shades of poltergeist

As you may recall, I spent last weekend on a gorgeous farm in upstate New York. The sprawling property included two large houses and an apple orchard. I slept in the smaller house with The Masseuse and her girlfriend and, apparently, the house is haunted. Um, had I known that before, I might not have agreed to go on this trip because, well, I'm a scaredy cat. When it comes to things that make me pee my pants, ghosts rank behind rats/mice, bugs, snakes, loud thunder and Eartha Kitt.

I don't talk about this fear much because unlike, say, bugs in my wee studio, I don't encounter spirits and the undead all that much. This is partly by design because I tend to avoid seances, ouija boards and other slumber party games that call on the dead to come out of hiding and inflict harm upon us. While we're on the subject, why do people engage in the latter? Specifically, why do people insist on testing the patience of Bloody Mary? I mean, if you only dare mention the death of her child while standing in front of a mirror (after having chanted and turned around three times), that broad is rumored to reach out through the mirror and scratch out your eyes! Who needs that? Urban legend or not, I'd rather not take that chance, thank you very much. Next to my hair, my eyes are my best feature. And I need them to watch TV, yo.

Anyhoo, I slept in a room all by myself fully aware that ghosts might be watching me. However, I was far too tired to care so I went about the business of falling asleep. Now earlier in the day, when I was originally shown my room, I noticed a creepy clown doll sitting in a chair in the corner. My gracious host gladly accommodated my request to move it. I've found that no one will ever give you crap about this fear. People get on my case about my fear of mayonnaise and ice-breakers/trust exercises but they're rather understanding of the clown phobia. I appreciate that.

So as I was dozing off, I heard a rather loud clicking noise coming from the corner. I ignored it but it became louder and more frequent. I tried doing the rational thing and blaming it on the heater. Yeah, that didn't quite pan out. The noise continued so I pulled the blankets over my head, mashed my eyes closed tightly and clung to my security blanket for dear life (yes, it goes on road trips with me).

But the noise persisted and I continued to panic. I then began scaring myself further with memories of that Brady Bunch episode when Marcia and Jan rigged that creepy thing out of cellophane and a coat hanger and nearly made Peter and Bobby shit themselves in the attic. I could totally hear its haunting voice gasping and pleading for air as it arose from the foot locker. I was officially petrified.

At this point, I began using telepathy to appeal to the ghost's sense of decency to just leave me alone and let me sleep. I made assurances that I wouldn't touch any of the ghost's shit or disturb it any way if I could help it. I was met with more clicking. I decided that the ghost was a bastard and then quickly retracted the thought and apologized just in case. Clearly, I was becoming unhinged.

I heard The Masseuse's girlfriend go into the bathroom so I hopped out of bed and told her my tale (um, I may have left out the psychotic mental pleading/bargaining part though). The Masseuse overheard and the three of us went back into my bedroom to investigate. We engaged in a brief round of "No, you open the door!" before the Girlfriend worked up the nerve to peek in the closet. Alas, there was nothing out of the ordinary in there except some clothes and a heating pipe. The three of us agreed that it was in fact the radiator making the noise and there was no more cause for concern. Truthfully, I don't think any of us were 100 percent convinced but what can you do? We retreated to our rooms and managed to sleep through the night.

The next morning, I walked over to the main house to join the rest of the group for breakfast. The Masseuse was there and had already informed them of the previous night's fright fest. I was assured that it was in the fact the heater making all that racket. But then Candy, she of the gracious hosting and clown removal, added, "Wow, it's a good thing I didn't move the clown into the closet. I almost did, you know!"

Oh.my.God. If that fucking doll was in the closet when the Girlfriend opened the door, I would have been out of that house SO fast. There would have been reports of a barefoot, pajama-wearing woman running at breakneck speed down the NYS Thruway. I'm out of shape but with fear as a motivator, I could very easily make Jesse Owens look like a slow poke.

