Make a move, moron

If you like me just tell me you like me. Judging by the sheer number of times I hear from you in a day, I would imagine that you do like me. If you don't, stop calling, stop texting and go back to not knowing I exist. Waiting for you to make a move is a bit like watching paint dry.

I'm really gonna miss drunk guy

Today was the last regular season Yankees home game. They made it to the post-season and we'll probably see them play live at least once more before we officially have to say "goodbye" to baseball season BUT this was our last official Sunday in Row K, Tier 9, Seats 19 and 20. And so, Jess and I would like to respectfully say goodbye to the people we've come to begrudgingly love, the other Yankee fans who have sat beside, in front of and behind us for some many hungover weekends of the past three months.

Goodbye "weird silent couple that never says one word to each other in Row J", namely "bitchy girl with the Coach bag" and "oddly sullen bald guy".

Goodbye "chubby girl with glasses", who today was accompanied by "Red Sox fan who has no reason to be at Yankee Stadium". "Drunk guy #2" spent most of the game facing backwards so that he could torture them the whole game which was somewhat amusing, but not more so than when he fell up the stairs coming back from the bathroom.

And, most of all, goodbye "drunk guy". You were always our favorite, although your poor girlfriend, otherwise known as "drunk guy's girlfriend who wishes he would just sit down and stop embarassing her by getting up and dancing between pitches" is a close second.

See you next season!

Fill in name of boyfriend here

If and when any of my friends become involved in a serious relationship, please, please, please do me a favor. I am completely earnest here. I need your help. Do not... under any circumstances... lean over and say to your boyfriend "Right, FILL IN NAME HERE?" after every sentence you utter? Okay? Please? Do me a favor and just try having an opinion that he doesn't agree with for one minute. Stop asking him for approval on everything you say. And for God's sake, stop answering for him when I ask him a question!

This is an example of the kind of conversation you should avoid when you are out with me and your new boyfriend.

Me: So FILL IN NAME OF BOYFRIEND OF MY GOOD FRIEND, are you enjoying your new job?

BOYFRIEND OF MY GOOD FRIEND: Well...

MY GOOD FRIEND: Yes, he loves it. Don't you BOYFRIEND?

It's not only annoying to have conversations this way... it's also a bit nauseating.

Cranky day

Do not do any of the following things when you're already a little bit cranky.

-- Wear boots that you haven't worn since last winter. They will hurt a little until you break them in again and the pain in your feet will cause you more crankiness.

-- Tell your client or anyone else that you have to impress that you're not awake until you have your third cup of coffee when you're talking to them on the phone at 4:00 pm. They won't understand, will accuse you of caffeine addiction and your crankiness will increase even more.

-- Volunteer to help anyone with anything. You might be the most helpful person in the world normally but when crankiness sets in you will start to resent the person you're helping who most likely is so grateful for your help that they are being really sweet to you. And then you're the bitch who was a crankpot to the sweetheart. You don't need the agita and guess what you'll be when you're done? CRANKIER!

-- Answer the phone when your parents call. We've discussed this in previous blogs. Most likely they are calling to tell you they misplaced the gift certificate you gave them for their birthday or because it just occurred to them that you would be the perfect person to ask how they can get discount tickets for "Jersey Boys". And you will hang up on them and be even CRANKIER.

Hopefully you will use this little guideline for your next cranky day and avoid additional crankiness as the day progresses. And then you will feel compelled to write me a thank you note for my assistance. But wait until the cranky day is over before you do.

Sisters are funny that way

One piece of advice for all of you out there in blog land ... If ever you are at a bar and you let some guy lean in and smell your neck because he's trying to identify your perfume, and then he starts to bite your neck and you're too drunk to stop him, and then your sister sees all of it happening, she probably won't let you live it down. I'm just warning you.

Shaking it off

I've been feeling like a fool lately and that's no good. What's been making me feel so foolish is my feelings for other people. I'm normally not very good at showing them. When I do I always feel like I've allowed that particular person to see a chink in my armor. And if they know they can get past my armor then they can hurt me. Stupid, huh?

Anyway, I'm shaking it off. I have a good life and I'm going to go back to enjoying it, goddammit. I'm going to eat at Auntie Mame's banquet, corny as that sounds. I used to do that really well. Other people used to be jealous of my life. The only new thing I'm going to add to the equation is that I'm not going to be ashamed to cry or show that I can be vulnerable anymore. It's not so bad, right? I am a girl, last I checked. Girls are supposed to be at least a little vulnerable, right?

