Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Ooh, Booker is going to hate me

So not only do I stalk people over the internet, but I stalk them in person as well--and put it on the internet. It's official: I'm a Gawker Stalker (last item.)

Also, suck it, Clooney.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Jesus died for our sins...but he came back for the chocolate

Tradition is important. It keeps families and societies together, and creates warm memories for generations. Easter is a holiday rife with family tradition. Some families gather all of the relatives for a morning at church followed by a home cooked meal filled with ham and things in casserole dishes that involve marshmallows. Some families have Easter egg hunts in the backyard, while others prefer to roll their eggs on the front lawn of the White House with their two mommies.

I didn’t spend my Easter doing any of these activities. In fact, I didn’t do anything Easter-related on Sunday. Even my Jewish boss had a big dinner to go to. I spent the day shopping. Besides, on my calendar, Monday is the actual holiday; Monday is the day the Easter candy goes half price. More specifically, it is the day the Cadbury Crème Eggs go half price.

To me, that is Easter: a hollow chocolate shell filled with sugary goo dyed to resemble the unfertilized beginnings of a farm animal.

Easter candy started showing up in the city around mid-February. I found my first egg of the season in a Duane Reade on the Upper West Side. My discovery, coupled with the roughly 120 grams of sugar, lulled me into a false sense of security and complacency. Even as the months went on and I didn’t see any more eggs, I didn’t panic. Even when the lack of eggs seemed to be a citywide epidemic, I maintained my faith--until yesterday.

I hit three different Duane Reades yesterday after work, including, I think, the original one, each time heading straight for the discounted candy. I found jellybeans, chocolate bunnies, jellybeans, white chocolate bunnies, jellybeans, but no Crème Eggs. They had Snickers eggs, but do you know what those are? Not the fucking same, that’s what.

Three Duane Reades, three times I walked away empty-handed. The city of New York is clearly trying to oppress me. But I’ve got 238 more Duane Reades and I haven’t even started on the Rite Aides. You may have won this round, but this is not over, New York, because I’m going to start a new Easter tradition...of kicking your ass! And this time, I've got Jesus on my side.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Even Will and Jada know where to draw the line.

I don't care if you're in love. I don't care if you think you're pretty. Couples should not wear matching jeans with the same squiggle thing on the back pockets. Even if you are from Japan.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

I make big days extra-special

Cake is hilarious!
Originally uploaded by kona99.
I’ve mentioned it in passing, but last weekend was a pretty big weekend. My dad, the eternal optimist, got married for the fourth time. Sometime in February, when the family was visiting me in New York, we were at a bar and somebody had the bright idea of having me perform the ceremony. Everything sounds like a good idea when you’re listening to Merle Haggard on the jukebox and working on your third pitcher of Coors Light.

I had two months to prepare for the big day, so what did I do? I went on the internet two days before the wedding and downloaded some stuff which I glanced over and printed out. I actually read it for the first time while standing in the church during the rehearsal. A lot of it was really lame, so I decided I needed to do some editing. So I put the papers in my purse and didn’t look at them again that day.

The next morning, we had to pick the hippy contingent up from the airport, so I decided to start editing. I continued to edit and rewrite as we got to Dad and Holly’s to carpool to the church. I edited some more on in the car on the way to the church. I read over the entire thing and made the final changes as I was waiting for Holly to come down the aisle. I was starting to realize that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.

I took a deep breath and glanced up, trying to find someone to look at to help steady my nerves. In the back of the church, was my 81-year-old grandfather whom I hadn’t seen since my grandmother’s funeral nearly five years ago. He was pretty far away, but I could see that he was getting a little teary. Because he was laughing. At me. I looked to the left, and saw my sister and mother laughing and pointing at me as well. Before the whole Carrie-ness of the situation was fully able to sink in, it was time for everybody to take their seats.

I started the ceremony, still terrified because I’ve only been to like, three weddings in my life, so I really didn’t even know how this was supposed to go. I just kept on blah-blahing about whatever and managed to get through it pretty well. The one biggish hitch came during the exchange of the rings. I said what dad was supposed to say, but I guess I didn’t break it up enough, because he had trouble remembering what he was supposed to repeat, leading to the vow of, “and I promise…to…love you, whatever.”

Finally, the rings are exchanged, the very long, uncomfortable kiss was given, the music came up, and the wedding party left, leaving me standing up there with everybody staring at me. I looked over at David, the piano player, hoping for some kind of a cue. Nothing. I looked at the back of the church and saw Holly gesturing to me, like, “come on, get these people out of here.” But they just sat there, looking at me. So, with the class and grace that I am renowned for, I looked around, shrugged, and said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

The only difference is you have integrity, I don't.

Okay, so let's just go ahead and get this out of the way: I am not a repressed homosexual--but I may as well be. What I mean is, you know how people say that homophobes only go after gay people because they are full of fear and self-loathing because they themselves are gay? Well, I'm like that--except with privacy; not so much with the gay.

I've always been secretive. Ever since I can remember, I've kept things to myself. I don't like people knowing things about me. If I thought about it hard enough, I could probably pinpoint the reason behind this, but I'm not interested in any of that touchy-feely Dr. Phil/Oprah "Remember your spirit-"type claptrap. Besides, the why isn't what's important. The point is, I compartmentalize. I have separate groups of friends with whom I have different roles. Sometimes I'm the shy one, or the loud one, or the drunk, or the prude. Regardless, I have a tendency to be kind of squirrelly.