Hey, has anyone ever thought of basing a workout on fear and scare tactics? If creepy things jumped out or chased them, people would run -- or shit -- off the pounds lickety split. With Eartha Kitt on my tail, I'd certainly drop 10 pounds in as many minutes. Someone want to help me market this?

if it's not a personal question

The Younger Sister is my bestest friend in the whole wide world. We have mutual friends and interests and share many of the same tastes and sensibilities. Even scarier, we also share the same sense of humor. Yup, that means there's more than one of me! Run away! Run away!

For the hearty few that remained, I shall continue...

So the Younger Sister and I chatted on the phone last night and got all caught up. One of the topics covered was the health of her friend's mother. The poor woman was recently ill thanks to the gross incompetence of the hospital that treated her.

Yours Truly: How's So-and-So's mom doing?

Younger Sister: A lot better!! She's almost fully recovered.

Yours Truly: That's good. So is she going to sue the pants off that hospital?

Younger Sister: I'm not sure. I didn't really ask.

Yours Truly: You mean you didn't wedge that question in between "How much money do you make?" and "When did you lose your virginity?"

Younger Sister: No, I usually wait until after I've asked a grown woman her real age.

Yours Truly: Personally I would slip it in after "When was your last bowel movement?"

Younger Sister: I like to bypass that one and go straight to "Do you have the occasional stray hair sprouting from your nipples?"

And then we cracked up for 20 minutes as we envisioned ourselves going to some serious conference or lecture and posing these questions during the Q&A. We got roughed up and kicked out and everything. Ah, the joys of visualization.

You know, some sisters stengthen their bond through personal stories, deep revelations and all that other mushy stuff. Us McDimple Girls rely on cheeky irreverence, jokes about hairy nips and the occasional ABBA song to do the trick, with great success I might add. You can suck on it, Dr. Phil.

tonto, jump on it, jump on it

Anyone know where I can download (legally) "Apache" by SugarHill Gang? I MUST have that song on my iPod so that I can get my white girl groove on. If someone can share, I promise to boogie in your honor. Gracias in advance!

P.S. I already tried iTunes and all the other usual suspects but, sadly, they don't have it.

UPDATE!!! Blog about it and ye shall find! The Occasional Bitch totally hooked me up. WOO HOO! This means I'll be doing the white man's overbite on the subway tomorrow morning. Thanks again, ocB!! I really appreciate it.

shootin' at the walls of heartache

Behold the photographic evidence of Yours Truly packin' heat! This photo shows moi expertly blowing on the rifle's barrel after deftly firing off several rounds at the target.

Um, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that the target was actually a white, unmarked canvas that, truthfully, was kinda hard to miss. And, well, the barrel wasn't really smoking but I blew on it anyway because I thought it would make for a bitchin' pose. In retrospect, it looks like I'm gearing up to perform fellatio on the gun. But that too has its own merits.

Photo credit: The Masseuse

outward bound

I had the great pleasure of spending the past weekend on a beautiful farm in upstate New York. I have tons o' work to catch up on today so, for now, you'll have to settle for a bulleted rundown until such time as I can elaborate on the following:

:: I helped gather firewood and was only mildly upset by the dirt transferred onto my cute track jacket.

:: I sat in the back of a pick-up while it was moving! And I didn't fall out or puke when we hit bumps!

:: I fired a rifle! A bunch of times! And didn't kill or maim anyone!

:: A German Shepherd bit me in the ass. Well, by the looks of things back there, it was more of a wee knosh instead of a full-on bite but still, that's quite a battle scar, no? I mean, it's not like a Bichon Frise took a liking to my kiester or anything like that. To some, German Shepherds are real menacing looking animals. I didn't care though as the dog was cute and playful and meant me no harm. If it was a yappy, mangy-looking thing, I'd think otherwise.

