Once upon a time, having bad credit really didn’t mean too much of anything. You could still do all the things you wanted and needed to do, you just had to deal with those annoying bill collectors and be sure to keep a co-signer in your back pocket.
But oh how times have changed!
These days, bad credit can ruin your life. You can’t rent a car, you might not be able to get an apartment on your own, you’ll be denied new credit, and that dream job of yours just might slip through your fingers. This post is called “The Joy of Bad Credit”, not because having bad credit is good thing, but because I’m actually taking quite a bit of joy out of the bad credit situation of a co-worker. I know, I know. I’m terrible.
A woman I work with, let’s call her “Maria”, just started working in my department about a month ago. Immediately, she rubbed me the wrong way. I can be pretty hard on people, so I thought to myself, “lighten up Coco, just be nice to the girl!” So that’s what I did. I tried to be nice. But as I started talking to people, I realized that I wasn’t the only one that didn’t like Maria. Three other people in my department told me that Maria had also rubbed them the wrong way and they didn’t particularly care for her. Once I realized that my initial judgment was justified, all niceties went out the door.
When Maria was first hired, we ran a background check on her and her credit was HORRENDOUS. It was so bad, I was surprised that her credit score wasn’t in the negative numbers! She had almost one hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt that was in collection and charged off. The list of her credit card accounts both open and closed went on for days. Her car was repossessed, she defaulted on student loans, it was the pits. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. The director of my department was extremely alarmed by this and was adamant about not hiring her. In his words, “if she’s this irresponsible with her own money, how responsible can she be if we put her in charge of a budget?” A very good argument I must say. My manager really wanted her though. Supposedly, Maria was the best candidate we interviewed so my boss fought hard to bring her on board. When confronted with her sketchy credit past, Maria claimed she wasn’t able to pay her bills because her father was ill and she had to take time off work to care for him, causing her financial hardship. But that doesn’t quite explain why someone making $50K a year charged $30K to Pottery Barn. That’s not called hardship, that’s called LIVING BEYOND YOUR MEANS! And more importantly, why would someone living in a one bedroom apartment in the Bronx charge $30K to Pottery Barn? Did she personally furnish every unit in her entire building? Or did she just get overzealous with throw pillows and book ends?
Anyhoo, my boss eventually won and Maria was hired. But once she came on board and started acting like a bitch on a power trip, I started reminiscing about her messed up credit. And every time she did something that irked or annoyed me, I took a low blow and said something completely ridiculous under the guise of just making small talk.
“Did you see Grey’s Anatomy last night? What’s your FICO score?”
“Ya know, people with bad credit shouldn’t buy coffee from Starbucks. It’s just not a wise investment.”
“I find it amusing that people with bad credit continue to apply for credit cards. How funny is that!”
“Did you know that if you have bad credit, you can’t adopt a puppy from a shelter?”
“People who have bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses…or something like that.”
I WISH you could have seen the expression on Maria’s face when I would make these seemingly random comments about bad credit! She has no idea that I’m privy to her financial situation, so I’m sure she finds it odd that out of the blue I’ll say something like, “Do you happen to know what time it is? Man, I’m so glad I don’t have bad credit.” I know, it’s childish, immature, and I should definitely know better. But it’s also hilarious! When you’re dealing with an insecure, passive aggressive woman that has proven herself to be conniving and untrustworthy, it’s awfully hard not to stoop to her level. I realize that I’m being just as bad as she is by constantly saying these things, so I’m putting forth an effort to curtail my behavior. But seriously, people with bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Vomit on my ankle - A reoccurring experience
Last summer, my friend Aina and I were headed to a birthday party in Lewisham, a town just outside of London. Once we got to the train station, we continued our journey on the bus but had absolutely no luck in finding the party.
"Aina, this is ridiculous," I said (as usual). "We're never going to find this place, let's just turn around and go back home."
Just as I was finishing that sentence, a woman standing in the aisle threw up all over the place. Vomit was everywhere! Aina was sitting in the outside seat so she practically jumped onto my lap to avoid getting showered in the drunk woman's puke. Fortunately, not much of it got on us. I think Aina got a little on her leg and some got on my ankle. It wasn't a whole lot, but just enough to make me nauseous and gag uncontrollably until we got off the bus.
Fast forward 7 or 8 months later and I find myself in a similar situation again. I was on the 1 train (I gotta stop with this public transportation stuff) and I was writing my to-do list in my notebook. I wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on around me, but suddenly I felt something warm and moist on my ankle. I looked down and saw vomit all over the place. My first thought was, "Where in the hell did this come from?!" I must have really been in the zone because less than two feet away from me someone threw up, incited panic, exited at the next stop, and I didn't notice a thing until the crap started running down my ankle. What a loser! (And I'm referring to myself, not the asshole that threw up).
"Aina, this is ridiculous," I said (as usual). "We're never going to find this place, let's just turn around and go back home."
Just as I was finishing that sentence, a woman standing in the aisle threw up all over the place. Vomit was everywhere! Aina was sitting in the outside seat so she practically jumped onto my lap to avoid getting showered in the drunk woman's puke. Fortunately, not much of it got on us. I think Aina got a little on her leg and some got on my ankle. It wasn't a whole lot, but just enough to make me nauseous and gag uncontrollably until we got off the bus.
Fast forward 7 or 8 months later and I find myself in a similar situation again. I was on the 1 train (I gotta stop with this public transportation stuff) and I was writing my to-do list in my notebook. I wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on around me, but suddenly I felt something warm and moist on my ankle. I looked down and saw vomit all over the place. My first thought was, "Where in the hell did this come from?!" I must have really been in the zone because less than two feet away from me someone threw up, incited panic, exited at the next stop, and I didn't notice a thing until the crap started running down my ankle. What a loser! (And I'm referring to myself, not the asshole that threw up).
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Second chances
I hadn’t been following this Miss America fiasco, but I saw a headline on MSN yesterday that said “Miss USA going to rehab, will keep crown,” and I immediately thought to myself, “WTF?”
I believe second chances are a good thing. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes so it’s only fair that we be given the opportunity to redeem ourselves once we screw up. We’ve had actresses run over people and flee the scene and we’ve had an impeached president go on to become a best-selling author. But one thing I’ve noticed about public figures (and even non-public figures) who mess up, if the mistake involves illegal drugs of any sort, they must pay the price before a second chance is even considered. Case in point, Kate Moss.
When the pictures of Cocaine Kate surfaced showing her looking pretty damn fabulous in preparation to snort a line of coke, she lost just about every contract she had. H&M dropped her, Burberry gave her the boot, Chanel quietly dismissed her, and then jewelry behemoth H. Stern told Kate to keep it moving. She lost millions and became the topic of much debate and scandal. But Kate bounced back. After “going to rehab” (I firmly believe the chick still gets high, how else can you explain her continued relationship with Pete Dougherty?) a new and improved Kate scored new, lucrative deals and was soon making more money than she was before her cocaine bust. After she was fired, kicked around and tossed aside, she was given a second chance and came back with a vengeance.
The story seems to be a little different with Tara Conner.
After winning the Miss America title 8 months ago, Tara moved to New York where she is sharing an apartment in Trump Plaza with the winner of the Miss Teen USA pageant. Both girls were seen all over NYC barhopping until the wee hours of the morning, getting completely wasted despite being underage, making out with each other at clubs, dancing on table tops and inviting all kinds of men back to their apartment. Tara was constantly criticized in the NY tabloids about her party animal behavior and amid speculation of drug use she was given a drug test and failed. Turns out that small-town Tara is a bonafide coke-head.
So now that we know the true character of the woman attending all of these charity events as the face of all that’s good in America and inadvertently serving as a role-model for young girls who are forced into pageantry by their mothers, isn’t it only fair she be fired, kicked around and tossed aside just like Kate Moss?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but as much as I believe in second chances, I also believe that when a precedent is set it’s only fair that everyone suffer the same fate. When pictures of Vanessa Williams surfaced in Playboy shortly after she won the Miss America crown, her title was promptly stripped and given to the first runner-up. Vanessa took those pictures way before she even participated in the pageant, but nonetheless her crown was still taken away. And she didn’t even snort or hit the pipe! In 2002, Miss Universe was stripped of her crown for not showing up to photo shoots and charity events. Once again, no nose candy or pipe to speak of; just an attendance problem. So here we have a woman who not only is a drug abusing lush, but also hooks up with Miss Teen USA of all people and this is who we let keep the crown???
I’m sorry, but I don’t care if she’s a country girl who got swept up in the big city, I don’t care that she’s barely legal and made poor juvenile decisions, and I don’t care if she gives a press conference crying her eyes out about how she won’t let anyone down. A precedent was set – you f*ck up, you’re out. Plain and simple. As a friend of mine likes to say, “you knew what it was from the beginning.” When you make the decision to become a representation of the US, you make the decision to live your life (or at least your reign) under a microscope. So stop your crying! Tara should just count her lucky stars that her only punishment is a little bit of embarrassment because she could have easily been sent back to the backwoods of Kentucky; good thing for her The Donald is a sucker for pretty young things.
I believe second chances are a good thing. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes so it’s only fair that we be given the opportunity to redeem ourselves once we screw up. We’ve had actresses run over people and flee the scene and we’ve had an impeached president go on to become a best-selling author. But one thing I’ve noticed about public figures (and even non-public figures) who mess up, if the mistake involves illegal drugs of any sort, they must pay the price before a second chance is even considered. Case in point, Kate Moss.
When the pictures of Cocaine Kate surfaced showing her looking pretty damn fabulous in preparation to snort a line of coke, she lost just about every contract she had. H&M dropped her, Burberry gave her the boot, Chanel quietly dismissed her, and then jewelry behemoth H. Stern told Kate to keep it moving. She lost millions and became the topic of much debate and scandal. But Kate bounced back. After “going to rehab” (I firmly believe the chick still gets high, how else can you explain her continued relationship with Pete Dougherty?) a new and improved Kate scored new, lucrative deals and was soon making more money than she was before her cocaine bust. After she was fired, kicked around and tossed aside, she was given a second chance and came back with a vengeance.
The story seems to be a little different with Tara Conner.
After winning the Miss America title 8 months ago, Tara moved to New York where she is sharing an apartment in Trump Plaza with the winner of the Miss Teen USA pageant. Both girls were seen all over NYC barhopping until the wee hours of the morning, getting completely wasted despite being underage, making out with each other at clubs, dancing on table tops and inviting all kinds of men back to their apartment. Tara was constantly criticized in the NY tabloids about her party animal behavior and amid speculation of drug use she was given a drug test and failed. Turns out that small-town Tara is a bonafide coke-head.
So now that we know the true character of the woman attending all of these charity events as the face of all that’s good in America and inadvertently serving as a role-model for young girls who are forced into pageantry by their mothers, isn’t it only fair she be fired, kicked around and tossed aside just like Kate Moss?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but as much as I believe in second chances, I also believe that when a precedent is set it’s only fair that everyone suffer the same fate. When pictures of Vanessa Williams surfaced in Playboy shortly after she won the Miss America crown, her title was promptly stripped and given to the first runner-up. Vanessa took those pictures way before she even participated in the pageant, but nonetheless her crown was still taken away. And she didn’t even snort or hit the pipe! In 2002, Miss Universe was stripped of her crown for not showing up to photo shoots and charity events. Once again, no nose candy or pipe to speak of; just an attendance problem. So here we have a woman who not only is a drug abusing lush, but also hooks up with Miss Teen USA of all people and this is who we let keep the crown???
I’m sorry, but I don’t care if she’s a country girl who got swept up in the big city, I don’t care that she’s barely legal and made poor juvenile decisions, and I don’t care if she gives a press conference crying her eyes out about how she won’t let anyone down. A precedent was set – you f*ck up, you’re out. Plain and simple. As a friend of mine likes to say, “you knew what it was from the beginning.” When you make the decision to become a representation of the US, you make the decision to live your life (or at least your reign) under a microscope. So stop your crying! Tara should just count her lucky stars that her only punishment is a little bit of embarrassment because she could have easily been sent back to the backwoods of Kentucky; good thing for her The Donald is a sucker for pretty young things.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Child rearing on the 6
I was on my way to the Met to meet up with friends this weekend, but instead of trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab, I jumped on the uptown 6 train. Riding on the 6 reminds me of J. Lo. Once upon a time I used to think, “All I have to do is ride the 6 everyday and eventually I’ll become an international superstar with my own clothing line and anorexic husband!” Coincidentally, a woman sitting across from me was reading an issue of Vogue Living and J. Ho, I mean J. Lo was on the cover. I was looking at the magazine, my mind wandering some place that I can’t quite remember when all of a sudden my daze was rudely interrupted by a screaming child.
Right next to the lady reading Vogue sat a screaming toddler that looked exactly like Bubba Sparx. He was kicking his legs and flailing his arms all over the place, so his mother said, “Stop screaming!! If you kick the lady, I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but part of me was in a state of shock after hearing the woman repeatedly say, “Do it, I dare you. I swear if you kick the lady I’m going to punch you.”
Bubba called her bluff and two seconds later he kicked the lady in the arm, causing the Vogue to fall out of her hands and on to the floor. As soon as he did it, I held my breath; As much as I dislike ill-mannered kids, I was seriously hoping that this woman wouldn’t punch her child! Thankfully, she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar, picked him up and slammed him into his stroller and yelled, “Mutherf*cker you know you make me mad when you do that!”
Lock your doors people. In 10-15 years Bubba is going to grow up to be a very resentful, angry young man and thanks to his sorry ass mother, more than likely he will try to kill someone.
Right next to the lady reading Vogue sat a screaming toddler that looked exactly like Bubba Sparx. He was kicking his legs and flailing his arms all over the place, so his mother said, “Stop screaming!! If you kick the lady, I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but part of me was in a state of shock after hearing the woman repeatedly say, “Do it, I dare you. I swear if you kick the lady I’m going to punch you.”
Bubba called her bluff and two seconds later he kicked the lady in the arm, causing the Vogue to fall out of her hands and on to the floor. As soon as he did it, I held my breath; As much as I dislike ill-mannered kids, I was seriously hoping that this woman wouldn’t punch her child! Thankfully, she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar, picked him up and slammed him into his stroller and yelled, “Mutherf*cker you know you make me mad when you do that!”
Lock your doors people. In 10-15 years Bubba is going to grow up to be a very resentful, angry young man and thanks to his sorry ass mother, more than likely he will try to kill someone.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Greatest Stalker of All Time: Google, Inc.
I have no idea when Google was first introduced, but what I do know is that my life would never be the same without it. In the early years, Yahoo was my search engine of choice; it was one stop shopping! On one site I could check my email, get my daily gossip fix, get the headline news, check scores from last night's football game, get the forecast, chat with my friends on messenger and do the usual searches when I needed info. People were always talking about how great Google was, but I didn't really like it because the homepage was so plain. Its blank white screen was a far cry from all of the entertaining and distracting links and photos on Yahoo's page. But eventually, I began using Google's search engine exclusively because it seemed to give me more relevant and accurate information than all the other engines combined.
Little by little, I was using Google for EVERYTHING. They introduced Google Earth, a really cool 3D map of the world that you can zoom in and out of, viewing everything from the playground at your old school to the topography and terrain of the Tuscan countryside.
Then there was Blogger. What was once a bootleg site used by pseudo-writers (including myself) to produce their blogs, is now a damn good site that made blogging a helluva lot easier once Google got their hands on it. In addition to all of that, there's Google Maps for the directionally challenged, Google Picasa for those of you who are sick to death of Shutterfly, Google Sketchup for you design people, Google Video Player, Google Calender, Google Talk, Google Mars, Google Moon, GOOGLE, GOOGLE, GOOGLE! Everything on the planet (and apparently outer space too) is run by Google!! Just a few months ago they purchased YouTube, solidifying their stake in the stalker-web world.
It's not all of those services alone that makes Google the G-SOAT(Greatest Stalker of All Time), it's actually their new email service, Gmail that takes the cake.
