Indian summer

Th holidays have a way of turning normally-aethist idiotic banter into idiotic banter with a sprinkle of Jesus thrown in. For example, while leaving my friend Kate's apartment on Saturday, I had the great fortune of listening to two guys discuss Christmas.

Guy #1: "Dude, not only Catholics celebrate Christmas."
Guy #2: "Oh? Well who else celebrates?"
Guy #1: "Jews for Jesus."

Forget about everyone else. Christmas Island is home to the Jews for Jesus and Catholics only. Protestants? Episcopalians? Find yourselves a new holiday.

On a semi-related note, it's December and it's 60 degrees outside. Now, I am not a huge fan of city snow. It turns into the most putrid slush known to mankind, soaking my jeans to the knees. However, a little hint of winter would be nice. I'm not asking for a blizzard- just a little cold help me believe that global warming hasn't already turned the earth into a raisin.

It's either snow, or a letter to the building asking them to turn my air conditioning back on.

Actors are people, too

Instead of working on a final paper for my second useless major, I decided to brush up on my celebrity news (you know, so I don't look stupid when another NYU student asks me about it while nursing a Stella at the underage bar du jour).

This just in! Natasha Lyonne turns herself in to NY court...

...for threatening to sexually molest a dog.

See? Even big movie stars make mistakes. Threatening to fist Fido is just another human moment. We all have them.* Like when Mel Gibson got wasted and hated on the Jews. Shit happens. The real question is, who DOESN'T hate on minorities when intoxicated?** So Natasha, I feel for you. I am sure you are not the first one to threaten a house pet with explicit sexual harm while high, nor will you be the last. Congrats on reminding us that celebrities are indeed humans, too.

*Maybe not.
**Everyone.

Dear Bodega

Dear Corner Bodega,

While I appreciate your convenience and your willingness to serve my needs, I feel like I must be honest: You just don't do it for me anymore. You have been a saving grace many times, allowing me to purchase things like condoms and olives on the fly. However, I cannot take anymore of your bad habits.

Why must you make everything so expensive? Do you honestly think that I wouldn't notice? Like the time that you took a price tag and made the $1 cookies $2.50. At first, I thought it was just a mistake. Oh no. You just enjoy overcharging me, milking me for all I'm worth. How about the time you charged me for a spoon to eat my yogurt with? I hardly think that was necessary. $6.75 for a container of hummus? Please. Shit's not even that expensive at Whole Foods.

I also think that it is time you consider updating your inventory. I'm pretty sure your meat section expired last August. I cannot speak for everyone, but I know that I sure dislike E. Coli. Also, don't you think it's time to throw out that dusty jar of God-knows-what next to the salsas? It may be a kind of seafood, but it looks more like foreskin. If I wasn't so afraid to touch the jar, I would look at the ingredients. But alas, the layer of dust is a total turn-off.

So, while I thank you for the nights when you have provided me with coffee when no one else was open (albeit awful, expensive coffee), I think it's time I start visiting other markets. You don't seem to care about what I think, and I need a bodega more in tune with my needs. Sorry.

Love,
Ariella

Ahoy!

Announcement!

Pigeons can go fuck themselves.

That is all.

Florida Sucks

It's official: My parents are moving to Florida.

The festering shitfuck that is God's waiting room will gain three new residents (Younger Brother is going, too) sometime within the next six months. They showed me a picture of their new neighborhood. It has some cute little name, like Palm Village, and comes complete with a golf course and two country clubs. You also get a welcome mat when you move in:



"But Ariella, the new house has a pool!" I don't swim. I can count the number of times I have been swimming in the past decade on one hand. The idea of being submerged in water reminds me too much of the womb (and those days are long gone).

"But Ariella, there is a very active Jewish social scene!" Fantastic! Maybe now I can relive the horror that was BBYO and all of the other assorted Jew groups I was forced to join. The first time around wasn't nearly painful enough.

"But Ariella, the walls have cherry baseboards!" Alright, you got me there, Mom and Dad. I have always wanted cherry baseboards. Maybe Florida won't be so bad after all!