Photos and more details to come! In case you were wondering, there will be NO photos of the dog bite so don't even ask.

a public service announcement

Don't ever let it be said that I'm not helpful...

1. To the visitor who arrived at my site by searching for "songs from silence of the lambs that the weirdo is dancing too [sic] naked":
Even though I never specifically referenced that song or scene on this here blog, I do know the answer to this question! The song is "Goodbye Horses" and it's sung by Q. Lazarus. I know this because it also appeared on the Married to the Mob soundtrack (another Jonathan Demme film). I used to own the cassette but I eBayed it a few years ago and paid the Con Ed with the dough I raised. I'm sure you can download it somewhere or buy a used copy (perhaps my old one) on eBay or Amazon.com. Best of luck!

2. To the visitor seeking "slang expressions short bus mentally retarded":
I believe the term you're looking for here is "tart cart." You're welcome and see you in hell!

3. To the visitor who Googled "purple nurples in the nuts":
I really have nothing to offer here except for some concern for the recipient. But while we're on the subject, I always thought purple nurples were relegated to the breasts? Am I mistaken? God, I can't imagine applying one to a dude's nuts. I've never received an "upstairs" one myself but the pain of having one of my girls violently twisted like a knob is easily imagined, I assure you. Lawdy, for a boy to suffer that fate down there... well, I just don't know what to say other than OUUUUUUUUUUUUCH! I don't even have nuts and I'm experiencing sympathy pains.

4. To the visitor who searched for "std itchy balls":
Um, if you're looking for health advice from a reputable source, I heartily recommend that you alter your search term slightly. Like maybe use the word "inflamed" instead.

5. To the visitor wanting to know how to "spell diarrhea":
Congrats, you just did! Here's hoping your next search isn't "diarrhea remedies."

6. To the visitor who asked Yahoo "is daphne zuniga gay?":
No, the Melrose Place alum who is an alleged lesbo is Marcia Cross (currently enjoying renewed fame on Desperate Housewives). However, Marcia totally denied it and has been seen about town with a man on her arm. Which means nothing because, well, denial and beards were my best friends for many years. Didn't mean I didn't like me some hot girl-on-girl when no one was lookin'!

But I digress... Daphne is a breeder as far as I know and I for one am relieved. Why? Yes, she's gorgeous but girlfriend admitted to actually liking Michael Bolton's hair and the music of Wilson Phillips. Unforgivable! You boys can keep her.

7. To the visitor seeking "girl storm belch nauseous":
Now I'm not 100 percent certain but I think I actually spoke to this chick on the phone once. Let me know if this is the belching broad in question and I'll see about hooking the two of you up.

And that's one to grow on...

a milestone

Dear The Lovely Jess,

Congrats on turning the Big 3-0 today and welcome to the club, dearest! I assure you it's not as bad as you might think. I'm totally digging my thirties big time, yo. Sure there's the slowed down metabolism to contend with but it's couched by the whole sexual peak thing. Of course, the pokey metabolism can lead to the pudge which can repel would-be sexual partners and then you're left to enjoy your renewed sexual vigor all on your lonesome but still... "interfering" with yourself is way more rewarding at this age. Can I get an amen, fellow third decaders?

Anyhoo, I just want to wish you the happiest of birthdays. May the coming year be filled with less cat pee on the futon and the end to Rachael Ray's tyranny plus lots o' cute boys, salacious Britney gossip and many more opportunities to entertain us with The Butt Dance.

All of my love,
Curly

remedy

Last week was my niece's birthday. Because she's shown an affinity for snapping pictures with my digital camera, I decided to encourage her habit (and spare the lens on mine the wrath of her dirty fingers) by getting her a kid-friendly digital model. She was THRILLED and we now have loose plans to go on a photo-taking expedition together. She's a busy little girl with quite the social calendar, you see. She'll work me in eventually.

