A is for Apple

The tragic results of peroxide poisoning

2010-01-11T20:11:00.012-05:00

Time for my biannual blog post!

This time, I'd like to discuss a topic I know is near and dear to many of your hearts- television's most popular show about true love, "The Bachelor." Known for providing an opportunity for soul mates to connect with one another, this television mainstay has become a part of America's collective romantic being. "The Bachelor" is where men- good, strong men with big muscles, little body hair, and a penchant for nicknames (Matt! Andy! Charlie!)- can meet their all-American lady-friend-for-life. The bachelor is given a beautiful home, an unlimited budget to wine and dine their lady of the hour, and, if you are this season's bachelor, the talent from God to wave with both hands and wink at the same time (oh, Jake. Swoon.).

The catch?

The women vying for the man's love are certifiable batshit loons.

There are two types of crazy broads on this show: the women who sob uncontrollably to the camera after getting kicked off on Week 2, or the women who stick around until the bitter end, convinced that over the course of 12 weeks of taping a show, with television cameras following them, no connection to the outside world, and copious amounts of liquor, that they have found the love of their life? I must confess that I am partial to the former type of crazies. As her mascara outlines the Nile-sized rivers of tears flowing from each eye, she wails to the camera about missing out on the chance to meet her husband. She knows in heart of hearts that they are meant to be together. Unfortunately, he cannot see the magic. All he sees are the big boobs of the girl who is more likely to put out, and thus, earned a rose to stay on the show. There goes my husband, she wails between sobs. Maybe next season, Sad Crazy Girl.

The second kind of nutcase, the one who sticks around and accepts an engagement ring and pledge of eternal love from this charming suitor, is not nearly as much fun to observe. However, I give credit where credit is due, and props to the lady from Planet Romantic Delusions for making some good tv, too.

I get it. Love is hard. Finding love is hard. Anyone who has ever dated knows what a clusterfucky meatmarket it is out there. And, after many bad dating experiences, assuming television can only increase your chances to find love is not a hard mental bridge to cross. It can't get much worse than it already is, right? Wrong! It can get worse! Let's say you manage to beat the odds and end up on the show. My guess is that you are not going to make it until the end (just a hunch). And then what? You are forever immortalized in the annals of reality tv as the person some other person chose NOT to love. That cannot and will not leave you feeling okay about your life. You will end up in the back of a limo on your way to being unceremoniously dumped at the airport, booger-ing all over yourself and wailing about lost love.

But, I guess if you are a certain kind of crazy (see above), it all makes sense.

What I've been up to lately

2009-11-02T14:34:00.001-05:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Infinite_monkey_theorem

"Monkeys Don't Write Shakespeare"
Associated Press
05.09.03

Give an infinite number of monkeys an infinite number of typewriters, the theory goes, and they will eventually produce prose the likes of Shakespeare.

Give six monkeys one computer for a month, and they will make a mess.

Researchers at Plymouth University in England reported this week that primates left alone with a computer attacked the machine and failed to produce a single word.

"They pressed a lot of S's," researcher Mike Phillips said Friday. "Obviously, English isn't their first language."

A group of faculty and students in the university's media program left a computer in the monkey enclosure at Paignton Zoo in southwest England, home to six Sulawesi crested macaques. Then, they waited.

At first, said Phillips, "the lead male got a stone and started bashing the hell out of it.

"Another thing they were interested in was in defecating and urinating all over the keyboard," added Phillips, who runs the university's Institute of Digital Arts and Technologies.

Eventually, monkeys Elmo, Gum, Heather, Holly, Mistletoe and Rowan produced five pages of text, composed primarily of the letter S. Later, the letters A, J, L and M crept in.

Full article here

Genius!

2009-07-30T17:51:00.002-04:00

Newest business idea: A pie company called "Jesus Crust"

Flavors:
-12 Apostle Apple
-Persecution Peach
-Last Supper Lemon Meringue
-Salvation Strawberry (can be combined with Resurrection Rhubarb)
-Pe-can Walk on Water
-Cheese-us of Nazareth (cheesecake)

For Kosher pies, please consult sister bakeshop, Jews for Jesus Crust.

Motto: Son of God-damn are they be delicious!

2009-04-27T13:51:00.002-04:00

I dislike my place of employment. This is old news, and saying any more than that will make me what is colloquially considered a "broken record." My dissatisfaction has produced a pretty solid list of alternate career choices I would very much like to pursue. Please consider the following:

1. The third Obama daughter

I would like to be adopted by the First Family. They can change my name, hair, clothes...whatever they want, just as long as I can be their kid. Think of me as the Obama-fied Bridget McCain.

2. Ambassador

I have decided that being an ambassador is the EASIEST job in the universe. You show up, shake hands, say ten words, eat free food, and bounce. Apparently, international diplomacy equals glad-handing and devouring mini egg rolls. In order to achieve this objective, I plan to move to a small country where no one wants to enter civil service, sail through all of the mid-level BS (or pay my way to the top) jobs and quickly get appointed ambassador. Hello, life of luxury.

3. Ben & Jerry's ice cream flavor tester

Behold- a career that would allow me to set my favorite foods to the music of frozen milk and sugar. Need I explain my desire for this job any further? Curiously, this job option strikes me as the least-attainable of the three.

I am so glad it took me $200,000 and four years to figure this out. Thanks, college!

this is why I don't have a twitter account

2009-04-20T22:06:00.004-04:00

Hi. I'm alive. Mostly.

I guess I can ascribe the lack of updates to a complete and total lack of change in my life. Some people assume I never write because I am just too darn busy. Not so. It is merely a symptom of stunted development and absence of forward motion, an object at rest staying very much at rest.

That being said, everything is still the same. Spring is here. All these April showers better produce some huge goddamn May flowers. I've been listening to lots of new music, more specifically Rumspringa (after seeing them play live..pretty darn good) and Shilpa Ray (seeing her live this week...bitch slams that harmonium!) to name a few. Booked my trip to Europe today. I'm going to Geneva and Paris, neither of which I have seen before. If you read this and have a suggestion about what I should see, please leave a comment or email me! I have dubbed the trip "Tour de Fatass" as I am going to try to consume as much cheese and as many pastries as possible (this includes my plan to make a brie sandwich using eclairs instead of bread, with nutella instead of mustard). My ass is growing in anticipation!

That's about all she wrote. Consider yourself caught up on my life.

sigh.

Well...goddamn.

2009-03-02T19:54:00.003-05:00

Here's a somewhat embarrassing note on my past: I resisted getting my eyebrows waxed for longer than appropriate. I don't know what my problem was (subliminal love for Frida Kahlo?), but crossing that threshold happened none too soon in the life and times of me. Ever since, I have been very, very particular about who touches them (wish I could say the same about some other parts). I've had them return to their natural state several times based on my insistence on them being in the right hands. you get it- I am, as the young folks say these days, a "pain in the ass." I would do it myself, but delicate maneuvers requiring nimble fingers and a gentle touch are not my strong suit (ask me about the time I superglued my fingers to my desk!). Add to this my terrible sense of symmetry and I emerge from the bathroom looking a little less like Kahlo and a little more like a Picasso. Hence, I always seek trusted professional guidance.

Which brings me to today, working from home and in desperate need of some eyebrow assistance. Against all better judgement, I decided to try out the nail salon near my house. It's cheap beyond belief and their manicures aren't that bad. Suck it up, self, I said. You need to let go a little- they're just eyebrows!

Things I am never doing again for $200, Alex.

I look absurd. Actually, no. I look surprised! Like I should end! All of my sentences! With this! You should also know that whenever I get upset, one of my many go-to tricks is to stand in front of the mirror, wailing that MY FACE IS LOPSIDED! Tears are usually involved and eventually I call Mom, who always knows just what to say to calm me down- "It's because your face was smashed against the uterine wall for all nine months. Then the doctors had to clamp the forceps on your face, which is why one eye is smaller than the other."

So, now you know. Your choices are either to avoid me for the next month or to throw me a party. I promise to look surprised.

A note of thanks

2009-02-28T10:37:00.003-05:00

So much for my blogging idealism. After spending 8+ hours sitting in front of a computer at work, coming home and turning on my computer to blog is a thoroughly unappealing option. Thus, daily blogging has been a total failure.

Moving on, I am so goddamn happy this week has finally ended. Oy vey. Concurrent career, social, and financial dissatisfaction all lead to one bad mood. When working in tandem with the forces of time, days stretch to near-impossible lengths. My natural inclination when dealing with stresses such as these is to call my parents. Not only are they sympathetic ears, but I can be my unapologetically bitchy self without having to worry that I won't be invited to their birthday parties. My comically deficient self-edit feature is completely gone whenever we speak, something I should probably apologize for more often than I do (never). So thanks for listening Mom and Dad, even when you'd rather be doing anything else, like cleaning the pool filter or rearranging boxes in the garage. I'm really trying to reduce the frequency of my hysterical phone calls to you , with a long term goal of cutting them to two per week by the time I am 30.

See? This is another problem with blogging more than, oh, once a month- I have nothing to say. I could tell you all about my plans for the rest of this weekend, but who cares? Not me!

(cr)ash wednesday

2009-02-26T09:42:00.006-05:00

I said I would start blogging for a week yesterday, and then didn't (pouting and ruminating is a better use of my time). So, it starts today.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, a fact I completely omitted from my consciousness until I realized the improbability of so many people having the exact same birthmark (in the shape of a cross, no less). I briefly considered popping in a church I pass on my way to work out of sheer curiosity, but decided to forgo a reminder of man's mortality for a tall latte at Starbucks. However, this particular church had a large purple "Ashes! Ashes! Ashes!" banner outside, a very jazzy touch and certainly an enticing way to attract repentant souls. Plus, being Jewish and all, I probably would have felt a little strange about the whole outfit.

