Use your words

Yesterday someone I talk to on a fairly regular basis told me that I'm "too negative". The person who told me this has always struck me as one of the biggest perpetrators of what I like to call "unrealistic self-image". He thinks he's upbeat and funny. He also thinks he's shy and doesn't talk a lot. I haven't known him very long but of all of the aforementioned characteristics, he only actually has one going for him... he can at times be funny. But it's not usually when he's trying to be -- usually it's when he's not aware of himself and accidentally says something that is so cute I can't help but giggle.

Anyway, I would never have guessed that I could ever been seen as an overly negative person. But it got me thinking. What if I am suffering from "unrealistic self-image", too? What if I think I am fun and funny (which I do... I crack myself up) but really I am Debbie Downer?

What provoked this person to tell me that I'm "negative" was when he said that the hotel I'm staying at with my friends in Vegas next week "should be fun" and I said, "No, not really but we can always go out to the other casinos nearby." Apparently, that was the straw that broke the camel's back and he just had to tell me how negative I "always" am. (By the way, huge pet peeve of mine -- when people say "never" and "always" to describe your characteristics as they are telling you how much you suck. No one in this world is "always" and "never" anything. Whenver someone pulls that shit with me, I'm tempted to turn into their mother -- "That's not accurate. Now use your words. What are you really trying to say to me?")

Anyway, it really bothered me. Made me kind of sad today, actually. I wish I didn't care what people in my life think about me. But anyone who is in my life is no doubt someone I care about (otherwise I wouldn't let them hang around) so of course what they think about me affects me. And this person in particular is someone I've listened to bitch and complain about his life since I met him so it was particularly hard to hear it from him. I've been the one to talk him down from a ledge a few times. How negative can I be?

So, in summation, if I've been a Negative Nancy in your presence, I hope you'll forgive me. But the Tropicana still kinda sucks.

To all street performers

This is a public service announcement to all street performers.

If you don't actually know how to sing or play a musical instrument please do not attempt to do so in small contained areas such as subway platforms and subway cars. Learn to fucking tap dance.

Thank you.

Eight funny things

Yes, I like lists. Yes, you will pretend to like them, too. Well, long enough to read this one anyway.

"8 funny things I've seen this week", by Louise O'Brien

1) A guy with the word "mom" tattooed on his arm in flowery script. And he wasn't a cartoon or transported from the 1940s.

2) This hilariously tongue-in-cheek billboard on the West Side Highway, sponsored by Manhattan Mini Storage of all companies. When interviewed by NY1 every single male chosen to be confronted on camera sounded retarded and slightly priggish, except for the one man who said that Roe v. Wade is not being threatened. He just sounded like a tool. Read a newspaper, wouldya buddy?

3) Justin Timberlake earnestly playing "Dick in a Box" on the piano as an encore at his Jersey show. "One, cut a hole in a box. Two, put your junk in that box. Three, make her open that box." Fucking priceless.

4) Sitting in the front row (thanks Tamar!) at Justin's NYC show with Emily and watching her stand up every time he came to our side of the stage because she "didn't want him to be offended that she wasn't standing up for him." He tooooootally noticed, too, Em. Good call.

5) Getting a text message from Katie telling me that Emily and I are dead to her because we were at the aforementioned Justin show and she wasn't.

6) My co-worker, Amy, doing an impression of a guy she went on a blind date with dancing badly at a U2 concert a few years ago.

7) Me smiling at the baby being held by the people walking up the stairs ahead of me at the Bryant Park station and not noticing that my shoe came off until I tripped on it and nearly cracked my head open.

8) That same evening, walking DOWN the stairs at the Lowery and tripping over my own stupid skirt. Peasant skirt, heels, reading a book while walking -- deadly combination.

Classless

I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, dear readers. Yesterday I, bastion of good manners and hater of all rude people, ditched someone. We were in the middle of a date, I excused myself to go to the bathroom where I started to sob uncontrollably about something completely unrelated to the date, and I left him sitting in the darkened theater waiting for the movie to start. And for this I am so guilt-ridden and bathed in absolute shame and horror, I cannot even tell you. He told me in a text message a bit later that I am classless and I am inclined to agree with him.

