on a day I was feeling rather cheeky, perhaps I could launch a preemptive strike and shoot him in the ass. Oh relax! It's not like he'd bleed out or anything. Cartoon ammo, remember? The only trauma he'd suffer is that his red-and-white polka-dotted underwear would be revealed through a blast-shaped hole in his pants. Again, just like in the funny pages. I'm not out to kill the man... just ruin his complexion and perhaps a nice pair of trousers.

Today he took his bad cubicle etiquette to a new level. I've come to expect the egregious use of speakerphone and his Chris Matthews-like manner of speaking, what with the ear-splitting volume and baffling inflection, but this is the day we entered into brand new territory.

Today, my friends, I was treated to a deluxe combo platter of burps and farts, with some productive nose-blowing thrown in for good measure. It was symphonic at times. At one point, he reached a crescendo which reminded me of that scene in Ferris Bueller's Day Off when Ferris had all the bodily function noises programmed into his keyboard and then proceeded to play "The Blue Danube" waltz. :: WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze. WOT WOT WOT WA. Cough cough. Sneeze sneeze.::

You get the idea...

A loud fart punctuated the gruesome medley, after which a palpable tension and discomfort filled the air. Mercifully, those elements did not rendezvous with a noxious smell. Thank God for small, odor-free mercies.

The quiet didn't last long because I began giggling uncontrollably. You know, because I'm five. My less-than-subtle sniggering made the woman to my right laugh loudly which then made me giggle even more.

It showed no signs of stopping so I thought it wise to walk away from the crime scene and get the giggle out of my system in a neutral zone.

Good plan, right? Wrong. Unfortunately, I timed my escape at precisely the same moment the gas man decided to haul (noisy) ass to the bathroom. Of course there was a near collision which set me off into another fit of giggles right in the poor man's face, which then caused the woman to my right to laugh even harder.

I disengaged from the awkward tangle and then staggered into the nearest open office still laughing, which unleashed an infectious wave of chuckling among two other women who didn't even know the details of the fart-fueled fracas. Once they found out, however, the laughter reached a fever pitch, which no doubt was overheard by the gas man who was hiding out in the men's room.

Ten bucks says he's doped up on Beano tomorrow. At least I hope he is.

as cranky as we wanna be

Can you smell it? Take a good whiff. Yes, folks, it's the stench of desperation and shameless pleas for attention mixed with the distinct aroma of a booze-and-pharmaceutical drug cocktail emanating from one Miss Paula Abdul.

Or the stank could be wafting over from that pile of laundry in the corner I keep ignoring...

Whatever it is, it's getting closer, my friends. Closer! In just three days, the brand new season of American Idol begins! And just like last year, I, along with The Lovely Jess and Mejack, will be bringing you the latest catty commentary and breaking news with a snarky slant each and every day on our beloved bitchfest, American Midol.

And, if that's not enough incentive to click on over, I'm pleased as spiked punch to announce that our good friend Sheila has joined our snotty ranks. It's going to be sick, I tell you, SICK.

We've already been posting daily news briefs and other bits and pieces. Once the show gets into full swing, you can expect more news, show recaps, predictions, useless, unscientific polls, in-depth analysis of Paula's descent into drug-addled insanity plus lots of impersonations of Randy Jackson's limited vocabulary. A'ight, dawg? You feelin' us?

See what I mean?

A guaranteed good time will be had by all... um, except maybe the contestants we skewer mercilessly. So mosey on over to American Midol right now, comment on it, bookmark it, Blogroll it and/or add it to your RSS feeds. Oops, that reminds me... I need to set that up. The nerdy backend work never ends. Hee hee... I said "backend."

'cause i'm a whore...

:: Obnoxious, Desperate Behavior Alert! ::

Just a reminder that nominations for The Lesbian Lifestyle's first annual Lesbian Blog of the Year Award are still open. Currently, I'm in the top five but there are still a few weeks to go before the voting begins and, well, I could be knocked off my cushy perch. We can't have that, now can we?

If you haven't done so already, please stop by TLL and nominate my blog. (Leave the blog name/URL in the comments.)