Not much else to report, other than the collective misery of my entire social circle, myself included. I got another rejection letter for a job I thought I would be perfect for. Then again, I think I would be perfect for any job other than the one I have. More to come tomorrow!

FYI

2009-02-24T00:33:00.003-05:00

Starting tomorrow, I am going to blog every day for an entire week. Why? Well, for starters I have nothing better to do. Also, I think that by announcing my goal, I will be less likely to shy away from this task. Or more guilty when I don't follow through. Talk to you then!

Avoided Connections

2009-01-22T12:34:00.003-05:00

I love reading the "Missed Connections" on craigslist, but always wonder why no one ever seems to be looking for me. Enter my a-ha! moment for today:

People generally don't want to connect with angry girls who scream "Watch where you're going, shitbag!" at them on their way to work.

I don't!

2009-01-20T22:50:00.002-05:00

Now that I know for a fact that my mother reads this, I feel like I should address a subject near and dear to her heart: marriage. Not hers, of course, but rather my own future as Mrs. Gainfully Employed Jewish Doctor/Lawyer With No Family History of Mental Illness. The topic was broached while I was home over the holidays, albeit unintentionally. It did not go well.

It started with a phone call. Normally I dodge answering the phone like Bush dodges shoes, but because no one else was home at the time, I decided to accept the terrible burden of being polite and picked up. On the other end was an old family friend, looking to speak with my father about poker or lawn care or whatever it is men talk about. I have neither seen nor spoken to this man in at least ten years, and it was admittedly nice to speak with him again.

I should take a moment to mention that, like my Dear Father, Fred is from Iran. This is not his real name, either, but rather the American version of his given name. It appears to me that most Persian men adapted their names when they moved to the U.S. of A. That's how I ended up with an Uncle Tony, an Uncle Jim, and even an Uncle Sam. Nomenclature aside, their values can best be described by the almighty t-word: traditional.

My conversation with Fred was off to a normal enough start, the exchanging of pleasantries and such, but came to a grinding halt in roughly two minutes. "So you are in New York! You must love it! Have you found a nice man yet?" he asked. I gave him the standard Single Girl in Manhattan answer, telling him that yes, I do love the city, and while I haven't met Mr. Right, I am "having a really good time with my friends." After feeding him this line from my personal stash of lies, all I heard was the sharp intake of a disapproving breath. "Oh noooooo," he said, infusing his words with misery cultivated by membership to a tribe whose priority numero uno is to be fruitful and multiply. The words that followed will haunt me forever:

"But, you are getting so old..."

He proceeded to tell me why I should get married, and what will happen if I do not get married soon. Apparently, I have the shelf life (and appeal) of a bag of Doritos. Sure, I'm reasonably fresh now, but in two years I will be particularly stale and undesirable, wanted only by those who are willing to settle for expired product.

I began to grow impatient listening to Miss Cleo predict my apparent future as a lonely hag and quickly hustled him off the phone. Thanks for your input, sir. Speak to you in a decade or so. Still shocked by Fred's unapologetic dressing-down of my personal life, I called my dad, partly to deliver the message before my goldfish-like memory moved on, and partly to rant about the utter absurdity of this man's insinuations. How dare he!

"Dad," I said, "you will never guess what Fred just said to me! He thinks I am getting too old and need to start seriously thinking about getting married! Insane, right?"

My father, tapping into his infinite supply of support for his little girl, was silent.

"Well," he said eventually, "he has a point. You should be thinking about these things and..." Another premature halt to another prehistoric conversation. Who are these people? Hey boys, the 18th century called- they want their values back.

Or...am I actually getting old? Do I need to get married, like, now? Thanks to Dad and his friend, I might as well turn into an old Chrysler Le Baron on my 24th birthday- functional, yet not the best looking ride in town. Why am I even wasting my time writing about this? I should be using this time to join JDate!

There's not a lot to say about this little exchange, except that it's been two weeks, and I am still thinking about it. My subconscious must have been bothered, though, or else my aforementioned memory issue would have allowed me to continue to move freely about my mental cabin. I suppose my rational half let go of the conversation almost immediately, made a sandwich, and read some essays by hero single Jewess (O.B.M.) Wendy Wasserstein.

The other, less-rational half of me interrupted this post halfway through in order to select a Tiffany & Co. platinum solitaire round brilliant cut diamond engagement ring.

Old Years Eve

2008-12-31T18:34:00.002-05:00

Boy, do I hate New Years! Forced revelry and anti-climactic moments abound. I am the New Years Eve scrooge, but I can't say I care. As I told Allie, January 20th will be my evening of celebration, as I do think that we (the World at Large) are about to turn a corner. Anyway, enough of my political stumping and grumbling about mandated holidays. I just want to wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year (you know, in case you celebrate today). May 2009 be a year of health, happiness, fewer drops in the Dow, and love and peace and all that other shit. A special thanks to all four of my blog readers--thanks! Next year I promise to write more.

Now if you will excuse me, I must go consume a bottle of champagne, bake and then eat 2 dozen cookies, and watch terrible television before my 2009 health resolution takes effect.

Please, Santa!

2008-12-24T22:29:00.004-05:00

My Christmas Wish List- Recession Edition:

1. A "Single Ladies" leotard
2. To know everything

Express Train to Bitterville

2008-11-30T21:48:00.008-05:00

It's been forever. Believe me, it is never my intention to go so long without blogging- it just sort of happens. I feel like in order to write a decent post, I have to be silly-angry. Lately, I've just been angry-angry and in no mood to bitch about the ways I feel I have been wronged on the interweb. Those complaints are best saved for face-to-face meetings, where my tears and angst can be appreciated to their fullest extent. Nor I am about to just blog for the sake of writing something. I'm hardly interested in my own daily happenings, a sentiment I imagine you, solitary reader, share. So, profound apologies.

A few things have been on my mind lately, thoughts ranging from the nominally serious to those with no importance or consequence whatsoever. And so, An Abbreviated List of the Things I Thought About This Month (in No Particular Order):

I. Green peas have no place in a salad.
The same goes for mandarin oranges. Nothing says "this salad will be disgusting" more than baby mandarin orange slices popping up behind intolerably large pieces of iceberg lettuce. In fact, calling mandarin oranges fruit is on par with calling a dust bunny a pet. Let's start labeling the cans appropriately- "Mushy Orange Shit (in heavy syrup)."

II. If you fart in an empty office and no one is around to hear you, does it make a sound?

III. Moving.
I saw a map of Denver, my place of origin, at the bookstore today and found myself getting surprisingly weepy and nostalgic. I am not taking this as one of those cinematic Signs From Above, but it is certainly weighing on my mind. In trying to navigate this post-collegiate haze of bill paying and general disenfranchisement, I wonder if I am not better suited for a quieter life back in that square state.

I miss the ease of driving a car, of not having to share a seat with large, sweaty men or girls dry heaving after a night of overpriced cocktails. That said, I do not miss the actual act of driving one bit, as my absentmindedness on the road would make that deep-voiced StateFarm man weep. (It's not my fault I only have two hands and a cell phone, a cup of coffee, and radio that all demand attention.) I miss the quiet that comes with urban sprawl, businesses that close at 7, and the peace after a good snowfall. Here, my ears are filled with the sounds of 8 million self-involved pricks scratching their way to the top. We live practically on top of one another, and there is no peace to be had after a good snow. No sir, there's nothing but gray slush and a collective bitch from those same 8 million about delayed trains. Colorado rarely made me angry, just sleepy from a general lack of things to do (unless you count beer drinking, mutton busting, and more beer drinking).

Walking in New York is fine, save for when it is infuriating. Fifty percent of my days are without major issue. Thirty percent of my days are with only a few minor issues. The other twenty percent make me want to take up sharpshooting. I stomp around with a dreadful scowl, continually ignoring the voice in my head that reminds me that such expressions cause wrinkles (and who wants those?). I can barely breathe without screaming, let alone form words and sentences. My head is filled with a noise that can best be described as what cutting the alphabet in half and letting the two sides beat the shit out of each other would sound like. It's unpleasant, distressing, and just plain annoying.

Speaking of sounds, I am afraid I must cut this little rant short. The leaping gazelles that live above me have begun their nightly romp, reminding me that it is almost midnight and I have to go to work in the morning. To be continued.

Udder shock and dismay

2008-10-14T00:21:00.010-04:00

I am really excited for the new Of Montreal album, and decided to head to YouTube and watch a video for the first single. Perfectly harmless. What happened next has disturbed me in such a way that I have no choice but to blog about it.

When the song ended, the YouTube suggestion box popped up to alert me to videos I may want to watch next. I don't know how, nor do I know why, but at the top of the suggestion list was a video entitled "Breast feeding at 8 years-old." What a weird joke, pre-traumatized Me thought. My natural curiosity guided the mouse to the link, where I expected to find some sort of comedy routine, or maybe a puppy being cute. You know, normal YouTube fodder.

Wrong!

The video is exactly what the title states- a very large child, whose age is approaching the double digits, latched on to her mother's boob like a barnacle on the side of a ship. I thought my eyeballs were going to fall out of my head. I wasn't raised in the most prudent of households, but ohmygod! The Milkmaid's 2 children not only converse about the flavor of the milk, but also the shape, feeling, and milk out-put of their mother's breasts. At one point, the girls show off the pictures they have drawn of the breasts and the feedings. Let's just say they are very detail-oriented children.

