| Hello. Missouri is different. And I'm not cool. |
Happy Boxing Day, my friends! I have missed you.
I am blogging from the sweet wee little Kirkwood Public Library in Kirkwood, Missouri- my home town. I am here for the holidays, at least until tomorrow. It has been fun to see my family and friends, but I'm ready to return to New York, where things are open past eight o'clock and I'm not the only one who wears big sunglasses. One lady asked my mom if I was blind. Which I'm not.
One nice thing is that cold in Missouri is very different than cold in New York. It's been in the fifties the whole time I've been here. That is such a treat. Everyone is still bundled up, but they just have no idea how bad it could be. My first winter in New York almost had me in tears. I was fully unprepared for how the wind blows around buildings and freezes your hair if you leave the house with it wet, which you always do because you're not entirely sure where your hair dryer is and even if you COULD find it, you don't really know how to use it. I mean, you know that you just point hot air at your head but frankly standing still for that long makes you antsy and when you've finished, your hair doesn't even look that good and you're kind of having hot flashes and you're a little sweaty. You'd rather spend that time drinking coffee in the morning.
Missouri is also interesting because there are lots of people my age who are married with babies and things. I have things- I have a computer, and a chess set, and some great pottery that Shmifter made for me- but I don't have babies and I don't have husbands. And oddly enough, it's the married girls' mothers that seem more surprised at my lifestyle. And they're surprised at my mom's reaction to it. One woman said to her "Do you not want grandchildren?" And my mom said "Well, I do, but right now she's living with three homosexual men and I'm not sure that any of them are Daddy material." (Note- she doesn't mean that homosexuals shouldn't be daddies. She just meant my three homosexual roommates are not at that place in their lives right now where they should be fathering children.)
Did you all have good Christmases? Was Santa good to you? I hope so. You deserve it. Christmas was appropriately awkward around these parts, but good nonetheless. I had a lot of fun with my family, even though Christmas is a dry affair at our house. No booze at all. Isn't that masochistic?
On the plane ride here, I was sitting next to a native Chicagoan who has lived in Amsterdam for the past six years. He was nerdy but sweet, and we were making friendly chatter when two things happened simultaneously:
1) He decided to make his move and started to ask me to this restaurant in St Louis whilst we were both home, and
2) I started to throw up.
I'm fairly well-travelled but I get motion sickness VERY easily. Normally I combat this with lots of drugs and anti-emetics but I guess they had worn off due to my numerous flight delays. Plus the flight was bumpy plus we were on some small little horrible plane, plus the person behind me kept eating that meat that they sell at the mall- some sort of sausagey product. What's it called? Summer Sausage? He was just biting mouthfuls off and talking as he chewed, and I could smell it and I wanted to die.
Here's what happened, play by play:
We started to make our descent.
He leaned in and said "So, if you're not too busy with family stuff, I really think you'd like this place. What are you doing on Fri..."
I started frantically unbuckling my seat belt.
His expression changed from Rico Suave to really confused.
I got my ipod and pashmina caught in the seatbelt and was kind of jerked back into my seat as I tried to escape.
He started trying to get up.
The flight attendant came over to tell me I couldn't walk around at that point.
I muscled past her, because I am a beast.
I made it to the bathroom.
Dignity upheld!
I walked back to the seat full of shame.
My potential new lover said, as I sat down, "I collected some...um...bags from other passengers. They're on your seat."
I smiled the Recently Vomited Grin and said "Thanks for being such a good sport."
We landed.
I wanted to die. Again.
The End.
However, the true moral of the story is that if you want someone to stop asking you out, almost vomit on them. Works like a charm. And if it doesn't, he's far too kinky to be safe. In my humble opinion. |
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| My, that's awkward. |
Here are some things that I want to share with you, because sometimes I want to talk about them and yet I'm a little embarrassed by ALL of them. So I'm just going to throw this on the proverbial electronic table and then I can reference them at will, okay?
10) I LOVE, just LOVE the TV show "The Girls Next Door." I don't care how early I have to be at work, if I'm flipping around and I catch an episode of it, I will watch every minute. I am fascinated by the semi-communal-haremy-vaguely-Oneida-esque nature of that relationship, which is then mixed with a healthy dose of excessive wealth and self-indulgence. Plus they probably don't all have to sleep with Hugh Hefner (just Holly, most likely) and then the girls can just travel around the world for free and play in their petting zoo when they are home and not too busy throwing parties. WHAT? Where was THAT life when we were all signing up? It's no matter. I'm usually pretty content in Queens, arguing with my landlord about my broken oven, which he seems to think works just as well without the heating element. You know, ye olde "Cooking by gas and gas alone" method of food preparation. It's cool.