I resisted switching to Gmail, but now I'm sold. You can easily search through emails using keywords, a nifty chat system allows you to IM friends, you can archive emails, and all of your email conversations are kept in the body of one single email. So when I send an email to 20 people, instead of having a million new messages arrive in my inbox, all replies are kept in the body of one email so that I can easily keep track of the conversations. How cool is that?
I noticed one day that there are lots of ads within Gmail. I also noticed that the ads were products or services that were directly related to whatever email I was currently reading. A friend of mine that works at UBS Investment Bank sent me an email and while I was reading it I noticed an ad about the private wealth management services offered by UBS. My friend replied to an email I sent to her in which I was talking about how I really wanted a tuna melt with lots of cheese and a new lease. Right next to that email were ads for Starkist Tuna and a new luxury apartment high-rise in Manhattan. Then all of a sudden I realized that it wasn't a coincidence; Google was reading my emails and playing on my sympathies by showing me those "sponsored links." STALKERS!!!
So not only do I plan my day on Google Calender, chat on Google Talk, search for everything under the sun on Google.com, send all kinds of incriminating evidence over Gmail, but I'm also suckered into clicking on links and potentially spending money all because of a conversation I'm having with my cousin about Triscuits and leather boots. How ridiculous is that! Google, Inc. has access to almost every facet of my life -- Who I talk to and how often I talk to them, what I love, what I hate, what my plans are for the day, who I stalk on the web, what sites I like to visit, what words I have trouble spelling, where I'm traveling to for the holidays, what videos I watch over and over again, etc., etc. Google knows and remembers just about every single thing that millions of people do once they log into a service that is provided by google.com. Pretty ridiculous, huh?
But that doesn't scare me; I want more!
The good people at Google, Inc. need to take technology just a few steps further and develop more services, like Google Child - a site that gives birth to your child and happily raises them from the ages of 5-18 and pays their college tuition. Or maybe even Google Smack-a-Ho, the service that will beat a bitch's ass for you when you don't want to risk messing up your hair or getting your own ass beat in the process. And let's not forget Google Find Me A Good Man - the site that automatically compiles the information of billions of eligible bachelors from around the world that don't owe back child support. Google already has the well deserved reputation of G-SOAT, so they should just go ahead and make the world an even better place and offer Google Government Assistance - the site that completely removes retarded, washed-up, incompetent, and loser politicians from office.
Little by little, I was using Google for EVERYTHING. They introduced Google Earth, a really cool 3D map of the world that you can zoom in and out of, viewing everything from the playground at your old school to the topography and terrain of the Tuscan countryside.
Then there was Blogger. What was once a bootleg site used by pseudo-writers (including myself) to produce their blogs, is now a damn good site that made blogging a helluva lot easier once Google got their hands on it. In addition to all of that, there's Google Maps for the directionally challenged, Google Picasa for those of you who are sick to death of Shutterfly, Google Sketchup for you design people, Google Video Player, Google Calender, Google Talk, Google Mars, Google Moon, GOOGLE, GOOGLE, GOOGLE! Everything on the planet (and apparently outer space too) is run by Google!! Just a few months ago they purchased YouTube, solidifying their stake in the stalker-web world.
It's not all of those services alone that makes Google the G-SOAT(Greatest Stalker of All Time), it's actually their new email service, Gmail that takes the cake.
I resisted switching to Gmail, but now I'm sold. You can easily search through emails using keywords, a nifty chat system allows you to IM friends, you can archive emails, and all of your email conversations are kept in the body of one single email. So when I send an email to 20 people, instead of having a million new messages arrive in my inbox, all replies are kept in the body of one email so that I can easily keep track of the conversations. How cool is that?
I noticed one day that there are lots of ads within Gmail. I also noticed that the ads were products or services that were directly related to whatever email I was currently reading. A friend of mine that works at UBS Investment Bank sent me an email and while I was reading it I noticed an ad about the private wealth management services offered by UBS. My friend replied to an email I sent to her in which I was talking about how I really wanted a tuna melt with lots of cheese and a new lease. Right next to that email were ads for Starkist Tuna and a new luxury apartment high-rise in Manhattan. Then all of a sudden I realized that it wasn't a coincidence; Google was reading my emails and playing on my sympathies by showing me those "sponsored links." STALKERS!!!
So not only do I plan my day on Google Calender, chat on Google Talk, search for everything under the sun on Google.com, send all kinds of incriminating evidence over Gmail, but I'm also suckered into clicking on links and potentially spending money all because of a conversation I'm having with my cousin about Triscuits and leather boots. How ridiculous is that! Google, Inc. has access to almost every facet of my life -- Who I talk to and how often I talk to them, what I love, what I hate, what my plans are for the day, who I stalk on the web, what sites I like to visit, what words I have trouble spelling, where I'm traveling to for the holidays, what videos I watch over and over again, etc., etc. Google knows and remembers just about every single thing that millions of people do once they log into a service that is provided by google.com. Pretty ridiculous, huh?
But that doesn't scare me; I want more!
The good people at Google, Inc. need to take technology just a few steps further and develop more services, like Google Child - a site that gives birth to your child and happily raises them from the ages of 5-18 and pays their college tuition. Or maybe even Google Smack-a-Ho, the service that will beat a bitch's ass for you when you don't want to risk messing up your hair or getting your own ass beat in the process. And let's not forget Google Find Me A Good Man - the site that automatically compiles the information of billions of eligible bachelors from around the world that don't owe back child support. Google already has the well deserved reputation of G-SOAT, so they should just go ahead and make the world an even better place and offer Google Government Assistance - the site that completely removes retarded, washed-up, incompetent, and loser politicians from office.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Quietly judging myself
So yes, I judge people. But as hard as I am on people, I'm equally hard on myself as well. Over the course of the past few months I've berated myself with names like stupid, retard, lazy, ridiculous, so on and so forth. And it was all due to my recent life transition.
After spending an amazingly fun-filled year in London, this past August I moved back to the US. Just as summer was fading away, I was having panic attacks at the thought of moving back to Ohio and sitting around my parents house watching tv until I got bed sores. I wanted to move to New York, but the idea of moving there with no job, no home, no money, and no clue, it didn't seem like the best idea. But then my brother's girlfriend and my dad came to the rescue. My brother's girlfriend gave me a great job lead that actually turned into an offer I accepted, and my dad asked an old friend if I could crash with her for a bit and she happily said yes. It all seemed to be coming together!
But let's not forget that I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear. Mix all of that together in a big ol' pot and what you end up with is a pretty f*cked up situation.
It all started so well. I really liked the new job, my new friend that I was staying with was great and I seemed to be dealing quite well with the reverse culture shock. I waited a couple of weeks before I started the apartment search, I wanted to relax and take my time with it just to be sure I found something that I really liked. But even though I was forewarned time and time again, the apartment search was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I'm convinced that it's easier to adopt a Cambodian baby then it is to find a decent apartment in New York. I nixed the idea of having a roommate. I had four when I lived in London and one of them was a borderline drunk that had the tendency to piss on floors and throw pumpkins out of windows, so I'm sure you understand why I wanted to go it alone. However, living solo in NYC is a costly proposition. While trying to firmly stick to my budget, I looked at one sh*thole apartment after another, including one that was $1K a month but had no bathroom, no kitchen of any kind, and the "bedroom" was actually a crawl space in the ceiling that could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Things weren't looking so hot!
Day after day, I went here and there searching high and low for a home of my own, but wasn't having any luck. Yes, there were times when I did see a few that could have worked very well. But because I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear, I passed on them and instantly regretted it after realizing how truly ridiculous I was being.
Studio on the Upper West Side
"Are you going to re-finish these floors? No? Ok, I don't think I'm interested."
1 BR in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Is there anyway that you can replace the bathtub? No? Ok, I think I'm going to continue my search."
Studio in Harlem
"Are those children I hear? Ok, what other buildings do you have?"
1 BR in Jersey City
"Are you going to re-tile the bathroom? No? Ok, I need to pray on this."
Studio in Washington Heights
"Gosh this is small! Do you realize how small this is? Where does the bed go!? Thanks, but no thanks!"
Studio in Hoboken
"You want $1,500 for this? What do you think this is, Manhattan???"
Studio in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Wow, a fireplace! Ooooh, these oak floors are beautiful! CROWN MOLDING!!! Wait, where's the bathtub? There's only a shower stall? There's only 1 closet in this entire place? Can you please show me the way out?"
1 BR in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
"Isn't this the neighborhood where Biggie is from? I could have sworn I heard about it in rap songs! Yeah, I need to keep in moving."
1 BR in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
"Can you PLEASE replace these floors? Also, am I allowed to hang chandeliers? What do you mean 'get out'?"
Yes my friends, I passed on a few very good apartments all for very, very ridiculous reasons. Time was running out. I was dangerously close to murdering my friend's sedity dog and I think she was getting sick and tired of me taking over her living room. We had a bit of a riff one weekend and I decided enough was enough, I had to go. I moved into an apartment in Jersey City and within 2 days, I wanted out. The apartment itself was great. 1 BR, very spacious, great bathroom, good building, etc. But I couldn't get over the fact I was living in Jersey. My commute to work was a bitch, Fresh Direct didn't deliver in my zip code, the blocks surrounding my areas were unsavory, and I lived directly across the street from a freakin' fire department. It was an all-around bad situation. So not only was I living in dirty Jerz, but I was awakened at 4am by firetrucks and couldn't even have my groceries delivered. It was time to go.
Thankfully, my landlord of 5 days understood and let me out of the lease (but only after giving me back half the money I gave him). I was annoyed by it, but it was a small price to pay to get the heck of out Jersey and back in NY where I belonged. I was in total agreement with my friend Christen, "you can't live a Sex & the City lifestyle living in dirty Jerz."
I was given exactly 3 days to vacate, so that meant I had just 72 hours to find a new apartment, sign a lease, and get moved in. Talk about pressure! Craigslist had become my new bestfriend and obsession, so I spent every waking moment browsing the listings hoping to find something in my price range in NY that wouldn't give me the willies. I came across a basement apartment in Brooklyn and decided to go for it.
At first glance, it seemed cool. It had new appliances, the landlord was nice, it was definitely in my price range, and freshly painted. There were only three things that bothered me: it was a basement apartment, it was far as hell, and the bathrooms were split. One bathroom had a shower stall and sink (boooo, no tub!), while the other bathroom had the toilet and another sink. Very bizarre. But I was in a time crunch and they basically offered me the place right there on the spot, so I took it. Yay! I found a new apartment in just 24 hours!
You know me, it didn't take long for me to start having issues with my new place. On my second day, I noticed an occasional bug here and there. Fair enough, it is the basement after all, these things happen. A few days later, I noticed just how ridiculous the kitchen floor was. Not only was it ugly, but it was horribly stained with orange paint that the last tenant used to paint the place. No amount of scrubbing can get rid of orange paint stains on linoleum. The very next day, a pipe in the bathroom burst and water was everywhere! I had to go stay with my friend Kea for a couple of days until they got everything patched and repaired. After about 3 weeks, I figured I was cool. The bugs were now non-existent, the landlord agreed to replace the kitchen floor (yes!), and I was in the process of picking out furniture to turn this little basement into my home. But then, tragedy struck. I was on the phone talking to one of my friends when I saw a little mouse peer from behind one of my favorite pair of shoes.
I. Almost. Died.
My reaction to this was probably a little abnormal. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for a cat on Craigslist. If there's anything that will get rid of mice, it's definitely a cat! Within 2 hours, I had arranged for 3 cats to be delivered to my house the very next day. Never mind that I'm allergic to cats, never mind that I barely have enough time to look after myself properly; what the hell was I going to do with THREE cats running around my place? Talk about a mess! Between cat hair, the litter box, furniture being scratched up, and probably coming home to the cats tossing around dead mice, I realized I wasn't being quite ridiculous enough. Why bother trying to get rid of the suckers when I could just move, right? Because moving to a third residence in as many months is a perfectly logical thing to do!
So that's what I did; I moved. Again.
Honestly, I tried to put up a good fight. I'm like 500 times bigger than a mouse so there is no reason why they should be running ish, but seriously, I was scare to death. I was creeping around my apartment and peeping around corners like I was dodging an assassin's bullet. Just when I had agreed to let the exterminators come and do their work so I could stay in the apartment, I heard mice running around inside the ceiling. I felt like at any minute the ceiling was just going to open up and hundreds of screeching mice were going to come pouring down on me. So I started ducking, I started dodging, and I ran into my bedroom and started crying. It was all over for me, the mice won.
I was fortunate enough in that the very next day I found an apartment that I really love. The oak floors are immaculate, the bathroom is newly renovated with the most adorable pedestal sink I've ever seen, brand new appliances, no bug or rodent problems and Fresh Direct delivers:-) I'm in temporary quarters at the moment and will be moving into my new place January 1st, and will be signing a year lease that I have no intention of breaking. I did see quite a few children running around when I went on my second viewing, but I've been through this enough to know that I can't have everything. Even though I'm known for being fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and changing my mind like most people change their underwear, I would like to to think that New York is aggressively chipping away at those negative attributes. I've been an absolute mess when it comes to this whole apartment thing and I have no problems with telling you just how ridiculous I have been; If I can't judge yourself, then I have absolutely no business judging anyone.
After spending an amazingly fun-filled year in London, this past August I moved back to the US. Just as summer was fading away, I was having panic attacks at the thought of moving back to Ohio and sitting around my parents house watching tv until I got bed sores. I wanted to move to New York, but the idea of moving there with no job, no home, no money, and no clue, it didn't seem like the best idea. But then my brother's girlfriend and my dad came to the rescue. My brother's girlfriend gave me a great job lead that actually turned into an offer I accepted, and my dad asked an old friend if I could crash with her for a bit and she happily said yes. It all seemed to be coming together!
But let's not forget that I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear. Mix all of that together in a big ol' pot and what you end up with is a pretty f*cked up situation.
It all started so well. I really liked the new job, my new friend that I was staying with was great and I seemed to be dealing quite well with the reverse culture shock. I waited a couple of weeks before I started the apartment search, I wanted to relax and take my time with it just to be sure I found something that I really liked. But even though I was forewarned time and time again, the apartment search was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I'm convinced that it's easier to adopt a Cambodian baby then it is to find a decent apartment in New York. I nixed the idea of having a roommate. I had four when I lived in London and one of them was a borderline drunk that had the tendency to piss on floors and throw pumpkins out of windows, so I'm sure you understand why I wanted to go it alone. However, living solo in NYC is a costly proposition. While trying to firmly stick to my budget, I looked at one sh*thole apartment after another, including one that was $1K a month but had no bathroom, no kitchen of any kind, and the "bedroom" was actually a crawl space in the ceiling that could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Things weren't looking so hot!
Day after day, I went here and there searching high and low for a home of my own, but wasn't having any luck. Yes, there were times when I did see a few that could have worked very well. But because I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear, I passed on them and instantly regretted it after realizing how truly ridiculous I was being.
Studio on the Upper West Side
"Are you going to re-finish these floors? No? Ok, I don't think I'm interested."
1 BR in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Is there anyway that you can replace the bathtub? No? Ok, I think I'm going to continue my search."
Studio in Harlem
"Are those children I hear? Ok, what other buildings do you have?"
1 BR in Jersey City
"Are you going to re-tile the bathroom? No? Ok, I need to pray on this."
Studio in Washington Heights
"Gosh this is small! Do you realize how small this is? Where does the bed go!? Thanks, but no thanks!"
Studio in Hoboken
"You want $1,500 for this? What do you think this is, Manhattan???"
Studio in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Wow, a fireplace! Ooooh, these oak floors are beautiful! CROWN MOLDING!!! Wait, where's the bathtub? There's only a shower stall? There's only 1 closet in this entire place? Can you please show me the way out?"
1 BR in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
"Isn't this the neighborhood where Biggie is from? I could have sworn I heard about it in rap songs! Yeah, I need to keep in moving."
1 BR in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
"Can you PLEASE replace these floors? Also, am I allowed to hang chandeliers? What do you mean 'get out'?"