Dicks.

Pajama Misery

I wear embarrassing things to bed.

Year after year, I plead with my mother, begging her not to buy me clothing. I like muted colors (and by muted, I mean black or white). She prefers looking like a bag of Skittles. Nevertheless, come Hanukkah, there is always the tell-tale rectangular box, the contents of which I know I am bound to despise. Finally, after years of her calling me an "ungrateful bitch" for disliking the sweaters she bought me, she finally gave up...and moved on to pajama pants. I don't know where she finds these pants, but I am running out of places to put all of these "gifts." Three years ago, it was a flannel nightie. I asked her if the nightie also came with a colostomy bag. Two years ago, she bought me a matching top-and-bottom set decorated in a Southwestern motif. There were cacti and dogs wearing bandanas all over the turquoise pants. I looked like an overgrown 8 year-old. Last year was my favorite. I tore open my gift to find a pair of pants decorated with Grumpy the Dwarf and blueberry gumballs. What? Since when do Grumpy and gumballs go together? "I thought they suited you," my mom said. "You know, since you are so mean in the mornings."

This brings me to 5:30 a.m. today. The fire alarm in my building went off, and protocol mandates that we evacuate the building (well, that and I don't really want to be burned alive). I was, of course, fast asleep, dreaming about inventing calorie-free cheesecake. Waking up to the alarm, I jumped out of bed and discovered two problems: I was wearing a pair of tiny shorts with bright pink poodles on the butt (another "gift" from Mom), and the top to the Southwestern ensemble. Realizing that I was not particularly keen on hauling outside dressed in this manner, I quickly changed clothes. Off came the poodles and the howling dogs. On came the brown and yellow pants, green and red shirt, and orange and blue jacket. Throw my retainers and super-cool (super-thick) glasses into the mix, and I was ready to roll. It wasn't until I was outside that I realized that should the building actually go up in flames, I would be stuck looking like a parrot, while the rest of my clothes were reduced to ash. Such poor wardrobe choices. My amazing, technicolor, dream outfit was just as mortifying as the dog get-up, defeating the entire purpose behind changing and stalling my escape from the building that was potentially en fuego. My plan backfired, and I was left to stand in shame in a crowd of my peers.

I suppose things could have been worse. I could have been wearing the Grumpy gumball pants.

**UPDATE**

Taken from an email from Mom sent at 11:04 p.m.-

"Dear Ariella, What do you want for Hanukkah this year? Please tell me so you don't wind up with the default gift=sweaters. Need new underwear? Let me know. Love, Mom"

It was awkward for everyone.

Happy Election Day!

Nothing says "I am an American" quite like waiting in line at the polls for hours, only to be turned away before voting due to machine malfunctions. I do so enjoy the novelty of democracy.

Today was my first appointment with the school shrink. I'm not going to lie-he kind of weirds me out. First of all, his office is stuffed in the basement office of a residence hall, accessible only by way of a maze of hallways. Once I finally found his fluorescent talk-box, waiting for me was a man with one of the most oddly-shaped heads I have ever seen. It had strange divits, similar in both size and shape to a golf ball. I tried to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth, but I could not help but spend our session staring at his head.

Shrinky: "Social issues blah blah mother doesn't love you blah blah..."
Me: (stares at head in awkward silence)

Speaking of heads, perched on his shelf was the most extensive bobblehead collection I have ever laid eyes on.* Baseball players, basketball players, all arranged in neat little rows (next to an unframed diploma I'm pretty sure he received from www.getyourdegree.com). I must say, it is quite difficult to discuss depression and anxiety with Derek Jeter just nodding away.

I told the head doc (get it?!) I would visit again next week, and boy, I can't wait. Maybe A-Rod will nod in agreement next time. I'd hate to think Derek is the only one listening.

*Man with the weird head has a bobblehead collection?

Study break

I consider myself to be a mature person. I generally find things seventh-grade boys would find funny to be banal and unamusing. The last few days, though, have been a total exception.