What bothers me the most is the teeth. These kids have teeth capable of masticating the toughest of steaks, crunching Jolly Ranchers, and biting siblings foolish enough to pull hair and taunt. (Should something ever happen to my younger brother, God forbid, I have his dental records on my ankle, the result of my poor decision to kick him in slow motion.) One errant move or angry moment, and suddenly mom is without one of the many things that should always come in pairs (although this would solve the weaning issue in short order). I would sooner mix an 8 year-old a vodka tonic than let it near my chest. And how about the mother? Isn't she tired of playing Betsy the Cow to those kids? Someone should alert her to the modern parenting wonder that is the Happy Meal. The kids would be sated and entertained with a toy, thus distracting them from their portraiture.

I just don't get it. Or, I didn't until the end of the video, when the family says their own version of grace over a meal (Mom has her top on, so I guess the kids eat solid food, too). The moon, sun, and a few other celestial bodies receive their due gratitude as the family breaks bread.

A-ha! Light bulb! Stephen Hawking!

THESE PEOPLE ARE HIPPIES! Hippies! I knew there was an explanation for letting a child with fangs near the nips. Had I seen the program in its entirety, I am sure I would have seen the family tending to their beet crop, sewing new hemp pants, and packing a family bowl. Hippies!

I encourage you to watch the video, although perhaps not at work. And then, if you have time, check out the new Of Montreal song, because that's pretty good, too.

Where the hell have you been?

2008-10-11T20:14:00.005-04:00

The short answer? Florida. I lounged by the pool, ate Cheez-Its and cookies, and just generally loafed about. I guess that is a perk of being half-employed: vacations when I say, for as long as I deem necessary. Just another way I exact my passive revenge on my abusive boss. I am almost entirely adjusted to the idea of my folks living in Florida, although there are still many reminders that their house is definitely, well, theirs.

When my parents moved in, "my" room became a dumping ground of sorts for the odd pieces of furniture they did not want to part with- but also decided they did not want to look at on a daily basis. It's ugly, and smells a bit like the dead relatives that bequeathed a majority of the aforementioned furniture. Given it's proximity to the laundry room, there are almost always carefully sorted piles of clothes heaped on the bed. Adding to the mix is my father's decision to put any photo or portrait they own of me in my room. I have often tried to convince him that it makes the room feel like a memorial to a departed one. Going home means sleeping in a creepy shrine that smells like Grandma Rose and Tide. I also try not to answer the phone while home. If I do, I am nearly always asked to speak my name slowly and clearly, and then explain my relationship to the known occupants of the home. I am the Narnia of the three children- very few know I exist, and the rest just don't buy it.

All in all, it was a very pleasant trip home. I did a fair amount of shopping, but mainly for boring things at stores frequented by Young Republicans. I discovered that Neiman Marcus is the best place to be when having a down day. The salespeople quite literally trip over themselves to get to you first so they may have the privilege of showering you with compliments and agreeing with you. If I told the saleswoman that I thought she was ugly and her perfume smelled like cat pee, her response would have been nothing but praise for my selection of the "Purple Vamp" eyeshadow and my flawless, dewy complexion.

I supposed that's the news for now. I'm back in New York, bored, a little sad, and eating peanut butter straight from the jar using carrot sticks. Apologies to James for not writing on Thursday, as promised. Perhaps I will make it up to you by coming to Savannah soon.

Unless there are bugs there. I don't do bugs.

rotten apple

2008-09-03T17:18:00.010-04:00

I am a terrible person. I think this a lot, mostly as a result of the genetic Jewish guilt that makes me feel bad for simply existing.

But this time, I really mean it.

I work next door to Unicef, an organization that ~~makes celebrities look good~~ helps kids. Yes they do wonderful things, but all of their admirable charity work aside, Unicef won my heart for something far better: the cheapest lunch in New York City. It's not unusual to go out for lunch here, order a turkey sandwich, and be presented with a bill for almost twenty bucks. For a turkey fucking sandwich. Sure, the turkey is organic, hand-fed, and comes with a guarantee that the bird was loved from womb to table (the same most likely cannot be said for the New Yorkers eating the sandwich). No matter how great the deli meat and fancy bread, it's just a sandwich. Pre-Unicef, I probably spent more per week on lunch than clothes. (This probably explains why I look like a well-fed dumpster.) Unicef is a different story, though. A giant, delicious sandwich, with a drink and chips if you are feeling fancy, is roughly $5. I feel like I pay for my food while enveloped in an ethereal cloud.

Now to the part that makes me feel like the most worthless person on the planet. (Additional background info: next to all the food is a little condiment bar with all the usual dining accessories- sugar, hot sauce, ketchup, utensils, etc.) May I present to you a short internal monologue:

12:31 pm, at desk: Yogurt! I love you! I can't wait to eat you!
12:32: NO SPOON! WHY GOD WHY?! I hate you, yogurt! I guess I will have to go to Unicef to get a spoon
12:36, in Unicef Cafeteria: One spoon, in my bag. One yogurt, on its way to tummyland. I should probably grab a few more spoons for next time. And some knives. Probably some forks, too. Chopsticks? Eh, why not. (grabs fistfuls of plastic utensils, shoves them in bag)
12:37: I wonder if they have anything else that will go with my lunch. I already have carrots at work. Oh, but some dressing...What if I just put some dressing in a little container? They won't mind. (Goes to salad bar, pours dressing in little container, sticks it in bag along with utensils)
12:38: Those crackers look good, too. How about it! (Stuffs 12 packets of ritz on top of other pilfered goods)
12:39: Some backup Splenda packets, a refill on my waterbottle, and I am back to work! Yogurt, you will be mine!

It was I was riding the wave of stolen-goods euphoria on my way back to the office when the magnitude of what I had done hit me. I just stole from Unicef. UNICEF! As if their stuff is not cheap enough, I have to go and take a picnic's-worth of utensils, salad dressing, and crackers from them. COULD I BE A BIGGER ASSHOLE? Why don't I just go to Africa, find a hungry child, and pull the bread out of his mouth so I have something else to go with my meal? I am singlehandedly undoing years of trick-or-treating with those little boxes. Now you know where your nickels are going, folks: me.

So how does it feel to fleece a children's charity? Not that great! I am a terrible person.

bah hamburger

2008-08-31T23:45:00.007-04:00

Three cheers for not having to start school on Tuesday!
Zero cheers for having absolutely no plans for the discernible future.

I've reasoned that it is time for an update, with this being the eve of a new month and the end of the summer season. The weather is changing here, right along with my disposition; both are growing a bit more frigid and ominous every day. With wrecked job plans, transient income, and an increasing penchant for 3-dollar Trader Joe's wine, autumn is not holding a lot of promise. And please, no more seemingly cordial advice on keeping a winning attitude, optimism, and other such nonsense. Those things join God, political reform, ghosts, and liposuction in the "crap people believe but are actually products of socio-cultural fear-mongering" category.

I seem to have tripped on the threshold between childhood and functioning adulthood.

It's in our blood

2008-08-12T23:06:00.005-04:00

Update! I may have a coffee date this weekend with a guy who appears to be semi-normal, or at least able to carry on a conversation. Please note the severe skepticism clouding that statement. Given my luck this summer, romantic and otherwise, I am not inclined to put a lot of stock in planned social engagements with the opposite sex. This is only natural though; I contend that men are lousy at making/keeping plans and have been since the dawn of time. I can picture it clearly - Early Man and Early Lady going on a mammoth-hunting expedition, having a lovely, prehistoric time. The evening ends with Early Man knocking three rocks together, the pre-lingual way of saying "this was great! Let's do it again sometime." But he never stops by her dwelling again, and is soon spotted gifting a deer pelt to another lady. You can bet that the next village bonfire was pretty awkward for everyone.

My point being, if nothing happens this weekend, I do not think I will be the least bit surprised. In the meantime, I will continue to accept messages from other potential suitors. I like calling them suitors, as it makes the process seem fancy and dignified. One gentleman in particular keeps trying to initiate a conversation, but is about as attractive to me as a lard sandwich. He is definitely one of the computer-game-parents'-basement types. I admire his fortitude, as day after day there is a little note from him or something of the like. It makes me wish the website had a "Never In a Million Years" rejection button.

I told my father about joining the dating site, and he seemed pleased...until he learned that it's not J-Date. I am pretty sure I heard his heart sink over the phone. But really, who has 40 bucks to spend on a dating site? Let me pay you for the pleasure of feeling socially inept! Besides, I can still do this site and use the $40 to go to a bar and meet even more suitors. Logic, people, pure and simple. Anyway, Dad lectured me on the virtues of dating Jewish men, and then told me I should be getting serious about finding a husband in the next "two or so years". Apparently, once I turn 24, the other shoe will drop and I will officially turn into a tired, old hag.

Something to look forward to, I guess.

Exercises in social propriety

2008-08-08T17:49:00.009-04:00

Or, "How I Learned to Stop Judging Myself, Instead Letting Others Do It For Me."

And if those titles aren't enough, how about "I Joined an Online Dating Site"?

I was in the shower and noticed remnants of a bruise and a fresh scar on my right calf. It was from that day at the gym well over a month ago, when I accidentally walked into an ab machine and gave myself a huge welt with a nice gash to seal the deal. I also rendered myself incapable to walk for a few minutes, much to the amusement of the other gym patrons, of that I am sure. It was the day before I met Kris at the coffee shop. He called me his girlfriend on our third(ish) date, and then he just didn't call me at all. He was not long for my life, but the evidence of my uncoordinated behavior decided to stick around. I guess you could call a bruise outlasting a boy the final straw.