Yes my friends, I passed on a few very good apartments all for very, very ridiculous reasons. Time was running out. I was dangerously close to murdering my friend's sedity dog and I think she was getting sick and tired of me taking over her living room. We had a bit of a riff one weekend and I decided enough was enough, I had to go. I moved into an apartment in Jersey City and within 2 days, I wanted out. The apartment itself was great. 1 BR, very spacious, great bathroom, good building, etc. But I couldn't get over the fact I was living in Jersey. My commute to work was a bitch, Fresh Direct didn't deliver in my zip code, the blocks surrounding my areas were unsavory, and I lived directly across the street from a freakin' fire department. It was an all-around bad situation. So not only was I living in dirty Jerz, but I was awakened at 4am by firetrucks and couldn't even have my groceries delivered. It was time to go.
Thankfully, my landlord of 5 days understood and let me out of the lease (but only after giving me back half the money I gave him). I was annoyed by it, but it was a small price to pay to get the heck of out Jersey and back in NY where I belonged. I was in total agreement with my friend Christen, "you can't live a Sex & the City lifestyle living in dirty Jerz."
I was given exactly 3 days to vacate, so that meant I had just 72 hours to find a new apartment, sign a lease, and get moved in. Talk about pressure! Craigslist had become my new bestfriend and obsession, so I spent every waking moment browsing the listings hoping to find something in my price range in NY that wouldn't give me the willies. I came across a basement apartment in Brooklyn and decided to go for it.
At first glance, it seemed cool. It had new appliances, the landlord was nice, it was definitely in my price range, and freshly painted. There were only three things that bothered me: it was a basement apartment, it was far as hell, and the bathrooms were split. One bathroom had a shower stall and sink (boooo, no tub!), while the other bathroom had the toilet and another sink. Very bizarre. But I was in a time crunch and they basically offered me the place right there on the spot, so I took it. Yay! I found a new apartment in just 24 hours!
You know me, it didn't take long for me to start having issues with my new place. On my second day, I noticed an occasional bug here and there. Fair enough, it is the basement after all, these things happen. A few days later, I noticed just how ridiculous the kitchen floor was. Not only was it ugly, but it was horribly stained with orange paint that the last tenant used to paint the place. No amount of scrubbing can get rid of orange paint stains on linoleum. The very next day, a pipe in the bathroom burst and water was everywhere! I had to go stay with my friend Kea for a couple of days until they got everything patched and repaired. After about 3 weeks, I figured I was cool. The bugs were now non-existent, the landlord agreed to replace the kitchen floor (yes!), and I was in the process of picking out furniture to turn this little basement into my home. But then, tragedy struck. I was on the phone talking to one of my friends when I saw a little mouse peer from behind one of my favorite pair of shoes.
I. Almost. Died.
My reaction to this was probably a little abnormal. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for a cat on Craigslist. If there's anything that will get rid of mice, it's definitely a cat! Within 2 hours, I had arranged for 3 cats to be delivered to my house the very next day. Never mind that I'm allergic to cats, never mind that I barely have enough time to look after myself properly; what the hell was I going to do with THREE cats running around my place? Talk about a mess! Between cat hair, the litter box, furniture being scratched up, and probably coming home to the cats tossing around dead mice, I realized I wasn't being quite ridiculous enough. Why bother trying to get rid of the suckers when I could just move, right? Because moving to a third residence in as many months is a perfectly logical thing to do!
So that's what I did; I moved. Again.
Honestly, I tried to put up a good fight. I'm like 500 times bigger than a mouse so there is no reason why they should be running ish, but seriously, I was scare to death. I was creeping around my apartment and peeping around corners like I was dodging an assassin's bullet. Just when I had agreed to let the exterminators come and do their work so I could stay in the apartment, I heard mice running around inside the ceiling. I felt like at any minute the ceiling was just going to open up and hundreds of screeching mice were going to come pouring down on me. So I started ducking, I started dodging, and I ran into my bedroom and started crying. It was all over for me, the mice won.
I was fortunate enough in that the very next day I found an apartment that I really love. The oak floors are immaculate, the bathroom is newly renovated with the most adorable pedestal sink I've ever seen, brand new appliances, no bug or rodent problems and Fresh Direct delivers:-) I'm in temporary quarters at the moment and will be moving into my new place January 1st, and will be signing a year lease that I have no intention of breaking. I did see quite a few children running around when I went on my second viewing, but I've been through this enough to know that I can't have everything. Even though I'm known for being fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and changing my mind like most people change their underwear, I would like to to think that New York is aggressively chipping away at those negative attributes. I've been an absolute mess when it comes to this whole apartment thing and I have no problems with telling you just how ridiculous I have been; If I can't judge yourself, then I have absolutely no business judging anyone.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
You remind me of a pimple I once had on my forehead
With the exception of my baby daddy, when I listen to music I usually ignore the lyrics and focus on the music itself. I do this because 90% of the time the lyrics really suck and once I know them, I stop liking the song. Case in point, "A Dozen Roses" by Monica. Initially I liked this song, partly because I had no idea what she was saying and the music was catchy. I kept hearing a reference to Gucci shoes, so of course I was compelled to take a closer listen and hear exactly what she was talking about. Here is a sampling...
Boy you remind me, remind me of my Gucci shoes
Everytime you walk past, all the girls be looking at you
You got style just like a Bentley coupe
And I be losing my mind everytime I get next to you...
Boy you remind me of 26s on my ride
Complete spinning around looking like a superstar...
Like the ice on my wrist, its like kick on my hip
MAC on my lips, Armor Oil on my whip, butter on my shrimp...
Baby you always stay on my mind
You're just like my rims, you shine...
Keep a money clip you remind me of a tip
Like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip...
WTF?
Maybe I'm old fashion, maybe I'm sedity, or maybe I'm a bit of both; but if someone I loved told me that I'm like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip, or like butter on his shrimp, excuse me for being a tad bit offended! Are these what love songs are these days, being compared to lip gloss and car wax? Give me a break! I fully admit that when R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep", I played that song until it couldn't be played anymore. It was original, it was risque, it was hilarious. But seriously, this mess has got to stop. What's next? Comparing your boyfriend to the creamy sauce on your noodles? Or maybe telling your girl your love for her is as strong as the boil in your armpit? Someone needs to tell these losers to stop writing songs because the ish has gotten out of hand!
Boy you remind me, remind me of my Gucci shoes
Everytime you walk past, all the girls be looking at you
You got style just like a Bentley coupe
And I be losing my mind everytime I get next to you...
Boy you remind me of 26s on my ride
Complete spinning around looking like a superstar...
Like the ice on my wrist, its like kick on my hip
MAC on my lips, Armor Oil on my whip, butter on my shrimp...
Baby you always stay on my mind
You're just like my rims, you shine...
Keep a money clip you remind me of a tip
Like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip...
WTF?
Maybe I'm old fashion, maybe I'm sedity, or maybe I'm a bit of both; but if someone I loved told me that I'm like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip, or like butter on his shrimp, excuse me for being a tad bit offended! Are these what love songs are these days, being compared to lip gloss and car wax? Give me a break! I fully admit that when R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep", I played that song until it couldn't be played anymore. It was original, it was risque, it was hilarious. But seriously, this mess has got to stop. What's next? Comparing your boyfriend to the creamy sauce on your noodles? Or maybe telling your girl your love for her is as strong as the boil in your armpit? Someone needs to tell these losers to stop writing songs because the ish has gotten out of hand!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Image is nothing, hair is everything?
I can’t begin to tell you the importance of image. Most people believe that when you portray a certain image that it is actually false; a façade that hides the hideous real you. Which in some cases I suppose that’s actually true. When Brittany Spears first came on the scene, we had no idea that she was really a trashy, hillbilly yokel. And who ever would have thought that Whitney Houston was really a (recovering) ghettofied crackhead! The images had us fooled, but is that really such a bad thing?
I began thinking about image a few weeks ago as I was going through resumes for a new editor position that just opened up at my job. As I sifted through all of the piles, there was one guy that I kept going back to time and time again. His resume (i.e. image) was impeccable. Ivy league grad, great internship experience, freelanced at some of the top magazines, had a stint at the NY Times and had a very strong passion for our industry. Hands down, he was the best candidate of the bunch. I called him and did a short interview over the phone and was still very impressed with him. I invited him in for an in person interview and was really looking forward to meeting him.
When Mr. Writer Extraordinaire showed up at the office, I was immediately taken aback by his hair. This dude had an afro that was out of this world! I mean, it was ridiculous! I’m not talking about a modern, styled ‘fro either. I’m talking about something that’s so scary looking, you’d expect small children to fall out of it at any minute screaming for their mothers. It was a cross between Don King and Buckwheat. Who in the hell shows up at a job interview looking like Don King or Buckwheat, unless you’re Don King or Buckwheat!?!? As we sat down and got to the business at hand, I couldn’t focus on anything because I was hypnotized by his hair.
Does he ever comb it?
Exactly what possessed him to do this? Is he just trying to keep it real?
How long has he been growing that thing?
As a black woman, I should know better. During my college years and time abroad I can’t tell you how many times confused white people have asked me similar questions.
“Why do you always wear a shower cap?”
“Why do you wrap your hair in a circle?”
“That’s a really cool scarf! How come you wear it to bed every night?”
“You don’t wash your hair everyday? That’s awesome!"
I could go on and on about the many questions non-black people have asked about my hair. I know exactly how it feels, so why was I so fixated on Writer Extraordinaire’s hair? It was because his image had me fooled. After looking at his resume and speaking with him on the phone, I expected him to look the part of the very polished and put together man that I had gotten to know on paper. But instead, I was faced with a man with unruly and spellbinding hair, and a very questionable suit. Despite of all this, I was still pulling for him to get the job, because like I said, he was the best of the bunch. The final decision wasn’t up to me, so I was hoping that everyone else would be just as impressed with him as I was and kindly ignore his unfortunate 'fro. Ultimately, Writer Extraordinaire did not get the job, and I will also wonder if his f*cked up hair was the reason behind it. Lesson of the day: comb your hair.
I began thinking about image a few weeks ago as I was going through resumes for a new editor position that just opened up at my job. As I sifted through all of the piles, there was one guy that I kept going back to time and time again. His resume (i.e. image) was impeccable. Ivy league grad, great internship experience, freelanced at some of the top magazines, had a stint at the NY Times and had a very strong passion for our industry. Hands down, he was the best candidate of the bunch. I called him and did a short interview over the phone and was still very impressed with him. I invited him in for an in person interview and was really looking forward to meeting him.
When Mr. Writer Extraordinaire showed up at the office, I was immediately taken aback by his hair. This dude had an afro that was out of this world! I mean, it was ridiculous! I’m not talking about a modern, styled ‘fro either. I’m talking about something that’s so scary looking, you’d expect small children to fall out of it at any minute screaming for their mothers. It was a cross between Don King and Buckwheat. Who in the hell shows up at a job interview looking like Don King or Buckwheat, unless you’re Don King or Buckwheat!?!? As we sat down and got to the business at hand, I couldn’t focus on anything because I was hypnotized by his hair.
Does he ever comb it?
Exactly what possessed him to do this? Is he just trying to keep it real?
How long has he been growing that thing?
As a black woman, I should know better. During my college years and time abroad I can’t tell you how many times confused white people have asked me similar questions.
“Why do you always wear a shower cap?”
“Why do you wrap your hair in a circle?”
“That’s a really cool scarf! How come you wear it to bed every night?”
“You don’t wash your hair everyday? That’s awesome!"
I could go on and on about the many questions non-black people have asked about my hair. I know exactly how it feels, so why was I so fixated on Writer Extraordinaire’s hair? It was because his image had me fooled. After looking at his resume and speaking with him on the phone, I expected him to look the part of the very polished and put together man that I had gotten to know on paper. But instead, I was faced with a man with unruly and spellbinding hair, and a very questionable suit. Despite of all this, I was still pulling for him to get the job, because like I said, he was the best of the bunch. The final decision wasn’t up to me, so I was hoping that everyone else would be just as impressed with him as I was and kindly ignore his unfortunate 'fro. Ultimately, Writer Extraordinaire did not get the job, and I will also wonder if his f*cked up hair was the reason behind it. Lesson of the day: comb your hair.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Go wireless, save a grand
This morning while going through my inbox, I saw a promotion from New York Magazine offering it's subscribers $1,000 off of Invisalign at the Manhattan Dental Spa. When Invisalign first came out I was really excited; I thought to myself, "Yay! Now's my chance to close my slight gap and fix my overbite without looking like a retarded grade schooler!" But just like every thing new that comes around, within a few months I forgot all about it and went and bought new shoes instead.
Fast forward 3 or 4 years later, I got really excited again when I saw this advertisement/coupon/rip-off in my inbox. Once again, my mind started churning and I thought "Ok, now this time I really have to get Invisalign. I can't pass up this deal!" But then I started thinking...if a "dental spa" is willing to slash 1K off the price, how much does this ish cost to begin with? Most coupons offer $10 off, or maybe even 25% off, but when a place knocks $1,000 off the price of something, that's a sign that it's too damn expensive to begin with!
Fast forward 3 or 4 years later, I got really excited again when I saw this advertisement/coupon/rip-off in my inbox. Once again, my mind started churning and I thought "Ok, now this time I really have to get Invisalign. I can't pass up this deal!" But then I started thinking...if a "dental spa" is willing to slash 1K off the price, how much does this ish cost to begin with? Most coupons offer $10 off, or maybe even 25% off, but when a place knocks $1,000 off the price of something, that's a sign that it's too damn expensive to begin with!
Friday, November 03, 2006
If you're a loser, just go crazy
Like many women around the country, I spent last weekend curled up on the couch watching a good ol' Lifetime movie. This particular movie called "The Perfect Nanny" was about a crazy ass woman who tried to live out her favorite romance novel. She left her husband, stalked a rich widowed neurosurgeon and pretended to be a nanny in the hopes that on her birthday he would tell her that he was in love with her and they would live happily ever after. In the process, she killed her husband, killed her mom, killed the doctor's boss and attempted to kill his daughter too. In the end, the doctor and his daughter found her out and the movie ended with her in the pyscho ward, writing out invitations to her and the doctor's wedding that was supposed to take place in 1870. A nurse came in telling her it was time to take her meds, but she promptly told them to "ask the help for tea and crumpets" instead.
I usually laugh at crazy people, but I think the crazies of the world are actually on to something. You get to live out whatever your dream is (at least in your mind) and if you're lucky, you can live in a nice facility where you can be your crazy self and not worry about getting arrested or finding your own food. If you want to be the Queen of England, you can order around your subjects (a.k.a. psychiatric nurses) and give speeches on the balcony of your palace (a.k.a. the hospital cafeteria). If you want to be Shabba Ranks, you can walk around looking ugly and yelling "sha bootsy!!" at the top of your lungs, and no one would pay you any mind. That's one of the luxuries of being crazy! Which is why I firmly believe that if you're a bonafide loser, i.e. you have no social skills, no friends, no job, no residence, no personality, bad breath, bad hair, bad shoes, and/or a criminal record, then it's probably in your best interest to just go crazy because that's really the only option that's available for you to have a better life. That, or become a contestant on Flavor of Love, which has given quite a few crazy ass people very fruitful lives.