9) I think bacon is very tasty and delicious and magical. But I only like it when I burn the shit out of it. It has to be mostly black and almost unrecognizable as bacon. Or as any food item, really.
8) I have a weird neurosis that manifests itself as such: I narrate everything in my head in the third person, but by visualizing it being written down on paper. As it happens. So I'm actually visualizing the written description of me blogging from work right now. In college, I did a project on Adrienne Kennedy, and I was immensely comforted by the fact that she shares my neurosis. And she's brilliant. So take that, nail-biters.
7) I hate butter and mayonnaise. I can't forgive them for what they are. However, I have accepted butter as a necessary ingredient with very few appropriate substitutions. Mayonnaise is a different story. It is horrifying and doesn't need to be included in anything, ever.
6) I'm a giant bitch when it comes to grammar.
5) I have marginalized group envy. I want righteous rage, instead of suburban white girl tantrums.
4) I bake a LOT but I don't really love baked goods. I like how they smell and I love preparing them, but secretly I'm insanely competitive and I want to make Blue Ribbon baked goods with magical properties. I can't help it. As far as my own junk food choices go, I'm pretty devoted to ice cream and Doritos.
3) When I'm nervous meeting someone new, I calm myself by saying internally "I could definitely pick them up*." For some reason, that is very comforting to me.
2) When I was little, I tried to discourage one of my mom's potential suitors by telling him that my family was in the KKK. For real. (It actually kind of worked, about which I still have guilt.)
1) I get really self-conscious if I don't get cat calls on the way to work because it means that I look really, really busted that day.
*And I mean this as in physically carry them. Not like a "Hey baby, I wish I was cross-eyed so then I'd see two of you**" kind of way.
**This line was actually used on me the other night.Now you know my secrets. I feel better. I'm sure we all do.Labels: inappropriateness, TMI |
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| My father, my pimp |
E-mail exchange between my crazy father and me (yesterday).
Father to me:
Hey,
Mom said you're pretty busy while your home but, why don't you let me
fix you up. I know a guy (engineer) about you're (sic) age, great personality,
and about a 9 out of 10 in the looks department. I'm sure if you could
find some time, you won't regret it.
My questions to myself:
1) Did he use the incorrect form of "your" just to hurt me?
2) What does he consider a 9 out of 10?
3) Does my father want to date him?
4) Isn't "you won't regret it" kind of creepy?
My response to my father:
That is very nice of you, but the only guy who would agree to a one-time date with a girl who lives in NY when HE lives in MO is the guy just looking for booty, for lack of a better word. I am very suspicious.
Did you speak to him about this?
Father's response to me:
No. But it's fine. I showed him a picture of you that's on my desk and he made a comment or two. This was about six months or so ago. At the time he seemed mildly interested. But I don't know what you have to lose. He doesn't strike me as a player. I suspect that the worse (sic) that would come out of it is you would get a free dinner or a good time night at casino boat (sic) or whatever. Hey, you got to let me make up for that Christmas I bought you the sweater and hat.
My follow-up questions to myself:
1) Six months ago? Even if this were the act of a normal person, this guy probably has a girlfriend or something by now. Actually, my father wouldn't even notice if he was married. Good lord.
2) A good time night at casino boat? Why does that sound like a line from Act I of Miss Saigon? (Herro, GI. You need date for good time at casino boat?)
3) My father is probably the last person who would recognize "a player," considering a true act of virility in his opinion is dating women who are no more than half his age. When they get too old, find another one. There are always more!
4) Mildly interested? That makes a girl feel special.
My response to my father:
Thanks, but I'll pass. I question the sincerity of a person who looked at the picture of me on your desk (from senior year of high school, when I wasn't even pretty) and then decided that one date was exactly what he wanted.
Father's response to me:
I gave him your number. He said he'd call when you are home. I know it's not your first choice, but the thing is you just never know. He is really attractive. I told him about how your (sic) a femnist (sic) and loud. He seemed okay with it. Let me know how it goes! Not to sound like a cli-shay (sp?) (sic) but your (sic) not getting any younger. And he seems like a good guy. Hey, he wants to impress me, so how bad can he be?
My response to my father:
Listen to me. If he calls me/texts me/smoke signals me- whatever- you are so screwed. When you are old and senile I am going to put you in one of the really shady shitty homes. I mean it. Don't test me. You know who else isn't getting any younger? You. So you'd better think long and hard because your next choice could affect how you live out your feeblest of days. Would you like to be in the sunny, lovely home with the volunteer guitarists and the party hats, or would you like to be in the one that is just off of Kingshighway and has boarded-up windows that you can barely see through the thick fog of scandal? Let me know. Sincerely, your loving daughter.
