i used to be by the window, where I could see the squirrels and they were merry

I've found in the 10 odd years that I've been working in corporate America that the best way for management to look busy and effective is to inconvenience their underlings. Boring, senseless meetings are scheduled in Outlook on a weekly basis even though nothing is ever accomplished in those gatherings other than annoying the attendees and the poor admin who had to arrange the thing on behalf of the organizer. Productivity is measured by pissed-off expressions it seems. The more annoyed people look, the harder management is working. It's all very Costanza-esque.

The office move is another tactic brand new management likes to unleash to make its mark in an established department. By moving people hither and yon, the powers-that-be look effective and definitive and powerful. Flowcharts and floor plans are the weapons of choice. Their executive assistants know VISIO and they are not afraid to use it. Mark.their.words.

So, if you couldn't tell already, I fell victim to a reshuffling of sorts at my job. Long story short, I no longer have an office. It wasn't a demotion, mind you, but I along with a few others in the creative department (read: non-revenue generating employees) are back to the 1-1/2 fabric wall arrangement. Gone is my closeable door and that highfalutin sheetrock I had grown so accustomed to. Sigh.

Yesterday was my first day in a cubicle. To say that the new feng shui didn't agree with me would be an understatement. With a little help from Meg, I started a little list of ways to revolt. Passive-aggressively, of course, 'cause that's how I roll...

1) Display symptoms of a permanent cold or infection of sorts that leads to lots of coughing, sneezing, nose blowing, etc.

2) Eat lunches at my desk that smell like farts, i.e. Hale and Hearty's Cauliflower Cheddar Soup.

3) Listen to music loudly and sing along, in particular the orgasmic wailing parts of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" and the "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" portion of Rage Against the Machine's "Killing In The Name."

4) Use speakerphone always and often.

5) Call my gyno and talk about oozing sores, rashes and bumps.

6) Explain my BMs in excruciating detail to my gastro doctor.

7) Discuss the various fungi plaguing my nether regions and feet.

8) Ask my shrink if eating one's own dandruff is cause for concern.

9) Call my doctor to see if the results of my TB tests are in. Then say, "Oh."

10) Use my blog to solicit job offers. Seriously, hook me up.

More to come as my frustration levels rise.

they do know... they just don't care

In addition to brilliant writing, The Sheila Variations also boasts a band of regular commenters who excel at providing hilarious commentary. The tangents that often ensue are delightful. In fact, I was inspired to compose the following letter thanks to a wonderfully off-topic comment thread that began with talk of a deflated Santa and ended with a lyrical analysis of Band Aid's earnest yet erroneous "Do They Know It's Christmas?"

Please read the post and comments to see how that transpired. In the meantime, here's the byproduct of my hijacking. Enjoy.

Dear Messrs. Geldof and Ure:

Thank you for your noble famine relief efforts. On behalf of the African people, I would like to convey our appreciation for your selfless dedication and desire to "feed the world." Although, truthfully, as non-Christians we could do without the accompanying relentless proselytizing about Christmas but still, we are nevertheless indebted to your tireless humanitarian pursuits.

However, I do believe it is incumbent upon me to clear up some misconceptions you seem to hold towards our beautiful continent. Firstly, I dare say the agricultural industry would beg to differ with your statement that "nothing ever grows" in Africa. In fact, my garden alone sprouts enough weeds to choke an elephant.

Secondly, the good people of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia who were recently displaced by flooding would most certainly disagree with the notion that "no rain or rivers flow." That, kind sirs, is sloppy and irresponsible reporting on your part.

And, lastly, I think you do our bell makers a great disservice by describing the melodic and resonant tones of their craftsmanship as "clanging chimes of doom." While not one of our bread-and-butter industries, our bells and percussion instruments in general are no better nor worse than your own continent's. Frankly, we feel this is yet another case of xenophobia rearing its ugly -- and obviously tone-deaf -- head.

Again, we are grateful for the money you helped raise and we are most thankful for the prayers you solicited on our behalf. But, to reiterate, we really don't need reminders that "it's Christmastime again" as we don't really celebrate it. At this point, it has become nothing more than intolerant badgering and we are weighing our legal options.

But, in deference to your season of good will as well as our desire to not contribute to your alarming paranoia about living in "a world of dread and fear," we would like to avoid litigation if possible. Perhaps you can pen a follow-up single to retract some of the falsehoods about our climate and topography as well as your cruel and slanderous claims against African bells, of all things. I'm certain the members of Bananarama, Ultravox and Spandau Ballet, in particular, would jump at the chance to help right these wrongs.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Nala Simba Mufasa
President, African Board of Tourism

Watch the video here.

leftovers

I'm sort of lacking in blog inspiration these days. I thought maybe I'd write a holiday weekend recap but when I sat down in front of ye olde PC, I realized that not much happened out of the ordinary. But I'll take a crack at summarizing it anyway.

Suffer.

Let's see, there was the usual talk of turkey carcasses and then the subsequent simultaneous gagging/shushing of everyone who dared utter that word by moi, the lone vegetarian in the McDimple clan.

There was a James Bond marathon on cable and, of course, my father had it on all day. He simply cannot pass up a Bond movie, even though he thinks that any Bond other than Sean Connery is a right pussy. When I mentioned that Daniel Craig is getting favorable reviews, I was met with a haughty, "Ach! He canny even swim! Sean Connery did all his own stunts!" My father is rocking a serious boy crush on Sean in conjunction with his usual, "If it's not Scottish, it's CRRRRRAP!" mentality, you see.

On Friday, I watched Jaws with The Adorable Six-Year Old Niece. Lest you be concerned about her mental and emotional well-being after watching this scary film, you have nothing to fear. She's a hearty sort and not easily frightened. Actually, no, that's not true. She has a very specific set of fears but none of which involve a mechanical shark devouring Robert Shaw. However, don't go near her with this game. The face on that guy freaks her out. Between you and me, I was glad to see that toy get the heave-ho as I wasn't too keen on the idea of sticking my hand in the dude's cranial cavity. Ew, I said cavity.

Anyhoo, the niece got through the movie like a champ. Me? Not so much. My Equally Adorable One-Year-Old Nephew climbed up on me for a nap while we were watching it and during one scary scene, I totally jumped and nearly flung the boy clear across the room. And I've seen the movie countless times! The niece, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. Her reaction to the film? Anger. She was pissed that the shark (spoiler alert for anyone who's been living in a cave for the past 30 years) got bumped off at the end. Judging by her serious scowl, knit eyebrows and impassioned tone, she cares quite deeply for the species. I informed her that Jaws got his (her?) revenge several more times in a series of crappy sequels. Oh man, don't even get me started on Jaws 3-D...