Oh and a MAJOR thanks to those of you who did so already. I appreciate it. Your work here is done... um, unless I make it into the finals and then I'll start a whole new campaign of pleading and nagging when voting begins. It's going to be so much fun!! Aren't you looking forward to that?!?

For you newbies to Ham & Cheese on Wry, welcome! Here are a few choice links to get you acquainted with my silly wee spot on the web:

:: are you there god? it's me, curly
:: debunking the myth about marcie's sexuality
:: flirtation
:: from the home office in provincetown, ma
:: i'll have the big gulp, thank you
:: i'm a [last name] girl
:: i'm here, i'm queer, get used to me
:: my left foot
:: a letter to my menstrual cycle
:: an ode to my itty bitty titties
:: re: the muppets
:: the requisite essay on pride
:: the trunk
:: my way gay tale of even gayer gayness

Thanks again!

curly and the amazing technicolor yawn

Do you know what's awesome? When a wave of nausea about as high and powerful as the one that kills Tea Leoni at the end of that otherwise forgettable movie about a cataclysmic comet or asteroid or some other crap like that (not to be confused with that other otherwise forgettable movie about a cataclysmic comet or asteroid or some other crap like that starring Bruce Willis) sweeps over you quickly and suddenly while at work. Oh yeah, good times.

I was clicking away on the computer today when out of nowhere I started to feel like ass warmed over. I had hot flashes and my gag reflex was working overtime. And making matters worse was the accompanying bout of I'm-about-to-puke panic I'm subject to every time I feel the need to chunder.

See, I don't know about the rest of y'all but I require privacy when things are going to violently shoot out of my orifices. As a result, I tend to work myself into a bit of a frenzy worrying if someone will dare enter the can while I'm in there depositing things in the toilet against my will. Anything other than pee that leaves my body during work hours is an unplanned and unwanted evacuation, believe you me. I can and will only vomit or take a dump under extreme duress.

Ridiculous shame issues and possible colon damage aside, it is also a desire to be considerate of others that contributes to this stage fright. When I yak, it's not a pretty sight. Or sound. I'm not quiet about it. I sound like a Marine with all my HOO-WAHS! Or do the Marines say HOO-RAH? Oh, who cares? My point is, I make lots of noise and if I'm going to suddenly have to talk to Ralph on the big white telephone and be sprawled out on the floor while whimpering and searching for the cool spot of tile, I'd prefer that my coworkers not be privy to this less-than-dignified display.

I gave my coworkers a polite explanation as to why I had to get the hell out of the office, sent a few IMs to my friends who would have been baffled/concerned by my sudden departure and got my ass in a cab as quickly as my jelly-like legs would take me.

Fortunately, my puke remained "on deck" while I was in the car. When I got home, I flung off my coat, opened up the bathroom door and let 'er ride. As a result of this fortuitous timing, I have a lot of favors to repay God because I did an awful lot of bargaining with him while I was in the taxi. I've pretty much signed over my entire income to charity, gave up cursing, took up macrame and swore off being a bitch in exchange for a puke-free ride with lots of green lights and no traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Fear not, dear readers, I had my fingers crossed during the renunciation of my bitchy ways. I'll fork over the cash and cut down on the cursing but I make no guarantees about being nicer. God's going to need a good lawyer to make that taxi-cab confession stick. Translation: My blog will remain consistently nasty and shrill. I was serious about the macrame thing though. Potholders and doilies for everyone!

Another loophole in my contract with God is that it wasn't the speediest of cab rides. He had me sweating it out at some points. For example, I could have really used some divine intervention during one particularly brutal traffic snarl in Times Square.

Admittedly, I didn't ask my driver to step on it nor did I inform him of my sickly state because if there's one thing cabbies fear more than, say, a passenger with a loaded gun, it's a passenger on the brink of a good barf. I know this because I and my touchy gag reflex have been shooed out of cabs by drivers who don't want to deal with the possible "present" I'd leave on the seat, floor and, on days when my aim ain't all that good, the window.

