i got a compression sprain in my left wrist from landing a hook improperly, and have been walking around with this stupid ace bandage for almost 2 weeks.
if anyone asks, i got kicked in the vagina ;)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
On the Gayness of Elliot Z
Elliot Z is Jewish. He is also objectively smart and handsome, subjectively funny and charming and perpetually single and sexless. For almost the entire span of our 8 year friendship, I have pondered his bizarre and incomprehensible circumstance to conclude that Elliot is a homosexual.
While I can understand the disbelief or even betrayal many of you (who have probably showered with or slept next to Elliot) are undoubtedly feeling right now, the supporting arguments are numerous and irrefutable.
Shall we begin?
1) Let’s start with the obvious. With is flax colored hair and big baby blues, Elliot is prettier than I am. And I am a not completely unattractive female. In fact, I’m willing to put money on Elliot getting hit on more by drunken frat-tards at Jake’s Dilemma than I would, if we were to put him in drag. The question is, how much would he actually enjoy that?
2) Speaking of how not completely unattractive I am, Elliot has never hit on me once (granted, until the arrival of Rachel on the scene Adam did enough for any 3 drunk republicans), or any of my friends for that matter. In the 8 years that I’ve known him, he has never had a girlfriend, or had sex with anyone about whose existence I’ve seen proof. (Yeah right, he’s banging some shiksa out in California. Sure he is. Ok. You enjoy that, EZ.)
3) Elliot wears tighter clothing than I do. While he always had a penchant for a snug fit, when he came back from his voluntary service in the Israeli military (more on that later), replete with larger, more sculpted and firm muscle groups the shirts got noticeably tighter. To anyone who has been to Chelsea, buff, pretty boys in tight clothing will surely be a familiar picture into which Elliot fits seamlessly.
4) EZdick. Is this a nickname that any self respecting heterosexual would allow people to call them? Of course not. Because Elliot has no self respect, largely due to his closeted homosexuality.
5) I have seen Elliot order and consume pitchers of girly shit that I won’t even touch, such as kamikaze.
6) When Josh presented a Playboy magazine to his roommates on the 8th grade Washington trip, Elliot freaked out while his more normal friends passed the thing around like any other straight 13 year old would have done. Yes. Elliot refused to check out Josh’s pastrami. (What they didn’t know was that while they thought he was in the bathroom crying, he was really wanking it to the thought of Adam’s boner.)
7) If Elliot could be drunk in a toga every day, he would. You know who else loved being drunk in togas? The Romans. You know what else the Romans loved? Man on man butt sex.
(look at me, I’m gay roman Elliot!)
8) Elliot loves the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
9) In High school, Elliot took himself out of the mixed gender environment with notoriously slutty (by Jewish day school standards) girls in favor of a more orthodox, all boys school. In New Jersey. Where he played a lot of sports. You know what high school sports are great for? Touching other guy’s asses and having it be OK.
9) Building on the high school model, Elliot abandoned his career trajectory at the age of 25 in favor of joining the IDF. He CHOSE to join the military. He CHOSE to spend a year and a half of his adult life exercising and getting sweaty with a group lithe, tan 18-25 year old Israeli dudes. Don’t get me wrong, I can totally see the appeal—but let’s again remember that I am a straight female.
10) Fire Island is one giant gay cruising scene where Elliot loves to go—but only with Adam. Never has he taken female friends, whether real or imaginary. Never has he even pretended to. For Elliot, Fire Island is clearly a dudes only thing. Which is fine by me, but let’s call a spade a spade.
While there are numerous other arguments that support my original claim of Elliot’s homosexuality, this should suffice. In thinking back, I’m sure you will recall encounters of your own that in retrospect strike you as more homoerotic that you initially cared to let on. Please feel free to share any ideas about, memories or proofs of Elliot’s gayness.
While I can understand the disbelief or even betrayal many of you (who have probably showered with or slept next to Elliot) are undoubtedly feeling right now, the supporting arguments are numerous and irrefutable.