I usually laugh at crazy people, but I think the crazies of the world are actually on to something. You get to live out whatever your dream is (at least in your mind) and if you're lucky, you can live in a nice facility where you can be your crazy self and not worry about getting arrested or finding your own food. If you want to be the Queen of England, you can order around your subjects (a.k.a. psychiatric nurses) and give speeches on the balcony of your palace (a.k.a. the hospital cafeteria). If you want to be Shabba Ranks, you can walk around looking ugly and yelling "sha bootsy!!" at the top of your lungs, and no one would pay you any mind. That's one of the luxuries of being crazy! Which is why I firmly believe that if you're a bonafide loser, i.e. you have no social skills, no friends, no job, no residence, no personality, bad breath, bad hair, bad shoes, and/or a criminal record, then it's probably in your best interest to just go crazy because that's really the only option that's available for you to have a better life. That, or become a contestant on Flavor of Love, which has given quite a few crazy ass people very fruitful lives.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Food is killing me softly
Over the past few months there have been a million food recalls. Late in the summer, Cadbury recalled all of their chocolate candy bars (much to my chagrin) because they were somehow contaminated with salmonella. And let’s not forget Bird Flu—that horrible disease that caused millions of innocent birds to be killed and absolutely no one wanted to eat chicken. Even black people wouldn’t eat the stuff! And when black people won’t eat chicken, you know there’s a problem. But I digress…
In the past few weeks alone, there have been major recalls on everything from spinach, beef and even carrot juice because of everything from Ecoli to Botulism. Food recalls always make me nervous because I always think I’m going to end up being the sad girl profiled on 20/20; the one that can no longer blink her eyes because she ate a fistful of grapes that were contaminated by some rare virus that doesn’t even have a name yet. Just like Lou Gehrig, the disease would be named after me because I was the first person to bring it to the public’s eye.
Cocoflusia [koh-koh-floo-zhuh]: noun. A rare strain of influenza found in fruits and vegetables that have a purple hue; characterized by fever, coughing, depression and paralysis of the eyelids. Mainly found in Poland, Romania, Slovakia and Brooklyn. Not always fatal, but will certainly f*ck up your life.
So of course when the recalls started I switched to a different brand of chocolate, eased up on my chicken consumption, just said no to spinach and stayed away from juice entirely (unless it was Kool-aid. God I love Kool-aid!)
The Bird Flu scare is long gone, but now there are all sorts of recalls on beef. To make it even worse, I saw an old episode of Oprah last week and she said that while it only takes up to 12 hours for most fruits and vegetables to digest and leave your system, it takes steak up to 48 hours. During those 48 hours, the meat is rotting away in your system until you finally make your way to the pot. How gross is that! I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m scared to death. If I make one false move I could end up like the poor Canadians who were just trying to get their daily dose of vitamins! In the words of my old microbiology professor Dr. Bhattachargee, “the next time you order your eggs sunny-side up, just order your eggs with a side of salmonella!!!! (smack the table for emphasis).” Well said Dr. B, well said!
I now overcook my food until there is no trace of bacteria, color, taste or even recognizability. I steer clear of any food that has been grown in the ground. I won’t eat any food that used to live and breath. I’m even tempted to put a few drops of Purell in my morning coffee just to be on the safe side. So basically, I’m anorexic. Anything that I eat has the potential to kill me so now I’m forced to drink bottled water and overdose on vitamins until I end up looking the like the white daughter of a black man. On second thought, pass me a burger and a family size bag of Teddy Grahams!
In the past few weeks alone, there have been major recalls on everything from spinach, beef and even carrot juice because of everything from Ecoli to Botulism. Food recalls always make me nervous because I always think I’m going to end up being the sad girl profiled on 20/20; the one that can no longer blink her eyes because she ate a fistful of grapes that were contaminated by some rare virus that doesn’t even have a name yet. Just like Lou Gehrig, the disease would be named after me because I was the first person to bring it to the public’s eye.
Cocoflusia [koh-koh-floo-zhuh]: noun. A rare strain of influenza found in fruits and vegetables that have a purple hue; characterized by fever, coughing, depression and paralysis of the eyelids. Mainly found in Poland, Romania, Slovakia and Brooklyn. Not always fatal, but will certainly f*ck up your life.
So of course when the recalls started I switched to a different brand of chocolate, eased up on my chicken consumption, just said no to spinach and stayed away from juice entirely (unless it was Kool-aid. God I love Kool-aid!)
The Bird Flu scare is long gone, but now there are all sorts of recalls on beef. To make it even worse, I saw an old episode of Oprah last week and she said that while it only takes up to 12 hours for most fruits and vegetables to digest and leave your system, it takes steak up to 48 hours. During those 48 hours, the meat is rotting away in your system until you finally make your way to the pot. How gross is that! I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m scared to death. If I make one false move I could end up like the poor Canadians who were just trying to get their daily dose of vitamins! In the words of my old microbiology professor Dr. Bhattachargee, “the next time you order your eggs sunny-side up, just order your eggs with a side of salmonella!!!! (smack the table for emphasis).” Well said Dr. B, well said!
I now overcook my food until there is no trace of bacteria, color, taste or even recognizability. I steer clear of any food that has been grown in the ground. I won’t eat any food that used to live and breath. I’m even tempted to put a few drops of Purell in my morning coffee just to be on the safe side. So basically, I’m anorexic. Anything that I eat has the potential to kill me so now I’m forced to drink bottled water and overdose on vitamins until I end up looking the like the white daughter of a black man. On second thought, pass me a burger and a family size bag of Teddy Grahams!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Case of the Mondays
I hate Mondays. And it is my belief that the vast majority of the world hates Mondays too, yet everyone is so faux chipper and happy on Mondays. Have you ever noticed that within 10 minutes of arriving at work at least 3 people will have said, “Hi (insert your name)! How was your weekend?” Why is it that people ALWAYS want to know about your weekend, but no one asks about Wednesday? When you come into work on Thursday no one ever says “Hi! How was your Wednesday?” Yet everyone is sooooo interested in your weekend. And when they ask this age old, cliché, slightly rhetorical question, we usually respond with the same old, cliché, slightly rehearsed answers.
“Good!”
“Oh you know, just kinda took it easy.”
“It was great! The weather was byooteeful!”
Personally, I’m tired of people at work asking about my weekend. It’s not because I’m an anti-social or mean person, it’s because I don’t feel it’s genuine. And if it’s not genuine, then why do it? You know deep down that they could really care less about how you spend your free time, but they are programmed to ask and like little robots we are programmed to answer. This got me to thinking; maybe I should conduct an experiment. Let us all pretend we are Debbie Downer’s, Negative Nancy’s and Bitch-ass Bettina’s…the next time someone asks “How was your weekend?” tell them how it really was!
John from accounting: Hi Debbie! How was your weekend?
Debbie Downer: It sucked. I ate spinach and apparently all the spinach in all the world is contaminated. It gave me the runs all weekend and by Sunday I had cotton mouth. How was yours?
Dante, the guy in the cube next to you: Hi Nancy. How was your weekend?
Negative Nancy: Not too good. My cable got cut off because this job doesn’t pay enough money to make ends meet. I didn’t have money to go out either so I just sat on the couch eating Ramen until I got sleepy. What did you do?
Mike from across the hall: Hey B! How was your weekend?
Bitch-ass Bettina: Muthaf*cka please! You know you don’t give a damn about how my weekend was! I don’t have time for this. I got kids to feed.
I’ve been at my job for exactly 1 month today so it’s way too soon for me to conduct this experiment myself, but if you have the balls to tell your boss you didn’t leave the house all weekend because your girlfriend whooped your ass, go ahead and do it! Start a new trend. Be somebody!!
“Good!”
“Oh you know, just kinda took it easy.”
“It was great! The weather was byooteeful!”
Personally, I’m tired of people at work asking about my weekend. It’s not because I’m an anti-social or mean person, it’s because I don’t feel it’s genuine. And if it’s not genuine, then why do it? You know deep down that they could really care less about how you spend your free time, but they are programmed to ask and like little robots we are programmed to answer. This got me to thinking; maybe I should conduct an experiment. Let us all pretend we are Debbie Downer’s, Negative Nancy’s and Bitch-ass Bettina’s…the next time someone asks “How was your weekend?” tell them how it really was!
John from accounting: Hi Debbie! How was your weekend?
Debbie Downer: It sucked. I ate spinach and apparently all the spinach in all the world is contaminated. It gave me the runs all weekend and by Sunday I had cotton mouth. How was yours?
Dante, the guy in the cube next to you: Hi Nancy. How was your weekend?
Negative Nancy: Not too good. My cable got cut off because this job doesn’t pay enough money to make ends meet. I didn’t have money to go out either so I just sat on the couch eating Ramen until I got sleepy. What did you do?
Mike from across the hall: Hey B! How was your weekend?
Bitch-ass Bettina: Muthaf*cka please! You know you don’t give a damn about how my weekend was! I don’t have time for this. I got kids to feed.
I’ve been at my job for exactly 1 month today so it’s way too soon for me to conduct this experiment myself, but if you have the balls to tell your boss you didn’t leave the house all weekend because your girlfriend whooped your ass, go ahead and do it! Start a new trend. Be somebody!!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
I’m rockin’ stilettos hoe!
Youtube is a beautiful thing. It gives me the opportunity to watch funny things I would ordinarily overlook, or catch up on music videos that I somehow missed the first time around or are too bootleg to be shown on any bonafide channel. Case in point…the very catchy song “Stilettos” by Crime Boss.
Anyone who knows me can verify that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with shoes. And anyone that sings the praises of these little lovelies is someone I would tip my hat to. But you have got to be f*cking kidding me with this song! I’ve never doubted the existence of hoodrats in this world, I’ve actually befriended a couple of them a time or two. But seriously, what kind of chick makes a song like this!? I’m willing to bet that this song will become an underground hit solely because of its ridiculousness, sort of like “Whistle While You Twerk” or “White Tee”. There is enough bad music in the world so it’s a shame that Crime Boss is adding to it, but if I ever hear this song in the club, please believe that I will be rockin’ stilettos hoe! Rockin’ stilettos hoe!”
Anyone who knows me can verify that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with shoes. And anyone that sings the praises of these little lovelies is someone I would tip my hat to. But you have got to be f*cking kidding me with this song! I’ve never doubted the existence of hoodrats in this world, I’ve actually befriended a couple of them a time or two. But seriously, what kind of chick makes a song like this!? I’m willing to bet that this song will become an underground hit solely because of its ridiculousness, sort of like “Whistle While You Twerk” or “White Tee”. There is enough bad music in the world so it’s a shame that Crime Boss is adding to it, but if I ever hear this song in the club, please believe that I will be rockin’ stilettos hoe! Rockin’ stilettos hoe!”
Strange men on street corners
I’ve come to realize that over the next few months the majority of my blog entries will probably be about the wacky people I come across in NYC. After my encounter with the strange man on the train, I didn’t think anything could top that. But then I met Cameron.
Last night while on my way home from the Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Center (the most fantastic bookstore this side of the Atlantic—nothing can top Waterstone’s in Picadilly Circus), I had an incredible craving for a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. There’s usually a McDonald’s on every other street corner, but for some particular reason I didn’t see any around so I headed down Broadway on a desperate mission to find one. Just as I was about to cross the street, two men walked past men and one of them stopped in his tracks and made a beeline straight for me.
“Excuse me miss, excuse me miss, can I talk to you for a second?”
Normally when these things happen, I kindly ignore and keep it moving, but this one was particularly persistent. He followed behind me and kept asking me to stop, slow down for a second.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you but when I saw you I thought you were so beautiful and I just had to tell you. You have beautiful skin. What kind of soap do you use? Personally, I like Dove. Ivory and Zest are too harsh on my skin. What’s your name?”
Initially I was flattered. Some random guy stops me on the street to tell me I’m beautiful and that I have nice skin. But before I could even say thanks or smile from ear to ear, he starts talking about how certain soaps irritate his skin and how his diabetes makes it hard for him to use just any old soap.
“Uh, thanks. Thank you very much. My name is Coco,” I finally said after his monologue about the greatness of Dove soap.
“Coco? That’s a funny name. Is that Egyptian? I have ancestors from Egypt, that’s why I can’t use Zest or Ivory. Our skin is deprived of moisture. See, white people can use any soap they want, but if I use it, I’ll get ashy and my skin peels. So Coco, huh? My name is Cameron. Just like the rapper, but he spells his name C A M R O N. I spell mine C A M E R O N. See, I have an E in my name, he doesn’t!!”
This man was beyond weird, but I wasn’t creeped out by him like I was with the guy on the train. Cameron with an E was thoroughly amusing. I almost forgot about my mission to get a burger!
“Oooh, interesting. I bet Cam’ron doesn’t use Zest or Ivory either!” He obviously didn’t realize that I was being completely sarcastic because once again he started on his soap monologue.
“You know what the best thing is? Mixing cocoa butter with your lotion. I think it’s fate that we met! I use cocoa butter everyday and then I meet a beautiful girl named Coco. I really think it’s fate! A lot of women use Oil of Olay, but Dove has more moisturizer than that,” he said.
“Oh my god! I use Oil of Olay! I looooove the one with Shea Butter. It smells so good!”
I’m sad to admit it, but at that point I was no longer being sarcastic and actually being serious. I love the Shea Butter Oil of Olay soap:-) As soon as he said it, it triggered some sort of girlie reaction inside of me, similar to when you find out that you and someone else you know love the same perfume or shade of lipstick. I could have stood there all night talking about soap, moisturizers and eventually Grey’s Anatomy, but then he asked for my phone number and I realized that I was stopped on a street corner by a perfect stranger that wanted to talk to me about soap. I would not be giving this man my phone number.
“Well Coco, can I have your phone number?”
“Actually, I really need to get to McDonald’s and I’m seeing someone right now. I’m sorry!” I said.
I hated to let the poor guy down like that, but I believe he was crazy. As much as I’d like to believe that I’m gorgeous enough to stop men in their tracks, I don’t really think that’s the case. New York is just full of really weird, slightly schizophrenic people that have no problem having absolutely random and pointless conversations with you. It’s perfectly “normal” to them. So until I get to the point where encounters with these crazies are as normal to me as smelling piss in a train station, I’ll continue to be Judgey McJudgerson tell you all about it!
Last night while on my way home from the Barnes & Noble at Lincoln Center (the most fantastic bookstore this side of the Atlantic—nothing can top Waterstone’s in Picadilly Circus), I had an incredible craving for a cheeseburger from McDonald’s. There’s usually a McDonald’s on every other street corner, but for some particular reason I didn’t see any around so I headed down Broadway on a desperate mission to find one. Just as I was about to cross the street, two men walked past men and one of them stopped in his tracks and made a beeline straight for me.
“Excuse me miss, excuse me miss, can I talk to you for a second?”
Normally when these things happen, I kindly ignore and keep it moving, but this one was particularly persistent. He followed behind me and kept asking me to stop, slow down for a second.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you but when I saw you I thought you were so beautiful and I just had to tell you. You have beautiful skin. What kind of soap do you use? Personally, I like Dove. Ivory and Zest are too harsh on my skin. What’s your name?”
Initially I was flattered. Some random guy stops me on the street to tell me I’m beautiful and that I have nice skin. But before I could even say thanks or smile from ear to ear, he starts talking about how certain soaps irritate his skin and how his diabetes makes it hard for him to use just any old soap.
“Uh, thanks. Thank you very much. My name is Coco,” I finally said after his monologue about the greatness of Dove soap.
“Coco? That’s a funny name. Is that Egyptian? I have ancestors from Egypt, that’s why I can’t use Zest or Ivory. Our skin is deprived of moisture. See, white people can use any soap they want, but if I use it, I’ll get ashy and my skin peels. So Coco, huh? My name is Cameron. Just like the rapper, but he spells his name C A M R O N. I spell mine C A M E R O N. See, I have an E in my name, he doesn’t!!”
This man was beyond weird, but I wasn’t creeped out by him like I was with the guy on the train. Cameron with an E was thoroughly amusing. I almost forgot about my mission to get a burger!
“Oooh, interesting. I bet Cam’ron doesn’t use Zest or Ivory either!” He obviously didn’t realize that I was being completely sarcastic because once again he started on his soap monologue.
“You know what the best thing is? Mixing cocoa butter with your lotion. I think it’s fate that we met! I use cocoa butter everyday and then I meet a beautiful girl named Coco. I really think it’s fate! A lot of women use Oil of Olay, but Dove has more moisturizer than that,” he said.
“Oh my god! I use Oil of Olay! I looooove the one with Shea Butter. It smells so good!”
I’m sad to admit it, but at that point I was no longer being sarcastic and actually being serious. I love the Shea Butter Oil of Olay soap:-) As soon as he said it, it triggered some sort of girlie reaction inside of me, similar to when you find out that you and someone else you know love the same perfume or shade of lipstick. I could have stood there all night talking about soap, moisturizers and eventually Grey’s Anatomy, but then he asked for my phone number and I realized that I was stopped on a street corner by a perfect stranger that wanted to talk to me about soap. I would not be giving this man my phone number.