The niece and I spent a good deal of time together drawing and coloring pictures. I went down to the basement to find some more crayons for her and I came across a beloved game from my childhood: Strolling Bowling.

Basically, you set up a little bowling alley and then you wind up the wee sneaker-clad ball and it hops down the lane in search of pins. Hours of fun, I tell you, particularly when you eschew the hopping part and just throw it like a real bowling ball. The niece squealed with delight whenever we broke the rules which was uh, all the time. If I may paraphrase Charles Barkley (because I'm too lazy and disinterested to Google the official quote), I never said I was a role model.

On Saturday, I put up my parents' Christmas tree. Yes, I know it's early but I don't feel like going back out there before Christmas to do it. December weekends are a precious commodity and I'm loathe to part with them. Now you might be asking yourself, "Why don't Curly's parents put up their own tree?" The answer is simple, really: My father is a decorating retard.

I love him but the man would be wise to step away from the tchatkes. Yet, despite his obvious inadequacy in this area, he is persistent in trying year after year. So, I've learned to relent and leave some of the trimming to his [in]discretion... often to comical results. Or, as I said a few years back, "When it comes to illuminated ceramics, the man knows no restraint."

So, as a favor to my mother, I assemble the very life-like fake tree and tastefully adorn it with beads, bows and Hallmark Keepsake Ornaments. The rest of the family has learned the painful way to just leave me be when I'm in decorating mode. I used to slap hands, tsk, sigh and eventually chase everyone out of the room because I felt like they were compromising the integrity of my design. Yeah, those movies and television shows that show happy families trimming the tree while singing carols and sipping eggnog? Complete and utter bullshit. If you want to portray the holiday rituals and traditions honestly, there needs to be impatience, frayed nerves and at least one person storming off in a huff. Otherwise, it's a complete sham.

Speaking of the holidays, I'm about to embark on a series of reviews/recaps of Christmas specials and movies. I'm telling you this now so that I don't slack off. I haven't exactly been motivated or consistent with updating the blog lately in case you haven't noticed. Anyhoo, if you'd like a somewhat relevant appetizer to tide you over, kindly check out The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project: Holiday Edition.

'cause we care and crap

In lieu of birthday drinks this year, I decided to shed some of the self-absorption and selfishness I acquired in the last year by inviting friends and family to join me in volunteering on New York Cares Day.

On Saturday, The Lovely Jess, A Lover and a Fighter, Azee, The Younger Sister, Steph and Amy joined me in sprucing up a high school on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

We scrubbed graffiti and the odd bit of spunk off walls and desks, cleaned classrooms and painted doorways, trim and radiator covers, among other things. We scarfed down Munchkins (which I picked up along with the thirst-quenching coffee for the questionably-dressed panhandler), BS'd like there was no tomorrow and had an all-around awesome time in the process.

Cleaning ourselves up afterwards was a bit of a bitch, as you can see by Jess's nails. We tackled the stubborn paint with a one-two combo of slimy gunk supplied by the custodian and a big ol' jug of paint thinner. Many manicures were scheduled on Saturday, I assure you.

By 3:00, we were good and high on paint fumes and quite giddy as a result. While cleaning up in the slop sink, I was quite taken with the noisy faucet. Its whiny, whistling shriek seemed familiar to me. And then I had my turpentine-fueled epiphany: "Hey, that sounds like Rudolph's nose."

Everyone agreed. And we laughed like it was the.funniest.thing.in.the.world. At least I did. Forget bong hits, if you want a real high, spend some quality time with oil-based paint and little-to-no ventilation.

New York Cares is a great organization. For you locals in need of something meaningful to do with your free time, I highly recommend giving this group a whirl.

I want to thank everyone who came with me on Saturday and all of you who sponsored my time with a nice donation. I really appreciate it. See you next year.

fuck the cup. pour it in my hand for a dime.

The scene: Outside of Dunkin' Donuts on Saturday at 8:30am. I am approached by a surprisingly well-dressed panhandler.

"Excuse me, miss! Would you mind buying me a cup of coffee? I am soooooooooo thirsty."

I momentarily pondered her snazzy leather jacket and her odd choice of thirst-quencher but figured a) scam or no, the two bucks won't kill me and b) whatever wets her whistle is really not my concern. So I agreed.

"Sure, how do you want it?" I asked.

"Uh, you know, in a container."

Kinda makes you wonder how she's received her coffee in the past, don't it?

on altruism and inadvertent anti-piracy measures

Picture it: The corner of Sixth Avenue and 23rd Street on a Friday evening. I had just surfaced from a short hop on the F train from Rockefeller Center and was waiting to cross the avenue teeming with rush hour traffic.

Over my shoulder, a soft voice asked a question: "Miss, when the light changes, can you help me get across?"

I turned around to see a blind elderly man facing in my direction with an expectant expression on his face.

I responded with a cheerful, "Certainly!"

"Thank you, miss. Would you mind if I held on to your arm?"

"No, not at all," I assured him as I offered my bent left appendage.

"Oh, thank you so much, miss."

"No problem. Ready? Here we go."

As we crossed the busy boulevard, people parted like the Red Sea and made way for the blind man with his cane bobbing from side to side and little ol' me cautiously leading him across.

Some people nodded at us. Others just did their best to not be that person, the one who bumps into the blind man.

I smiled as I once again found myself once again embroiled in a quintessential New York moment. Living in a walking city exposes you to insanity, offensive smells, piles of garbage and other unsightly things, not to mention the occasional bout of foot suckage, but it also gives you the opportunity to connect, however briefly, with someone outside your usual social set. For some, that's a turn-off. For me, I throw my arms around the opportunity and hug it to death. Um, except where my feet and unwanted advances toward them are concerned.

Despite my seemingly selfless act, there was a certain cockiness to my stride. I knew people were observing this display of man helping fellow man and just eating that shit up. And I won't lie to you... I really thought I was hot shit. I joined the ranks of those admiring my good deed and strutted across Sixth Avenue with a shocking amount of hubris. I rocked my halo with equal parts pride and "Gawd, I'm sweet!" arrogance.

However, my moments of grandeur and self-importance never last long. Not by choice, mind you. Instant karma does indeed get me. Right quick, in fact.

No sooner had I said, "Okay, we're coming up to the curb. Watch your step!" than the man barreled right into a display of bootlegged DVDs inconveniently situated on the busy corner of 23rd and Sixth. He then proceeded to stumble and stagger sending copies of Little Miss Sunshine and Open Season skidding across the pavement. He plowed through that pile of pirated movies like he was Jesus driving the money changers out of the temple.