I don't know why I'm telling all of you this. It only makes me look bad and any fans I have will surely start reading someone else's nonsensical blog instead of this one just to punish me. But I had to tell someone. And who do I trust more than my blog readers?

My sister and my friends -- who love me no matter what stupid, insensitive things I do, inexplicably -- met me at our favorite bar in midtown, where I kept up the crying for a few more minutes and then just proceeded to feel bad about myself... which was followed by feeling very drunk, thanks to Ali.

I can't possibly convince the guy that it wasn't his fault I left him there (although I did apologize and tell him he's right, I am classless). I can't explain that I'm so tired of crying over this other stupid, completely unrelated thing that's going on in my life that I don't even want to think about it anymore let alone talk about it and that if I had come back from the ladies room with tears all over my face I would have had to explain why I was crying and I just couldn't do that. No one would understand that. And I wouldn't expect them to.

All I can say is, if he's reading this, I hope he knows that I know I'm a jerk. And I won't be accepting dates half-heartedly anymore because it's just not fair to the other person. I've learned my lesson -- even if I can't learn how not to be classless. And I do believe in karma and I know that the next time someone I like does something mean and insensitive to me that I had it coming.

Translation device

When he says, "Why don't you ever call me?"

It actually means, "If you call me, I will either start a fight with you or not answer because if you call me that means you're needy, even if you are only calling because I gave you implicit instructions to do so. But I don't want to do all the work -- or any of the work in this relationship, if I can help it. So here's the deal: I can call you whenever I want and you should be there to talk to me. And then I'll pout and ask why you don't ever call me. But when you do I'll be completely unavailable. 'Cuz that's how I roll."

When he says, "You're mean to me."

It actually means, "You're telling me something I don't want to hear right now, something I've aggravated you into saying because I decided to start a fight rather than just have a pleasant conversation with you. Because if we just have a pleasant conversation we might just be getting along which might mean you're getting close to me and we can't have that. No sir!"

When he says, "I need you to tell me what's bothering you."

It actually means, "I have little to no interest in what is actually bothering you. If I have to know what is bothering you then I have to care about you. And if I do that then I'm not really a man. A man ignores you and makes you beg for attention but expects you to be ready to talk or text or just be there when he needs to hear your voice. And I am a man! But I want you to think I care so I'm going to pretend to listen to you now. And then I'll hang up and forget you even exist until the next time I'm drunk and horny and can't find anyone else to put up with my shit."

When he says, "I would never purposely hurt your feelings."

It actually means, "I want you to think I'm the kind of guy who keeps your feelings in mind. But I am completely oblivous to the fact that what I do hurts you, even when 'what I do' is as obviously hurtful as ignoring you, and yelling at you and calling you a 'drunk'."

When he says, "You're so cute when you're like this."

It actually means, "I love when you're drunk and flirty and not, you know, real. It's fun especially when you're far away and nothing really matters to either one of us except me making inappropriate comments about your breasts and you giggling at every stupid word that comes out of my mouth. This is way better than when you actually want to talk to the real me when we're sober. That's not fun at all."

Raise the fare, I dare you

If you're happy to see a blog entry from me you can THANK THE FUCKING NEW YORK MTA. I understand that rain is a powerful precipitant BUT it rains A LOT on the East Coast. Do you mean to tell me that one of the most populated cities in the world with the one of the most frequently used subway systems DOES NOT HAVE AN EMERGENCY PLAN IN PLACE FOR WHEN IT RAINS?

I'm going to try to get on the train again in a few minutes. I draw the line at 1 1/2 hrs spent on a subway at a time when it is AFRICA-HOT outside. It's just a little personal rule I have.
I swear, if those bastards even THINK about striking again this year they will have me to deal with and it WILL NOT BE PRETTY. And raise the fare, motherfuckers. I dare you.

Things I have to stop doing

Accepting dates with people I have no interest in.

Falling in love with the wrong people, thereby forcing myself to accept dates with people I have no interest in.

Watching shows like "I Hate My 30s" and "Scott Baio is 45... and single. The first one makes me want to kill all other women my age just to get them to stop bitching about our collective age and the second makes me want to kill all men over 30 for being the reason other women my age are so annoying.

Grabbing my friends boobies. It entertains me but it embarasses them and it gets creepy boys all excited.