I should point out that don't think I'll ever be one of those girls who sobs over Nicholas Sparks novels and draws little hearts when they dot their i's, but baby steps, right? I can at least stop worrying that showing someone that they've made me happy or sad means that they will hurt me. Emotions aren't all bad and not everyone is an asshole. Some people won't take advantage of me and hurt my feelings. At least I hope that's true.

I'm going to get up off my lazy ass, get dressed and going shoe shopping now. (Ah, how I love being a cliche.) And I promise to be less of a sad sack next time I write one of these things.

Disdain

I can't do this anymore. And I won't. You make me feel bad about myself and you don't care. You hear only half the words I say and the ones you hear are bastardized versions of what I've actually said. I'm tired of feeling like a bad person. I'm a good person. I don't deserve to be treated this way. I don't expect or want anything from you. I don't have ulterior motives or do anything in order to gain something from the people in my life. The fact that you think that's the kind of person I am proves you don't know shit about me. And I don't care. Spend the rest of your goddamn life not knowing shit about me. You don't deserve more than that.

I've listened to you -- I know all about your family, your problems, your past, who hurt you and how they did it. You don't even know my last name. And I kept telling myself that was ok, I don't reveal more than that to you, how could you know? But I realize now that you don't want to know more than that. You never did. You just wanted what you wanted from me when you wanted it, when it was convenient for you, when the mood struck you. I served no purpose other than immediate gratification.

And I have to make peace with the fact that you will never really know what happened tonight. You'll just think I'm showing "disdain" for you, or whatever it is you think I feel for you when you're feeling sorry for yourself. You won't see that you pushed me away. In your mind, this will be the night that I started a fight with you -- that's how it will live in your memory. That's fine. Just do me a favor and get rid of any other memories with me in them, too.

My cats haven't killed me... whoopee!!

Today I had one of those days -- you know the kind where bad thing after bad thing happens. First you get stuck in the rain and then some moron in the street knocks into you, sending your cafe mocha flying in your own face. Well, you know the drill. Soon you find yourself cranky and irritable and wishing everyone would just leave you the hell alone and why? Because of series of seemingly innoccuous events that would normally only make you pause with a moment of crabbiness have all come together at once to make you a rabid, loony bitch. Well, it is easy to get mired down in that kind of foul mood so I've decided to resurrect a past blog tradition and list the stuff I'm grateful for. You know how I love lists!

1. I have working use of all of the parts of my body.

2. I have awesome friends, some of whom actually walk away from their desk and put their bosses on hold to listen to me bitch about my day, my love life, the seeming inequality of a world where people like Star Jones are rich and I'm not. I have quite a few friends like that and for their presence in my life I am very grateful.

3. I have cable. Cable makes everything better.

4. I've survived another day without my cats killing me in my sleep. Or peeing on anything I own.

5. I have more clothes than a department store. No small feat.

6. I still have the ability to get drunk. There is nothing more annoying than people who claim to have a "high tolerance". How much fun is it if you're not drooling and tripping over your own shoes at the end of the night?

7. I survived my club years. Which involved some foreign substances and weird acts performed in bathrooms. That's all I'll say about that.

8. Boobs. I have them. Men don't. Trust me, that kills them.

9. I don't have a penis. They just look uncomfortable.

And big number 10. My parents only called me once each today. Granted both of them did while I was at work and both were surprised that I didn't have time to talk but they're pretty cute, truth be told, in their doddering old age.

Juniper hates me

I woke up with a Tylenol-PM-induced hangover and mosquito bites on my legs. I blame my cats. Lately I blame them for everything, mostly because they don't have any response when I tell them whatever is bothering me is their fault. It starts with, "Good morning, kitty, my head hurts. I blame you."

Juniper's reaction to the morning "blame game" ritual is to smack me in the face with her paw... but then again, that's her reaction to just about everything I say. I would be convinced that this act means she hates me but she also spends a good deal of time rubbing her little kitten face against my feet, often causing me to trip over her as I'm trying to get ready to leave in the morning. Wait... maybe she does hate me.

Henrietta doesn't hate me. Henrietta has figured out that I feed her and clean up her litter box and is dutifully respectful and affectionate. But that Juniper... whatta little beotch, huh?

I can't believe I've become the kind of person who blogs about her cats. But there you have it.

Vodka makes it go away

I'm sitting in my apartment, recovering from the lingering effects of last night's consumption of alcohol with a glass of vodka-and-lemonade and thinking about what it is about me that makes it hard for me to tell people how I feel. I'm incredibly verbal -- could talk all night, in fact, and often do. But when it comes to talking about my feelings I'm a big, fat failure.