“Well Coco, can I have your phone number?”
“Actually, I really need to get to McDonald’s and I’m seeing someone right now. I’m sorry!” I said.
I hated to let the poor guy down like that, but I believe he was crazy. As much as I’d like to believe that I’m gorgeous enough to stop men in their tracks, I don’t really think that’s the case. New York is just full of really weird, slightly schizophrenic people that have no problem having absolutely random and pointless conversations with you. It’s perfectly “normal” to them. So until I get to the point where encounters with these crazies are as normal to me as smelling piss in a train station, I’ll continue to be Judgey McJudgerson tell you all about it!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Come on girl, don't you wanna wash my clothes?
Last night I called an old friend of mine just as he was picking up his laundry. I teased him and called him a lazy bastard because certain things like doing your laundry, you really should be doing yourself. I thought he dropped them off at a laundromat and left them in the hands of a professional, but that wasn’t the case. He actually has his laundry done by “some girl.” Now when I say “some girl”, I’m not referring to his wife, his girlfriend, his mom, or any other woman that plays a significant role in his life. The woman I’m referring to really is just “some girl.” He said he used to “mess with her” back in the day (i.e. they slept together on occasion but things didn’t work out) and now she just does his laundry.
According to him, one day he playfully made a joke and said “hey, you should do my laundry!” but it was really meant in the spirit of good ol' wholesome fun; because when you think of good ol' wholesome fun, you think about asking people to do your laundry. The next day he came home from work and found that all his dirty clothes were gone, with a note on his hamper saying that she took his clothes to wash them. Fast forward two years later and this chick is still doing his laundry.
Now after hearing this story, I initially wanted to call this girl a dumb bitch and berate her in every way that I could think of, but I’m not going to do that. I actually want to befriend this girl because I like living in beautiful surroundings. When I move into my apartment, I’m going to need my floors refinished, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, a couple of chandeliers hung, shelving assembled, and someone to rub my tummy at night and encourage me to make this world a better place. Who better to do all these things but “some girl”?
My friend raised a very interesting point; you would be surprised at what people will actually do if you just ask them. It’s easy to say he’s lazy or a chauvinist, but maybe he’s just a smart guy that knows how to get what he wants without forcing anyone to do anything. But then again, pimps say the exact same thing and the last thing this world needs is more pimps or people with a pimp’s mentality. So wash your own damn clothes!
According to him, one day he playfully made a joke and said “hey, you should do my laundry!” but it was really meant in the spirit of good ol' wholesome fun; because when you think of good ol' wholesome fun, you think about asking people to do your laundry. The next day he came home from work and found that all his dirty clothes were gone, with a note on his hamper saying that she took his clothes to wash them. Fast forward two years later and this chick is still doing his laundry.
Now after hearing this story, I initially wanted to call this girl a dumb bitch and berate her in every way that I could think of, but I’m not going to do that. I actually want to befriend this girl because I like living in beautiful surroundings. When I move into my apartment, I’m going to need my floors refinished, a fresh coat of paint on the walls, a couple of chandeliers hung, shelving assembled, and someone to rub my tummy at night and encourage me to make this world a better place. Who better to do all these things but “some girl”?
My friend raised a very interesting point; you would be surprised at what people will actually do if you just ask them. It’s easy to say he’s lazy or a chauvinist, but maybe he’s just a smart guy that knows how to get what he wants without forcing anyone to do anything. But then again, pimps say the exact same thing and the last thing this world needs is more pimps or people with a pimp’s mentality. So wash your own damn clothes!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Strange men on trains
After leaving London, I really had no time to blog. I was going back and forth between Ohio and New York, trying to find a place to live, getting acclimated to my new job, etc., I was absolutely exhausted! Between apartment viewings and eating cheese doodles on the go, blogging was at the very bottom of my to-do list. But thanks to a middle aged man by the name of Keith, Ms. Stasia is back!
Yesterday I was at Penn Station heading home from work. I was only 10 hours into my new lifestyle change (a.k.a. The South Beach Diet) but I had a rough day so I decided to visit old faithful for a little pick me up. Just as the train was approaching, a very handsome man stood next to me and said “absolutely gorgeous!” As we both stepped onto the train I asked him, “are you referring to me, or the donut?” I’m a little leery about talking to strangers, because I’ve found that the majority of people are either weird or unappealing, but he looked normal so I decided to give him a chance and engage in conversation.
“I was referring to you,” he said. He sat next to me and we proceeded with the usual ‘get to know ya’ chat; what’s your name, what do you do, do you live in the city, yada, yada, yada. He asked for my number and it’s usually my policy to take numbers, not give numbers, but he seemed normal and I’m all about making new friends since I’m in a new city so I agreed. He talked about possibly getting together over the weekend and he asked what type of things I like to do. He said he was pretty much open to anything, except going to the movies. He went on a rant about how movies are horrible these days and the last really good movie he saw was A Few Good Men.
“A Few Good Men? I said. “That movie is over 10 years old. How old are you?”
“I’m a business man. I’m good at what I do, but I’m socially inept.” he said.
“Um, what?” I was thoroughly confused. What exactly did that have to with what we were talking about?
“Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the marines…’ he continued. And continued.
Yes, he continued for 5 minutes, or exactly 3 stops on the A train. Keith recited the entire court room scene from A Few Good Men. And not just Jack Nicholson’s character, but Tom Cruise too and whoever the guy was that played the judge. This man was obviously abnormal.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Exactly how many times have you seen that movie?”
“Only three. But I have a strong propensity to memorize long passages and recite them verbatim,” he said. “You know what else I like? Pens. I love pens!”
He proceeded to pull four pens out of his jacket pocket and a Target bag full of new packs of pens from his briefcase. He held a pen dangerously close to my face and said, “I looked everywhere for this pen. My friend had one so I had to get one. This is a high quality, exclusive pen,” he said.
Now if it were a Montblanc or Caran d’Ache pen, I could possibly understand his excitement; those are really nice pens after all. But this dude was holding up a Bic. A bic! I think I got my first bic when I my third grade teacher allowed us to complete our assignments in pen instead of pencil. Hardly exclusive, or of the highest quality for that matter.
“You see this pen here? It has a 1.2 millimeter ball, which means it has a broad stroke,” he said.
At this point, I was speechless. I was just giving him the crazy look and hoping that he would stop talking. Or at least get off at the very next stop.
“You probably wish you didn’t give me your number, don’t you?” he said. “I told you, I’m a really good guy, but I’m a little socially inept. I think it stems from me not having friends as a child. My parents took me to a child psychologist to see what was wrong with me. I sit outside coffee shops alone sometimes and…”
“Um, excuse me” I interrupted. “Do you always tell perfect strangers stuff like this? Actually, don’t even answer that. Just don’t talk. I’m not much of a talker,” I said.
“Really?” he said. “Do you like coffee? There is nothing in this world that I love more than coffee! Did you know that the world’s entire economic system was built on the coffee trade? Do you want me to tell you about it?”
It was then that I realized that this man wasn’t having a conversation with me, he was actually having a perfectly good conversation with himself. I was merely a decoy so that the other people on the train didn’t think he was crazy as hell. How else can you explain it? He was jumping from subject to subject like some ADHDish 10 year-old, reciting paragraph after paragraph from an old ass movie, and having his own show and tell with his “exclusive” $4 pack of pens, and during all of this nonsense I probably spoke once or twice. I’ve condensed this story heavily because I was on the train with this whack job for a good 27 minutes before I got off at some random stop just to get away from him. And through it all, I never said much of anything. With one exception: before I got off the train, I asked if I could have my number back. I didn’t feel too bad about it because as his ridiculous monologue went on and on, he asked me a number of times if I wanted my number back and if I regretted talking to him in the first place. So I wasn’t being a total bitch, I was just taking him up on his offer! But considering he has the “propensity to memorize long passages and site them verbatim,” he probably has my number memorized and will call me anyway. Something tells me that I haven’t heard the last of Keith…
Yesterday I was at Penn Station heading home from work. I was only 10 hours into my new lifestyle change (a.k.a. The South Beach Diet) but I had a rough day so I decided to visit old faithful for a little pick me up. Just as the train was approaching, a very handsome man stood next to me and said “absolutely gorgeous!” As we both stepped onto the train I asked him, “are you referring to me, or the donut?” I’m a little leery about talking to strangers, because I’ve found that the majority of people are either weird or unappealing, but he looked normal so I decided to give him a chance and engage in conversation.
“I was referring to you,” he said. He sat next to me and we proceeded with the usual ‘get to know ya’ chat; what’s your name, what do you do, do you live in the city, yada, yada, yada. He asked for my number and it’s usually my policy to take numbers, not give numbers, but he seemed normal and I’m all about making new friends since I’m in a new city so I agreed. He talked about possibly getting together over the weekend and he asked what type of things I like to do. He said he was pretty much open to anything, except going to the movies. He went on a rant about how movies are horrible these days and the last really good movie he saw was A Few Good Men.
“A Few Good Men? I said. “That movie is over 10 years old. How old are you?”
“I’m a business man. I’m good at what I do, but I’m socially inept.” he said.
“Um, what?” I was thoroughly confused. What exactly did that have to with what we were talking about?
“Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinburg? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago, and you curse the marines…’ he continued. And continued.
Yes, he continued for 5 minutes, or exactly 3 stops on the A train. Keith recited the entire court room scene from A Few Good Men. And not just Jack Nicholson’s character, but Tom Cruise too and whoever the guy was that played the judge. This man was obviously abnormal.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Exactly how many times have you seen that movie?”
“Only three. But I have a strong propensity to memorize long passages and recite them verbatim,” he said. “You know what else I like? Pens. I love pens!”
He proceeded to pull four pens out of his jacket pocket and a Target bag full of new packs of pens from his briefcase. He held a pen dangerously close to my face and said, “I looked everywhere for this pen. My friend had one so I had to get one. This is a high quality, exclusive pen,” he said.
Now if it were a Montblanc or Caran d’Ache pen, I could possibly understand his excitement; those are really nice pens after all. But this dude was holding up a Bic. A bic! I think I got my first bic when I my third grade teacher allowed us to complete our assignments in pen instead of pencil. Hardly exclusive, or of the highest quality for that matter.
“You see this pen here? It has a 1.2 millimeter ball, which means it has a broad stroke,” he said.
At this point, I was speechless. I was just giving him the crazy look and hoping that he would stop talking. Or at least get off at the very next stop.
“You probably wish you didn’t give me your number, don’t you?” he said. “I told you, I’m a really good guy, but I’m a little socially inept. I think it stems from me not having friends as a child. My parents took me to a child psychologist to see what was wrong with me. I sit outside coffee shops alone sometimes and…”
“Um, excuse me” I interrupted. “Do you always tell perfect strangers stuff like this? Actually, don’t even answer that. Just don’t talk. I’m not much of a talker,” I said.
“Really?” he said. “Do you like coffee? There is nothing in this world that I love more than coffee! Did you know that the world’s entire economic system was built on the coffee trade? Do you want me to tell you about it?”
It was then that I realized that this man wasn’t having a conversation with me, he was actually having a perfectly good conversation with himself. I was merely a decoy so that the other people on the train didn’t think he was crazy as hell. How else can you explain it? He was jumping from subject to subject like some ADHDish 10 year-old, reciting paragraph after paragraph from an old ass movie, and having his own show and tell with his “exclusive” $4 pack of pens, and during all of this nonsense I probably spoke once or twice. I’ve condensed this story heavily because I was on the train with this whack job for a good 27 minutes before I got off at some random stop just to get away from him. And through it all, I never said much of anything. With one exception: before I got off the train, I asked if I could have my number back. I didn’t feel too bad about it because as his ridiculous monologue went on and on, he asked me a number of times if I wanted my number back and if I regretted talking to him in the first place. So I wasn’t being a total bitch, I was just taking him up on his offer! But considering he has the “propensity to memorize long passages and site them verbatim,” he probably has my number memorized and will call me anyway. Something tells me that I haven’t heard the last of Keith…
Monday, August 28, 2006
Back in a flash!
I've been missing in action as of late, and unfortunately that will continue as I relocate from crazy London to crazy NYC. I'll be back soon with more ridiculous insight and harsh judgements. Be patient and I'll be sure to make it worth your while!
Monday, August 21, 2006
Because every once in a while, your vagina goes haywire
I was checking my email this morning when all of a sudden I was distracted by one of those annoying pop up ads. I normally ignore these, but the words vaginal testing sheets caught my eye.
Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Fem-V, The Vaginal Infection Test--because not all vaginal infections are yeast infections!
I have mixed feelings about this one.
While I think it's great that there's now an over the counter solution to finding out whether that stinging sensation is the result of your own crazy vagi or your boyfriend giving you a little bit of that nasty stuff, I'm just not convinced that the general public is ready to be diagnosing vaginal diseases. According to the ad, 80% of women can't differentiate between a "simple yeast infection" and something more serious. If this is actually true, that means the vast majority of women walking around with itchy and odorous woman parts have unsuccessfully treated their Chlamydia with Mono-Stat 7. In which case, Fem-V is definitely in order all across the globe(especially in large teen populations and parts of the Caribbean and South Pacific). But on the other hand, I'm not all that comfortable with a glorified maxi pad telling me that my vagina is malfunctioning on serious levels. Call me crazy, but I'd rather pay to have Dr. Jones poke around my privates and tell me officially that Billy has burned me...it's more humane that having a panty liner silently mock you as you stare at it in disbelief.
Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Fem-V, The Vaginal Infection Test--because not all vaginal infections are yeast infections!
I have mixed feelings about this one.
While I think it's great that there's now an over the counter solution to finding out whether that stinging sensation is the result of your own crazy vagi or your boyfriend giving you a little bit of that nasty stuff, I'm just not convinced that the general public is ready to be diagnosing vaginal diseases. According to the ad, 80% of women can't differentiate between a "simple yeast infection" and something more serious. If this is actually true, that means the vast majority of women walking around with itchy and odorous woman parts have unsuccessfully treated their Chlamydia with Mono-Stat 7. In which case, Fem-V is definitely in order all across the globe(especially in large teen populations and parts of the Caribbean and South Pacific). But on the other hand, I'm not all that comfortable with a glorified maxi pad telling me that my vagina is malfunctioning on serious levels. Call me crazy, but I'd rather pay to have Dr. Jones poke around my privates and tell me officially that Billy has burned me...it's more humane that having a panty liner silently mock you as you stare at it in disbelief.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Let oil glisten all over their bodies
This past Monday, a Japanese tanker spilled 1.4 million gallons of oil into the Indian Ocean. That's the equivalent of 4,500 tons! But sadly, that spill isn't nearly as bad as the spill that happened in Lebanon a few weeks ago. During the first few days of the new war Israel has waged on Hezbollah, Israeli fighter jets accidentally on purpose bombed a power plant in Beirut causing 15,000 tons of oil to leak into the Mediterranean Sea. The spill this week by the Japanese was apparently caused by a collision with a cargo ship.
The big oil companies responsible for these spills are usually very slow to react to these situations. I guess they figure that since humans aren't directly affected, they can figure out what to do about it later. Who cares if a crab or seagull is disoriented and close to death because it's covered in oil?! I care. And so do a lot of other people, so I propose a very drastic solution: Take 10 million gallons of old chicken grease and dump it on Washington, D.C.
I would say we should use crude oil, but that would probably kill a bunch of people. Chicken grease is equally annoying without those pesky side-effects of death and medical problems. I would love nothing more than to see all of those oil company lobbyists struggle to carry on their day-to-day activities while covered in chicken grease. And by covered, I mean COVERED! Completely soaked to the bone. 10 million gallons of grease is a lot after all, so pretty much every available surface in D.C. would be glistening with that good stuff. Imagine a horrible hurricane or monsoon, but instead of water...it's chicken grease. People would be falling down stairs, no one would be able to drive, public transport would be out of the question, you wouldn't be able to eat or drink anything because it's covered in chicken grease, and there was absolutely nothing you could on your own to get rid of it. The city would completely shut down.