Example 1: I was at a party and my friend told me about a computer program that blows up images and makes them look as if they are products of Roy Liechtenstein. It's called the "Rasterbator." Hence, the pictures are rasterbated. Hilarious.

Example 2: I am studying about cities as a part of one of my worthless degrees (a smaller part of my ultimate plan for being unemployed and broke broke broke). I am reading a book about Sao Paulo, Brazil, and the author keeps quoting a survey called "PNADs." I laughed so hard I snorted. The sound ricocheted off of the walls of the "quiet zone" at the library.

Example 3: A guy grabbed one of those exercise balls and set it down next to my machine. He was going to do sit-ups. He sat on the ball, which promptly shot out from under him, sending his ankles over his head and leaving me fighting the urge to point and laugh. I did laugh, but there was no pointing. He just popped up and gave the room the "I-hope-no-one-saw-me" onceover, put the ball back (after chasing it down, of course) and left.

Now, back to studying PNADs, which coincidentally have a sister study: GNADs.

Will Smith. What an asshole.

Rats used to be the biggest nuisance in Washington Square Park. However, this title has recently been stripped from the rodents and passed on to the people filming the new Will Smith movie (which, rumor has it, is about post-apocalyptic zombies...sweeeeet).


Like any good New Yorker, I am completely bothered by their presence...on the outside. Being the social leper that I am, I raise my voice along with the rest of my trust-fund, H&M-wearing, liberal arts peers in boisterous contempt for the filming around the park.

"Don't you realize I am going to be late for my social analysis class? NOW how am I going to tell everyone about my theories of postmodernism and metropolitan jurisdictional equality? This is total BULLSHIT!"

On the inside, though, I am excited at the idea that i may be able to catch a glimpse of the Fresh Prince (maybe a little too excited). This man was a part of my childhood! Like any good parent, my mom left my brother and I alone a lot with nothing but the warm glow of the television to provide us with moral guidance and love. So what did we watch? "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air," of course. I liked the first Men in Black. And the second one. I own "Willenium." I want to see Will Smith, damnit!

So, if you hear me yelling about how inconvenienced I am, humor me and play along. And then tell me if you have seen Will Smith around and where I might be able to get an autograph.

Wikiventures

I am currently in a very serious relationship...

With my computer.

I spend hours on end with it, because, well...it's my job. I get paid to sit in front of my computer and push buttons. A chimp could do what I do (and would probably do a better job). But alas, the responsibility is all mine. I don't even have to wear pants!* Anyway, I always keep a window open on my desktop for aimless browsing. Lately, said browsing has been enabled by the "Random Article" link on Wikipedia. Did you know that Smokie Norful won a Grammy for "Best Contemporary Soul Gospel" album in 2005? Neither did I. My point is, you can learn a lot through random browsing, and I highly encourage you to take these little adventures. I learned all about macaroni and cheese ("mak and cheese" in Germany) just by clicking "Random Article." Do it! You won't be disappointed!


*They are constricting. Plus, my favorite pair is completely worn out in the pockets, crotch, and butt, so I try to limit their on-leg time.

Tuesdays with Mommy

I had my weekly conversation with my mother tonight, lasting the requisite hour. The breakdown:

20 minutes: Ass-busting regarding choices (my future, my degree, my education, my friends, etc.)
18 minutes: Gossipy updates about the Jewish community ("You'll never guess who's wearing a wig now!")
10 minutes: Update on latest aches and pains ailing her
6 minutes: Yelling at my brother in the background
3 minutes: All of the things she has eaten today
3 minutes: All of the things she bought today

Some of the high points of the conversation...

"Goyem do the weirdest things." -Mom, reflecting upon the funeral services of a dead neighbor

"I went to the Macy's pre-opening day sale today and saw all the women from Hadassah. They gave us coupons for 15% off everything in the store, so of course all the Jews were there."

"You're killing yourself. Eat some meat. Your father will be happy. For pete's sake, you're killing yourself." - On my decision to not eat steak (as previously discussed)

Had I known my dietary choices would cause this much doemstic discord, I would have stopped eating meat while I was still around to enjoy my parents' anguish in person!

