Happy Halloween and Miss Plath.

I think my niece just might be the cutest damn kid ev-er.



In other news . . . this is pretty friggin' cool: Student Finds Unpublished Plath Poem

Happy birthday to me, Happy birthd . . . is that wine?

Can one write a “birthday blog” 3 days after one’s birthday? Um, I’m pretty goddamn sure one can.

First off, thank you thank you Cris: Birthday wishes for my BFFFF. And thanks for coming into the city with the champagne this weekend. I had a spectacular, if not a little fuzzy, time.

I took Friday off from work because there wasn’t any effing way I was going to be at my place of employment for "MY DAY."

So, due to my complete lack of imagination, I’ve decided to rip off Cris and put down my own list of 27 wishes for the next year. Get ready for it, this list is sure to change your life . . . or at least make you want to cry.

I wish . . .
1. To never get thrown out of another bar. (Let’s just say that Friday night didn’t end well.)
2. To get my health back.
3. To make a considerable dent in my debt.
4. To remember to send greeting cards.
5. To stay in better touch with my friends.
6. To figure out what I want to do with my career.
7. To take vacations. (Yup, that’s plural.)
8. To take more chances.
9. To be more organized and tidy.
10. To stop looking back and move on.
11. To let things go.
12. To curb my spending.
13. To stop comparing my life to other people’s.
14. To hug my niece at least once a month.
15. To learn how to walk into a drug store and leave with only the thing I went in for—and not $50+ of other crap.
16. To be less ansy.
17. To read more.
18. To cook more.
19. To start drawing again.
20. To learn how to play my dad’s old guitar.
21. To figure out how to make my camera take un-crappy photos.
22. To gain more confidence in my work.
23. To realize that life’s too short to let anyone’s asshole behavior get to me.
24. To sucker someone into dating me.
25. To find a way to take down myspace.
26. To become best friends with Brad Pitt and (because I'm fond of Angelina so I can’t have Mr. Pitt) have him introduce me to Mr. Clooney AND in turn seduce Georgie until he realizes that I’m the love of his life. (Did we all get that?)
27. To start playing basketball again.

And we’re done.

Effers.

I am displeased, to say the least. I think a strongly worded letter might be called for.

Studio 60 Cancellation Imminent

I'll take two, thanks.

They are so friggin' cute. mmmmmmm . . .


I definitely stalked Tiki for Cristina last week when he was in a store near my work doing some sort of press. I DEFinitely saw the top of his head . . . the one above his shoulders, that is. (So inappropriate.)

Pussy.

Rush Limbaugh is an ass.

Jacktard.

I just got a call from a headhunter place where my resume ended up (I’m guessing from one of the very FEW listings to which I’ve actually applied) . . . so that’s headway, no? The chick was pretty cool except that she works primarily with freelancers. Now I’m contemplating leaving work to freelance full-time. How do we feel about freelancing and not having any benefits or security?

I love that now I'm contemplating freelancing full-time. Two hours ago I was thinking about looking up grad schools (for what, who knows) in Boulder or Nashville. (Um, WHAT is with my fascination with Colorado and Tennessee?)

I've really got everything sorted out for myself, eh?

Love Love Love

Love what Dove is doing. Love the film.

Photoshop is fun.

Spell check is for chumps.

In my "research" for the job-search I plan on starting, um, soon, I found this most helpful collection of information from Killian Advertising: COVER LETTERS FROM HELL. And by helpful, I mean pretty damn funny. These are definitely worth looking over.

My favorite: "I am seeking a new position as i have recently been laid."

Procrastination Device #347928

Fun for HOURS.

Thank you, Michelle!

Colorado, maybe? Tennessee?

This is pathetic.



Over there in the fridge door is your basic condiments: jam, mayo, Italian salad dressing, etc. And, of course, the Brita water pitcher and a bottle of wine. On the top shelf of the fridge would be dessert wine someone gave me THREE YEARS AGO. I’m going to guess that I should probably get rid of it. Considering I don’t drink dessert wine . . . especially dessert wine that’s been sitting in my fridge for 3 years. Does dessert wine go bad? How many more times do you think I can say dessert wine?