I know this all sounds very silly, but this is exactly what marine animals go through when humans cause oil spills and then are very lackadaisical about cleaning it up. I realize that cleaning up oil spills is a very expensive and time consuming process and everyone wants to point fingers on who is going to pick up the tab, but at the end of the day the important thing is that it gets done. And quickly! The more time people spend on trying to figure out who, what, when, where, and why, the salmon that could be someone's dinner is floating in a puddle of oil instead.
Covering the good people of D.C. in chicken grease is the only logical way to make people understand how horrorendous these oil spills are and how important it is to do something about it once it happens. As individuals citizens, there isn't too much we can do to help clean up the spills other than taking to the effected beaches and scooping up buckets of oil. But if you don't happen to live near the coasts of the Indian Ocean or Mediterranean Sea, and you are near Washington, D.C., I highly suggest that you pour a container of melted Vaseline on the first politician that crosses your path. Just to show them you mean business!
The big oil companies responsible for these spills are usually very slow to react to these situations. I guess they figure that since humans aren't directly affected, they can figure out what to do about it later. Who cares if a crab or seagull is disoriented and close to death because it's covered in oil?! I care. And so do a lot of other people, so I propose a very drastic solution: Take 10 million gallons of old chicken grease and dump it on Washington, D.C.
I would say we should use crude oil, but that would probably kill a bunch of people. Chicken grease is equally annoying without those pesky side-effects of death and medical problems. I would love nothing more than to see all of those oil company lobbyists struggle to carry on their day-to-day activities while covered in chicken grease. And by covered, I mean COVERED! Completely soaked to the bone. 10 million gallons of grease is a lot after all, so pretty much every available surface in D.C. would be glistening with that good stuff. Imagine a horrible hurricane or monsoon, but instead of water...it's chicken grease. People would be falling down stairs, no one would be able to drive, public transport would be out of the question, you wouldn't be able to eat or drink anything because it's covered in chicken grease, and there was absolutely nothing you could on your own to get rid of it. The city would completely shut down.
I know this all sounds very silly, but this is exactly what marine animals go through when humans cause oil spills and then are very lackadaisical about cleaning it up. I realize that cleaning up oil spills is a very expensive and time consuming process and everyone wants to point fingers on who is going to pick up the tab, but at the end of the day the important thing is that it gets done. And quickly! The more time people spend on trying to figure out who, what, when, where, and why, the salmon that could be someone's dinner is floating in a puddle of oil instead.
Covering the good people of D.C. in chicken grease is the only logical way to make people understand how horrorendous these oil spills are and how important it is to do something about it once it happens. As individuals citizens, there isn't too much we can do to help clean up the spills other than taking to the effected beaches and scooping up buckets of oil. But if you don't happen to live near the coasts of the Indian Ocean or Mediterranean Sea, and you are near Washington, D.C., I highly suggest that you pour a container of melted Vaseline on the first politician that crosses your path. Just to show them you mean business!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Run for Jesus! (Not Christ, but that Mexican dude)
It's summertime so that means that every organization on the planet is having a marathon, triathlon, decathlon, etc. It all started with Race for a Cure. You wore one of those cute pink ribbons in support of finding a cure for breast cancer and you either ran in a 10K marathon or sponsored a more physically fit person to do it for you. A very worthy cause. But then all these other worthy causes like AIDS/HIV, prostate cancer, etc. wanted you to wear ribbons or rubber bracelets and run for them too. Now, it's just getting out of hand.
I was out for lunch today and I walked past a poster that said "Run for Trees! Join the annual tree-atholon. Everyone needs to do their part to save our trees!" I was a staunch environmentalist as a pre-teen so I know how important it is to protect and care for our environment, but I'm still scratching my head as to why anyone would pay money to run for trees. I'm a little afraid that more "worthy causes" will start asking us to run for them.
"Run for Paris Hilton! Help that dumb bitch get a clue!"
"Run for Irritable Bowel Syndrome! Put your money where your bowels are!"
If these marathons continue at the rate they're going, I have no doubt we will see these ridiculous "runs" in the near future. Which has got me to thinking, maybe I need to start my own run...
"Run for 'Coco Stasia'! Help her broke ass get a new job!"
I was out for lunch today and I walked past a poster that said "Run for Trees! Join the annual tree-atholon. Everyone needs to do their part to save our trees!" I was a staunch environmentalist as a pre-teen so I know how important it is to protect and care for our environment, but I'm still scratching my head as to why anyone would pay money to run for trees. I'm a little afraid that more "worthy causes" will start asking us to run for them.
"Run for Paris Hilton! Help that dumb bitch get a clue!"
"Run for Irritable Bowel Syndrome! Put your money where your bowels are!"
If these marathons continue at the rate they're going, I have no doubt we will see these ridiculous "runs" in the near future. Which has got me to thinking, maybe I need to start my own run...
"Run for 'Coco Stasia'! Help her broke ass get a new job!"
Thursday, August 10, 2006
The joy of waiting rooms
Many people hate going to the doctor for routine visits. You know nothing is wrong with you, so it seems pointless to go, right? While you're there, you have to sit in a waiting room for up to an hour listening to babies cry and neurotic women complain about their seasonal allergies and migrane headaches. All that aside, I'm one of those bizarre people who actually like sitting in waiting rooms; There's always something interesting going on! As a child I was thoroughly amused by playing with the toys and building blocks in the play room as I waited for the doctor to tell me and my mother that I had chicken pox. As an adult, I like trying to figure out what's wrong with everyone and reading all the different magazines that waiting rooms have to offer, especially the ones that I ordinarily would never read on my own free will. It's an excellent opportunity to broaden my horizons and learn something new and interesting.
Yesterday I went to the doctor for my annual check-up and I arrived about 30 minutes before my appointment in the hopes of getting caught up on my reading. While sitting in the waiting room I experienced the usual--resisting the urge to smack a toddler because he was verbally assaulting his own mother, a man coughing so hard that I thought he was going to spit up his soul, and of course I had all the magazines a girl could possibly want. House & Garden says "Renew, Revive and Refresh Your Personal Space!" You magazine says "Bad Love: Why Kate Moss Always Chooses the Wrong Guy" Cosmo magazine says "Make Him Beg for More--Get Down and Dirty the Right Way!" Time magazine says "Shanghai Pooches Get Pampered While Country Dogs Get Slaughtered." All very riveting headlines I must say. There were at least 5 magazines that caught my eye, but I knew I wouldn't have time to read them all. As I was shuffling through the mags trying to figure out which one to start reading first, a man wandered into the waiting room and screamed "I need some help!" Of course everyone stopped and looked at him, wondering what was going on and where he came from.
"He said I was fine, but I'm not! He has to see me again. I demand to see the GP (doctor) again!"
The man kept screaming this over and over again while the receptionists tried unsuccessfully to shut him up and get him out.
"Please, I need to see the GP again! He was wrong!"
Anytime someone is shouting and generally acting a fool, I take them seriously. Most people will just say they're nuts and brush them aside, but it has been my experience that crazies know what's really going on before us normal people get wind of it. I was tempted to pull him to the side and ask him exactly what the GP was wrong about, but one of the nurses directed him to the doctor's office before I worked up the nerve to do it.
"Coco? Coco Stasia? The doctor will see you now."
"Already? B-b-but I didn't even get to see why they kill the country dogs," I thought to myself as I walked back to the examination room. I was kinda upset because the crazy man in the waiting room distracted me from reading the magazines. I felt jipped, like I went to a backyard bbq and they ran out of meat just as I got there. So after my exam I picked up the latest issue of Tatler magazine and stuffed it in my bag on my way out the door. Yeah, I know it's wrong to "steal," but it's also wrong to mis-diagnose crazy people too. Let's just say that taking that magazine was my way of balancing out the universe. I hope the doctor was right when he said I checked out normally. I would hate to find out next week that I have measles, mumps and rubella! But at least then I would get to go back to the waiting room and read more magazines. I've always wondered why Kate Moss dates such losers!
Yesterday I went to the doctor for my annual check-up and I arrived about 30 minutes before my appointment in the hopes of getting caught up on my reading. While sitting in the waiting room I experienced the usual--resisting the urge to smack a toddler because he was verbally assaulting his own mother, a man coughing so hard that I thought he was going to spit up his soul, and of course I had all the magazines a girl could possibly want. House & Garden says "Renew, Revive and Refresh Your Personal Space!" You magazine says "Bad Love: Why Kate Moss Always Chooses the Wrong Guy" Cosmo magazine says "Make Him Beg for More--Get Down and Dirty the Right Way!" Time magazine says "Shanghai Pooches Get Pampered While Country Dogs Get Slaughtered." All very riveting headlines I must say. There were at least 5 magazines that caught my eye, but I knew I wouldn't have time to read them all. As I was shuffling through the mags trying to figure out which one to start reading first, a man wandered into the waiting room and screamed "I need some help!" Of course everyone stopped and looked at him, wondering what was going on and where he came from.
"He said I was fine, but I'm not! He has to see me again. I demand to see the GP (doctor) again!"
The man kept screaming this over and over again while the receptionists tried unsuccessfully to shut him up and get him out.
"Please, I need to see the GP again! He was wrong!"
Anytime someone is shouting and generally acting a fool, I take them seriously. Most people will just say they're nuts and brush them aside, but it has been my experience that crazies know what's really going on before us normal people get wind of it. I was tempted to pull him to the side and ask him exactly what the GP was wrong about, but one of the nurses directed him to the doctor's office before I worked up the nerve to do it.
"Coco? Coco Stasia? The doctor will see you now."
"Already? B-b-but I didn't even get to see why they kill the country dogs," I thought to myself as I walked back to the examination room. I was kinda upset because the crazy man in the waiting room distracted me from reading the magazines. I felt jipped, like I went to a backyard bbq and they ran out of meat just as I got there. So after my exam I picked up the latest issue of Tatler magazine and stuffed it in my bag on my way out the door. Yeah, I know it's wrong to "steal," but it's also wrong to mis-diagnose crazy people too. Let's just say that taking that magazine was my way of balancing out the universe. I hope the doctor was right when he said I checked out normally. I would hate to find out next week that I have measles, mumps and rubella! But at least then I would get to go back to the waiting room and read more magazines. I've always wondered why Kate Moss dates such losers!
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Old hoes in new clothes
In the September issue of W magazine, there is a feature story called "Cover Girls" that has a spread of some of the original supermodels of the 80s and 90s. I think it's great that they're profiling these women because they were trailblazers in the world of fashion, however, I wish they would have been styled/photographed in a different way. Those chicks are old! I know that nowadays middle-aged women are looking much younger and healthier than generations of women in the past, and many people say "40 is the new 20" and "50 is the new 30." No, it's really not. 40 is the new 40 and 50 is old. So put your clothes back on! If you're 40+ and you think it's perfectly ok to wear as much hair and make-up as a a young co-ed and prance around in outfits that are more appropriate for club hopping twentysomethings, let me assure you that it's not! As much as I loved Cindy Crawford back in 1995, I really have no desire to see her half-naked in 2006. Don't get me wrong, she looks wonderful but the days of wearing dresses and swimsuits that are held together with chains are long gone! I think readers would be much more interested in seeing them photographed in a way that shows how they have grown and matured since their days on the catwalk--not reliving their glory days and trying oh so hard to be hot and sexy. It's the equivalent of The Supremes going on tour with Destiny's Child. A good idea in theory, but somehow it just doesn't work. I'll let you be the judge...
Oldie Brinkley
Christy Oldington
Oldy Crawford
Oldomi Cambell
Too damn old!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
And the love keeps getting stronger
Following up on my last post about my love for Starbucks and Dubai, I am pleased to announce that Starbucks will now be selling books in their cafes! I never quite understood why they were selling cds and dvds, but selling books makes perfect sense because many people go to Starbucks for the sole purpose of reading a good book while enjoying a good cup of coffee. Well done SB, you've made mama proud! Now all we have to do is do something about their choice of books...I don't know too many people who want to curl up with a steaming hot mocha and read "The Little Engine That Could." Unless of course they're downsy. In which case you have to wonder why they're in Starbucks to begin with. But maybe I just don't know what I'm talking about because it did sell 25,000 copies of the book in just one week. I was about 8 years old the last time I read that book and even then I didn't think it was too much of a page turner. Either I'm really missing something, or Starbucks was invaded by 25,000 downsy people in the course of 7 days. But hey, Starbucks is selling books!
Friday, August 04, 2006
Dubai & Starbucks -- A Love Story
For the past year I've been saying that if I woke up one morning and a garbage bag full of money had magically appeared under my bed, there are three places I would go:
- The bank
- Dubai, United Arab Emirates
- Starbucks
The bank is an obvious first stop, but I'm sure you have your eyebrows raised at my other two destinations. Last August I was putting together a list of all the places that I wanted to travel to over the course of the year. I included all the usual suspects of Europe, with Egypt and Morocco thrown in there for fun, but as I was talking to co-workers many of them told me about these "absolutely fabulous holidays" that they took in Dubai. Even though I'm pretty good with history and geography, I had never heard of Dubai before and I was very intrigued. After doing a bit of research I realized it was in the United Arab Emirates and not too far from Abu Dhabi. I had definitely heard of Abu Dhabi because my friends and I got into a habit of saying things like "I'm going to ship you off to Abu Dhabi!" or "She acted as if I asked her to go all the way to Abu Dhabi!" So needless to say, I was pretty excited at the prospect of going to Dubai and possibly making a pitstop in Abu Dhabi along the way.
Even though I'll be leaving Europe in a few weeks, I've still been looking at vacation packages online, just in case I run up on something that's too good to pass up. I've had my eye on Dubai but this is prime season for tourists so the prices are out of the water. I ran across a story about Burj Al Arab, the world's only seven star hotel and the world's largest Starbucks inside the Mall of Arabia, the world's largest mall.
Anytime I see something described as "the world's only, the world's largest, or the world's best", it becomes my mission to see it, have it, or experience it. Just like any girl, I love having the best of the best so seeing those phrases really draws me, even if I don't necessarily want to be drawn in. For some odd reason, jellied eels is a popular dish around England. Just the thought of it makes me queasy, but I was walking down Oxford Street one day and saw a restaurant with a banner saying "Voted world's best jellied eels by Time Out magazine." I tried them, hated them, but if I saw another restaurant saying they had the worlds best jellied eels, nine times out of ten I would try them. That's how much I like having "the best". So imagine my excitement when I was reading about Dubai and saw that they had not only the world's only seven star hotel, but also the world's largest Starbucks! If I had a spare grand laying around in my savings account I would have been on the first place to the UAE! Dubai has the world's tallest building, the world's largest indoor ski resort and the world's largest amusement park. With the addition of SB, I need to find my way to Dubai ASAP.
Starbucks and I have a tumultuous history. I never really liked coffee until I got to college but occasionally I would drink it during finals week. We only had one coffee shop on our small campus called The Buzz and it had been around for generations. Starbucks came in, completely took over the coffee business, and within months The Buzz had to close up shop. I hated Starbucks because of that! I had never gone to The Buzz before, but I've never liked the idea of big corporations driving away smaller business; which is one reason (among many) that I won't shop at WalMart. I went on a tirade about how much I hated Starbucks to anyone that would listen and gained a reputation for being very anti-SB. But then I had one of these and my life changed forever...
The Frappuccino, or frappy as I affectionately call it, is one of those amazing creations that only comes along once or twice every 6 months or so. Even though I had heard so many people singing the praises of these magical little drinks, I refused to try them because of my anti-SBness. But while spending a summer interning in NYC at a high-profile fashion designer, a very famous bootylicious singer was kind enough to give me a SB giftcard for helping her find a dress for a red-carpet event. I couldn't walk more than 5 minutes without seeing one of those crack dens perched on just about every street corner in midtown, I was slowly being drawn in like a moth to a flame. Finally after two weeks and the giftcard burning a hole in my pocket, I gave in and joined the long line of fiends waiting to get their daily fix. My order: a grande mocha frappuccino. My love affair had begun.