Thus, I decided to try my hand at online dating. I like to think of the entire situation as a modern interpretation of Lazarus- we the huddled masses, the web our Mother of Exiles. I went in with an open mind, which has since closed ever-so-slightly, partly due to realizing the following: I certainly do attract a particular crowd. A slightly literate, video game-playing, basement-dwelling, baby daddy crowd. I do not want to play mom to you and your three year-old (in New Jersey, no less). I do not want to eat meatloaf with your parents while you are waiting for your online friends to come home from school in Japan so you can continue your "Call of Duty 4" gaming. And above all, I do not want to date someone who calls me "sexi mami" and offers to send me a picture of his "hOTtTt bod."

I am not throwing in the towel just yet, but if things don't get better, I am quitting. Then, my bruises and scars and I will all go for a lovely meal. Alone.

Stages of Unemployment

2008-07-17T13:12:00.010-04:00

Stage 1: Joy
I have nothing to do! All day, every day! I can go shopping, exploring, to the museums, to the movies...the list goes on! I can stare at my feet all day if I want to! Why? Because I am F-R-E-E FREE. Released from the confines of answering to The Man, I do/think/wear whatever I want! Take that, Banana Republic business casual! Enjoy the back of my closet along with the rest of the shit I don't like. FREEDOM! Oh, the possibilities of spare time! Praised be the person who came up with this concept!

Stage 2: Muted Joy
Good news - I got to do all of the things I wanted to do! Bad news - it took me two days. Boredom is batting his pretty eyes at me, as I spend more time sleeping and less time celebrating the fact that I no longer need to use words like "meeting" and "memo." Still, the novelty of beginning my day at 12 noon has yet to wear off. For the first time in almost a decade, I am well-rested! I am also discovering another perk of being unemployed - grocery shopping during the day, while everyone else is working, means no lines for me! I can now buy my food in peace, right alongside the rest of the price-conscious jobless folk.

Stage 3: A Visit From the Concerned Fairy
The initial thrill accompanying no longer having to wear nice clothes every day has morphed into wearing the same ratty jeans and t-shirt four days in a row. I have been sleeping upwards of 14 hours a day, for lack of anything to better to do. I am not unhappy, but perhaps not as chipper as before. A notice from the bank indicates that all of those fun and games (see: Joy) come at a price, and that this carefree time may not be able to continue forever. "Real-life" issues like health insurance and bills start to enter my stream of thought on a regular basis. This is ok, because I am starting to become irritable. Luckily, this irritability has motivated me to apply to a few jobs. Given my stunning employment history, terrific education, and winning personality, I expect to have a job in no time at all! In the mean time, I will continue to take advantage of my schedule-less life and shiny television.

Stage 4: The Beginning of the End, Part 1 (Present state of being)
My job search has yielded no results, fostering a growing sense of rejection, along with its good friend frustration. Apparently, no one wants to hire me. I choose to blame my crap employment history, lousy education, and grouchy disposition. Wearing the same jeans and t-shirt has devolved into wearing the same pajamas day after day, as leaving the house no longer has the same appeal. The highlight of my day arrives at 3 p.m, when "Dr. Phil" airs. There is simple pleasure to be found in watching fat people from the Midwest complain about their kids/spouse/in-laws/pets/neighbors/local Wal-Mart/etc. I feel smart and accomplished when I watch. I am also starting to think that Dr. Phil is more of a miracle-worker than people give him credit for. By the end of the hour, I am lulled to sleep by their nasal voices and white skin. After napping for two hours (give or take two hours), I wake up in time for "Wheel of Fortune," where I watch another group of fat Midwesterners wave their arms and try to remember the alphabet ("I'd like to buy a vowel...F!"). Actual accomplishments have been replaced with "I got out of bed before the sun set" and "I pooped today." I may or may not be getting pressure sores on my ass.

A job cannot come soon enough, even if I have to dust off those sweater sets and skirts.

2008-07-02T21:27:00.003-04:00

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in forever. Sorry! But, I do have reasons, so there's that. I moved to Queens yesterday, which was a production and a half, but it's all over and done with. I hate moving. I am planning on living in this apartment until I die, because that is how much I hate moving. The new place is nice and pretty clean, which is a huge plus. The only downside is that none of the windows have blinds or anything, which has made indulging in my favorite hobbies (naked strutting, naked yoga, naked writing, etc) a little awkward. I have got to get blinds soon. It's been two days and I am already feeling repressed. I like to think that this move to Queens signifies a new period in my life. Like, in my biography, it will be the title of a new chapter called "The Queens Years". I like that. I am sorry this post is so fucking boring. I am in the Apple store and I would write more if my legs weren't starting to hurt and I didn't have to poop. Later gators.

Something new and different

2008-06-08T04:04:00.006-04:00

It's 4 a.m. and I am still awake. And drunk. I just ate a bunch of Indian food to help me stomach some of the massive quantities of alcohol I consumed, but something tells me that was an ill-conceived idea. Let's talk about my night, shall we? Allie and I went to a bar and did some necessary catching up...which would have been even lovelier, had the roommate of a guy I slept with last summer not been at the bar. Of all places, right? I am so glad he took the time to interrupt giving me the stink-eye to gesture to his friend and go "She slept with...," jerking his entire body toward me. Thanks, asshole. Because I don't feel bad about myself as it is, I have you to reinforce it. Also, I was in my sky-high hooker heels and short shorts, an outfit eerily reminiscent of the one I wore whilst seducing his roommate. He probably thinks that all of my clothes totaled equal a singular yard of fabric. He probably thinks I shop exclusively at Fantasy World. I don't know why seeing him bothered/bothers me so much. I think it's a reminder that I will never, ever be able to escape my past. Especially when that past involves booze, scorned lovers, and curry.

What a worthless post. I do feel compelled, however, to point out that while leaving the bar, I ran into a woman who worked in the cube next to me, who was so beyond drunk that I felt the need to pity her instead of myself. This is a woman whose job is to declare winners in elections for the tv network.

No wonder Bush won. Twice.

Greetings from Sunny Florida!

2008-05-23T20:00:00.004-04:00

More like "Torrential Downpours Alternating with Scorching Heat" Florida. Seriously- the weather patterns here are pretty stupid. If it's not the surface of the sun, it's a storm of Biblical proportions. I did get to see a rainbow after one of the storms, but I couldn't look at it too long, or the sun was going to burn holes in my eyeballs. I like being home, if for nothing else than the full fridge, nice gym, and free laundry. Hanging out with my parents isn't half-bad either. And when my little turd of a brother isn't feeling so, well, turd-like, it's actually fun! They keep asking me whether or not I am moving here. (Granted, I am not allowed to move in with them, but must rather rent some sort of habitat near them.) Today while getting manicures, my mom predicted to the nail lady* that I will be living here by the time I am 30, "or even sooner, depending on when she gets pregnant." Wait...not only do I have to produce children, but I have to move them to her? Me thinks not. Although, all that free babysitting would be nice...

I don't even know why I am thinking about this! Let's count the number of months that have passed since I have been on a proper date. If that embarrassingly large number says anything, it's that I am more likely to own a unicorn farm than get married and help populate the earth.

*As soon as we left, my mother told me she had a hard time keeping a straight face while getting her nails done, because the manicurist "had teeth like mah jongg tiles. How can she close her mouth?!"

Now you know what kind of tree cultivated my tendency to be a mean little apple.

Funemployment!

2008-05-19T22:34:00.004-04:00

What a busy week for this girl! Exclamation point! I cleaned my room, returned a ton of books, and ate an entire jar of peanut butter.

Oh yeah, and graduated from college.

Granted, the above activities took about twenty minutes (plus four years). And now, I am fresh out of things to do. I spent my first task-less day as an unemployed, hyper-educated semi-adult eating sorbet in my underwear while watching a show on Redwood trees and napping. Four hours of that and I was sad and lonely, thus prompting a right-quick escape to Connecticut to love Jessico. I've been back in the city for about 8 hours, and am getting ready to leave again for a sojourn into the Land People Under 70 Forgot. I should probably be packing, but that won't take long; I am just throwing all of my dirty clothes in a bag. I always hope that TSA doesn't go through my stuff, because boy, will I be embarrassed when they see all of my dirty clothing! But, then I remind myself that people so grossly violating my personal rights deserve nothing more than a suitcase full of dirty clothes.*

I am half-watching The Bachelorette while I write this. She is about to eliminate the first round of boys, and has some "really hard choices" to make (cue violins). Let me get this straight- I am supposed to feel sorry for this skinny, gorgeous girl because she has to choose between 25 different men that all want to ~~boink~~ marry her? I am having issues mustering up sympathy for this girl (despite the teaser clip of her crying in front of her mansion). They are now showing interviews with the men who didn't get picked for the chance to woo her. One man is talking about how he quit his job, sold his condo, and moved across the country, only to get rejected immediately. I have two things to say about that:

1. Dummy!
2. Is the state of modern American romance? No wonder I am left to choose from the old ones and the ones in committed relationships with their cousins.

I'm sorry if this was a very boring post for you to read. I think you ought to get used to it, though. My post-collegiate life is not exactly off to an exciting start.

*They also deserve a bunch of dog shit, but I am not about to pack that.

'Splainin

2008-05-04T15:46:00.002-04:00

So, I had a preeeetttttty intense anxiety attack at about 3 a.m. last night, which is one of the reasons this blog is now private. I also deleted about 60 Facebook "friends." Then, I rearranged my underwear drawer.

I think that is what happens when you spend all day trying to write about urban toilets and contemplating that graduation is rapidly approaching. Sigh.