This is a little less pathetic.



You have your boxes of rice and cous cous, and cans of corn and beans, to go with the chicken and fish that you don’t have. You have your soup, a couple almost empty bags of crackers/pretzels, and then, of course, your peanut butter. (Um, that “you” would be moi. I got carried away, sorry.)

This, my friends, is a pretty good indication of what my fridge and cupboards look like year round. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my eating habits. Mainly because they’re horrible and I need to change them BUT I’m at a loss with WHAT to buy when I end up in the grocery store. I always get the same stuff . . . things that can be made/put together quickly. I must say, I’d love to come home and cook a lovely little meal for myself each night, but that’s just not going to happen. Especially when I’m getting home at 9:00 most nights. I’m sick of ordering out. I’m sick of soup and toast. I’m sick of omelettes. I’m sick of chicken/cous cous/corn. I’m sick of veggie patties.

Advice? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I’m thinking Fresh Direct might be the answer. I’ve used them a few times and they’re awesome. But, doesn’t that eliminate the fun of grocery shopping and standing in aisles indecisively??

I think that all of this is just an indication of how speedy things have become. Everything in my life seems to be go-go-go. I have to do this by this time; I have to be there by this time; I need to hurry up or I’ll miss my train; It’s 9:00 p.m., I’m hungry, what can I eat RIGHT NOW?! It’s getting annoying. I’ve been daydreaming lately about moving somewhere quiet and slow-going. Where there isn’t so much pressure to go-go-go.

I wonder if I would miss the go-go-go.

Yup, I'm sure I would. I'm pretty sure I'm just tired from deciding to start tidying my apartment at midnight last night. I mean, I couldn't have started any earlier—there was perfectly fantastic television viewing to be done.

What?

Students Trained to Fight School Shooters

Does this make anyone else question how schools are protecting children nowadays? I have to say, this makes me not want to have children. This article and Laguna Beach, that is.

Crazy bitches.

I’ve figured out what I do when I’m bored, stressed out or displeased: I eat. While I don’t so much mind this, my pants do. But as no one is currently trying to get into them, I’m not sure I care.

Has anyone caught the newest version of The Bachelor? Have women really become so desperate that they would be competing for the attention of a man they hardly know, who resembles a duck and isn’t altogether . . . tall? I must say: these girls, they’s a crazy. Especially the ones crying about losing at love after having maybe 10 minutes of one-on-one conversation with a man who is not completely focused on them anyhow. I. Just. Don’t. Get. It. Although, crazy chicks do make for some highly entertaining television. Of course, Lorenzo (that would be the Bachelor) sent the craziest of them packing last night. Even though she tried to argue him into changing his mind. Dude . . . big laughs with this show. Big laughs.

Speaking of TV (oh, that’s what we were talking about?) another great new show (wait, this implies that I think The Bachelor is great . . . oh wait, I do): is Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Love Matthew Perry, love Amanda Peet, love Steven Webber (ever since Once and Again), love Bradley Whitford (developing a big crush on this man . . . mmmmmmmm). Great show. Great writing.

OK, I’m done with my half-ass Monday night TV review. Oh yes, that’s what it was.

Bun-O-Ween

Good God, this is some funny shit: Happy Bun-O-Ween

And you'll definitely want to check out the rest of the Bunny movies, too.

You were an island to discover.

It is 12:30 a.m. and I just washed all of my dishes. That's after polishing off a bottle of white . . . by myself.

Too much Coldplay can be a bad thing. Damn that Zach Braff and his knack for putting together a soundtrack.

Pigs and whistles.

Had lunch with one of my favorite people yesterday: Timmy. Or, Tim, as he would rather I call him. As he’s not 2 years old. But really, what fun would calling him “Tim” do me? None. That’s right, none.

Anyhoo, Timmy definitely approves of me “getting out there.” As I need to move on from Dipshit. Timmy doesn’t like Dipshit. Timmy has never met Dipshit BUT that’s irrelevant. Timmy proved his dislike for Dipshit with this symbolic gesture: Dipshit, meet Timmy's fist-o!


Awesome, right? Yup, I thought so.