I tried to regain control but he continued to stomp and smash everything in his path while saying, "Sorry! My fault! Pardon me! Oops! Sorry!" I was horrified by the bedlam that I helped cause. I echoed his rushed, sheepish apologies and then finally got a good grip on his arm and steered him away from the carnage. I offered him an embarrassed, "Sorry about that!" and then pointed him in his desired direction before hauling ass down 23rd Street. Awwwwwwwwwkward!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a generous donation to Guide Dogs for the Blind as a means of doing penance for my "good deed"...

i'm a fan of chucking puppies myself...

Um, I know I shouldn't find this the least bit funny but dammit, I cannot stop giggling...

Twenty-seven-year-old Chytoria Graham of Erie, Pennsylvania was pissed at her boyfriend. Instead of whacking him with a cast iron frying pan or his golf clubs or something reasonable like that, however, she picked up her four-week-old baby boy by the legs and swung the infant through the air, hitting the boyfriend with the baby's head. (via BloggingBaby)

I'm sick and wrong, I know. However, if you picture that scene in claymation? Well, it's a hoot.

Update: Mejack and I discuss the physics of baby tossing...

Yours Truly: I'm picturing the baby being held by the feet and thrown like a hammer in track & field.

Mejack: See, I'm picturing holding the baby by its feet and doing like an airplane and swinging it around.

YT: I think you might get more distance if you toss with the feet. The head will provide some weight and carry it. And also, lofting it upwards by the feet will give you more air and better velocity.

YT: You know, so I've heard...

Fear not, we're both off to say a good Act of Contrition right now.

reliable sources

Overheard on the smoking deck of Cattyshack...

Whitney: There's a large Czech population in Houston.

Yours Truly: Really? I did not know that.

Whitney: Oh yeah. A large Vietnamese population as well.

YT: Isn't there a large Indian population there too?

Whitney: Native American Indians?

YT: No, Asian Indians.

Whitney: Hmmm... could be but I'm not sure.

YT: Eh, what do I know? I'm basing this assumption entirely on one episode of My Super Sweet 16...

Such an intellect, aren't I?

ratify this!

Wherein any individual found guilty of murder, aggravated assault and/or arson shall be granted immediate clemency if the alleged perpetrator's deeds were carried out in response to a persistent, annoying and loud ringtone. Furthermore, the victim, unless deceased, will serve a sentence of no less than 20 years in solitary confinement where he/she will be subject to an unending rotation of midi files, including but not limited to, the "William Tell Overture," "La Cucaracha" and the Sanford & Son theme song.

All in favor, say "Aye!" All opposed? Eat shit.

subway sightings

Observed on the Brooklyn-bound F train yesterday:

1) A man picking his nose in my direction with a wild-eyed expression and a very belligerent digging style. His boogers meant business, apparently.

2) The same man then asked the guy next to him to watch his bag while he went between subway cars to either a) urinate, b) throw up, c) jerk off or d) quite possibly all of the above.

3) A man adorned in a king's costume complete with purple velvet cape, a bejeweled gold crown and a snazzy scepter just chillin' and staring out the window.

4) A woman thumbing through photos she had just picked up at CVS. Taken on actual film. With, you know, a 35mm camera.

What does it say about me that of the four scenarios, the last was the only one that elicited a modicum of shock? Getting film developed? I mean, who does that?

rod 'the bod' and god side-by-side on the r train

Every now and then, I encounter the same busker in the last car of the downtown R train. As I step onboard, she's usually about a verse or two into a very slow and soulful rendition of "Always and Forever." I hate that song but I love how she wraps her voice around it. Each note starts out with a pleasant nasally tone and is finished off with a delightful rasp. Her voice is ragged and worn. There's a lot of mileage on it. She has indeed lived a life.

She's elderly and blind but she still glides through the subway car with the greatest of ease relying on her cane and years of experience negotiating the different subway cars. She doesn't stumble or bump into people. Crowds part to let her through. She's respected and beloved. I've seen this same respect paid to the blind accordion player and a few doo-wop and five-part harmony groups that barrel through the busy trains interrupting conversations, naps and novels.

If someone is talented and/or not screaming about Jesus and urging us to repent, we don't tsk and sigh over the intrusion. Good schtick garners patience, polite smiles, outstretched money-bearing hands and unfettered access to the next car where the performer can charm the pants off the awaiting group of grizzled locals and bright-eyed tourists.

I saw the blind busker again on Wednesday night. As usual, she shuffled through the car singing, shaking her paper coffee cup and offering thanks each time she heard the clink of change deposited in it. And as usual, I took my seat, opened up my paper and drifted off into the day's Daily News headlines with her song serving as the bed music to my nightly ritual.

She finished up "Always and Forever" and segued into the next song. It was a new one, for me at least, in her repertoire. Normally I don't notice the transitions in her medleys but her choice of song and her placement of her words of thanks that night made me lower my newspaper and observe with undivided attention and an appreciative smile:

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy
(Thank you. God bless you!)
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
(God bless you!)
Come on, honey, tell me so

She was far out of my reach at that point but I'm totally giving her a twenty the next time I see her.

are you there god? it's me, curly

M E M O R A N D U M

To: Mother Nature

CC: God (The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit), Allah, Buddha, Shiva, George Burns

From: Curly McDimple

Date: 08.25.2006

Re: Optional Menstruation
_____________________________________________________________

As a female who is opting not to have children through vaginal birth or caesarian section, I would like to formally lodge a complaint against the presence of my menstrual cycle. It is a frivolous and needless monthly exercise and I urge you to reconsider its inclusion in my anatomy. Oh, and cellulite too as it's not doing me any favors either.

As I explained to "my friend" in an earlier bit of correspondence, I do think that under the right circumstances, menses is a noble process in that it paves the way for babies to reside in the uterus. However, I do not believe it should be a "factory-installed" feature.

Consider this: If I were buying a stove, I can opt not to purchase a model with the self-cleaning mechanism. If the likes of Best Buy can offer me freedom of choice, certainly you can too, Mother Nature.

As it stands, your current policy makes the assumption that all women want to reproduce. Now, I don't mean to lecture you, Mother Nature, but you know what happens when you assume, don't you? In this particular case, it creates a legion of cramped, bloated and irritable (childless) females hell-bent on making you pay for their misery, in addition to the whole making asses out of you and me business.

While males historically have been responsible for destroying some of your more well-received handiwork, i.e. the fouling of pristine Alaskan coastline in the Exxon-Valdez oil spill, I dare say the man behind this tragic error was drinking on the job in part to eradicate the pain from the blow to the head he received the night before from his rolling pin-toting, PMS-stricken spouse. That's just conjecture on my part but still, I think it's worthy of your consideration.