So, in the interest of securing and keeping a cab, my driver was not made aware of what evil was lurking in my belly. If anything, he must have thought I was having contractions because anytime a pukey feeling hit, I busted out some Lamaze breathing. Not that I've ever gone to Lamaze classes, mind you, but I have watched enough sitcoms to know the whole "Hee hee! Hoo hoo! Hee hee!" routine. Alas, I did not have the other staples of all sitcom pregnancy plots at my disposal -- boiling water and clean white sheets -- to complete the scene.

Question: Why did the sheets always need to be white? Clean, yes, I get that. But why did the color matter? Would the baby not come out if patterned bedding was waiting on the other end? Did the thread count matter? Hmm... This might be something I need to explore in the next installment of The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to test the limits of my tummy with some tea and toast. Wish me luck.

ooh, ooh that smell

In case you haven't heard, New York City smelled like a big ol' fart this morning.

I will now pause for those of you who feel the need to make the obvious "How is today different from any other day?" joke...

Got that out of your system? Feel better now? Good, let's move on.

I know a lot of people were all concerned and inconvenienced by the mysterious stank but it kind of worked out well for me. I got to work from home! And have my cab ride to Brooklyn expensed! And I was able to put on elastic-waist pants and devour two Snickers Nutcrackers (mmm... 50% off all Christmas candy at Rite Aid) without any skinny bitches casting me disapproving glances!

Um, perhaps I've said too much...

Today's events also provided some amusement for people such as myself who enjoy the occasional bit of fart, poop and let's-blame-it-on-Jersey humor. I've been giggling all day long. For example, while watching NY-1's coverage, I actually heard our illustrious mayor utter the phrase "until this gas passes." I even rewound my DVR to make sure I wasn't imagining it. I wasn't! Even worse, he was reading from a prepared statement!

Uh, did anyone proofread that for you, Mike?

ourchart.com

Attention lesbians! The Chart is finally here... well, almost. Let me back up... If you've been following The L Word (and I know you have), then you already know all about The Chart, Alice Pieszecki's hand-drawn web of women who have banged each other silly. It's sort of like Six Degrees of Sapphic Separation mapped out on a dry-erase board.

Anyhoo, some of the producers and stars of The L Word got together and launched an online equivalent called OurChart.com. It's one of them there social networking sites for the lesbian, bisexual and transgendered community. Think MySpace or Facebook, but with less pedophiles and unknown, crappy bands trying to befriend you.

The actual chart is not yet live but the rest of the site has officially launched, complete with articles, blog posts and lots of other good stuff. I'm particularly thrilled with the inclusion of behind-the-scenes photos taken by Jennifer Beals.

I adore Jennifer Beals. She can break my heart into a million pieces with just one facial expression: The wounded look. I believe she holds the patent on it. No one can portray hurt quite like Jennifer Beals. She furrows her brow and opens her mouth ever so slightly and God, it just levels me. I am beyond smitten with her.

But I digress... Beals is actually an accomplished photographer. Have you seen The Anniversary Party? Jennifer's photos appear in that film, as a matter of fact. She's got an amazing eye.

Okay, enough mooning over Jennifer... Once The Chart launches, I'll let you know so you can join my network. I'm pretty sure the rules are somewhat different than the show in that we don't actually need to know each other in the Biblical sense in order to be connected. However, if you're a real stickler for details, we could work something out....

Photo: TV Guide

we are the goon squad and we're coming to town

Dear Grown Men and Women Who Wear Denim Shirts (or Any Article of Clothing, Really) Adorned with Embroidered "Looney Tunes" Characters:

Um, could you not?

Thank you,
Curly McDimple

queer of the year 2006: and the winner is...

... posted over on Joe.My.God's blog.

Such a tease, aren't I?

Thanks to all who nominated and voted for the finalists.

a lovely start to the new year...

Woo hoo! I was just informed that I'm a nominee for The Lesbian Lifestyle's first annual Lesbian Blog of the Year Award. Cool!

I am thrilled that I'm even being considered for this honor. A big thanks and a big ol' wet one to those of you who nominated my site. I appreciate it!

Nominations are open until January 31st and then voting on the top 5 most nominated blogs starts February 2nd. Iffin' you don't mind, I'd be beyond elated if you'd mosey on over there and nominate my blog.

Thank you kindly and best of luck to all the nominees!