Talking to my cats. Until they come out from behind the goddamn sofa and talk back they do not deserve the benefit of my friendly conversation.

Being a racist. I'm not actually a racist but the other day when I told some crazy lady she was in my way (standing IN the fucking doorway -- don't make me go off on this again) she called me an Asian-hater. I just thought I hated rude, insensitive people who stand in fucking doorways while people are trying to get on the train. But, no, thanks to her perceptive observation I now know that I hate Asians. I'm surprised that after 31 years living in New York City I never knew this before -- thank GOD I met crazy door lady when I did.

Writing sarcastically about racism in my Myspace blog. Because some people are not gonna get it and will probably think I really hate Asians.

Drinking so goddamn much. 'Nuff said.

Tiny little claws

I would like you all to be the first to know that tonight I welcomed the two new members of my family -- Henrietta and... well, the second kitten doesn't have a name because I wasn't really expecting her. I thought I might take two but I thought I was getting a boy kitten as the second, and I was going to name him Rufus. My cousin Frankie spit-tagged that one so I got two girls.

I'm trying to get inspiration from her behavior thus far. My aunt and uncle have been keeping these kittens for the last four months -- the mama cat lives with them. Henrietta wasn't easy to get in the cat carrier. We chased her all over the house. But the other one actually climbed the walls to avoid getting in the carrier. She was a like a cokehead being forced into rehab. Ya think I can name her "Junkie"? Or "Coke-Fiend?" Maybe "Lohan"?

Anyway, now they're curled in two little furry balls in the back of the cat carrier, not even breathing for fear that I will touch them or make them seperate from each other. Or maybe they're in there plotting my imminent death. Probably I'll fall asleep and they'll come in the bedroom and slit my throat with their little tiny claws.

I guess two cats at once was a bad idea but I kept imagining Henrietta sitting in my boring apartment all day with no one to play with. She got used to playing with five other cats at my aunt's house. How would she adjust to being all alone all day? At least now she has her very own sister.

I'm gonna go close the door to my bedroom now. Lohan's a wild one -- you never know what she might do and I have clothes that I'm really attached to in there.

Reasons why I am allowed to punch other commuters

I need to get this off of my chest. If you feel the following message applies to you, consider it a public service announcement from New York to you.

It is IMPOLITE and ANNOYING to stand in the doorway of the subway car because you don't want to move into the car and have to be close to your fellow passengers. In fact, it doesn't even matter WHY you don't want to move in. I don't care if you're getting off in two stops. I don't care if you can't speak English and you don't understand me politely asking you to move so I can get on or off the subway. JUST MOVE. You don't belong there. We allllllllllllllll are more comfortable leaning on the door than we are holding onto the pole crawling with bacteria in the middle of the car. But we can't. Because people need to be able to walk THROUGH the door and you standing there PREVENTS THAT. My new rule is if you are standing in the door that means you are some kind of masochist and we, your fellow straphangers, are all allowed to punch you as we are forced to squeeeeeeeze past you.

You are also asking to be punched if you lean on the pole that other people are holding onto, squeeze into a seat your fat ass can't fit in and spend the entire ride with your leg on top of mine or decide that your elbow belongs in my side while you read the newspaper. This isn't your living room. If you want all the room in the world as you commute to work in the morning spring for a taxi.

I think I need a vacation.

Reasons why I am allowed to punch other commuters

I need to get this off of my chest. If you feel the following message applies to you, consider it a public service announcement from New York to you.
It is IMPOLITE and ANNOYING to stand in the doorway of the subway car because you don't want to move into the car and have to be close to your fellow passengers. In fact, it doesn't even matter WHY you don't want to move in. I don't care if you're getting off in two stops. I don't care if you can't speak English and you don't understand me politely asking you to move so I can get on or off the subway. JUST MOVE. You don't belong there. We allllllllllllllll are more comfortable leaning on the door than we are holding onto the pole crawling with bacteria in the middle of the car. But we can't. Because people need to be able to walk THROUGH the door and you standing there PREVENTS THAT. My new rule is if you are standing in the door that means you are some kind of masochist and we, your fellow straphangers, are all allowed to punch you as we are forced to squeeeeeeeze past you.
You are also asking to be punched if you lean on the pole that other people are holding onto, squeeze into a seat your fat ass can't fit in and spend the entire ride with your leg on top of mine or decide that your elbow belongs in my side while you read the newspaper. This isn't your living room. If you want all the room in the world as you commute to work in the morning spring for a taxi.
I think I need a vacation.