While I have the floor, here are some other bodily systems/functions I think you should consider making optional and/or on-demand:

:: Body hair
:: Ear wax
:: Phlegm
:: Flatulence
:: Diarrhea

Since humans spend millions in pharmacies each year on products to control/reduce/rid ourselves of these often-embarrassing extras, perhaps you should consider this a unanimous rejection of them. I, for one, do not rely on armpit hair for an additional layer of protection against the cold so why bother regrowing it after I shave it off for the umpteenth time? Save yourself the trouble (and me the expense of Gillette Venus Divine blades. They're pricey!)

I realize this request is a tall order but I propose speeding up the process of natural selection as a work-around until the Menstrual On/Off Switch™ is developed, tested and introduced into the species. Another interim possibility is a massive uterus donation drive. I'll gladly sign mine over to a barren woman. Seriously, take my healthy ovaries, please.

Thank you for your time.

my way gay tale of even gayer gayness

I survived my first-ever WYSIWYG Talent Show! I stressed out majorly before going on but I really had a great time up on that stage. I think my story went over well. Um, I also think that there's a whole new crop of people out there who think I'm a complete bitch based on my scathing critique of dates gone bad, but hey, them's the breaks. People are bound to find out sooner or later that I'm a real asswipe, no?

A big thank you to Chris, Andy and Dan for allowing me to get my WYSIWYG on. It was an honor and a pleasure to share the spotlight with Rod Townsend, The Spinster, Greg Walloch, dj:ayden, Joe.My.God and Joel Derfner. What illustrious company I keep!!! Thank you so much for the opportunity. You were all amazing!

For those of you who couldn't make it, here's the piece I read last night:

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sometime last year, my fellow WYSIWYGer tonight, Joe.My.God, sent an email to a bunch of us homo bloggers and posed the question: What is the gayest thing you've ever done?

I thought it would be easy enough to answer. After all, I'm one of The Homosexuals and therefore can easily rattle off a list of things that make me a big ol' lez.

For one, there's the whole aversion to cock thing. Secondly... actually, wait... I guess that right there makes it an open and shut case, no? I don't like dick. Simple.

But believe you me, there are a litany of ways in which I earn my Sapphic stripes so I felt like I was more than up to Joe.My.God's challenge... until I started trying to write about it. As I sifted through my memories trying to find something that demonstrated my over-the-top dykedom, I couldn't find shit. I had not a single, salacious story to share so I just ended up slapping together some lame nonsense about the overly-schmoopie things my ex-girlfriend and I used to do for each other.

For example, she wrote me tons of free-verse poetry and gave me lots of dolphin brick-a-brack and in exchange, I adopted us a whale and made her dozens of mix tapes which, in retrospect, were quite heavy on the 10,000 Maniacs. Now, that might seem like an odd and incongruous musical choice but it was a two-pronged approach really. I felt like I could not only woo this girl with some of Natalie Merchant's more syrupy lyrics, but I could also raise her level of awareness of things like child abuse, illiteracy, corporate greed, the Great Depression, teenage pregnancy, freedom of choice and oil spills.

But, as I fully expected, my less-than-tawdry tale barely ranked as queer next to some of the others in Joe's compilation. And I'm not sure how my account tonight will stack up on the Way Gay meter so, instead of trying to outgay anyone, I'm opting instead to stick with what I know best -- making fun of people.

So, without further ado...

I went out with a woman last year and how do I put this delicately? I banged her on the second date. A day or two later, after said banging, I received an email from her that went a little something like this:

Curly,
I just wanted to thank you for the other night. It was wonderful spending time with you... and making love with you. You are a gifted and amazing lover.

OH.MY.GOD. I wasn't even that freaked out by the level of intimacy she had assumed about us. No. No. I was more concerned that I had just fucked someone who actually used the term "making love" in all seriousness. As well as the word "lover." Without irony. Or a funny accent.

Now lest you think I'm an ingrate, I must say that I appreciate a nice thank you note as much as the next person but well, in this case it's a bit unnecessary. The screaming orgasms -- note the plural -- and the scratch marks down my back were all the thanks I needed, really.

About two years ago, while perusing the online personals, I came across an intriguing profile. I was immediately taken with her cool name. It was the same name as a rather crunchy city in Arizona, which I just assumed was where she was born or conceived or something. Actually, I had envisioned quite the back story for this woman based solely on this name. I theorized that her parents were hippy-dippy academics and she was their free-spirited daughter who favored peasant blouses, flowing skirts and bare feet and probably always had a good stash of weed on hand.

We hit it off over email and agreed to a date. I was really looking forward to meeting her. I arrived first and nervously waited for the beautiful hippie of my imagination to appear. I was all atwitter over the possibilities.

A few minutes later, in bounds a woman with stringy brown hair, pale, dull skin and the same build and carriage as Jar Jar Binks.

When she thrust out a bony hand and introduced herself to me, my heart which was so puffed up with hope and expectation deflated and shot around the room like an unsealed balloon.

Instead of the envisioned bare feet and a flowing skirt, she was wearing lug-soled shoes that were far too large and clunky for the tapered-ankle high-waisted Mom jeans she was wearing. And in place of the delicate peasant blouse was a thick black Champion sweatshirt. Actually, I could tell it used to be black but by now, it was more of a charcoal gray because of age and repeated exposure to detergent.

And there was no killer weed to be found on this girl. The only type of drug paraphernalia on her was an EpiPen. Turns out, this chick was allergic to her own snot. And her allergies were so bad, she couldn't risk eating or drinking anything that she didn't prepare herself so she brought a small cooler bag containing quite the nut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free assortment. Oh, and some orange shit in a Poland Spring bottle that I didn't even want to know about. And then she offered me some of her hypoallergenic stash with the same ease and expectation as if she was offering me an Altoid.

The outlook was not good but I held out hope for some stimulating conversation. I don't know what I was thinking. There was a better chance of monkeys flying out both our butts. Actually, that's probably not the best choice of expression because knowing her allergies, monkeys flying out the butt was probably a side effect she suffered as a result of eating, I don't know... soy or something.

So, needless to say that stimulating conversation never quite materialized. Instead, she spent most of the time talking about her various reactions in gruesome and excruciating detail as well as the life-saving benefits and properties of epinephrine. Um, in case you were wondering, talking about anaphylaxis on a first date? Soooooooooo NOT hot.

But her name still interested me so once I got her to stop yapping about her freakish swelling and violent vomiting spells, I inquired about its origin. It turns out that after one visit to, uh... for the sake of protecting her identity, we'll call it... uh, I don't know, Flagstaff... she decided that she liked the "energy fields" and the "unique aura." So much so that she needed to rechristen herself... Flagstaff.