I received a thank-you card in the mail from her today. The salutation and message were written by my sister (no doubt dictated by my niece) but she signed it herself. I've seen her scribblings hundreds of times but I NEVER get over the joy and the wee gush that accompanies seeing her hand written name.

Her letters are spaced out. She dots the two "i's" in her name far to the left of the first letter. She hasn't quite grasped the concept of horizontal alignment yet. Her letters follow more of a healthy EKG pattern as opposed to a flatline. But, to me, it's the most beautiful handwriting I've ever seen and the sight of it never fails to make me a bit verklempt.

After I read the card, I caught myself in a rare moment of pure, innocent joy. I embrace those self-aware moments that are devoid of self-indulgence. They make me feel real. I'm a moody sort prone to my ups and downs. I take happy pills to help me out but sometimes they're too effective in that they make me numb. So it's always reassuring to have a moment where my healthy emotions combat the chemicals and just hang out for awhile. I don't ever want to take that for granted.

During my laid-back, low-key holiday last week, I had one of those brilliant bursts of feeling. I was on an organizing bender and just cleaned out my closets and drawers. As a result, I compiled four huge bags of clothes to donate to Housing Works. The bags were far too heavy and bulky to drop off in one trip so I took the biggest of the bags and made my way to the 2/3 train.

By the time I reached Borough Hall, I had shifted the bag from hand to hand at least 50 times. Both of my mitts were red and swollen and screaming for relief. The subway ride to 14th Street was a long enough reprieve to turn my hands from a violent scarlet color to a more subdued rose hue.

I walked three blocks north and deposited my donation in the appropriate area. At that moment, I didn't think anything could top the feeling of being empty handed. I was so grateful to be rid of that ton weight. I mean, I also comforted myself in the knowledge that with any luck, someone would benefit from my donation, but mostly, my hands were happy and that's all I cared about.

Since I had nothing else on my agenda, I headed home. The sun was bright on my face and the light breeze played with my hair. I popped in my earphones and walked south east to Union Square to the tune of "Seven Nation Army" by The White Stripes. My strides were timed to Meg's kick drum and my dodging and weaving through the farmers' market was choreographed to Jack's trembling guitar line. By song's end, I was nestled in a seat on the 6 train.

I exited at Brooklyn Bridge so that I could walk the rest of the way home. The beautiful weather and my increasing girth dictated that I hoof it over that glorious span.

The entrance to the bridge's footpath is a paved sidewalk which eventually gives way to a wooden walkway. The transition from pavement to wood is located right above the Fulton Fish Market. At that elevation, the aroma of fish is pleasant and inviting... as opposed to the nasal rape you suffer when you get a whiff down at street level.

Boats were cutting foamy paths up and down the East River below me. The Verrazano Bridge emerged through the light haze to strike a majestic pose to my right while an N train rumbled over the Manhattan Bridge directly to my left. Activity surrounded me, just as it always does in this city. But on that day -- one of the first gorgeous days of spring -- there was an unmistakable relaxed and genial feel to it all.

Even I abandoned my usual aggressive pedestrian tactics and slowed down my ridiculous pace so that I could observe and enjoy. Instead of impatiently passing an amateur photographer, I stopped and waited while he framed the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges just so. When he got his desired shot, he smiled at me in appreciation and I nodded and continued on my way.

As I approached the second spire of the bridge, "Talk to Me" by Stevie Nicks came on my iPod. It didn't fit the mood or purpose of my walk but I didn't care. Sometimes the randomly shuffled playlist is just right and other times, I skip songs like it's my job. On this day, it couldn't have been more perfect. Or maybe I was just feeling a little less fussy than usual.

I didn't focus on Stevie's lyrics imploring her boyfriend to open up and tell her shit. Oh no. When Stevie sings, I focus on her voice and her voice only. Actually, no, that's not true. I also tend to visualize myself wearing black lacy things while shaking a tambourine... but, that's a story for another time. Or, like, you know, never.

