Udder shock and dismay

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?

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

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

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

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

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.