Now, I don't know about the rest of you but when I really like a place I visit, I just buy myself a nice magnet or a coffee cup or something. Granted, I realize I don't have much sway in arguing against renaming oneself as I stand before you as Curly McDimple (not my real name) but then again, I'm not demanding that family, friends, coworkers and random people I meet on Nerve address me as such. Uh, just you guys here.

And the thing is, Flagstaff's real name was, like, Elizabeth or whatever. And well, the whole thing is just silly especially when you consider that there's a perfectly good city bearing her Christian name right across the Hudson over here. I mean, one could argue that Elizabeth, New Jersey also possesses "energy fields" and a "unique aura." Sure, the "energy fields" will most likely give you inoperable cancer and that "unique aura" possesses a smell that's akin to a dirty diaper hitting you in the face shit-side up, but still, Elizabeth's not without its charms.

I didn't always rely on online dating. When I first came out, I tried to meet people the old-fashioned way. I enlisted the help of my dear friend from high school, Filomena. Unfortunately, I think she took the whole "old-fashioned" thing a little too literally. In one of my first ventures out into the scene, she took me to a dance... sponsored by SAGE.

For you breeders in the audience, that acronym stands for Senior Action in a Gay Environment. In other words, it's for old people. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but massive amounts of gratitude and respect for our elder statesmen. I just don't necessarily want to slow dance to "Always and Forever" with them.

And while I really appreciated Filomena's efforts, it was just a bit much for my first time out. Seriously, we were there not five minutes before a woman closely resembling Leather Tuscadero hit on me. And then right after that, Donna Summer's English-version remake of that Andrea Bocelli song blared from the sound system much to the delight of the aging throngs and it suddenly turned into motherfucking Soul Train in there. I saw one old lady using her walking stick as a go-go pole of sorts and a bunch of old biddies engaged in some hard-core bumping and grinding and I got all overwhelmed and started to cry right there in the middle of the dance floor. So we left.

But Filomena was trying to be supportive and didn't want the night to be a total wash so she suggested that we go to Rubyfruit but then she couldn't remember where it was and I had never been there so I was of no use, so after wandering around the West Village aimlessly for a bit, we just went home. In retrospect, it was a good thing because I've since been to Rubyfruit and the clientele is not that much younger than at a SAGE dance. In fact, there's a lot of demographic overlap.

I finally braved Rubyfruit about a year or two ago and it looked like a fucking softball clinic in there. One woman gestured to me and I wasn't clear if she wanted me to dance with her or lay down a nice bunt. Had we gone there that night after the dance, I would have been permanently scarred. Primarily because a lot of the women in there looked like Ms. Neuschwander, our scary freshman-year gym teacher who favored polo shirts tucked into pleated, khaki shorts and was prone to slapping young girls on the ass as they got on and off the pommel horse.

So, after all my name-calling and ridiculing is said and done, it should perhaps come as no surprise to you that yes, I'm still single. Yup, I'm available and ripe for the picking, ladies. Not sure that's an enticing proposition because by now you might be thinking I'm judgmental, a bit immature, a tad obnoxious, slightly shallow perhaps, emotionally stunted even. And to that I say... uh, well, nothing, because you're right.

But hey, I'm not without merit entirely. My time is up so I can't go into my finer points at length. But allow me to leave you all with these four words: GIFTED AND AMAZING LOVER.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Thanks to everyone who came out to support me. Last night was a whirlwind so if I didn't get to properly thank you face-to-face, I promise I will do so. Extra special thanks to The Lovely Jess who served as therapist, cheerleader, wardrobe consultant, personal manager and so much more. You're the best. Thank you.

debunking the myth about marcie's sexuality

More than one person has found his/her way to Ham & Cheese on Wry by questioning the nature of the relationship between one miss Peppermint Patty and her bespectacled buddy, Marcie.

Because I'm one of the gays and, you know, we all know each other, I can say without equivocation that no, Marcie is not a sister. It chagrins me to do so since, clearly, the recruitment efforts of another lesbian (hello, Peppermint Patty) were less-than-successful. But fear not, fellow dykes, at last check, Patty had surrendered her decoder ring and the secret handshake was changed so that she is no longer in-the-know. We can't have that kind of piss-poor lesbian in our midst at the monthly meetings, you see.

But back to Marcie... Total breeder. A breeder with jungle fever, no less. Girlfriend's totally got it bad for Franklin. And didn't she and Pierre partake in a little sumpin' sumpin' on that trip to France? Or am I mistaken? That Marcie gets around, yo. Not too shabby for a girl with Coke-bottle glasses and stringy hair.

Perhaps Marcie had a drunken one-time fling with Patty, but that's about it. If I had to guess, I'd say that dalliance occurred during the river rafting trip. Lesbian camping skills are a complete turn-on, after all.

If you want to discuss raging dykes within the Peanuts set, I'd say to look no further than The Little Red-Haired Girl. She's completely dismissive of Charlie Brown's advances. Downright hostile, you could say. I mean, I realize Charlie Brown could send Ann Coulter running into the loving arms of Condoleezza, but that's neither here or there. Besides, Condi's probably already hit that. Awwwwwwwwwww snap! Take down! Two points!

Ahem. The Little Red-Haired Girl is a complete closet case, if you ask me. But she'll soon discover her true self. It won't be long before she's the one calling Peppermint Patty "Sir," if you catch my meaning.

Psst, it means that Peppermint Patty is a stone butch. A total top, if you will.

Ew, you do NOT want to know what I just visualized. :: shudder ::

Photo: Peanuts

on why the newspaper guy must think i'm a complete asshole

Every morning on my way to work I buy a paper at a newsstand located on the Manhattan-bound 4/5 train platform at Borough Hall. The proprietor of the stand greets me every day with a, "Hello, my friend!"

I adore him. He has the best smile -- dazzling white teeth and just the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. His eyes twinkle with every grin. I look forward to my daily hello along with my copy of the Daily News.

Occasionally he gets forgetful and says to me, "Long time, no see, my friend!" Mind you, he had just greeted me like a lifelong buddy the day before. But no bigs. I don't take it personally. Perhaps I have one of those morphing faces where I look different from day-to-day? Or maybe he just has that many customers where he can't possibly keep track of all of us? To the latter I say, awesome! He works hard and deserves to have a bustling business.

But today I feel bad. Our exchange went a bit awry, you see. He went beyond the usual "Hello, my friend" and chatted a bit while handing me my change. Slightly jarred by the change in our routine and partially deaf due to the din of the subway station, I thought he said, "Yesterday's weather was very, very nice!" So I cheerfully replied, "I know! SOOOOO nice!"