I have run out of the following:

2008-04-25T01:18:00.007-04:00

...cereal (I ate an entire box of Kashi fiber hearts in three days. Oh, and a bag of dried fruit. And a few bowls of spinach. And a box of Altoids. I disgust myself, but my colon has never been happier)
...sleeping pills ("Becker" is mighty funny at 4 am)
...certainty about my future (Is Barnes & Noble hiring?)
...hair gel ( No, I am not related to Diana Ross)
...wit (Seriously, I got nuthin')
...creative inspiration (Is this the most boring blog or what?)
...shoes that don't smell like city feet (It's bordering on offensive)
...things to do instead of my actual work (Stop blogging, you say? Get back to writing your scripts and essays so you can graduate from college? Be a productive human being? Alright!)

Stupid York City

2008-04-21T20:41:00.003-04:00

Either I have the great misfortune of running into a lot of dumb people, or this city is home to a special collective of the intelligence-challenged. My displeasure the life on this island comes at a very inopportune time, as I am supposed to write an essay within the next week, rhapsodizing about the brilliance of Manhattan. If anyone has any ideas on how to tackle this, I'm all ears.

Keys and Parrots

2008-04-01T23:28:00.002-04:00

I don't really have much to say, but I want to avoid doing my work for as long as possible. So far, I have done laundry (ugh), read half of a book (smartypants), gone to the gym (must! lose! weight!) showered (eh), painted my nails (vamp), watched an hour of "the office"(hilarity), eaten everything in my house (must! gain! weight!), and picked the fuzz out of my hairbrush (OCD). I bet I will find more things to do after I finish writing this.

Let's see. I have two job interviews on Thursday, and I am not the least bit sorry for being proud of myself. I am so nervous, but also quite excited to have some prospects. I am also PMS-ing, which means after the interviews, I will either laugh, cry, or get arrested. I would love to get this job, as it has been my dream since I burst forth from my mother's womb.* I often wonder where my love of television comes from. Is it from all of those hours spent watching PBS while the parental units were in the hospital with Seth? Am I too much of a loser/loner/smelly kid to hang out with real people? I'm not sure. What I can tell you is that television is something that never fails to satisfy. I have complete control over it, turning it on and off, from topic to topic at will. Find me someone who is as satisfying and easy to be with as My Television, and I will happily re-enter society

I guess that's all for now. I should go do some homework. And by homework, I mean picking the bubble gum off of my nose, where it is now stuck following a colossal bubble.

*Actually, there was no bursting. I refused to exit, and the doctors had to grab my face with what have been described to me as giant salad tongs. They squished my face in the process, which is why one of my eyes is always more closed than the other (it gets worse when I am tired, which is why I look like am winking at everyone between the hours of 11pm-9am). It was also later revealed that the doctor that did this to Fetus Me was stoned out of his gourd at the time, popping pain pills like they were Nerds until the state finally yanked his license. Last we heard, he was enjoying some R&R with Betty Ford.

My latest project!

2008-03-30T14:07:00.003-04:00

Hi muffins. Here it is, my latest attempt to be a journalist. Enjoy!

A handy relationship chart for your edification

2008-03-27T22:36:00.002-04:00

Subject	Month 1	Month 3	Month 5
Sprained ankle	“Oh my god, are you ok? What can I do for you?”	“Wow that sucks. I’m sorry.”	“Walk it off”
Making plans	“I am busy until 12, but I will see if I can leave at 11:45. I really want to see you!”	“I’ll call you, but it will be late.”	“Can’t. Busy. Sorry.”
Where to eat	“What do YOU like?”	“That’s fine.”	“How many times do I have to tell you? Tuesday night is pizza night. Jesus.”
His career	“He’s a musician!”	“He waits tables, but he is also in a band.”	“He’s poor.”
Friends	“Can’t wait to meet them! They sound so fun!”	“They are okay, just a little crude.”	“Tell the fat pervert to shut his trap.”
Phones	“I am so sorry I missed your call!”	“Sorry, I think my phone was on silent.”	“No, it works, but CSI was on.”
How was your day?	“Great!”	“Okay. The usual.”	“I’m sorry…were you speaking to me?”

Important Lesson #6746

2008-03-14T20:43:00.003-04:00

Never, ever eat a large Indian meal, composed of spicy curry and lentils (plus a host of other items) then go exercise. This is definitely one for the "My Bad Ideas" file. Oh, the nausea! I waited a good forty minutes after eating enough food to feed a moderately-sized village before enthusiastically getting on the elliptical. Apparently, this was not an adequate amount of time. I spent the entire duration of my workout waging holy war with my stomach and making vomit contingency plans. You know exactly the plan I'm talking about, too- the "I-am-going-to- barf-in-this-very-public-place-how-can-I-do-this-discreetly" plan. First, you scope out the locations of all of the trash cans, estimating how much time you have to get to each one. Just in case you have the great misfortune of speedy puke and not-so-speedy legs, you decide on an alternative barfing option (hands, water bottle, etc). It's like that fuzzy piece of gum at the bottom of your bag: you hope you don't have to chew it, but in a pinch, it's there.

In other news, I just spent the last minute trying to adjust the volume on my computer with my tv remote. And when I say minute, I do mean a full 60 seconds were devoted to this endeavor. My mental capacities are clearly quite limited at the moment, so I suppose spring break has arrived just in time.

At least I didn't marry K-Fed

2008-02-13T19:35:00.006-05:00

I think I need to start putting myself together a bit more. I don't mean more showers, although that couldn't hurt the cause. I mean doing things to, you know, make myself look sparkly-perky-cute. On the whole, I consider anything more than brushing my teeth a total nuisance. Even then, some days are Listerine days. I promise I am not gross, just incredibly lazy.* I put on the business-wear for the job. But if you think those pants have ever been washed, you are sorely mistaken (I do wash my sweaters and shirts with regularity). I rarely fix my hair, instead opting for bobby pins/headbands/rubber bands/pencils to do the work for me. I just don't care! Sure, I feel a little bad next to people who bother to look presentable, but hey, I got an extra 30 minutes of sleep while you were busy being prissy! (That still doesn't help the dark circles under my eyes, though, which I refuse to cover with makeup.) Nevertheless, I think I need to start making an effort.

So I am sure you are wondering what caused this revelation. Or not. But I am going to tell you anyway! I was standing in line at Walgreens, waiting for the lady to fill my order of crazy pills. As I waited, I picked up a copy of People so that I may avail myself of the current issues plaguing the world. On the cover was the incomparably nutty Britney Spears. The gentleman next to me, who appeared to have several open sores and half as many teeth, tapped the cover of the magazine. "She's almost as cute as you," he whispered. So, why do I need to putting a little more effort into my looks?

That's why.

*I should petition the university to graduate me in May with a Bachelor of Arts in Completing the Bare Minimum Yet Still Managing To Succeed (Sort Of).

It sucks to be me!

2008-01-29T22:11:00.001-05:00

Let's take this moment to discuss a few things currently occupying my brain and subsequently preventing real thought from taking place. First and foremost, I would like NYU students to do me a favor. Clear your schedules for five minutes each and every day. Then use that time to go fuck yourselves. Seriously. I was trying to get a few sound bites from people on the street today for a story on Facebook and the elections. Innocent and easy enough, right? Wrong! The only person who agreed to talk to me was a non-NYU student. The rest were just too darn busy adjusting their ironic flannel shirts. I am not going to pretend I haven't done my fair share of ignoring people on the street. However, I didn't want them to save the children/trees/whales/Democrats/endangered Peruvian slugs. I just wanted a goddamn minute to talk. I know they are on Facebook. Who else would send me those dumbfuck "What Disney Princess Are You" invites and asking me to join the "RIP HEATHxoxoxoxo" groups?

Moving on- I tried to be a good person today. A friend-type told me (half in jest) that I have a heart made out of lead. If it even exists, that is. So, coming up the stairs of my building, I noticed someone had left their keys in their door. I knocked on the door for what seemed like a lifetime, only to have the woman open the door, grab her keys, and shut the door without even so much as a mumbled "thanks." I really hope she caught sight of me flipping her the bird as she hastily slammed the door. I also hope that should I ever feel the need to vomit in the stairwell, I choose to hurl in front of 4C.

And finally, as I prepare for sleep, I would like to ask my brain to come up with some more interesting dreams. Last night I had a dream about getting cheese from a deli. The night before that it was buying paper towels at Duane Reade.*

I give up.

*I think I know what this is about. I went to bed angry that one of my roommates uses all of the paper towels and never, ever buys more. Ever. I am not saying he should adopt the Brawny Man as his god, but if you are going to use 4000000 a day, fucking buy more, ok? Thanks.

Welcome back, Kotter

2008-01-18T14:19:00.001-05:00

I took a little vacation from life about a month ago. I relaxed with other members of the over-fed, white upper-middle class on a cruise ship. It was nice.

Then I came back to New York and resumed my 9-6, which was like sticking my soul back in the freezer. School starts again in four days, and I am obviously thrilled. I love nothing more than doing work to appease someone who doesn't even take the time to learn my name.

I am bookending my days with panic attacks about my future and what I want to do with my life. On the bright side, I make sure to set aside time every day to stop worrying about my future. I use that free hour to live in the past and/or hate my current life. All in all, things are just as I left them one month ago.

I saw something funny today

2007-12-05T23:54:00.000-05:00

In 8th grade, older brother played me Depeche Mode's "Personal Jesus" for the first time. I thought I had FOUND MUSIC. It was pure genius. Important things I did not realize at the time:

1. I was about 10 years too late to be considered cool because I listened to DM (a pattern that defines my taste even now).
2. The music is actually quite terrible.