My father's response to me:
Jeez. Is this what I get for trying to help you? Man. No wonder you don't have a boyfriend. You are very lucky you aren't fat. Message received, loud and clear. I don't think he will call you now. I want to be in the good home. The one that lets you bring you're (sic) dogs. On another note, I am going to look for an apartment in the city. Will you help me pick one out?
My response to my father:
Yes. I like real estate.
Labels: fake relationships, family |
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| Some of us LIKE it when our thighs rub together. |
There are lots of things that make me grateful to live in New York.
-I loved how it wasn't freezing yesterday. I was grateful for that. It's nice to walk outside without your face hurting.
-I love subway crazies. Not everyone appreciates them, but I sincerely enjoy them most of the time.
- I appreciate the anonymity provided to me by living in a city filled to the brim with people.
- I like all the different things that you can get delivered.
- I like self-righteous tourist-directed rage. (HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY WALK SO SLOWLY!!!?!?!? AND WHO WEARS MORE THAN ONE FANNY PACK AT A TIME!!?!?) It feels good.
- I like being kept on my toes.
- Celebrity sightings!
- Parades!
So you see, I'm a fan of living here. But something that happened recently made me EXTRA cranky at New York. I'm talking about the recent ban on trans fats. Seriously, people? This is how far we've gone?
Now, before you all get your wee little drawers in a twist, let me just say that I KNOW how bad trans fats are. I really do. I know that they contribute to heart disease and they clog your arteries and they lower the good kind of cholesterol and they hike up the bad kind of cholesterol and they promote diabetes (because they are used to fry the shit out of foods) and blah blah blah. Yes, they are bad. Nobody is arguing that. But hear me out.
Have we really regressed so dramatically that we are no longer accountable for what we put into our own mouths? Look at it this way: the people who cross the finish line at the New York City Marathon don't clutch their aluminum foil blankets around them, raise their emaciated sweaty fists in victory and say "Thank you, New York, for causing me to run extra fast for way too long and not die! I owe it all to you!", do they? No, of course not. Because people who achieve a peak and impressive level of physical fitness are rightfully going to give credit where credit is due- themselves.
On the other hand, people who are getting Chubby McFatts because they eat french fries six times a day want to transfer some of the blame for their big pants to the restauranteurs who make a legit choice in oil purchasing, because that is easier to do than to actually suck it up and stop making poor nutritional choices. And PS- nobody forces you to eat out.
I live a fairly healthy existence (because I fear death). I work out, I eat right (mostly), I raise my own chinchillas so all of my fur-and-fur-alone wardrobe is TOTALLY grassfed and organic- I make an effort! But if my clothes don't fit well, or my arteries feel all cloggy, or my blush won't stay on my face because it keeps sliding off due to the fried chicken grease from my KFC feedbag, then I only have myself to blame. That chicken didn't dive down my throat.
And, while I hate to sound like those crazies who oppose gay marriage and make their point by saying "What's next? Are they going to marry a GOAT??", really- what IS next? Is the amount of sugar in my coffee going to be regulated? My overall caffeine intake? (If this happens, I'm moving to Canada.) My cheese consumption?
I guess what I find most infuriating is the blatant double standard in place here. Cigarettes are as bad, if not worse for you as trans fats are. They do really bad things and make people very sick and actually, unlike trans fats, make people AROUND the smokers sick as well. Nobody ever caught heart disease because they were married for fifty years to a fat person. Fat doesn't jump. Please note- I don't think cigarettes should be illegal. But I think that the consumer should take some responsibility for once in his/her ever loving life. Perhaps we can take the same step we took with cigarettes, and print warnings on menus just as the ciggie industry has warnings on packs: Eating this Bloomin' Onion can contribute to heart disease and obesity and diabetes. I've actually seen packs of cigarettes that had weird pictures of underweight children in utero (from their ultrasound). We can put pictures of diseased hearts next to dishes with TF in them. Or something.
Finally, as my good friend The Ursine Calamity has pointed out, don't we have other issues to worry about as a city? Our schools, our homeless, the amount of pee in the subway stations- we clearly have bigger fish to fry (ha!). And I agree with him.
I'm sure by now you get my point. So, what do you think? Am I just needlessly causing a ruckus in the name of fat? Or are our rights being infringed upon here just because yet AGAIN we are reducing ourselves to a level of powerlessness rather than face the awesome and intimidating possibility that-gasp!- we are in control of our lives to a greater extent than we'd like to admit? Discuss.