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. I didn't understand his reaction but whatevs, who has time to quibble over such things? I wished him a good day and walked over towards the 2/3 platform.

Just as I was about to step on the train, my knees locked and I gasped. I was frozen in a moment of horror and mortification as his thickly-accented words echoed in my head with brand new clarity: "Your dress today is very, very nice!"

Clearly, my foggy, pre-caffeinated mind was operating on a 60-second logic delay. That is SO NOT what I heard during our encounter. Oh.my.God. His perplexed response made so much sense now. Oh.my.God. After he complimented me, I totally said, "I know! SOOOOO nice!" Oh.my.God. What must he think of me?!?!

Well, for one, he must think I'm a complete beaver. An immodest, stuck-up beaver, at that. Oh, the shame! I swear, I'm not a complete beaver! Only a partial one! And that behavior is usually tied to hormonal changes anyway! I'm usually very gracious and well-mannered!

What to do in a case like this? I guess I'll just have to swallow my shame. I can't very well go up to him tomorrow morning and say, "Hey, remember when you complimented my outfit yesterday and you thought I acted like a right cunt? Well, it turns out that my seemingly inappropriate response was due to the fact that I didn't understand you because of your REALLY heavy accent..."

I'll look like an even bigger asshole. And it just won't fly. I have to leave it alone. It's like thinking up a devastating comeback hours after being paid a nasty insult. If you don't issue the proper response within a few seconds, that window of opportunity is slammed and nailed shut forever. You cannot revisit it at a later time or date. You just can't.

Oooh, maybe there's a chance that newspaper guy will think today's snatch was his "Longtime, no see, my friend!" friend, not his daily, "Hello, my friend!" friend. I might be off the hook. Perhaps I can even plant the seed of mistaken identity with a well-executed, "Can you believe the nerve of that conceited asswipe yesterday? Some people have no couth." Desperate and sad, yes, but still, it's worth a shot.

a not-so-good friday

Despite its serious religious significance, Holy Week was a bit of a hoot back when I was in Catholic school. Well, the beginning of the week was at least. Like every other holiday, Easter came early at school. Construction paper crucifixes and papier mache bunnies were made, Easter eggs hidden and found, paper baskets woven and copious amounts of candy consumed despite the Lenten season and its intolerance of such indulgences.

We were dismissed early on Holy Thursday and given Good Friday off so that we could prepare ourselves for the biggest of big holy days -- Easter Sunday.

Everyone else at school looked forward to the long holiday weekend. I didn't care for the extra days off so much myself. See, every year, my mother gathered up her four girls and shuttled us off to church. Yes, while my friends were out playing and basking in the sunshine, my butt was in a hard wooden pew in a darkened church.

Holy Thursday services weren't all that bad though. They were really long but I kind of dug the whole oil and incense thing and all the Latin and the reenactment of the Last Supper. Watching the pastor of the church washing the feet of select members of the congregation -- my father included -- always struck me.

Of course, part of my curiosity was about the temperature of the water being poured on those people's bare feet and wondering if those people all remembered to clip their toenails before Mass. I also pondered if the priests discussed the state of their parishioners' feet at social gatherings.

"It looked like old So-and-So's feet haven't touched water since last Holy Thursday! Hardy har har!"

But then again, maybe there's a certain amount of confidentiality surrounding foot washing similar to the seal of Confession. Like, no matter how manky the feet or how atrocious the sin, the priest has to keep mum. Any religious scholars care to weigh in?

It was the Good Friday services that I really dreaded. Every year, I woke up with a sick feeling in my stomach hoping that my mother wouldn't make me go to church. It wasn't even because the Mass ate up a good chunk of my day or because of the REALLY long Gospel that we had to stand all the way through. My discomfort stemmed from one thing and one thing only -- the Veneration of the Cross.

In the latter part of the Mass, the priest stands in the front of the church with a big crucifix and invites the congregation to come forward to kiss or touch the cross. While I can't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday, I can remember exactly what the priest said during this part of the service:

"This is the wood of the cross on which was hung the savior of the world."

And then the congregation sang in response: "Come let us worship!"

Except me.

See, that's when my freak-out really kicked into high gear. I sooooooooooooo did not want to go and worship. My palms got all sweaty and my legs felt leaden and stiff. Kissing the cross was the last thing I wanted to do. I often considered touching it but I never saw anyone else do that and I didn't know how long I was supposed to touch it or where exactly. So kissed the cross, I did... and every year I walked back to my pew with a flaming red face and slightly skeeved out that I had just put my mouth on something where many others had been. It was even more embarrassing when some of the boys in my class were the altar servers. They'd smirk at me while I trudged forward in line waiting to pucker up. I wanted to flip them off in the worst way but even I'm not that irreverent.

I realize I wasn't supposed to be thinking of such things because, what was it that my mother said again? Oh right... Jesus died on that cross and his suffering was far greater than mine and I should be ashamed of myself for even being embarrassed and I should go say a good Act of Contrition for being so silly on such a solemn day.

My younger sister loathed the cross-kissing practice as much as I did. She too felt awkward and self-conscious and experienced similar smirks from her altar-serving classmates.

One year, she was the first of the McDimples in line to venerate the cross. In her haste to do a quick buss and bolt, she somehow made a really loud smooching noise with her lips. If she was in a cartoon panel, the dialogue bubble would have read: SMMMAAAAAAAAACK!

It was unreal! A wave of snickering and stifled laughter rolled backwards on the procession line starting with my older sister, then the second oldest, my two cousins and then finally, me. We were trying to be discreet but not doing a very good job of it. However, it did make me forgot about my cross-kissing panic. But, in my attempt to simultaneously kiss and conceal my swelling laughter, I banged my tooth on Jesus' foot, at which point I yelped, "OW!" and then realizing how loud it was, I gasped and then cupped my hand over my mouth, turned around and then proceeded to giggle all the way back to my seat.

A spectacle was made.

And my mother witnessed the whole thing. The ride home from church was NOT fun, let me tell you. But, she had the last laugh because as I recall, my basket was really light on the Cadbury Mini Eggs and pastel candy corn that year.

Have a Happy Easter and Passover! And try not to chip any teeth.

on the next rollergirl, honoring mr. mcdimple and the disputed history of the over-the-shoulder boulder holder

I spent Saturday afternoon at a roller rink with my soon-to-be six-year-old niece. It was, and I quote, "[her] best birthday party ever!" She's quite skilled on her rollerblades and was one of the few kids able to skate around without clutching an adult or the wall for dear life. In fact, the only time she was found on her rump was when one of the male skate guards came near her. Wee girlfriend totally took a dive so they could help her up! She's six and already has the damsel in distress thing going on. We are all fearful of her adolescence.