The man playing the electric violin at the Union Square subway station today didn't get the memo (or maybe his position on the cultural bell curve is even more regrettable than mine). Let me paint you a mental picture. The man had his violin plugged into a little violin amp. Who knew those even existed? Even better were the neon lights coming from within the violin, producing a laser light show of sorts in tandem with his jammin'. His long, gloriously feathered hair was tied in a low pony tail. Hey, violin man thought, if I grow a lot of hair in the back, no one will notice that I have none in the front! His blouse billowed around him as he worked his magic on that violin, his pointy faux-Italian shoes protruding from his too-tight Levis. And what was the gentleman playing? Why, Depeche Mode, of course! I didn't realize it at the time, but I was able to recall the lyrics in an instant. Bi-annual dentist appointments have paid off two-fold: clean teeth and the ability to recall the words to innumerable Kool Jazz/Easy Listening songs. I came home, looked it up, and the song was "Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode.

Needless to say, it was a spectacle. I laughed a lot. Then I ate a piece of cheese and watched the subway almost squish a rat and nearly barfed the cheese back up. While I cannot provide you with a reenactment of the show (my electric violin is in the shop), I can link you to the original video! May 1990 live on forever in our hearts...and subway stations.

Sometimes you feel like a nut (and by sometimes, I mean always)

2007-12-03T23:10:00.000-05:00

I have a lot of theories living up in my little head, some of which I came up with, but most of which I did not. The one I think about the most (we'll save my original theories for another moon) is the chaos theory. You know, some butterfly flaps its wings and then there is a tornado in Texas. This is also called the "butterfly effect," which is not to be confused with that terrible movie starring Demi's son...er...husband and that faceless chick whose name I can never remember.

Anywho, I believe it, but probably to an absurd degree. Some things are just obvious. I left the water running in the sink and now my house is flooded! I didn't wait for my food to cool off before stuffing my face, and I burned my lip and got a herp-like blister (true story!). See? Obviously related.

Now, the correlation between some events is a little harder to see, but I choose to believe they are connected anyway. I forgot to return an important email and my eyeball swelled up. I told my mom I didn't want to have children and my computer denied me internet for a while (withholding children, withholding internet...so obviously connected!). The chaos theory is clearly at work here. To resolve this latter issue, I swore to the mighty Zeus (Mom) I will not only have kids, but I will raise them Jewish. I promptly got my internet back. And my period.

P.S.- I turned to my good academic resource, Wikipedia, to read about the actual chaos theory. There were lots of big words, one of which was four syllables! Yikes. But then I clapped out the syllables of my own name (yes, clapped. Even smart kids need help sometimes.) and realized that my name is also four syllables. Nevertheless, while this is not a list of proper examples of the real chaos theory, who wants to read all of those big words? Not me! So accept this as science and lets pretend like I am right about everything and the smartest person alive.

2007-11-25T21:33:00.000-05:00

I am typing this from my bed, as I still don't have a desk. Frugality plus laziness equals computer on my lap and a bed full of crumbs (oh yeah, I don't have a kitchen table or a couch, either). Anyway, I just looked across the alley and saw straight into another apartment's living room. They have a couch. And they are sitting on it. Which means they spend time in that room. Which means they have seen me in various states of naked. Which makes me both happy and slightly embarrassed.

I watched one of my least favorite shows while eating dinner on my tabledeskbed tonight. It's that one where they make over the houses of people who have endured some sort of trauma. I cried like a little bitch, as I am unmedicated and pms-ing. Damn you, family entertainment for tugging on my heart strings. Damn you, ice heart, for melting a little. Sometimes, the show is a little too Jesus-y for my taste. A hot carpenter leads his minions in the construction of a new shelter, whose inhabitants promise to spread the good word about charity. Ring ANY bells? Still, I suppose it's nice to see something that encourages faith in humanity's benevolence and the goodwill of others. I can't watch more than once a month, though. I cry too much and being dehydrated is annoying.

2007-11-23T13:08:00.000-05:00

I am thinking of legally changing my name to Debbie Downer. Whenever I say or do anything, all I hear is that "womp wooomp" sound from the SNL skit. I can't break free from my past, and it is most certainly killing my desire to be in the present and furthermore, to create a future. On that note, I hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving and enjoyed themselves and actually GAVE thanks for their life.

See?? WOMP WOMP.

List-o-mania

2007-11-18T19:13:00.000-05:00

I am a big fan of lists these days, mainly because:

1. I am lazy
2. They are easy to read
3. They are exactly how I would like my life to be - lovely things with no bullshit in between.

Hence, I present to you a multitude of lists for your personal edification and enjoyment.

Things in my life right now that I enjoy and think everyone else should indulge in:
1. Christmas/holiday spirit
2. 30 Rock, Arrested Development's bastard child.
3. Good Earth tea

Things I would like to have in my life right now, but appear to have left me forever:
1. The pinky toenail on my left foot
2. Good luck
3. Anything resembling a dating life

Things that are out of my life and should stay that way:
1. Mice/creatures on my bed and in my living space/Chinatown
2. Split ends
3. Seafood

Last three things I looked up on Wikipedia:
1. Neuroblastoma
2. Iron Chef America
3. Pineapple

2007-10-26T23:34:00.000-04:00

If I held
my breath
like I said
I would
have died
a long time ago
waiting
for you

I suddenly feel cool

2007-10-11T21:58:00.000-04:00

I am simple. Which is why this video kept me laughing for far too long. (Lovingly plucked from Gawker, which lovingly plucked it from BWE.) Enjoy.

Why don't I just make the check payable to YOU?!

2007-10-02T23:39:00.000-04:00

I am moving again. Not like you care, but listen to me whine about it anyway. I thought I found a great place. Turns out the mice and roaches think it's great, too. I am not such a JAP that a few bugs would cause me to pack up again, but there is also a total lack of heat in this place. Like, what? Is that legal? I don't care if you still think I am being JAP-y about living here. Heat is heat. I need it, end of story. I have to draw the line somewhere. This brings me to my next point. Another one of my roommates (there are five of us) just moved out and Nerd Kid moved in. I tried not to judge him. I failed.

His dad and his brother helped him move in. Nerd's brother looks like a model and, for a brief moment, I got really excited at the idea of living with a male model. Welcome home! Those hopes were dashed when I saw his nerdy little sibling, my actual roommate. Minus ten cool points. Then Nerd , being surprisingly stupid for someone who has so little else going for himself, unpacked onto his bed. Leaving him nowhere to sleep. So he slept on the couch, setting his alarm at 4:30 am so he could unpack and "not disturb us." I can think of very few things that are more disturbing than listening to someone try to assemble an electric tie rack in the hallway at 4:30 am. I guess he went back to bed after a while. I went to work.

Flash forward to just now, when Nerd wanted to talk about manufacturing in post-war America. Except he didn't say it like that. "You know, lotsa factories and stuff you know like closed in cities like Houston and New York and you know places like Cleveland." He taught me all about our rich capitalist history. The whole time, I debated whether or not to be an asshole once he finally shut his yap (about 20 minutes after his riveting introduction on urban theory).

I, of course, decided to be an asshole.

I tried to engage him in a conversation about post-Fordist deindustrialization within the context of fleeting modernist values and the push toward socio-spatial differentiation within urban centers. Is he familiar with the works of David Harvey? Because Harvey's theories on capitalism are simply fascinating, as he makes very strong arguments toward the growth of the built environment aroud the commodification of capital. Although, marxist geography must be countered with a well-though deconstruction of someone like Burgess. You would like that Nerd, as you work within the capital market. Which as you so articulately noted was the cause behind the decline of textile manufacturing in urban areas such as Houston and New York. We should discuss this at length another time. I am sure you have some wonderful insights, especially on Burgess and the Chicago School.

Yeah that's right. I may be paying 200k for a degree that won't give me shit in the real world. In the academic world, though, my degree is in Taking Names and Kicking Ass. Don't even try to impress me. The chances of that went out the door right along with your change sorter, which I watched you knock over with your lava lamp when you moved in (one of the most gratifying moments of my life to-date). You have no idea what you are talking about. I have earned the right to SCHOOL you in the art of rhetoric on urban spaces.

Please remember that when tipping your Starbucks barista, which is what I will be doing after I graduate, trying to earn enough to qualify for food stamps and government cheese.

A Small Thought

2007-09-19T00:40:00.000-04:00

I read the "Missed Connections" on craigslist in an effort to remind myself that romance, by way of complete happenstance, is still a possibility.

Then I click over to "Miscellaneous Romance" to remind myself that there are so many goddamn freaks out there, I don't want to talk to anyone I don't already know, let alone date them.

I'll pass on that breast massage, sir. Thanks anyway.

odds and ends

2007-09-08T23:23:00.000-04:00

Thanks to that nifty SiteMeter at the bottom of this page, I can stalk those who choose to waste their life reading this thing. I saw that someone from Tennessee was recently reading my insightful and well-crafted thoughts. I don't have any friends in Tennessee, so I looked to see who this young chap was. Turns out they found my blog by Google searching the phrase "I had a gigantic wedgie." Needless to say, I am pretty proud of myself.

I am finally settled in my new apartment...minus the bags and boxes of crap I am just too damn lazy to unpack. I am sure I will get to it eventually. Maybe. The place itself is decent, albeit a far cry from the lap of luxury. I have a nice kitchen, for all of the cooking I don't do. I also have some fun roommates, one of whom caught me standing half-naked (read: all-naked) in front of the a/c yesterday. He looked a little scared, which made me laugh. I feel like I should have warned them about my nudist habits when I moved in. That would have totally killed the surprise, though, inevitably killing my joy.