Love always,
Fatty McFatFat-Fatterson Jones |
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| Stand back. |
The setting: United States Post Office- Astoria Branch.
The line: Wicked long.
The crowd: cranky.
I'm in line behind a little girl and her mother. The girl looks to be about 4 years old. She is wearing red cowboy boots, which I immediately covet. Perhaps sensing my envy, the girl turns and looks at me.
Girl, totally conversationally: So, you know I threw up today.
Me: Oh yeah? No, I didn't know that. You hide it well.
Girl: Yeah. I sure did. That's why I didn't go to school.
Me: Oh. I'm sorry that you threw up but a day off is always fun.
Girl: Yes. Mommy said I had to stay home.
Me: I think that was a good idea.
Girl: I was just playing with my toys and then- whoosh!- I threw up.
Me: Yeah, sometimes it sneaks up on you.
Girl: Know what happened then? My mommy said "Don't you eat that food after it comes out of your mouth!"
Me: Ah. She really is wise.
Girl: Yes. And then we both took a nap.
Irrationally angry post office lady: NEEEEEXT!
fin |
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| Oh, don't worry. Nothing has changed. |
Hi friends.
I know, you have probably been REALLY worried about me. You've probably been thinking "That nice gal over at Hobocamp hasn't committed any mortifying social faux pas lately- hope she's okay!" You've probably been e-mailing the good people at kinja or whatever you use to get notification of blog updates, saying "Are you SURE there isn't anything new from Hobocamp? Are you SURE? Because it's been a week and she hasn't humiliated herself. Something MUST be wrong."
Well, I'm here today to put your fears to rest.
I'm alive.
And I'm still awkward.
Saturday night was meant to be a glorious exercise in social retardation- something to which I was looking forward. It was the Anesthesiology Department Holiday Celebration. I asked La Chanteuse to be my guest, and she graciously acquiesced (which she'd later regret, I'm sure). We got all gussied up and put on lots of eye makeup and lip gloss, and headed out (chaperoned by the lovely D.) to Taj downtown. D's husband was our chauffeur, so we didn't have to scuff along in our heels on the train. How nice is that? Nice.
Once there, La Chanteuse and I immediately hit the champagne, because we are class acts. I introduced her to several of my colleagues, and then we watched some smokin' moves on the dance floor, courtesy of some of our more senior staff members.
Midway through the evening, I saw this really cute guy that I'd seen at the graduation dinner about six months prior. We'd chatted for a few minutes that night but then he got pulled in one direction and I got pulled in another and we didn't see each other for the rest of the night. I knew that he worked in the lab a few floors below me, but that was all I knew. I couldn't remember exactly what he'd been doing there, as he wasn't faculty and he wasn't a medical resident, but I really wasn't too concerned.
So fast forward to Saturday night and there he is! He saw me just as I saw him and he came over and we chatted for quite some time. He remembered everything we'd talked about in June, we talked about current projects- everything was going really well. We even danced! Kind of in the genre of junior high schoolers, but it was sweet enough.
Towards the end of the night, right before La Chanteuse and I left, he asked me to meet him in our hospital cafe for lunch on Monday. I, of course, agreed. Still bubbling over with the kind of enthusiasm that is unique to an open bar, La Chanteuse and I gathered D and fled the scene.
(Now, immediately after we fled the scene we re-graced the scene because we'd somehow lost La Chanteuse's La Purse which contained her La Keys, La Credit Cards, La Phone, and La ID. Tragically, said purse was never recovered. However, if anyone happens to be at Taj in the next few weeks and finds a bag filled with stuff belonging to a blonde girl, give us a ring. I still don't know how this happened but Coat Check Lady, I'm looking at you!)
After the tumultuous cab ride home, La Chanteuse and I were getting ready for bed and discussing the events of the night (she was invited to sleep over due to the aforementioned absence of keys) and she mentioned my mini-love connection with mini lab guy. Then she asked some poignant questions, which jogged my memory a bit. Through my champagney haze, little realizations emerged. And none of them were very good.
1) I had no idea what this man's name was.
2) At one point in the evening I'd asked him his age. I just now remembered that he'd said he was TWENTY ONE YEARS OLD.
3) I suddenly remembered why I'd been introduced to him at the graduation dinner: he is the son of one of the doctors for whom I work.
So, friends, let's recap:
La Chanteuse helped me figure out that I was to have a lunch date on Monday with an anonymous infant who was the baby of my boss.
And, because I didn't know his name, or his phone number, I couldn't call or e-mail to cancel.
This was going to be great. |
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
See my profile...
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