As blissful as it was, the love affair quickly came to an end when I looked at old bank statements from my whirlwind summer in New York and realized that I spent over $300 in three months at Starbucks. And that was just from my debit card, that doesn't include the times that I actually had cash in my wallet and used that instead! I was addicted to the stuff in a bad way. I went cold turkey and stopped drinking my beloved frappies for 5 weeks, but once I got back to campus, they started calling me again. I couldn't help myself! It was hot, I was bored, so I started drinking and before I knew it I was drinking 1-2 per week. I had it under control though, it wasn't nearly as bad as my old habit of 5-7 per week. I wouldn't let it take over me like I did before. I had went as far as to purchase a very artistic black and white photograph of the first Starbucks branch in Seattle and even changed the words to 50 Cent's song "Magic Stick" to "Mocha Stick". I was a fiend I tell you, a fiend!
As time went on, I kept drinking my beloved frappies. I saw new flavors come and go...banana caramel, strawberries & cream, toffee nut, mint chocolate chip, green tea (disgusting!), etc. I've had every flavor and I get a little annoyed when new ones are introduced because nothing can top the classic Mocha. This past weekend I had one for the first time in almost a year. I had stopped drinking them in an effort to consume healthier foods. Even when my healthy food kick came to an end, I has successfully resisted the urge to go back to my drink of choice. It was hot as hell on Saturday and I hadn't had any chocolate yet so I thought to myself "Ok, just this once. It'll be fine." But it wasn't...I'm hooked again.
As I was looking though travel sites and seeing all of the beautiful sandy beaches of Dubai, all I could think about was the fabulous hotel that leaves $400 worth of Hermes goodies in each room for you to take as souvenirs, and lounging in a five-story Starbucks reading a good book. While one love is very much within reach (just a 10 minute walk to be exact), the other love is quite far away and I may not be able to see if for another year or so. But in the meantime, I always have my frappy:-) The love affair will go on.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
An uncomfortable conversation
Just like Cocoa Girl, inappropriate conversations at work are happening all over the place!
Me: Good morning Steve.
Co-worker Simon: Ah, good morning "Coco", how was your weekend?
Me: It was great! Me and a few friends went to Wales to see the Madonna concert.
Co-worker Simon: Really? Oh that sounds like fun! How was the show?
Me: Amazing! I had such a good time. I love Madonna!
Co-worker Simon: Yeah, she's quite a performer.
Me: So what did you do this weekend?
Co-worker Simon: Not much. My wife and I got into a fight. She's been pretty testy lately.
Me: (On the verge of giving him The Crazy Look) What happened?
Co-worker Simon: She's upset because I've been working long hours and we don't spend as much time together as we used to. We spent most of the weekend going back and forth about it. It got quite nasty!
Me: Oh I'm sure it wasn't that bad!
Co-worker Simon: Actually, it was. I was a little afraid of her.
Me: (Trying very, very hard to suppress The Crazy Look) Are you a man?
Co-worker Simon: I'm sorry, what did you say?
Me: Are you mad? I asked are you mad? (Snickering under my breath)
Co-worker Simon: Me? She's the one that's mad!
Me: Oh no no no, I meant are you upset. Not "are you crazy."
Co-worker Simon: Oh, I misunderstood. I wasn't upset in the beginning, at least not until she got violent. She hit me a few times and threw my mum's silver all over the flat. She beat me pretty badly. My body still aches a bit.
Me: Um, yeah. (Uncomfortable silence) Ok well I'm going to go grab some coffee. Enjoy the rest of your day!
Annnnnd scene!
Me: Good morning Steve.
Co-worker Simon: Ah, good morning "Coco", how was your weekend?
Me: It was great! Me and a few friends went to Wales to see the Madonna concert.
Co-worker Simon: Really? Oh that sounds like fun! How was the show?
Me: Amazing! I had such a good time. I love Madonna!
Co-worker Simon: Yeah, she's quite a performer.
Me: So what did you do this weekend?
Co-worker Simon: Not much. My wife and I got into a fight. She's been pretty testy lately.
Me: (On the verge of giving him The Crazy Look) What happened?
Co-worker Simon: She's upset because I've been working long hours and we don't spend as much time together as we used to. We spent most of the weekend going back and forth about it. It got quite nasty!
Me: Oh I'm sure it wasn't that bad!
Co-worker Simon: Actually, it was. I was a little afraid of her.
Me: (Trying very, very hard to suppress The Crazy Look) Are you a man?
Co-worker Simon: I'm sorry, what did you say?
Me: Are you mad? I asked are you mad? (Snickering under my breath)
Co-worker Simon: Me? She's the one that's mad!
Me: Oh no no no, I meant are you upset. Not "are you crazy."
Co-worker Simon: Oh, I misunderstood. I wasn't upset in the beginning, at least not until she got violent. She hit me a few times and threw my mum's silver all over the flat. She beat me pretty badly. My body still aches a bit.
Me: Um, yeah. (Uncomfortable silence) Ok well I'm going to go grab some coffee. Enjoy the rest of your day!
Annnnnd scene!
Monday, July 31, 2006
Suspect marriages
Saturday afternoon I had the pleasure of having lunch with an unhappily married couple. Well, at least half of the couple was unhappy. My friend, we'll call her "Sasha," confided in me prior to our lunch that her husband "Craig" would be joining us and she was none too thrilled about it. According to her, she "had a sudden epiphany and realized her marriage was a mistake" and she wanted out. This didn't come as a surprise to me because when I first met them, I asked myself "why are these two people married to each other?" Even a perfect stranger could tell that he was absolutely smitten by her and she could really care less. This was compounded by the fact that when they spoke of children, her husband would say things like "when we have kids..." or "our children..." She on the other hand would say "when I have kids..." or "my children..." It was almost as if she was saying "yeah, I plan on having kids, but I won't be having them with him!" I feel sorry for Craig because I know he really loves Sasha, but Sasha barely even likes her husband nowadays. She married him because it was easy, convenient, and seemed like a nice idea at the time. However, she now realizes that it's not going to work and she's stuck.
I'm writing about this because I know a few people who have fallen victim to, or soon will become a part of a suspect marriage. There's a woman in my office that is getting married in a few weeks because she's old and unattractive. Those are her words, not mine! She had been dating her fiance for 4 months when he popped the question and she had no hesitation about saying yes. I asked her what made her do it so quickly and she said, "Andrew is a good guy and I'm not getting any younger. It doesn't matter to him that I don't look like Heidi Klum or Kate Moss; he loves me for me." Sounds sweet and endearing, but not once have I heard her say that the reason she is marrying him is because she loves him. After seeing the two of them together, I think she has the same feelings for her fiance that Sasha has about Craig--borderline indifference with just a hint of warm and fuzziness. Hardly enough to keep a marriage afloat.
That brings me to the question, why do we get married? I know that sounds like a very Carrie Bradshaw thing to ask, but after witnessing one sham-of-a-marriage after another, I'm a little concerned because I don't want to end up being a bitter wife. I'm a hopeless romantic so I want to marry a guy that makes the earth move under my feet; makes the sky come tumbling down, tumbling down. But I'm no fool either so even if I'm crazy in love with a guy, he needs to be a suitable husband in every sense. But I've seen both men and women who sacrifice one for the other, or even both. A friend of mine is crazy in love with his wife but she's a mean-spirited bitch that can't hold a job or a decent conversation. Definitely not a suitable wife. Another woman I know married her husband because he was kind, practical and could financially provide for her, but she still doesn't know what it means to truly be in love.
So as I was sitting at Cafe Rouge with Sasha and Craig, politely ignoring that fact that as he repeatedly tried to hold her hand she would discreetly pull it away, I realized how important it is to form a delicate balance between having the earth move and actually having a solid ground to stand on. A suspect marriage is like having an Amaretto Sour with too much sour and not enough Amaretto; or using egg whites instead of sour mix--like they do here in England. It's highly unsuitable! Just like an expertly mixed cocktail, a marriage needs to be a combination of all the right ingredients that are blended together in harmony. I know comparing a successful marriage to a cocktail is oversimplification at its worst, but I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this. If you don't seriously consider all aspects of marriage before heading to the altar--love, happiness, security, etc., you'll turn into that annoying person that does nothing but complain about how crappy their husband/wife is, and none of the other kids in the sandbox will want to play with you!
I'm writing about this because I know a few people who have fallen victim to, or soon will become a part of a suspect marriage. There's a woman in my office that is getting married in a few weeks because she's old and unattractive. Those are her words, not mine! She had been dating her fiance for 4 months when he popped the question and she had no hesitation about saying yes. I asked her what made her do it so quickly and she said, "Andrew is a good guy and I'm not getting any younger. It doesn't matter to him that I don't look like Heidi Klum or Kate Moss; he loves me for me." Sounds sweet and endearing, but not once have I heard her say that the reason she is marrying him is because she loves him. After seeing the two of them together, I think she has the same feelings for her fiance that Sasha has about Craig--borderline indifference with just a hint of warm and fuzziness. Hardly enough to keep a marriage afloat.
That brings me to the question, why do we get married? I know that sounds like a very Carrie Bradshaw thing to ask, but after witnessing one sham-of-a-marriage after another, I'm a little concerned because I don't want to end up being a bitter wife. I'm a hopeless romantic so I want to marry a guy that makes the earth move under my feet; makes the sky come tumbling down, tumbling down. But I'm no fool either so even if I'm crazy in love with a guy, he needs to be a suitable husband in every sense. But I've seen both men and women who sacrifice one for the other, or even both. A friend of mine is crazy in love with his wife but she's a mean-spirited bitch that can't hold a job or a decent conversation. Definitely not a suitable wife. Another woman I know married her husband because he was kind, practical and could financially provide for her, but she still doesn't know what it means to truly be in love.
So as I was sitting at Cafe Rouge with Sasha and Craig, politely ignoring that fact that as he repeatedly tried to hold her hand she would discreetly pull it away, I realized how important it is to form a delicate balance between having the earth move and actually having a solid ground to stand on. A suspect marriage is like having an Amaretto Sour with too much sour and not enough Amaretto; or using egg whites instead of sour mix--like they do here in England. It's highly unsuitable! Just like an expertly mixed cocktail, a marriage needs to be a combination of all the right ingredients that are blended together in harmony. I know comparing a successful marriage to a cocktail is oversimplification at its worst, but I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this. If you don't seriously consider all aspects of marriage before heading to the altar--love, happiness, security, etc., you'll turn into that annoying person that does nothing but complain about how crappy their husband/wife is, and none of the other kids in the sandbox will want to play with you!
Friday, July 28, 2006
When married gay men lie and steal your money
This past weekend while doing my month-end ritual of skimming through old fashion magazines, I came across an article about women who snoop through their boyfriend's stuff to find out if they are cheating. The article mentioned a website called Don't Date Him Girl where women post warnings about their lying, cheating, and no good exes. The idea of this site is absolutely hilarious so I went and had a look to see if I actually knew any of the guys that were profiled. Thankfully I didn't because I was shocked, appalled, and squeamishly delighted by some of the stories I read! I'll freely admit that I've complained about and bad-mouthed my exes. My most recent one had mom issues, ex-girlfriend issues, commitment issues, issues all across the board! But I thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph that I have NEVER had boyfriend issues like some of these women have had!! The funniest part was seeing multiple profiles from different women about the same guy! Below are some of the more amusing stories that I came across. I went back and forth on this several times, but I ultimately decided not to include the pictures of the guys. I figured the smear campaign on the site was enough embarrassment for them, although most of the guys probably deserve it. I didn't change anything with the exception of changing a few of them from upper case to sentence case. I really hate when people write entire paragraphs in all caps.
"Simon is as nasty as they come. He has slept with his girlfriends best friend. He has given her many many diseases, one which put her in the hospital. He beats on her all of the time. Not just a smack here and there, he has locked her in rooms, closets and even tried to put a bag over her face. When she trys to leave him he stalks her and harrasses anyone who may know where she is. He gets punked down by all his friends and the only one he punks is his girl. He is the sickest man out here and the ones that have anything to do with him are just dumb, especially his asian ex-girlfriend Tic Tac who knows how he is and still sees him. All they are doing is spreading the diseases around to all these dumb young girls and boys who don't use protection!!!! So if you mess with him you better go get checked!! And he lives in a trailer park too!"
Do you think it's hilarious that his girlfriend's name is Tic Tac?
"Melvin Blue Jr is a 31 yr old boy who has dedicated his life to treating women like garbage. He will only date woman who have a job so he can collect their paychecks and pay his car note because he cant get a job because he is a 13 time offender and has been in NCCTF (jail for drug users). His favorite past time is drinking and pimping his current girlfriend Mattie for her money, house, car, and sleeps with her friends and brings his other girlfriends over to her house to have 3 somes. He tried to run over his baby mamma with his truck and shot up anohter ex girlfriends house and then beat her up (all in the newspaper) he has one child, a son who is five months by another woman and has only seen him 5 times and has never done anything for him. But he will babysit his current girlfriends 2 boys so he can keep living at her house and she will continue to pay his 650.00 car note on a 2004 F250. He even claimed her kids on his tax return so he could take the money and by drugs. He will suck your pokets dry and then leave when he is tired of u. Dont date him girl."
Are guys seriously running over their baby mamas and shooting up people's homes?
These next two profiles are about the same guy.
"I am pretty sure that this is the same guy that is already listed. I only wish I had seen this before dealing with him. I am going to put details in this so you know you have the right creep. I am posting this because John promised alot of things and it was all just to get me to drop the drawls. His name is John Michael Wilder. He is JohnMichael618 on match.com and myspace. He lives in a brick house with a swing on the front porch at 708 east 157th street in East Cleveland. The house is torn apart on the inside and he says that he is doing home improvement. He is 41 years old and his birthday is June 18th 2006. He told me that he was a welder with the same company for 16 years and has a 13 year old daughter. He said he has never been in love or been married. I believe he may be somewhat of an alcholic smelling of liquor on several occasions. He spoke of how he doesn't like dark liquor but has a cabinet full of it. He has done time for stealing cars and burgulary(I also found this out too late). He is handsome, nice UPPER body(other than the fact that his hair is starting to recede, thin), and can be charming. He often refers to his penis as his weenie so I should have known it was small then. That must be why he stopped his picture at the waist. Whenever we saw one another he would be all over me even referred to us being married a couple of times. He got the nookie and started acting funny. Not calling, not answering his phone and coming up with lame excuses as to why. He likes to string you along instead of just telling you that he got what he wanted which only makes it worse. When he climaxes, he whimpers and sounds like he is crying and likes to do it with the lights on. He stated that in one relationship he was dating a "church girl" who wouldn't have sex with him and referred to him as the devil. I wish I was able to detect that as well. She was smart! He said he is going to sell his house and move to Shaker so beware! Oh wait, that is probably a lie too!"
"John is a 41 yr old man that refuses to support himself...He was laid off of his job almost 4 yrs ago...He used me for money, was vebally abusive...Always wanted oral and anal sex...He cheated numerous times with his ex wife and who ever else.The wife he did not tell me had until 18 months into our relationship I found out about online...He told me he didnt have a record...also found out he did 5 yrs in jail...He says because he didnt like the marriage or the jail he feels like it wasnt him so its not a lie...He quit his last job in November because he didnt want to pay child support or health care...I also feel he is DL ..would find men naked pics in his archives but he claims I put pictures there...He doesnt like vaginal sex at all...just oral and anal...He doesnt like to perform orally on a female...He would get into arguments with me over men he just met and wanted to go out with them...never to see them again after a few months but was willing to throw our relationship away over them... I believe he is gay and thats why he cant be true or good to a woman...I was with him for 3 yrs and all he wanted was anal sex...loved to talk about men and was never satisfied with anything I did or said ...was very antigay.