Saturday night was a big night for Mr. McDimple. My father was honored as Man of the Year by his Knights of Columbus council. A dinner was had, an engraved plaque was bestowed and an "Electric Slide" was slid. Mrs. McDimple still doesn't have the hang of it so I spent most of the time standing directly behind her gently nudging her in the proper direction. She is bound and determined to learn this dance even though it's way passe. I'm not really into line dancing but well, the McDimples had already consumed several pitchers of beer and we weren't too concerned with looking lame nor uniform. Um, that is until "The Cha Cha Slide" came on. That shit is too complicated for our fair-skinned, freckled asses. Hook us up with a "Stack of Barley" and we'll make short work of it. Ask us to "Charlie Brown now" and we fail miserably. What is that exactly anyway? If left to mine own devices, I would, like, act melancholy and try to kick a football and miss or something... which I'm certain is incorrect. Anyone? Anyone?

Oh and my Dad had to say a few words after he received his award. It turns out that when given a microphone, my father is the total vocal twin of Sean Connery. He could probably earn some extra scratch doing some looping or something. I'm going to help him work on his reel.

Yesterday afternoon, the Younger Sister, a friend and myself engaged in a rather insane conversation that involved us all affecting a severe case of mush mouth... 'cause speech impediments are all sorts of funny. Don't ask me how but I somehow escalated the conversation to me threatening to put someone's tits in a sling. Of course, it sounded more like "titsh in a shling."

And oh how we laughed. The Younger Sister suddenly stopped giggling as a thought dawned on her.

"What does that even mean? Tits in a sling?"

"I'm not sure. I might have made that up. It's usually 'ass in a sling,' isn't it? I got carried away. I don't know why I said tits."

"Wait, wasn't that the name of the inventor? Something Titsling?"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my Younger Sister actually believed the battle of Philippe DeBrassiere and Otto Titsling to be fact. Apparently, Beaches has a high credibility factor with the Younger Sister. You heard it here: CC Bloom speaks the truth, yo.

dairy share

As I meander through the streets of Brooklyn, I often see piles of books and what not left out on front stoops just waiting to be picked through by interested passers-by. I love this phenomenon. Why, just yesterday, I helped myself to a shrink-wrapped VHS copy of All That Jazz. Mind you, I think that movie is rather insane and Ben Vereen frightens me ever so slightly, but hey, free movie!

I don't mean to disparage the beloved Ben Vereen but I do find him creepy. And I just can't help it. Yes, he's a talented Tony winner but well, still creepy. And like, I know he was run over by that dude who writes all those sappy songs favored by the likes of Celine Dion and Josh Groban and he recovered quite nicely from the accident, but... still creepy.

I think maybe it's the combination of Bob Fosse choreography and Ben's enormous teeth that has me rattled so. What's going on there? Are they dentures? If so, get thee to a new dentist, Ben. Sorry, but you totally got rooked with your current set.

Ahem. Lost the plot for a second there. Ben's cosmetic dentistry was not my original point. Rather, I was discussing the generous nature and transmission of culture by my fellow Brooklynites. Given our literary history (for example, did you know that Truman Capote lived in Brooklyn Heights?), the free book thing doesn't surprise me. Random gifts of dairy, on the other hand? Well that's just a tad shocking. Pay particular attention to Dennis' comment. I cannot stop giggling. For me, it's a visual more delicious than, well, shredded cheddar cheese.

Mmmm... cheese.

via A Brooklyn Life

erin go a-cup bragh

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Because I made a promise to Roro (no Hoff on my site for several months in exchange for her hooking me up with my beloved hair schmutz), I will not fill this space with a hairy-chested Hibernian Hoff as I did last year. (Psst! Don't click on it if you're Roro... or easily squeamish.)

I had half a notion to create an animated gif with a shillelagh-toting Hoff step dancing alongside one Michael Flatley but again, I made a vow to keep this a Hoff-free zone for now and I must stick to it. Oh curse me and my promises!

So rather than assault you with The Hoff, I will instead tell you a story that dates back to seventh grade and really has nothing at all to do with this holiday. Deal.

I was 12 years old and attending a small Catholic school. Up until then I was blissfully unaware of the judgment surrounding anatomical assets, endowments, shortcomings and all other issues that would eventually eclipse my life and all future discussions through college and beyond.

In seventh grade, I was really petite, short in stature and with a shape, when upright, that was a perfect straight line. When standing, I resembled a T-square.

There were no bumps nor curves where some of my more buxom classmates had them. I was called "string bean" and "small fry" more than once. I didn't mind so much because I liked both string beans and French fries. Those were not offensive references. If anything, they just made me hungry.

My school uniform consisted of an ugly-as-sin plaid pleated skirt, a blue blouse with a Peter Pan collar, navy blue knee-high socks and in the cold weather months, a navy-blue sleeveless knit vest.

Soon the snow melted and the temperatures increased as did the awareness of our bodies. One by one, my friends shed their sweater vests. Through the somewhat sheer blue blouse, I could see the outline of bra straps and the bump of the clasp in the middle of their backs. My wee buds didn't really need support so I was not yet outfitted for a training bra. It didn't bother me in the slightest.

As the weeks went on, more and more sweater vests were removed to reveal the tell-tale marks of Maidenform, Playtex and the like on my female classmates. I was still unfazed.

And then discussions at lunch turned from sticker albums and Chinese jump ropes to bras and makeup and periods and boys -- all things that were foreign to me. Pretty soon, the girls and boys were making size comparisons and boasting about who they "went with" (kissed). I had nothing to contribute to the exchange of war stories and certainly, nothing to compare. My wee boobs didn't even poke through my shirt.

I was suddenly very aware of my tomboyish body and I felt like Adam and Eve did when they got all weird about being naked after eating the forbidden fruit. I felt ashamed and self-conscious about my lack of a bra. Gone was my blase attitude towards them. I now wanted one more than anything in the world... but I was too embarrassed to ask my mother.

I decided that no one would be any the wiser if I kept wearing my sweater vest. It was my fig leaf. It covered my shame because through its thick wool, no one could tell there weren't straps and a clasp beneath.

Mind you, it was now May and rather hot. Sweat poured off my head but I continued to hide behind that sweater. My plan was to ride out the rest of the school year that way. I thought I was so damn clever... until Jane looked at me with a smirk and cast Jackie a sideways glance and said, "Hey Curly... aren't you hot? Why are you still wearing your sweater?"