Everyday life of an ordinary oblivious American

I spent the entire afternoon wandering midtown Manhattan with my client's digital camera taking short videos of "everyday life for an ordinary American consumer" -- people getting in cabs, getting on buses, buying lunch, queuing up at Starbucks, buying unreasonably priced seperates at Banana Republic. It was a bit annoying but I found out something rather surprising about my fellow New Yorkers. You know how people are supposedly paranoid about terrorist plots? Not so -- I filmed office buildings, public transportation, the freaking giant and highly bombable 42nd Street Library -- you know, the one with the big lions. No one even blinked - not even when I was filming them. And I did film lots of people -- I followed people down the street to Pret A Manger. I filmed some guy sitting on the library steps reading a newspaper. I was right next to this other guy leaning against the plate glass window of Starbucks and I filmed him for like 15 seconds.

If someone started filming me I might shove their camera up their nose. But that's just me. I get annoyed when I see newscasters reporting "man on the street" segments -- they're always in the way while I'm trying to get to work.

Maybe these people didn't notice I was filming them? Maybe they are the most oblivious people on the face of the planet? Maybe they are so wrapped up in their little worlds that they don't care why some strange girl might be filming them? It just scares me that these are the same people who are expected to alert the authorities if they see a suspicious package left on the subway -- 'cuz they might not notice it to report it.

Says the girl who just last week walked into a closed subway door because she didn't look up from her book in time to notice that, although the train had stopped, the doors hadn't opened yet. Yeah, that was me.

Leave the sign alone

This was the sign that was laminated and taped on the wall on the door of the bathroom stall in the ladies' room at my new favorite bar, Dusk.

"Ladies, if the toilet paper runs out, please inform us so that we can replace it. The fact that we are men means, only, that we don't come in here that often and not that we are insensitive... If you like this sign enough to steal it (god knows why but you won't be the first) please don't... Please, please, please don't make me go to Kinko's again."

The other day, as I was walking back from getting my daily lunchtime salad, I spotted a rolled up pair of lacy purple panties in the middle of 7th Avenue the other day. Spotting them forced me to think about little to nothing else all freaking day. At one point did the woman wearing those panties decide that she just didn't want to wear said panties any more? Were they riding up her butt and she just couldn't take it anymore? Did she decide she just need a little air up there? The possibilities are seemingly endless, don't you agree?

In my family, baseball is like a religion. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mom would be more likely to accept an interfaith marriage than if either my sister and I were to marry, let's say, a Red Sox fan. Needless to say we take our season tickets very seriously and we are loathe to miss one of our regular Sunday home games. So you can imagine how hungover we had to have been this morning when Jess and I couldn't get our asses to the Bronx to make the 1:00 pm game time. And what a game to miss.

We celebrated Ron & Joe's engagement party in Jersey yesterday with grain alcohol and chicken parm. It was fun to see everyone. In fact, I had so much fun I think I'll wait a while before smacking Ronnie in the back of the head for making everyone RSVP in April as if he was trying to get an accurate head count for a state dinner with the fucking QUEEN. I mean, he is a queen but that is beside the point.

Afterwards, I ended up at Sullivan Room. If, like me, you are a former club kid but in your old age you would rather shave your head than set foot in another club, check this place out. Good DJs, low-key vibe. Just don't do what I did and drag your drunk, sorry ass all the way up the stairs and out into the street before you realize you left your bar tab still open and your credit card and ID with the bartender. On my way back up, I realized that the banister was no longer secured into the wall and I nearly bit it walking up the stairs. Would have been an interesting, albeit not surprising, way for me to kill myself.

In other interesting developments gleaned from my nightlife experiences, lately I'm like catnip to boys who are bit too young for me. Must be something in my perfume.

I nearly drank myself into a coma last night and now I have to go to Jersey for an engagement party. Thank God I love the people who are getting engaged otherwise I would not bother stopping myself from puking on their lawn.