On our way back to our respective offices, Timmy told me about an actress that looks a lot like me—and then sent me photos of her. Um, I must say, the resemblance is pretty damn weird. (I added the Maxim photo for kicks. Allow me to dream a little, please.)







Of course, it would help if you had a photo of me to compare it to BUT alas . . . you’ll have to try your hardest to remember what I look like. This chick is some pop singer turned actress in England: Billie Piper. And now, she's my nemesis.

So, all in all, fun lunch. Thanks, Timmy! (Yes, I’ll never call you Timmy again.)

Timmy.

The rod up that man's ass has a rod up his ass.

For some reason I don’t date much. (Oh yeah, because I’m not asked OUT on dates.) So, Friday night was a big deal. Friday night: had a date. Turns out that the date wasn't much to speak about but I'm still trying to figure out WHY this guy asked me out. It BAFFLES me. I'm sure it will baffle you, too.

Now, this was my first date in, like, two years. The last guy I went on a “date” with—I’m talking actually meeting up, getting a drink/seeing a movie/making weird small talk/asking questions you would normally not ask someone you just met—was a police detective with a Caribbean accent. I’d spend phone calls saying “What? I’m sorry, what?” He was a nice guy but kind of weirded me out after he left me a voicemail telling me he loved me. That was after a good 6 months or so of not seeing him—just having the really deep, communicative 10-minute phone calls. I'd like to think that I leave an impression but I don’t leave THAT good of an impression.

But I digress . . .

I need to go back a month before I go into the Friday-night date. I go to Chumley’s downtown with Kim and we proceed to get burgers and 4 rounds at a table. Needless to say, I was a happy lady when we went up to the bar to immerse ourselves in firemen. I talk to, oh, let’s call him Friday Night, for what is probably 20 minutes or so and then excuse myself to use the bathroom. He’s not around when I return so I start talking to other firemen. Have I mentioned I had four beers? Well, one of the lovely firemen bought me a Jack & Coke (Yup, 4 beers and then a J&C. I mean I love J&Cs but what the eff?) when I got to the bar SO I was feeling done-and-done at this point. But, as I would, I proceed to let another firefighter buy a beer.

**Breaking in to mention that I am pretty damn bitter on said night due to the Dipshit who shall remain nameless, whom I’d “broken things off with” for the 10th time. I went out to, well, drink. You see, this justifies everything.**

I’m drinking my new beer and decide that I’m irked that Friday Night isn’t trying to talk to me anymore. I give him the eye a few times over the next half hour but let’s just say that my powers of seduction, they weren’t ah-workin’. Kim comes up to me and it is definitely time to leave (read: we’re both drunk) so we go to grab our bags when oh-look-who-it-is Friday Night comes up and puts an arm around me, asking for my number. The conversation goes something like this:


Friday Night: “Can I get your number?”

All class, all the time: “Why?! You haven’t even talked to me for the last hour!” (Said using my Holy Crap, I’m-done-with-bullshit face. I was definitely upset and it had definitely not been an hour.)

Friday Night: “No, no, I’ve been away, I haven’t seen the guys, blah blah blah." (What does this have to do with me?)

All class, all the time: “Whatever.” (Because I’m 14, apparently.)

Friday Night: “Well . . . do you want to take mine instead?”

All class, all the time: “No! I’m not going to use it.” (For the love of God . . .)

Friday Night: “Well, um, well, uh . . .”

All class, all the time: “Oh, give it to me!” (I grab his phone away, angrily push in my phone number, and give it back to him before I turn around and leave.)


I was definitely expecting a phone call.

No I wasn’t.

The next morning I woke up with a migraine. Not just due to the hangover but it didn’t hurt. I laugh at myself for being such a bastard and realize that is one phone call I won’t get. You can imagine my effing surprise when Friday Night calls me a week ago. (That would be THREE weeks since we met.) I’m just sitting at work, all pissed off with life, when my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. Now, I most certainly don’t pick up numbers that aren’t registered in my phone but for some unknown reason I pick it up—even though I’m completely distracted by the work I’m doing. Conversation goes something like this:


All class, all the time: “Hello.” (I give good greeting.)

Friday Night: “Hey, is this All class, all the time?”