"I'm not hot," I shot back, even though my hairline was damp and my cheeks flushed from the heat.

"You should take off your sweater," Jackie suggested.

"Nah, I'm fine," I said with mock cool. My heart was pounding. My blood pressure on the rise. In my head I pleaded with them to just leave me alone.

Jackie and Jane exchanged knowing looks and turned their attention to Mark and Billy.

Perhaps my plan wasn't working after all. But I still didn't want to ask my mother to get me a bra. That seemed UNTHINKABLE to me at the time.

I did a quick visual poll of the girls and it was official -- I was the only free-balling girl in the class. Patricia, my small-chested compadre, had gone over to the dark side. She was showing strap. I clutched my sweater tighter.

Over the next few weeks I suffered through more inquisitions and claims that I was making people hot just by looking at me. Even on the brink of heat stroke, I maintained that I was fine. But eventually the temperature got the best of me and I reluctantly removed the sweater from my ensemble.

I was part of a clique comprised of Jackie, Jane, Patricia, Rosemarie, Julie and Best Friend Since Kindergarten. We ate lunch together as a group, went shopping after school and passed around trashy romance novels. Nicknames became an important part of our friendship. More often that not, they were applied spontaneously. If someone had weird eating habits or was particularly klutzy, a suitable name sprung forth. Eventually, all but two of us had earned a relevant moniker. This was unacceptable to the rest of the group so an entire lunch hour was spent brainstorming names for me and Julie. The nameless were allowed to offer suggestions but we were stripped of veto power.

It was very nerve-wracking. The deliberations were intense and marked by extreme focus. This was serious business. After almost an hour of duds, Best Friend Since Kindergarten's face lit up. She pointed at me excitedly and bellowed, "Curly Go Bra-less!" My pseudonym doesn't do the nickname justice. Without revealing my real name, I will say this: The nickname benefited from alliteration.

I can appreciate the joke now but oh, the humiliation back then! The torment at the hands of my own best friend! That fucking name followed me right through eighth grade, even when it was no longer accurate. I wanted to kick BFSK's ass but really, she did me a favor. I went home after school that day and requested a bra. At first I blushed a lot and then stalled but then the water works started and I broke down and told my mother about my nickname. She got misty and then really annoyed. It really pained her that I was made fun of at school. She said something about those "cheeky wee beggars" and then promised to get me the goods ASAP.

The next day she presented me with my first bra. I'll never forget it -- it was slightly padded with embossed lace and a pink bow in the center. I loved it... and I'm pretty sure it would still fit my wee bumps today.

Happy St. Patrick's Day and sláinte!
Curly Go Bra-less

an open letter to the building facilities person(s) in charge of ordering paper goods for the bathroom at my job

Dear Building Facilities Person(s) in Charge of Ordering Paper Goods for the Bathroom at My Job:

While I don't expect my tush to be treated to the gentle and forgiving cotton of Quilted Northern here at work, I was just a bit chagrined to discover a new brand of parchment-like T.P. occupying the stalls today.

If I wanted to roll out some phyllo dough or draft a new version of the Declaration of Independence, this would be suitable paper stock. It is less than ideal, however, for wiping one's backside.

Lest you think I'm being a prima-donna, I assure you I have the greater good in mind when lodging this complaint. I dare say that scratchy toilet paper cannot be good for long-term company morale. It's simple math, really: A sore ass = a disgruntled employee.

And think of the potential absenteeism! And the cost of all the hemorrhoid doughnuts that will no doubt appear on numerous employee expense reports!

Please take this under advisement when placing your next order. If not, kindly plant a big wet one on my chapped, irritated ass. No, really, please kiss it as it might help soothe the burn.

Sincerely,

Curly McDimple

one of those days

If someone would be so kind as to hook me up with this here apparatus, I promise to love you forever... or at least until the coffee runs out.

Tee hee hee. I said "apparatus."

cottonmouth au jus

I'm not dead, I swear. I was away for the weekend and didn't have access to a computer for longer than maybe five minutes at time. As you can imagine, those are less than ideal writing conditions for moi. I did, however, manage to write... on a legal pad. I haven't done that in a while. I felt so retro. Once I transcribe it, I'll have Part 10 up.

The weekend was good. But, as usual, my numbers (8 and 5) in the Super Bowl box pool were bad and I won bupkus. Why do I even bother to gamble? Lady Luck thinks I'm gross and stays far, far away. I should stop trying to court her, no?

Oh and in keeping with the tradition started last Super Bowl weekend, The Adorable Five-Year-Old Niece uttered a priceless statement worthy of a blog entry. It was out of the blue, completely lacked context and said with a dead serious face:

"Sometimes my mouth feels like I just ate roast beef."

The thing is, despite my veggie leanings, I understood exactly what she meant. I ask you -- is there a better way to bond with a child than by explaining the finer points of a Tic-Tac? I think not.

on waving my private parts at your aunties and the birth of a drama dork

I just saw Monthy Python's Spamalot with my father. It was his first Broadway show ever. I don't know what I enjoyed more -- the musical itself or his reaction to it. (For the record, I ADORED the show. I urge you all to grab your coconuts and go!)

If you don't understand the magic of live theater, go see a Broadway show with a first-timer. Your enjoyment will increase exponentially. I got such a kick out of my Dad. He laughed so hard he cried. I inherited his loud, wheezy laugh so the two of us put on quite the show for our neighbors. It sounded like we were engaged in a bout of dueling harmonicas with our chesty chuckles.

I watched my father excitedly flip through his Playbill during intermission. I noticed that he paid extra attention to the "How Many Have You Seen?" section. Methinks a new theater geek was born tonight! He'll soon be drinking his decaf out of a Phantom mug and adorning the fridge with Miss Saigon magnets. He'll no longer host barbecues but rather Jellicle Balls instead. But through my snobby guidance, he'll eventually learn to scoff at Andrew Lloyd Webber (wanker!) and before long, he'll be tsking over the Tony nominations and second-guessing the selections of the Drama Desk.

I cannot wait. Ooh and now I know what to get him for Father's Day! However, I think it wise to maybe break him in a bit more with the big-budget musicals before dragging him off to see, say, Naked Boys Singing, n'est ce pas?

P.S. Part Ten is coming soon. I promise.

burning down the house

Should I ever encounter a wee m-o-u-s-e in my abode again (gawd, I hope not), I'll keep the following in mind: Don't throw it into a bonfire while it's still alive.

I hate m-i-c-e but dude, that's just mean. Bludgeon the wee fucker to death first and then make with the funeral pyre. Sheesh, is there no decency left in this world?