Shall we begin?
1) Let’s start with the obvious. With is flax colored hair and big baby blues, Elliot is prettier than I am. And I am a not completely unattractive female. In fact, I’m willing to put money on Elliot getting hit on more by drunken frat-tards at Jake’s Dilemma than I would, if we were to put him in drag. The question is, how much would he actually enjoy that?
2) Speaking of how not completely unattractive I am, Elliot has never hit on me once (granted, until the arrival of Rachel on the scene Adam did enough for any 3 drunk republicans), or any of my friends for that matter. In the 8 years that I’ve known him, he has never had a girlfriend, or had sex with anyone about whose existence I’ve seen proof. (Yeah right, he’s banging some shiksa out in California. Sure he is. Ok. You enjoy that, EZ.)
3) Elliot wears tighter clothing than I do. While he always had a penchant for a snug fit, when he came back from his voluntary service in the Israeli military (more on that later), replete with larger, more sculpted and firm muscle groups the shirts got noticeably tighter. To anyone who has been to Chelsea, buff, pretty boys in tight clothing will surely be a familiar picture into which Elliot fits seamlessly.
4) EZdick. Is this a nickname that any self respecting heterosexual would allow people to call them? Of course not. Because Elliot has no self respect, largely due to his closeted homosexuality.
5) I have seen Elliot order and consume pitchers of girly shit that I won’t even touch, such as kamikaze.
6) When Josh presented a Playboy magazine to his roommates on the 8th grade Washington trip, Elliot freaked out while his more normal friends passed the thing around like any other straight 13 year old would have done. Yes. Elliot refused to check out Josh’s pastrami. (What they didn’t know was that while they thought he was in the bathroom crying, he was really wanking it to the thought of Adam’s boner.)
7) If Elliot could be drunk in a toga every day, he would. You know who else loved being drunk in togas? The Romans. You know what else the Romans loved? Man on man butt sex.
(look at me, I’m gay roman Elliot!)
8) Elliot loves the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
9) In High school, Elliot took himself out of the mixed gender environment with notoriously slutty (by Jewish day school standards) girls in favor of a more orthodox, all boys school. In New Jersey. Where he played a lot of sports. You know what high school sports are great for? Touching other guy’s asses and having it be OK.
9) Building on the high school model, Elliot abandoned his career trajectory at the age of 25 in favor of joining the IDF. He CHOSE to join the military. He CHOSE to spend a year and a half of his adult life exercising and getting sweaty with a group lithe, tan 18-25 year old Israeli dudes. Don’t get me wrong, I can totally see the appeal—but let’s again remember that I am a straight female.
10) Fire Island is one giant gay cruising scene where Elliot loves to go—but only with Adam. Never has he taken female friends, whether real or imaginary. Never has he even pretended to. For Elliot, Fire Island is clearly a dudes only thing. Which is fine by me, but let’s call a spade a spade.
While there are numerous other arguments that support my original claim of Elliot’s homosexuality, this should suffice. In thinking back, I’m sure you will recall encounters of your own that in retrospect strike you as more homoerotic that you initially cared to let on. Please feel free to share any ideas about, memories or proofs of Elliot’s gayness.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Sunday, February 03, 2008
lehavdil
the superbowl is on television right now.
at least i think it is, because my friend who is in washington heights just heard screaming in the background at the same time that i, in brooklyn, did.
we may be miles apart, but the superbowl is everywhere.
just like the shechina.
indeed, the superbowl is the yom kippur of sports, as i once heard a clearly psychotic yet seemingly wise man say.
and there's a lot to that comparison:
-people bathe (or don't bathe) ritualistically in preparation for the event.
-not unlike yom kippur, the superbowl has dietary restrictions--against anything that hasn't been deep fried, contain high fructose corn syrup, fake cheese powder or come in a can.
-people reflect over the past season, hoping to grow in their understanding and appreciation for both what has transpired and what is yet to come.
-the people who haven't reflected over the past season show up at the temple (read: sports bar) anyway to go through the motions anyway, feel like part of the herd and hope some good comes of it.