But as I was saying, when Stevie really lets go and works those coke-ravaged pipes of hers, I get the chills. She tears through a chorus like a buzz saw in thrilling fashion. Chills, I tell you!

Just when I thought it couldn't get any better, "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles came on next. I mean, really... how perfect is that?

As I emerged from that architectural and geometric wonder into my beloved neighborhood on a spectacular day while listening to my favorite Beatle sing one of my favorite songs, I experienced one of those perfect moments where I was wholly aware of my elation and completely grateful for it. Even better, the feeling has carried over into this week. I give it at least a few more days before the scowl returns...

coming soon

A recap of my weekend in Schenectady with The Lovely Jess. With pictures! Not of me, of course, but pictures of people and funny things we found in our travels. So stay tuned!!! In the meantime, head on over and see what Jess has to say about our weekend adventure.

greetings from beautiful downtown brooklyn

I'm currently in the midst of one of those wonderful vacation-at-home deals. I took the week off to just fart around the city and take care of some personal shit that's been piling up in my tiny wee studio. BUT! The vacation will be capped off with a certain-to-be-kick-ass road trip with The Lovely Jess this weekend. She and I will be gassing up a rental car and tearing up the New York State Thruway on our way to Schenectady (Jess's home turf). I'm in the process of burning several mix CDs just special for the occasion. I can guarantee that there will be off-key singing, bucket-seat dancing and the occasional bout of rhythmic swerving in and out of lanes during some up tempo numbers. Make sure your insurance is current, I-87 motorists!!

The week so far has been glorious, both weather-wise and activity-wise. I crawled out of bed at 12:30 yesterday and lazily made my way into Manhattan to meet up with my favorite crafty chick, Filomena. We 2/3'd it up to Columbus Ave. and 73rd St. and had a positively lovely afternoon tea at Alice's Tea Cup. Mmmm... pumpkin scone. I highly recommend it if you're in that neighborhood!

I managed to be a bit less lazy this morning with an 11:00am rising. I joined The Masseuse at a charming eatery in Boerum Hill (alas, for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of it) for lunch. I tanked up on a delicious mixed green salad followed by fresh gnocchi and baby spinach bathed in an orgasmic mushroom sauce. It was spectacular. So good, in fact, that right now I have the fingers on my right hand bent inward near my mouth while I'm making that "MWAH!" lip-smacking noise.

We decided we needed coffee to finish off the meal so on a whim, we walked over to Gorilla Coffee in Park Slope. That coffee is like all ethical and stuff but I'm mostly taken with its robust flavor and potent buzz-inducing properties. In fact, it's now hours later and I'm still riding out the caffeine wave. HOO-WAH.

The weather was far too glorious to sit inside so we decided to guzzle our beverages while walking. We soon found ourselves at the entrance to Prospect Park. This is where, in the agreeable weather months, I can be found huffing and puffing aboard the Kick-Ass K-mart Bike.

My exposure to the park thus far has mostly been atop a bicycle or in a plastic folding seat at the park's famed bandshell (I once sat in the pouring rain to see The Saw Doctors. Show = good. Resulting soggy wet ass = bad.) I'm excited because I found a whole new area today with lush, rolling green hills and winding walking paths. If you'll allow me to gush for a moment, this park really is a marvel of nature and architecture smack dab in the middle of Brooklyn. Swoon...

As I've stated here before, The Masseuse is a wonderful and positive force in my life. But she's like the biggest enabler ever when it comes to supporting my spending habit. And that makes me love her more. I can rationalize most purchases without guilt anyway but she's truly like the little red devil on my shoulder influencing my choices. "Buy it!" "Great color!" "That will look fabulous on you!" "I can totally see you in that!" were among her exclamations as my fingers merely grazed the cotton on a cute red ringer tee at Brooklyn Industries. Um, so I bought it.