All class, all the time: “Yup. Hi there.” (Waiting for the sales guy to start selling me something.)

Friday Night: “Hey, it’s Friday Night.”

All class, all the time: “Hey, how are you?” (Um, go on with your sales pitch already. Why did I pick up the phone?)

Friday Night: “Pretty good. Just got off from a double shift at the house, Heading home. Blah blah blah.”

All class, all the time: (Why is this person talking to me like I know . . . oh crap, did he say Friday Night? House? Oh good God.) "Wait. Friday Night? Friday Night. Friday Night?"

Friday Night: “Um, yeah. That would be me.”

All class, all the time: (Stunned.) “Huh. Really? Wow. Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you.”

Friday Night: “Why not?”

All class, all the time: (Dumbfounded and pretty sarcastic.) “Um, because it’s been a REALLY long time.”

Friday Night: “Blah blah blah.”

All class, all the time: “Blah blah blah. I’m going to have to call you back later b/c I’m still at work and pretty busy. Blah blah blah.”


Question: What is the length of time you’re supposed to wait before calling someone after getting their number? I’m pretty goddamn sure it’s a lot shorter than 3 weeks.

OK, so, I’ve gotten to the date night. We talk (mostly leave messages for each other) over the next week and we make a date for Friday, to get drinks. Now, I’ve made a decision: get out there. Start dating. Don’t be so quick to run. Blah blah blah. In short: time to move the eff on from Dipshit.

I’m late leaving work, per usual. We made a plan to meet downtown at 7 and I get there 20 minutes late (texting with him to let him know I’m running pretty late—I’m not a mannerless bastard, at least). He’s not there when I show up. Whatever, he said he was running a “few minutes late”, too (few = 20 minutes). (I'm SUCH an asshole for mocking him—I am always late. Always.) I get a beer and decompress.

Date pretty much went downhill from there. I’m now sure that what I took as “quiet and mysterious” at Chumley’s is actually “quiet with nothing to say.” I’m not one to have to fill a silence but aren’t you supposed to talk on a date??? Seriously. I hate small talk as much as the next girl but I felt like I was friggin’ interviewing the guy. Yet, he seemed to have no problem chit-chatting with everyone else around us. The manager, the chick bartender he knew from another bar, the three people he called on his cellphone (no joke), etc. After asking me "So, you dress down for work?" and uttering a response of "Hey! Not cool, man," I think this was the moment when I realized that the two of us just weren’t going to be compatible:


All class, all the time: “Do you know of any good breweries around New York? My sister used to work for one out in Long Island. Blah blah blah.”

Friday Night: “Nah. Not really. Although, Brooklyn Brewery is alright. They’re not too bad.”

All class, all the time: “Oh yeah? Where’s that? Queens??” (wink wink)

Friday Night: “No. Brooklyn.”


Okily dokily then. Done and Done. Night night Friday Night.

Just from this one date, I now know a few things that I can't live without in a guy:
1. Sense. Of. Humor.
2. Ability to hold a conversation.
3. Really friggin' hot.

fuck. fuck. FUCK.

Things are pretty crap-ass at the moment.

Crap. Ass.

She says I wanna do right, but not right now.

The weekend was a success and I accomplished everything on my list of “to do’s” with the exception of going to the gym. Shocker. Oh, and I haven’t fully fleshed out my “get my life back” plan—I think I’m going to need a couple more weekends and a whole lot more beer for that one.

I’m cranky. Have I mentioned that?

I got my apartment lease renewal in the mail this weekend and my rent will be going up to $1280. And they don’t even know about my A/C, which would make my rent go up to over $1300. $1300+ for a little more than 100 square feet of space?? It just makes me feel nauseous. It’s time to move. And my lease ends at the end of January. Smashing time to find a new place, eh? Crap crap crap CRAP.

Moving to Nashville and living the quiet life is looking better and better to me. I’m going to need something to look up pretty damn soon.

Oh me oh my oh, look at Miss Ohio
She a-runnin’ around with her rag-top down
She says I wanna do right, but not right now
Oh I wanna do right but not right now

Uh, yeah, I've been listening to A LOT of Gillian Welch.