Random/modnaR

Long time, no bitch.

It's not that I haven't had things to complain about, but my new favorite hobby, sleeping, has been consuming much of my time. Pardon the abundant spelling errors in this entry. My new "blogger glasses" are too strong, making it very hard to focus on the keyboard and read what I am typing. Let's see...what's new up in hurrrr?

I have recently decided to eradicate all types of animal flesh from my diet. My reasoning is multi-faceted. The meat served in the dining halls is slightly lower than Grade F, not to mention the fact that the presentation leaves a lot to be desired. A big bowl of hardened meat that looks like pieces of tire in an unidentified brown sauce? No thanks. The fish served here is always served under the general heading "fish" with no specifics as to what type of "filet" is hiding underneath the neon...goop. What about the chicken, you may ask? Well, the chicken looks fine, but I like tofu better. Sooooo, no more meat for me. Father Dearest is convinced that this is why I had a cold last weekend, and then yelled at me for being a "careless hippie." I am so glad my family supports me.

In other news, I have developed a new reaction to anxiety and stress: vomiting. Go figure. Even if I don't actually throw up, I spend hours imagining what would happen if I threw up in the middle of class/on the sidewalk/in the elevator/etc, usually with other people present to witness my humiliation. I was meeting with a TA in a coffee shop, discussing an upcoing essay. All of the sudden, I pictured myself vomiting my recently-eaten banana all over the table, the TA, and myself. I quickly excused myself to the restroom, where I didn't actually throw up, but instead gagged for a few minutes. Put this in the "What is wrong with me?" file.

Poems shmoems

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Shut the hell up
Your poetry sucks

As a para-professional do-nothing, it is my job (yes, job) to watch Orpah on a pretty frequent basis. I'm not quite sure how I feel about her yet, but I watch her show anyway. The other day, a woman who had lost her son in an accident was on the Oprah couch, talking about how her life had changed since his death and all that jazz. Oprah asked her to read a poem she had written for the occasion.

I. Hate. Amateur. Poetry.

This woman's heart was in the right place, and I was touched by her attempt to honor her son. Nevertheless, I loathe, repeat LOATHE, when people write poetry on their own and somone convinces them that it's good enough to read out loud. Did you write a poem? Fantastic. Keep it to yourself. I won't think it's beautiful, I won't think it's moving, and I won't think you are a genius. Turn that poetry into prose? We're finally getting somewhere. Keep it as a poem? Don't waste time/oxygen reading it. It sucks and I don't want to listen.

That's all for now, kittens. Keep that hate mail comin'.

Formula for a first date

The least I could do before brunch was go to the gym. I'm glad I didn't eat beforehand, because I certainly would have thrown up my pancakes on the couple having a first date next to the rowing machines. The louder I blasted Justin Timberlake (good workout music...don't judge me) on my iPod, the louder their flirtatious banter got.

He made sweeping generalizations of the female gender, and then proclaimed her the exception. She giggled, batted her eyelashes, and then giggled some more (making her look quite intelligent, I might add). He made a self-deprecating remark, which she would then counter with an equally self-deprecating remark. Then, they both giggled, him a little more imp-ish than her. She talked about how hard it is to be single. He stared at her boobs. They agreed to meet for coffee, presumably to do the same things all over again, all while nursing 5-dollar lattes from Starbucks.

I wish them the best of luck. I have no doubt that I witnessed the beginning of a long and fruitful relationshit.

(NB: Had I thrown up, it would have been the second first date I ruined. The first ruined date was at a Japanese restaurant in St. Marks, where Loser Boy and I got wasted, and in the throes of a make-out sesh, kept knocking into some couple's table. They looked horrified, which was no doubt amplified when LB started yelling "FIST ME" instead of "pound it." I wonder if they went out again...)

I hate my life, Part 1

A conversation with a fellow Worker Bee:

Worker Bee: "Do you know what we use to clean the write board?"