I think I am going to go introduce myself to the people that live above me at some point. That way, I can ask them why they feel the need to rearrange their furniture at 6 a.m. EVERY GODDAMN DAY. Also, I don't think pets are allowed in this building. That elephant stomping around up there needs to go. Oh, that's your girlfriend? Sad. She still needs to leave. Well...bye.

It's free, but...

2007-09-01T11:33:00.000-04:00

There is always a catch.

I need a place to live. I see a craigslist post offering free room in a sweet apartment for a girl. The catch? I would have to rub moisturizer on the owner of the place after he lays out in the sun all day. I would be lying if I said I didn't respond to the ad. When staring poverty in the face, one considers extreme measures in order to ensure survival. I eventually decided against the idea (of course), but that idea of free rent is still so tempting.

I need to exercise. I go to the lovely free yoga studio near me for some relaxation and movement. It is packed, and I am stuffed in a corner next to a woman whose physical build reminds me of a ball of dough, with a leotard acting as the saran wrap keeping it all together. She laughs a lot, as I, Bi-polar Betty, sob hysterically. Then she coughs in my mouth. She is obviously a smoker, because my mouth suddenly tastes of nicotine. I gag in between sobs (it's been a long week). Free yoga? Awesome. Fat chick coughing smoker filth IN MY MOUTH? Hardly awesome.

I need to eat. I go meet a friend for $3 margs, and eat the chips and salsa they bring to the table as dinner. Cheapest dinner ever (free!). I wake up this morning to stomach cramps, and have been in and out of the bathroom all morning. I think the salsa was made by Ex-Lax.

Choose your free carefully.

Wise Words

2007-08-08T11:28:00.000-04:00

Wisdom I would like to share:
1. Never jump up to bat at a leaf, no matter how dangly and fun it looks. Your flip-flop will bend when you land, you will tear the top of your toe off, it will bleed a lot and then get infected, and you will be in pain. Toes don't like to heal properly, despite being given the tools to do so. Rebellious little fuckers.

2. Running across a linoleum floor stark naked and soaking wet is a bad idea. A very bad idea. You will crash into things, crack your kneecap, and be rendered speechless due to the pain. Then, after improperly caring for said knee, it will feel like flames are shooting through the joint with even the slightest movement. Much like toes, knees don't enjoy healing. Unlike toes, you only have two.

3.Yelling at people on the street is often a wonderful way to boost endorphins and relieve stress. However, looking at who you are yelling at before unleashing a verbal tirade is a great idea. The gentleman blocking the sidewalk with his GIANT FUCKING UMBRELLA may happen to be the same 44 year-old you went on a pity date with. Having him turn around to see you barking obscenities at him can be really awkward (and almost as uncomfortable as the date itself).

4. Brown noodle mush will always taste exactly how you would expect brown noodle mush to taste. And it won't change forms before it exits the system.

I think this sums it up

2007-07-04T12:30:00.001-04:00

ariella820: so i was reading in union square park on Sunday, started talking with the guy next to me, we ended up seeing a movie together and i gave him my phone number. he's not particularly attractive, but not hideous
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: ok, go on
ariella820: I kept ignoring him, but finally talked to him last night, and agreed to get dinner on thursday. at the end of the convo i ask him how old he is
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: well, he's either 40 or...
ariella820: older
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: NONONONONONONONO
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: CANCEL
ariella820: 44
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL
ariella820: he is 44
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: wait...is he jewish?
ariella820: DOES IT MATTER?!
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: yes, for your mother
ariella820: he could date my mother! fuck it, with some creative surgery, he could be my mother.
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: CANCEL CANCEL CANCEL
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: so... you canceled right?
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: please tell me you're NOT going to go through with this
ariella820: first I screamed and gagged. then I called a bunch of people to laugh and gag more. then i called him back and was like "about dinner, i already have plans HA-HA silly me..how about coffee" and it is then that i am going to tell him he's a creep
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: he may just think you're older. you could pass for 30-a very young looking 30
ariella820: TODD!
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: i mean it in the least offensive way possible. i PERSONALLY wouldn't think you were 30 if i met you
ariella820: way to dig yourself out of that hole
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: just make sure he doesn't pull the sugar daddy attempt
ariella820: while that would be nice, he is more than twice my age. i bet he has kids and divorces
SyphiLiTiCdRUid: lol, i love how we put divorce in the plural
ariella820: i am on a roll. first, the nasty college reject/bass player/waiter. then a french dude with a mullet (thank you, mace) and now this.

Behold the power of sleaze!

OuchMyHeadHurts (dot com)

2007-06-18T23:25:00.001-04:00

Here's something new and different: I have a headache from talking with my mom on the phone.

It's now quite clear where I learned my phone-yelling habits. (I didn't even know I was a phone-yeller until an ex pointed it out to me through his scared wince, as my screaming reverberated off the car interior.) Holy hell, though. I don't know what was louder, my mother yelling at me from Colorado, or my own echo off the walls of my bedroom. Either way, my ears are ringing and there is a significant pounding behind my temples. Plus, my contacts have gone all dry and blurry, so I can't see a thing. Helen Keller lives!

Life is pretty decent otherwise. I am working at a huge corporation this summer, and the office environment is keeping me moderately amused. What I don't understand is humor in the corporate workplace.

Officemate 1: "Dean and I played golf on Sunday. He shot an 81. I told him to remember to bring his skirt next time!"
Officemate 2: "That Nancy!"
In unison: "HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR!"

That's all for now. I think it's time for a special nightcap: 10mg of Ambien and a doubledose of the happy pills. You know how I feel about Tuesdays...

I HATE TUESDAYS

2007-05-30T16:35:00.000-04:00

Subway rides to and from Astoria: $4
Cab from one Subway stop to where I should have been, after taking the wrong train and getting hopelessly lost: $6
Coffee for me and The Latest Boy: $6
Food to replace feelings after dragging my ass to Queens so that The Latest Boy could end our non-committed, non-relationship* (all the while begging me to "please dear God Ariella show some sort of emotion"): $8.50

Understanding the consequences of ignoring all of those red flags: $24.50, not including all of the shit I bought him, plus the cost of the Plan B (thank you again for that one, assface). So it's at least $150, easy. I bet you thought I was going to say "priceless!" Nope! This one cost me!

*Who knew that could happen??

I am a delicate flower

2007-05-24T11:49:00.000-04:00

What up, party people? Apologies for the long hiatus. I finished yet another mediocre school year, and then spent some quality time in Israel. A fun place, but holyfuckisithotthere. I still recommend that everyone pay a visit there, though.

Here is a story you might appreciate. Since I had absolutely no clean clothes upon my return from Israel, the first thing I had to do when I got back to the city was laundry. I emptied out my suitcase and realized that even my typical choices for laundry-day attire were dirty. I usually have the benefit of choosing between the gigantic, too-big for Rosie O'Donnell underwear or the fetus-sized underwear. I had already worn the giant pair, so I guess my choice was made for me. On went the tight ones. I gathered my clothes and schlepped them down the four flights of stairs to the laundry room, which would have been fine, except for my underwear was already causing a loss of blood flow to...vital...areas. By the time I made it to the washing machine, I had perhaps the worst wedgie ever.

The kind where you feel like picking your nose might help. The kind where once you take care of it, you are so happy, you feel the need to call someone and tell them. You get the idea.

There were two other guys in the laundry room, but there were standing next to me and appeared to be looking toward the opposite wall. I couldn't wait any longer, and decided that instead of losing my ability to bear children, fuck it. I was gonna solve this wedgie problem. So I did. I salvaged my underwear from the depths of my...oh, well you know. I even think leg bending was involved. I let out a nice sigh, and glanced over to make sure those guys were still looking at the other wall. They were not looking at the wall. They were looking at the VIDEO CAMERA in front of the wall. They were taping some sort of skit, and I had just unknowingly lent my skills as an extra.

Not only am I disgusting in person, there is now video proof of me acting like the most indelicate pig in the universe. "Where is Ariella's elbow?" Oh right. UP HER ASS, along with the rest of her arm, retrieving her underpants. I panicked, finishing my laundry as fast as humanly possible. Then, I ran out of there as fast as my constricting little underpants would let me go.

The video is probably on YouTube already. "FUNNY HAHA GIRLS PICKS ASS WATCH NOW XX69XX" or something like that.

There you have it.

2007-04-23T23:54:00.000-04:00

When I wrote about the first fire alarm in my building, I didn't think things could get any more uncomfortable. Let's discuss Friday evening (why do these kids love fire?).

I was in the shower, absorbed in deep thought and deep conditioning, when I heard the familiar screeching of the fire alarm. I was not let a little smoke ruin a perfectly good shower, so I finished, put some clothes on (respectable clothes, this time) and went outside to wait for the fire department. They came. They left. It was nothing. Now here comes the fun part. It was Friday night dinner for the Jewish students, and as a Person Somewhat In Charge, I was asked to tell them to wait until everyone else went in the building before they could enter. As I shout this directive to the Chosen Children, a young man begins to argue with me. He said the food was getting cold. I told him I was sorry, but he would have to wait. He said that they were already running behind. Again, quite sorry, but tough break.

Then, he called me an anti-Semite.

Pardon?

Me, queen of the JAPs, eater of unleavened bread, an anti-Semite? Was this kid not wearing his glasses? Curly hair. Wide hips. Commanding ass. All signs point to JEW. I was so stunned that I couldn't even laugh until about twenty minutes afterwards. I had no idea postponing dinner for another three minutes would elicit this reaction. I can't even imagine the bloodshed that would have ensued had I tried to tell them to wait five minutes.

Apparently, God's Chosen People are not God's Patient People.