While I was there, I also purchased yet another cute messenger bag. I am like the Imelda Marcos of bags and satchels. Honestly, they are falling out of my closet and there's no room for any more in the tiny wee studio I call home but I cannot stop myself. I'm a total sucker for things with pouches, zippers, buckles and snaps.

The Masseuse is equally smitten with these accessories. While we were each trying to pick out our desired color, we held a mini-seminar on what makes a bag desirable (the aforementioned handy pouches, complementary color schemes and durability) and why Velcro closures are deal-breakers (too noisy). I would also like to add that the Velcro can get all linty and lose some of its stickiness. In other words, your bag won't close securely and that, my friends, means open season on your valuables for public transportation ne'er-do-wells or, even worse, an ill-timed tampon spill. Um, not that there's ever a well-timed tampon spill, but you know what I mean...

But, once again, I digress. So, I managed to get my fiending self under control and pick out a small, practical bag (with two zippered pouches and a plastic snappy closing thing). As I was paying for my stuff, I was floored when the cashier slid my purchases into a funky orange hybrid fabric/paper bag (it was almost like a hospital smock material) instead of some chintzy plastic shopping one.

"Oooh! What a cool bag!" I squealed.

"Yes, we give these out for purchases over $50," the cashier replied.

"So you're giving me a free bag in part because I'm already buying one?"

"Yup!"

"Oh my God, I think my head is going to explode!"

I practically skipped out of the store. Now, it does have a Velcro closure, but methinks in this case I can suck it up and deal.

extermination alternatives

So just a short while ago I was drinking a Rolling Rock here at home while packing my bags so that I can head out to Jersey early tomorrow morning for The Adorable Four-Year-Old Niece's birthday party. That mammajamma starts at the ungodly hour of noon. This means I need to roller skate AND take pictures of little kids long before the hour of the day when I start becoming productive -- roughly 4:00PM EST. What was my sister thinking?!?!

Anyhoo, I waltzed into the bathroom to collect my toiletries only to find a big ass water bug camped out on my shower curtain.

The outside of the shower curtain.

Mere inches from me.

Now, I'm not much of a screamer. My voice is more on the husky side so I'm physically incapable of letting out a high-pitched girly squeal. So at the sight of that wee fucker, I emitted my usual throaty "WOOOH-AHH" gross-out noise and then several very guttural gasps (yay, asthma!).

In that moment, I was lacking my trusty can of Raid and clad only in my stocking feet so I was rather helpless. I was also rudderless with no immediate game plan. All I could do was gasp and panic, gasp and panic. I did not dare leave the bathroom to get my battle gear for fear that the water bug would disappear and resurface again later in the evening to terrorize me further.

So I relied on my no-longer-very-nimble mind and hatched the best plan I could under the circumstances... I threw beer at the bug. Not the entire bottle, mind you, but I did give it a good dousing. Please note that I don't normally cart my beer into the can with me but the bottle was in my hand while I was packing (still, someone has a wee problem, methinks). I wouldn't normally waste good suds on such things but this brand was affordably priced and, again, I was caught off guard. So I channeled my inner MacGyver and improvised a rather ferocious torrent of the Latrobe Brewing Company's finest in the direction of that manky bug.

Perhaps the bug is a Pioneer or, conversely, a total beer snob because he didn't hang around to lap it up. Instead, he scurried down the curtain and jumped onto the floor and hid behind the garbage can. So I kicked the can a few times in between gasps and WOOO-AHH noises.

The bug then tried to take cover under my fuzzy bath mat. But! I was somehow able to pin him to the ground with the bottom of the Rolling Rock bottle and extend my freakishly long arm behind the toilet to grab the first cleaning product I could reach. My thinking at the time was this: Rolling Rock would have more of a time-release effect so I need something a bit more fast acting.

In case you're wondering, Clorox Toilet Bowl Cleaner with Bleach is an effective way to simultaneously stun and smother vermin. Pass it on.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need a fresh beer and have some mopping up to do...