I try to tell people the good things about them, what they mean to me, how they hurt me and I fuck it up. I don't do it too often anymore for that very reason. But sometimes I have moments of cloudy rationale where I think, "Ok, this time I can pull it off. Honesty is good, right?" And in that moment I scare the crap out of whoever it is I've decided to be honest with.

Anyway, vodka might make the memory of what I've recently said and felt go away. So glug, glug, glug. Talk to you later.

Things I'll never understand

Things I'll never understand...

T-shirts that read "Life's a Beach". And the people who purchase those t-shirts.

People who stand in line for the opening night of movies. Won't that same movie still be playing at the theater tomorrow night, when there aren't 600 people dressed like hobbits or wizards or whatever lined up in front of you?

Why Eddie Murphy dressed up in a fats suit is funny.

Blonde jokes. I mean, I understand them. I don't fully comprehend people who know all of them and repeat them ad nauseum.

People who stand in the doorway of the subway car... Perhaps I shouldn't go to the angry place with that one again.

Those commercials produced by the Cotton Board that show women throwing their clothes off of balconies. No one can wear cotton all the time. It shrinks and it doesn't work in winter. Synthetic fabrics are a must, people.

Why my cat, Juniper, won't let me pet her but will, without fail, find the smallest space between my feet, thighs or knees to sleep in and then get mad when I wake up and move, thereby disturbing her sleep. Selfish feline.

Yay Labor Day!

"How I spent Labor Day Weekend"

By Rhymes With Cheese

This Labor Day Weekend I spent nearly one whole day drinking beer in Ana and Rob's background, while playing 500 rummy and reading funny text messages sent to me by someone sitting two feet away who was attending the very same party. And then I tried to get my nipple pierced and failed -- that took about 20 minutes. Oh, and there was like 10 minutes spent collecting Sweet Tarts, mini Tootsie Rolls and condoms off the ground... they fell out of a giant eyeball-shaped pinata. Oh, and at least 2 minutes was spent convincing Sasha to convince her boyfriend to punch holes in beer cans and drink all of the beer out of said holes. He didn't do it but some other guy thought it sounded like fun so he did it. And it was very funny.

The end

Rescue me from Mrs. Doubtfire

Pet peeve -- classic songs that have been bastardized because of their too-frequent use in bad movies involving babies and animals, and/or commercials. Actually, I don't always mind the commercials so much. If not for OfficeMax "The Rubberband Man" would have been completely forgotten by modern music lovers. And that shit's a classic.

No, I'm talking about songs like "Rescue Me", a great song by a great singer that is now only heard when a filmmaker has to insert a montage into an already over-produced film and the song is used to demonstrate that someone is going through a stressful period in their life and, therefore, needs to be rescued. Not what Aretha intended it to be used for when she recorded it, I'll wager. Pisses me off. Because now every time I hear that song I think of "Mrs. Doubtfire" and I just don't need that in my head.

Perez Hilton here I come (archive from August 29, 2007)

It's interesting when you find out that you are the topic of conversation. I just found out that my personal life is being gossiped about. In a city I no longer live in. Two thousand miles away.

Do you know what started this gossip? I occasionally talk on the phone to someone I met when I lived out there. I went out there on vacation last weekend and I saw this "someone", as you do when you live far away from people you used to be friends with -- when you visit their town you hang out with them. Seemingly normal, huh? Apparently not.

It's a little flattering that my personal life (or lack thereof) could be so interesting as to inspire water cooler conversation. I mean, I feel like a little bit of a celebrity. Maybe next week you'll be reading about my alleged canoodling on Perez Hilton. It could happen.

Stop scratching my furniture (archive from August 22)

My cats are going to miss me. They don't know it yet. If you asked them they would probably sniff and go back to scratching all of my furniture. But they are going to miss me. Because tomorrow I leave for Vegas. Again.

Isn't it funny how much time I spend in the cities I don't live in? When I lived there my friends laughed at me because of all of the money I spent on plane tickets to NYC. Now my friends and family refer to me "always being in Vegas". It's not entirely accurate but it certainly seems that way.

Anyway, I'll be gone all weekend. Getting drunk with Leora and Michael. Because that's really how I should be spending my hard-earned vacation days, dontcha think?
I have got to buy a water pistol. Those little fuckers are leaving nail marks on everything I own.