Me" The 'write board?'"

WB: "Yeah, the write board."

Me: "Oh! The white board!"

WB: "How do I clean it?"

Me: "Use that bottle of rubbing alcohol over there."

WB: "The rubbing alcohol?"

Me: "Rubbing alcohol. In the bottle with the red top. Rubbing alcohol cleans the white board."

WB: "Ok, I'll go clean it now."

(Leaves the room, goes into the next room)

WB: "Hey Jess, do you know how to clean the write board?"

Apparently, my directions weren't explicit enough.

Baby daddies and Paint

Day 12 of our Construction Bonanza, and I am ready for the workers to vacate the premises for good. I don't care if my kitchen is sans one ceiling. Leave already! They have been messing with the plumbing, the electricity, and there is a fine layer of dust on everything I own, including my dog. I came home the other day and my bathroom had no water pressure. I asked the guy to clean the faucet, and he did...on his shorts. Now, I drink water from that faucet. If I wanted to ingest liquid that had come into contact with his crotch, I would have used his boxers as a coffee filter. The very worst part is that they don't show up for work until roughly 4 p.m. Then, they stay until midnight, leaving me to fall asleep to the lovely sounds of two adult men belting out "Paradise City" in an awkward falsetto while hammering up drywall and crushing Mountain Dew cans with their boots. I am throwing a party the day they finish (which appears to be in the very distant future).

And don't forget: K.Fed says to save your pennies. Do it.

Showers do not bring Flowers

How do I like to spend my weekends? At bridal showers! My future sister-in-law's shower was on Sunday, and in truth, it wasn't too bad. At first, I was pissed that I didn't get to host the shower. Being the control freak that I am, I thought that it would be fun to be the hostess with the mostest. After attending the shower, however, I am delighted to have dodged that bullet. If I was in charge of the shower, there would not have been salmon salad, nor heart-shaped candles. We would have eaten pizza out of a box and watched a movie. Guess it's a good thing the old ladies beat me to the hosting punch.

The most boring part of the evening was watching Jamie open presents. Fourteen wine glasses, a margarita pitcher, two toasters, and a bunch of decorative frames later, and I had kissed almost two hours of my life goodbye. I must say though, that while the "party" was mildly tolerable for a social leper like me, the worst part of the entire event, even beating out the gift-a-thon, was the older women asking me about my dating life. No thanks.

"So, Ariella, have you met any nice boys in New York?"*
"So, do you have a boyfriend?"**
"Did you go out with a lot of Jewish boys this year?"***

*A few. I didn't go out with any of them though. I prefer the jerks.
**No, and thank you for bringing that to my attention. Again.
***Nope. I had casual sex with a few goyem, you know, people outside the tribe. From what I hear, Jews have tiny penises.

Ah, bridal showers: a roomful of people excited about love eating mini-quiches. If God is as benevolent as those Jesus freaks claim, then I will not be attending another one for a while.

Shoulder Pads

NYC is, and by my best inference, has been, without shoulder pads for at least a decade. You are more likely to see a three-headed dog walking down Broadway than a woman in shoulder pads. It is only in Denver that they still pass as high fashion.

While attending the aforementioned band concert, I took a break from rolling my eyes and making faces long enough to look up to the stage and watch the performance. Conducting the 9th graders was a woman whose silhouette resembled that of a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. I can only imagine that her shoulder pads could have doubled as airplane floatation devices. I tried my best to stifle a laugh and moved on with my life. Until I noticed the rest of her outfit, that is. Her pants were at least five inches too short, with the gap between her clunky shoes and the hem occupied by thick, white athletic socks. I started laughing and pointed it out to my mother, seated to my left. She smacked me and told me to be more sympathetic. "Maybe she doesn't have enough money for new pants," Mom hissed. (Why the linebacker couldn't have bought pants that fit the first time around is beyond me.)

I spent the rest of the concert pouting, distraught over my failed attempt to mock the less-fortunate. Until next time, I guess.

Beacuse my life has been reduced to blogging and 9th grade band concerts.