I've kept entire relationships secret for ridiculous amounts of time for no particular reason, other than the fact that I didn't feel like talking about it (Hi Harrisonburg guy!) So basically, you get it. I like to keep things close to the vest. Privacy is one of the most important things to me. My privacy, that is, not yours.

Like the guy who calls everybody else a fag and is secretly sneaking peeks in the locker room, I tell you to stop asking me questions while trying to learn everything about you. I want to know who you're dating, who you used to date, what your job is like, who your favorite band is, the last book you read, everything. No matter how seemingly pointless. And sure, most of this is pretty innocuous, and I could probably find out most, if not all, of this information by talking to you. But if I do, then you'll know that I know these things; you'll know that I care, and I don't wnat you to know that about me.

So I'm an e-stalker. Instead of actually talking to people, I look them up on the internet. I learn little things from your messageboard posts or your blogs. I learn these things and I keep them to myself. I'm J. Edgar Hoover-ing your life, one Google search at a time.

And then there was MySpace. MySpace is something I've been struggling to understand ever since the more photographed of the Digico guys introduced it to me all, "Rivers Cuomo has his Harvard admission essays up there." MySpace simultaneously repulsed and tantalized me. MySpace pages were like blogs, but unbelievably, they had even less of an actual purpose. Some of these people didn't say anything at all. They were just kind of...there, all posting pictures of themselves in their underwear. It was basically an entire community of e-whores and stalkers; a virtual Disneyland for the self-obsessed. It was right up my alley. Unfortunately, no one I actually knew was on MySpace and Rivers' academic exploits could only hold my interest for so long.

I stayed away for a couple of years, as it's popularity continued to grow. Any time someone would talk about MySpace, I would feel kind of old, and sad, and a little bit nauseous. Then I randomly went on a few months ago and made an amazing discovery--suddenly everyone I know is on this thing. Hell, their companies have MySpace pages now.

I eagerly caught up with people I haven't seen since high school, kept tabs on guys I dated, visited the pages of friends of friends I will never meet, all without their knowledge and without telling them anything about myself--just the way I like it.

But after a while, I started to feel kind of skeevy, which surprised me, as my threshold for self-skeeviness is extremely high. I started to look at MySpace in a different light. Instead of just crouching outside in the proverbial bushes, spying on these people, what if I actually talked to them? What if I used this as a tool to keep in touch with those friends I keep on meaning to call but never do? It's the lazy man's way of giving a shit!

So here it is: The just created holy-shit-I-honestly-thought-I'd-jump-on-the-"become-a-cokehead-"
bandwagon-before-I'd-jump-on-the-MySpace-bandwagon MySpace page. Feel free to mock me. I'd do the same to you--and for some of you I already have.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Shut up, April snow

Sure, there was no accumulation and it turned into rain and now it's sunny, but the fact remains that it is APRIL. There is no snow in April. April showers, dammit. Showers!

Also, happy 25th birthday to Elizabeth. I blame her for this.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

I wrote this on the train on my way to work this morning.

Shit that has pissed me off before 9am.

1.I’m sick. I’ve been fighting off a cold since the end of last week and I was winning—and then Jim T. Zombie had his graduation show for his UCB Impov class on Sunday. Long story short, I drank for roughly the entire day and fell in love with a bartender. By Monday morning, the cold pretty much had me where it wanted me. I had a terrible night’s sleep last night because the snot running down my face kept on waking me up.

2. Buckley decided she didn’t feel like pooping this morning. She just wasn’t into it. One thing she will be in to? Taking a dump on my bedroom floor while I’m at work.

3. Hey—remember like, two days ago when it was sunny and about 75 degrees? I wish I could. Unfortunately the wind has blown into my eye sockets with such force that it has stabbed holes throughout my brain, leaving me with no short-term memory or capacity for love.

4. There was a man in front of the train station talking to another guy while wearing a large horse blanket/poncho accessorized by a pair of blue sweatpants on his head. I looked at this guy and could immediately tell that he wasn’t wearing pants on his head because he is homeless and/or crazy, but because he’s an asshole.

5. The fat people sitting on either side of me right now on the train. They’re both taking up about 1 ¼ seats, leaving me in the precarious position of perching on the very edge of the seat, leaning forward and praying that the next sharp turn or sudden stop doesn’t send me careening head-first off of the seat into the metal pole directly in front of me. Because then I’ll be that girl—the girl who’s bleeding all over the train and holding up the morning commute. I hate that girl.

6. You know, when you’re a dog, it’s difficult to focus on things like pooping outside when you’re busy eating the chicken bones scattered throughout your entire neighborhood. Buckley’s daily diet can be expressed most accurately via pie chart:

7. The girl sitting across from me wearing “skinny” jeans. These are stretch jeans with severely tapered legs—basically denim leggings. I hate the fact that all the shit I wore in the fifth grade is high fashion now. Shut up skinny jeans and shut up, girl wearing skinny jeans. You have like, three cold sores. You’re not better than me.

It’s 9:03. I just have to make it to work. If I get to my building and the guy gives me too much milk in my coffee I’m going to dump it on an old lady’s head. Not because I don’t like old ladies, or because I think that would make the guy think next time, but because they’re usually shorter than I am, creating the best coffee-to-head ratio.