Last night one of the grooms (there are two) texted me to tell me to bring a bathing suit. What the hell kind of engagement party is this, you ask? The kind thrown by Evite by my dear friend Ronnie -- who, although usually detail-oriented and slightly anal retentive often forgets to mention crucial elements to his guests until the last minute. I bought a dress and heels for this shindig. Bathing suit?

I swear to God, if I wake up one more Saturday with snippets of memories of things I did and said floating around my sad little brain, I'm going to run off and join a convent or something just for the fact that it would give me new stories to tell. My life is like one long episode of... some show in which the main character drinks herself into a stupor and then has seemingly meaningful conversations about love and life with people she barely knows and wakes up the next morning to a splitting headache and the nagging feeling that she embarassed herself and her friends somehow. It could be called "My So Called Hungover Life" Or "Sunnyside, Queens 11104. Or "Saved by the Beer...The Hungover Years". I'll work on a title and get back to you.
Something tells me I wouldn't even make it through pilot season.

Morphine makes Mom sleepy

My poor mom. Another national holiday in the hospital. I swear if she was stolen she couldn't be sold for spare parts -- 'cuz none of them work.

As most of you know, she was in a bad accident about 7 years ago and since then she's been in and out of the hospital with various lingering injuries. She gets these cortizone shots for the pain in one of her knees (which by the way, she hurt long before the accident -- because clutziness toootallly runs in the family) and -- wouldn't you know it? -- she had some kind of allergic reaction to it or some kind of infection because of it and we had to rush her to the emergency room on Sunday night. I say "we" but really I met her there -- when she was being packed into the ambulance with my aunt and my crazy uncle in tow I was at Yankee Stadium watching Andy Pettitte get his ass handed to him. Oh, and did I mention I was drunk at the time? Anyway, that's been my week so far.

I hope you all had a better Fourth of July than I did. I spent it watching my mom sleep off the effects of a morphine drip, drinking tea in a hospital room. But at least I didn't have to go to work.

I heard, tore your faces right off

You know that scene in Beetlejuice when Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin come back from visiting Juno, the caseworker, and they think they're in another room of the hallway they've been walking down and then they realize they are back at their own house but it's completely different than when they left? I relive that scene every night -- I wake up, look around in the dark and don't recognize my own bedroom. It takes me a minute to place my own furniture, come to the realization that the long skinny thing on the floor is my bra where I dropped it before I went to bed and then I can relax because I know where I am.

I guess changing addresses three times in less than a year will do that to you.

Perspective

Another terrorist plot thwarted. Or so I'm told. I didn't watch the news today. I watched old episodes of "Rescue Me" on the internet and sat around my apartment feeling depressed.

There's at least one moment during every day of my life where I realize what an ass I am. I find myself cursing the fact that I can't change the way I think or the way I behave. I get older and supposedly wiser but I still sit around, watch news reports of people in real trouble, read books about sad things that happened to people that they just didn't deserve... and still I feel like crap because of the shitty little miseries in my life.

It's disgusting and it has to stop.

I thought you all would like to know that I'm aware of the problem. That even if I can't change, can't become less of a retard -- at least I know that I am one.

Why I'm not going out tonight

Because I just bought a six-pack of Magners.

Because I organized a happy hour last night and was struck with the idea that six pomegranite martinis were a good idea... which they were not.

Because "There's Something About Mary" is on, followed by "Parenthood".

Because bars are full of idiot men who are full of sperm that meeting me makes them feel like they have to get rid of just as soon as they possibly can. Not all men, mind you -- just the fucking idiot ones.

Because I just yelled at the guy who called me from my credit card company and told him he's welcome to call me five times a day for the rest of the week but there is nothing I can do about the fact that I won't have the money to pay him until next week.

Because jammies and a t-shirt are more comfortable than a slutty tank top and heels, and my bed is way more comfortable than a bar stool.

Because I'm not going to meet a guy like Denis Leary in a bar... but he is on TV.

Because I'm sitting here writing to you people, that's why.

Your grandmother

I realized today that I've become the kind of person who steals Splenda packets by the fistful from the coffee shop by my job and filling my desk drawers with them, along with honey packets from Cosi, and brown paper napkins from every conceivable deli on the West Side. They rest there happily next to a box of Twinings tea. In essence, I have become... your grandmother.