I don't do break-ups

2007-04-16T23:13:00.000-04:00

After my most recent bout of crazy, my insurance company assigned me some sort of mental health case worker. I don't know what that means or how it happens, but gosh, do I feel special! I can only surmise that the cost of me offing myself is an expense Aetna would rather not incur. Anywho, "Brad" tells me I should be seeing a new shrink. Fine. The problem is, how do I break up with my old one?

I wish there was some sort of manual for break-ups. Do I have to call them and tell them it's over, or can I just cancel all of my appointments and never show up again? Am I supposed to apologize? Tell him it was good while it lasted? Do I still call on birthdays?! I just have no idea.

I thought about sending a card, because that's just what I do. I'm a card-sender. Unfortunately, Hallmark doesn't make a "parting ways with your mental health professional" greeting card. I thought about a singing telegram, but I don't think he would find it funny. Cookies? Flowers? Empty pill bottles filled with love notes? If someone would just write a book or something that tells me how to part ways, I would be really appreciative.

My favorite!

2007-04-14T01:30:00.000-04:00

It's impossible to be in a bad mood when you watch this.

Enjoy!

Captain Obvious strikes again!

2007-04-05T00:42:00.000-04:00

Since I watch a lot of shitty "family programming" on tv, I see a lot of shitty ads for family-oriented products. This, good friends, is by far my favorite product ever marketed to the 2-kids-a-dog-and-a-white-picket-fence demographic:

I cannot imagine a product more suitable for the most stoned of stoners than this, the Glade light show. The commercials show little Timmy thanking his mom for buying him such a nifty toy! Now, if Glade actually wanted to make money, they would air commercials aimed at college kids. Covers the pot smell? Check. Endless fun and entertainment? Check. Consumers with disposable incomes that allow them to waste their money on such useless pieces of shit? CHECK!

I thought it was a pretty ridiculous concept when I thought it was dispensing pine cone smell. Not only is it making the room smell like fake forest, but now I have to watch the lights change too?

This particular one is "Vanilla & Cream" scented. My first instinct is to vomit. My second is to laugh. My third? Get stoned and take this puppy for a spin.

Captain Obvious, at your service

2007-03-21T02:24:00.000-04:00

I would be such a productive member of society if the Internet didn't exist in my life. I would get my homework done! I would have time to see friends! I could (gasp) go outside! Imagine that...a life devoid of a keyboard. It would be strange, that's for sure.

Right now, I am supposed to be writing an essay. I decided to update my blog instead. Why complete something that I need to have done by tomorrow and get a good night's sleep when I can peck away at my keys until sunrise? I am so connected to my computer, I feel the need to name my first child Mozilla. I need computer detox: no emails, no AIM, and certainly no Facebook (the root of all evil in the world...such wonderful evil).

Before I forget, I want to pass on a little kernel of knowledge to you all: many airlines no longer stock barf bags (oh sorry, "air sickness receptacles"). I learned this the hard way. I didn't get sick, but the kid in the row in front of me certainly did. Homeslice started to yak, and with nothing to barf into, was resigned to throwing up on the seat and himself. I had the great fortune of not only listening to him heave, but then smelling vomit for the duration of the trip. I am pretty sure the kid ate a trash sandwich with a sewage milkshake for dinner. Foul. In conclusion, if you or someone you know is about to vomit on a plane, plan accordingly.

March Madness

2007-03-02T16:49:00.000-05:00

I have a gift. When it comes to the opposite sex, I am able to ignore fatal flaws (red flags) obvious to the rest of the universe for the sake of getting whatever it is I am looking for.

Last night, while frequenting my favorite little corner-of-hell bar, I ran into a few corporate types. They were older than the guys I normally date by about 25 years. (Let's face it, some of these guys were old enough to be my dad.) Red flag number one was when Old Guy With Tie introduced himself to me by saying "Hi, I'm Old Guy with a Tie. I have been married for seven years and I am looking for an affair." Hmmm. I should have backed away slowly, as if I had just angered a large hippo. Instead, I told him to buy me a drink. Red flag number two came when he started hugging me. I like hugs, I thought. This is fine! Apparently, the drinks he bought me allowed me to forget that hugs from strangers with wandering hands who hang out in college bars playing Golden Tee are not ok. May I never have an old man's hands on my ass again. Amen.

Brain soup

2007-02-20T23:26:00.000-05:00

I have nothing witty nor interesting to say. My apologies for blogging for the sake of blogging.

Nothing terribly new and exciting going on- just a lot of status quo bullshit. Hebrew still sucks, although I have recently deciding that intimidating other people in the class by snapping at them is a worthwhile and productive hobby. I may be mean, but at least they don't talk to me anymore. Small talk in one's native language is bad enough, thanks. Come to think about it, the misery that is Hebrew has cost me $16,000. Sixteen thousand motherfucking dollars to listen to some woman with sagging skin and kankles tell me that no, that is NOT the word for afternoon and why didn't I spend more time studying? Talk about a horrid revelation. I could have spent that money on so many better things! Vacations! 1.6 million rides on the penny-horse at the supermarket! Prostitutes! Oh, the possibilities...

I have to make a confession: I have been lying a lot lately. Telling more than just harmless white lies, to be specific. Most of it still lingers in the realm of harmless and ancillary, but nevertheless, I seem to have trouble producing true statements. For example, while filming in a place I should not have been, I told numerous people that I had permission to be there (I did not, nor will I ever). When asked if I would be willing to help with a friend's project, I replied, with great enthusiasm, that I would love nothing more (actually, I would love nothing more than to avoid helping). I lied about other things, too, but I don't want to get too specific. Anyway, I don't know what's going on. Sorry if I lied to you. I mean, I doubt you know whether or not it was a lie, but just in case, I'm very sorry.*

I should just quit dicking around and go do my homework. This was a completely worthless entry, a convergence of meaningless words aimed at entertaining the masses that read this (read: My mother and Sam Stone). Hearts and such. I will do better next time, I promise.

*That was a lie. I am not, in fact, sorry.

Just what it says

2007-02-12T00:33:00.000-05:00

I am not at war.

Yet another poor choice

2007-01-25T17:13:00.000-05:00

When deciding what language courses to take in college, I briefly flirted with the idea of rekindling my relationship with Spanish. I took three years in high school, so I thought that I ought to be able to jump right back in. I was thinking about how easy it would be, when I remembered a key fact: two years into high school Spanish, I was transferred into the remedial class after demonstrating reading and comprehension skills similar to those of a house plant. I walked away knowing just as much Spanish as one gets from reading a Taco Bell menu (Gordita!).

Thus, based on my past experience, I decided that Hebrew would be a mighty fine change of pace. A chance to start anew and embrace the language of my forefathers! I was enrolled in Hebrew school as a child, spending far too many years learning the alphabet from Mrs. Eidelman (a woman whose scent can only be described as the love child of death and fruit candy). "Hey self," I thought, "you are a Jew. You will be great at Hebrew. Manischewitz! Bagel! Woody Allen!" Only now do I see the flaws in my reasoning.

1st semester: I learned about colors and foods, animals and movies. I ate delicious candy. What a fun time for me!

2nd semester: A bit harder, but still tolerable. It was toward the end of this class that I realized that while everyone seemed to be learning more, my progress had come to an abrupt halt months ago. I could say my name and a few words relating to the post office, but that's about it. My professor pointed out that my stock answer, "I like books," no longer applied to our conversation (and furthermore, could I please stop sighing so loudly?). On the rare occasion I tried to speak, I sounded remarkably like a cross between Fran Drescher and Keanu Reeves. If it wasn't for my stupid requirement, I would have quit right there and then.

3rd semester: Shalom fun, Shalom pain and suffering. New professor, new class, same learning deficit. I should have known it was going to be a total shitshow when I noticed that my book had decidedly fewer pictures than the first one. All hope was officially lost when the professor asked me what my name was, and my response was "good." My classmates no longer attempted to hide their disdain for my presence and mocked me to my face using a funny tongue so I couldn't understand (later learned they were, in fact, speaking Hebrew).

4th semester: Although I have just begun the final installment of my Great Language Adventure, I know that this will be the worst four months yet. I had finally learned to muffle the sounds of my sobbing in class, only to go on winter break and forget how to sob quietly in shame. The SuperJews in the class dominate the conversation, relating all stories in the workbook back to stories in the Big Book. I have relegated myself to a back corner, and intend to stay there, mute and stupid, until May.

Lesson learned: Having a bat mitzvah seven years ago does not guarantee success in a language class.

This is what I think

2007-01-09T19:57:00.000-05:00

I am not made of goddamn money.

2007 is code for AWESOME!

2007-01-02T23:24:00.000-05:00

Why, it's 2007! Some things I think we can all look forward to:

A 6-point jump in Fox News' ratings following Pat Robertson's latest and greatest prophecy! (Don't worry, though- 'The Lord didn't say nuclear.')

I finally lose my shit at ppl who send me emails w/o spelling nething out! (U kno who u r.)

NYU contunues with their plans to block out the sun!

Victory in Iraq! ( I knew this war was worth it!)

Bye bye to bulky sweaters, slush rivers, and Uggs with leggings! (Hello, cancer!)

Let the new year begin.

Indian summer

2006-12-18T14:04:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-15T14:58:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-07T00:48:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-12-04T17:09:00.000-05:00

Announcement!

Pigeons can go fuck themselves.

That is all.

Florida Sucks

2006-12-01T23:56:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-15T13:36:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-11-07T22:37:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-24T20:45:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-10-19T13:11:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-17T00:10:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-11T00:16:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-09T21:27:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-21T23:05:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-06T15:16:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-31T13:00:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-22T16:01:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-31T00:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-24T17:10:00.000-04:00

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.

2006-05-18T20:36:00.000-04:00

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