He has no friends...never pays for anything..always wants you to drive cause he doesnt even want to buy gas...argues over a $3 drink ...house in foreclosure since March 2005..jobless and broke. He is now on a Interracial dating site looking for a woman to pay his bills...He did have a pic up but quickly deleted it and just left the ad...Please beware...He has no capacity to love..at least to love a woman...He has a 14 yr old daughter he rarely sees...brothers he havent seen in 5 or 6 yrs A son in his 20's he has nothing to do with...and another son he claims isnt his..but looks just like him...SORRY and Trifling...Whines constantly and is very anal retentive about everything...Everything you say or anybody else says is stupid to him...Gets lost going to corner store then will call u cussing you out for him being lost. He thinks he is better than everybody he meets...Ladies run...I kept a yeast infection because I think he was sleeping with men and other women...Since We broke up I have been infection free and enjoying relationships with men that like women only.
I just saw the other post on him...Yes thats him...moving to Shaker huh? LMAO house was just foreclosed ...He went to court May 17th...So its a matter of time when he has to be out....Ladies dont waste your time....This man is gay....After 3 yrs I should I know....Dont know why he is even looking for women...He doesnt like the look , smell touch or taste of A woman's sex....believe me I know...And yes He was married in August of 1998...Divorced in 2002...6 months after we were dating...I found out 18 months into our relationship about the wife...Heard the I never been in love line...Its true...at least not with a woman...His lover is in jail for murder...He will always love him....He is a habitual liar...cant talk right...remedial at best....gets a dictinary out to try to sound like he is intelligent....so if you read his profile on plenty of fish or the other sites....he is lying to himself...also the pic thats on the other profile he took in 2003 when we was together....he is not that in shape now...and yes he drinks alot...but claims he doesnt....for more info please feel free to contact me"
Can you believe that?! At first, I thought the site was a bit of a joke, created by some bitter teenager that wanted to lash out at the guy that stood her up for homecoming. But it turns out the site is actually something legit. It gets up to 600,000 hits a day and its creator is a columnist for the Miami Herald that has been featured on The Today Show, Fox News, MSNBC, and Entertainment Tonight. One thing that scared me about this site is that so many of the losers that were profiled were married or "straight" gay men. My feelings about married men who cheat and those DL losers requires a completely different post, so I won't even begin go into that now!
Despite that, the one thing that really, really upset me was the stupidity of some of these women. I know, I know, we're all a fool for love at some point, but there comes a time when you have to draw the line. I read a number of profiles where angry women talked about how even though they knew their boyfriends were dogs, they continued to pay their boyfriends bills, buy them clothes, give them money, etc. If your boyfriend continually cheats on you, steals from you, and on top of that whoops your ass every now and then, why would you be paying his bills!?!? One woman talked about how she paid her boyfriends child-support because he didn't have a job, but he still stole her credit cards and checkbook. When she confronted him with it, he would call her a paranoid bitch and then smacked her around for good measure. And she stayed with him for 2 years! I realize that women in situations like that have serious issues that need to be worked out through intense therapy, but it still angers me nonetheless because no one should allow themselves be taken advantage of in that manner. Although the website sounds really funny, it's a great idea because at least now women have the opportunity to see if the new guy in her life has the potential to sleep with her brother, kick her ass, or drain her checking account. Those are classic examples of when signing bonuses are definitely in order! Now I'm just waiting on some guy to start the "Don't Date Her" website. I know the stories on there would be h.i.l.a.r.i.o.u.s. because women (through no fault of our own) are crazy as hell!
"Simon is as nasty as they come. He has slept with his girlfriends best friend. He has given her many many diseases, one which put her in the hospital. He beats on her all of the time. Not just a smack here and there, he has locked her in rooms, closets and even tried to put a bag over her face. When she trys to leave him he stalks her and harrasses anyone who may know where she is. He gets punked down by all his friends and the only one he punks is his girl. He is the sickest man out here and the ones that have anything to do with him are just dumb, especially his asian ex-girlfriend Tic Tac who knows how he is and still sees him. All they are doing is spreading the diseases around to all these dumb young girls and boys who don't use protection!!!! So if you mess with him you better go get checked!! And he lives in a trailer park too!"
Do you think it's hilarious that his girlfriend's name is Tic Tac?
"Melvin Blue Jr is a 31 yr old boy who has dedicated his life to treating women like garbage. He will only date woman who have a job so he can collect their paychecks and pay his car note because he cant get a job because he is a 13 time offender and has been in NCCTF (jail for drug users). His favorite past time is drinking and pimping his current girlfriend Mattie for her money, house, car, and sleeps with her friends and brings his other girlfriends over to her house to have 3 somes. He tried to run over his baby mamma with his truck and shot up anohter ex girlfriends house and then beat her up (all in the newspaper) he has one child, a son who is five months by another woman and has only seen him 5 times and has never done anything for him. But he will babysit his current girlfriends 2 boys so he can keep living at her house and she will continue to pay his 650.00 car note on a 2004 F250. He even claimed her kids on his tax return so he could take the money and by drugs. He will suck your pokets dry and then leave when he is tired of u. Dont date him girl."
Are guys seriously running over their baby mamas and shooting up people's homes?
These next two profiles are about the same guy.
"I am pretty sure that this is the same guy that is already listed. I only wish I had seen this before dealing with him. I am going to put details in this so you know you have the right creep. I am posting this because John promised alot of things and it was all just to get me to drop the drawls. His name is John Michael Wilder. He is JohnMichael618 on match.com and myspace. He lives in a brick house with a swing on the front porch at 708 east 157th street in East Cleveland. The house is torn apart on the inside and he says that he is doing home improvement. He is 41 years old and his birthday is June 18th 2006. He told me that he was a welder with the same company for 16 years and has a 13 year old daughter. He said he has never been in love or been married. I believe he may be somewhat of an alcholic smelling of liquor on several occasions. He spoke of how he doesn't like dark liquor but has a cabinet full of it. He has done time for stealing cars and burgulary(I also found this out too late). He is handsome, nice UPPER body(other than the fact that his hair is starting to recede, thin), and can be charming. He often refers to his penis as his weenie so I should have known it was small then. That must be why he stopped his picture at the waist. Whenever we saw one another he would be all over me even referred to us being married a couple of times. He got the nookie and started acting funny. Not calling, not answering his phone and coming up with lame excuses as to why. He likes to string you along instead of just telling you that he got what he wanted which only makes it worse. When he climaxes, he whimpers and sounds like he is crying and likes to do it with the lights on. He stated that in one relationship he was dating a "church girl" who wouldn't have sex with him and referred to him as the devil. I wish I was able to detect that as well. She was smart! He said he is going to sell his house and move to Shaker so beware! Oh wait, that is probably a lie too!"
"John is a 41 yr old man that refuses to support himself...He was laid off of his job almost 4 yrs ago...He used me for money, was vebally abusive...Always wanted oral and anal sex...He cheated numerous times with his ex wife and who ever else.The wife he did not tell me had until 18 months into our relationship I found out about online...He told me he didnt have a record...also found out he did 5 yrs in jail...He says because he didnt like the marriage or the jail he feels like it wasnt him so its not a lie...He quit his last job in November because he didnt want to pay child support or health care...I also feel he is DL ..would find men naked pics in his archives but he claims I put pictures there...He doesnt like vaginal sex at all...just oral and anal...He doesnt like to perform orally on a female...He would get into arguments with me over men he just met and wanted to go out with them...never to see them again after a few months but was willing to throw our relationship away over them... I believe he is gay and thats why he cant be true or good to a woman...I was with him for 3 yrs and all he wanted was anal sex...loved to talk about men and was never satisfied with anything I did or said ...was very antigay.
He has no friends...never pays for anything..always wants you to drive cause he doesnt even want to buy gas...argues over a $3 drink ...house in foreclosure since March 2005..jobless and broke. He is now on a Interracial dating site looking for a woman to pay his bills...He did have a pic up but quickly deleted it and just left the ad...Please beware...He has no capacity to love..at least to love a woman...He has a 14 yr old daughter he rarely sees...brothers he havent seen in 5 or 6 yrs A son in his 20's he has nothing to do with...and another son he claims isnt his..but looks just like him...SORRY and Trifling...Whines constantly and is very anal retentive about everything...Everything you say or anybody else says is stupid to him...Gets lost going to corner store then will call u cussing you out for him being lost. He thinks he is better than everybody he meets...Ladies run...I kept a yeast infection because I think he was sleeping with men and other women...Since We broke up I have been infection free and enjoying relationships with men that like women only.
I just saw the other post on him...Yes thats him...moving to Shaker huh? LMAO house was just foreclosed ...He went to court May 17th...So its a matter of time when he has to be out....Ladies dont waste your time....This man is gay....After 3 yrs I should I know....Dont know why he is even looking for women...He doesnt like the look , smell touch or taste of A woman's sex....believe me I know...And yes He was married in August of 1998...Divorced in 2002...6 months after we were dating...I found out 18 months into our relationship about the wife...Heard the I never been in love line...Its true...at least not with a woman...His lover is in jail for murder...He will always love him....He is a habitual liar...cant talk right...remedial at best....gets a dictinary out to try to sound like he is intelligent....so if you read his profile on plenty of fish or the other sites....he is lying to himself...also the pic thats on the other profile he took in 2003 when we was together....he is not that in shape now...and yes he drinks alot...but claims he doesnt....for more info please feel free to contact me"
Can you believe that?! At first, I thought the site was a bit of a joke, created by some bitter teenager that wanted to lash out at the guy that stood her up for homecoming. But it turns out the site is actually something legit. It gets up to 600,000 hits a day and its creator is a columnist for the Miami Herald that has been featured on The Today Show, Fox News, MSNBC, and Entertainment Tonight. One thing that scared me about this site is that so many of the losers that were profiled were married or "straight" gay men. My feelings about married men who cheat and those DL losers requires a completely different post, so I won't even begin go into that now!
Despite that, the one thing that really, really upset me was the stupidity of some of these women. I know, I know, we're all a fool for love at some point, but there comes a time when you have to draw the line. I read a number of profiles where angry women talked about how even though they knew their boyfriends were dogs, they continued to pay their boyfriends bills, buy them clothes, give them money, etc. If your boyfriend continually cheats on you, steals from you, and on top of that whoops your ass every now and then, why would you be paying his bills!?!? One woman talked about how she paid her boyfriends child-support because he didn't have a job, but he still stole her credit cards and checkbook. When she confronted him with it, he would call her a paranoid bitch and then smacked her around for good measure. And she stayed with him for 2 years! I realize that women in situations like that have serious issues that need to be worked out through intense therapy, but it still angers me nonetheless because no one should allow themselves be taken advantage of in that manner. Although the website sounds really funny, it's a great idea because at least now women have the opportunity to see if the new guy in her life has the potential to sleep with her brother, kick her ass, or drain her checking account. Those are classic examples of when signing bonuses are definitely in order! Now I'm just waiting on some guy to start the "Don't Date Her" website. I know the stories on there would be h.i.l.a.r.i.o.u.s. because women (through no fault of our own) are crazy as hell!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Wearing emotions on my face, aka The Crazy Look
Some people wear their heart of their sleeve, I wear my emotions on my face. It's a horrible habit that I'm trying desperately to break. You would think that it's a good thing, because then people would always know exactly how I feel, but 62% of the time people should really be in the dark about what's going on in my head!
Prime example…I was at work sitting at my desk the other day and a very confused woman came and stood in front of my door, gazing into my office but not saying a word. I was thinking to myself "who the f*ck is this woman and why is she just standing there and not saying anything?" So of course, I had that exact expression on my face. My bestfriend and I affectionately call this "The Crazy Look." The Crazy Look consists of a furrowed brow, squinted eyes, and a look of bewilderment. In addition to the look of bewilderment, you must also add a number of other looks depending on whatever situation you're in. This includes but is not limited to the look of: "get the f*ck out of my face", "what the f*ck do you want", "why the f*ck are you wearing that", "why the f*ck did you just say", "something f*cking stinks", or the classic, "I'm about to go the f*ck off". Any of these emotions mixed with the look of bewilderment, furrowed brow, and squinted eyes constitutes The Crazy Look.
So this confused lady was standing at the door of my office looking in but not saying anything. I was giving her The Crazy (what the f*ck do you want) Look so she quickly realized that she needed to say something, and fast! She started to speak but she had such a heavy accent that I couldn't understand anything she was saying to me. My Crazy (what the f*ck do you want) Look immediately turned into The Crazy (get the f*ck out of my face) Look and she scurried off. I still have no idea who the woman was or what she wanted because The Crazy Look scared her off. The thing that makes this even more sad is that I never said a word. Even though she was talking for probably about 45 seconds (and asking me questions) I never said anything, I just gave her The Crazy Look.
I'm guilty of giving people The Crazy Look on an almost daily basis…riding on the tube, walking down the street, in hospital waiting rooms, it really doesn't matter where I am. If I see, hear or smell something completely ridiculous, The Crazy Look appears. When I was in Prague a few weeks ago, my friends and I were standing in a mirrored elevator with the funkiest of funky men. I couldn't bear to face him and personally give him The Crazy Look because he smelled too bad, so I turned in the opposite direction, faced the mirror and gave myself The Crazy Look because I couldn't believe how foul that man smelled. My friend Tatiana called me on it once we got out of the elevator and it was then that I realized that I need to stop with the crazy looks. But I just can't help it! It's honestly not something that I do on purpose, it's very subconscious. I usually don't even realize that I'm giving someone The Crazy Look until they give me The Crazy Look for giving them The Crazy Look. So then we're both just sitting there looking at each other all crazy until someone turns away. A vicious cycle. I'm working hard to stop it but it's a natural reaction that I can't seem to control. I believe that I have a modified version of Bell's Palsy; my face suddenly becomes paralyzed into a looks of judgement.
Prime example…I was at work sitting at my desk the other day and a very confused woman came and stood in front of my door, gazing into my office but not saying a word. I was thinking to myself "who the f*ck is this woman and why is she just standing there and not saying anything?" So of course, I had that exact expression on my face. My bestfriend and I affectionately call this "The Crazy Look." The Crazy Look consists of a furrowed brow, squinted eyes, and a look of bewilderment. In addition to the look of bewilderment, you must also add a number of other looks depending on whatever situation you're in. This includes but is not limited to the look of: "get the f*ck out of my face", "what the f*ck do you want", "why the f*ck are you wearing that", "why the f*ck did you just say", "something f*cking stinks", or the classic, "I'm about to go the f*ck off". Any of these emotions mixed with the look of bewilderment, furrowed brow, and squinted eyes constitutes The Crazy Look.
So this confused lady was standing at the door of my office looking in but not saying anything. I was giving her The Crazy (what the f*ck do you want) Look so she quickly realized that she needed to say something, and fast! She started to speak but she had such a heavy accent that I couldn't understand anything she was saying to me. My Crazy (what the f*ck do you want) Look immediately turned into The Crazy (get the f*ck out of my face) Look and she scurried off. I still have no idea who the woman was or what she wanted because The Crazy Look scared her off. The thing that makes this even more sad is that I never said a word. Even though she was talking for probably about 45 seconds (and asking me questions) I never said anything, I just gave her The Crazy Look.
I'm guilty of giving people The Crazy Look on an almost daily basis…riding on the tube, walking down the street, in hospital waiting rooms, it really doesn't matter where I am. If I see, hear or smell something completely ridiculous, The Crazy Look appears. When I was in Prague a few weeks ago, my friends and I were standing in a mirrored elevator with the funkiest of funky men. I couldn't bear to face him and personally give him The Crazy Look because he smelled too bad, so I turned in the opposite direction, faced the mirror and gave myself The Crazy Look because I couldn't believe how foul that man smelled. My friend Tatiana called me on it once we got out of the elevator and it was then that I realized that I need to stop with the crazy looks. But I just can't help it! It's honestly not something that I do on purpose, it's very subconscious. I usually don't even realize that I'm giving someone The Crazy Look until they give me The Crazy Look for giving them The Crazy Look. So then we're both just sitting there looking at each other all crazy until someone turns away. A vicious cycle. I'm working hard to stop it but it's a natural reaction that I can't seem to control. I believe that I have a modified version of Bell's Palsy; my face suddenly becomes paralyzed into a looks of judgement.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)