-people wear special garments to identify themselves with the messengers of their deity, be it angels of the lord, or the new york giants...
-the congregation that is the united states of america gathers together, opening their hearts to the sermons of bill belichick and the gospel of budweiser.
i really think there is something to it.
so as i sit here at 10 pm on suberbowl sunday, sober in a quiet apartment, showered and blowdried for tomorrow's promotional video shoot, having enjoyed a fine (Kosher!) dinner at an israeli reastaurant with my father... i can't help but feel a little sacrilegious. like, the american version of if i had snuck a bagel and shmear intended for break fast, as a midnight snack after kol nidre.
at least i think it is, because my friend who is in washington heights just heard screaming in the background at the same time that i, in brooklyn, did.
we may be miles apart, but the superbowl is everywhere.
just like the shechina.
indeed, the superbowl is the yom kippur of sports, as i once heard a clearly psychotic yet seemingly wise man say.
and there's a lot to that comparison:
-people bathe (or don't bathe) ritualistically in preparation for the event.
-not unlike yom kippur, the superbowl has dietary restrictions--against anything that hasn't been deep fried, contain high fructose corn syrup, fake cheese powder or come in a can.
-people reflect over the past season, hoping to grow in their understanding and appreciation for both what has transpired and what is yet to come.
-the people who haven't reflected over the past season show up at the temple (read: sports bar) anyway to go through the motions anyway, feel like part of the herd and hope some good comes of it.
-people wear special garments to identify themselves with the messengers of their deity, be it angels of the lord, or the new york giants...
-the congregation that is the united states of america gathers together, opening their hearts to the sermons of bill belichick and the gospel of budweiser.
i really think there is something to it.
so as i sit here at 10 pm on suberbowl sunday, sober in a quiet apartment, showered and blowdried for tomorrow's promotional video shoot, having enjoyed a fine (Kosher!) dinner at an israeli reastaurant with my father... i can't help but feel a little sacrilegious. like, the american version of if i had snuck a bagel and shmear intended for break fast, as a midnight snack after kol nidre.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
new job
as of january 15th i'm the leasing director for an apartment complex in brooklyn.
while the property itself is no longer subsidized by the government (private ownership has moved through a few different hands over the years), we do accept subsidized housing governmental programs for elligible applicants.
now. today, i got an an email from someone about whether or not we accept section 8 housing--she is looking for an apartment. this email was sent from her BLACKBERRY.
blackberries cost at least 300$. to buy.
to operate them, costs at least 90$ a month.
i cannot afford a blackberry.
so pardon me if i find it a little frustrating that i am being asked for GOVERNEMENT SUBSIDIZED HOUSING on a property where I WORK 6 DAYS A WEEK that is being subsidized by MY TAX DOLLARS with a PHONE I CANNOT AFFORD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
while the property itself is no longer subsidized by the government (private ownership has moved through a few different hands over the years), we do accept subsidized housing governmental programs for elligible applicants.
now. today, i got an an email from someone about whether or not we accept section 8 housing--she is looking for an apartment. this email was sent from her BLACKBERRY.
blackberries cost at least 300$. to buy.
to operate them, costs at least 90$ a month.
i cannot afford a blackberry.
so pardon me if i find it a little frustrating that i am being asked for GOVERNEMENT SUBSIDIZED HOUSING on a property where I WORK 6 DAYS A WEEK that is being subsidized by MY TAX DOLLARS with a PHONE I CANNOT AFFORD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Monday, December 03, 2007
the circle of life, in 3 short hours
9am, Englewood New Jersey:
a dear friend gave birth to a baby boy last week, and this morning was his bris.
only one of our other friends from high school has become a mother, but we have been so removed (not in principle, just practically) because of her religious lifestyle that it didn't make much of an emotional impact.
this new mother, is still an integral part of my social and jewish life (as a matter of fact, i met my boyfriend at her house during a holiday last year). for the past nine months she carried herself and her unborn child around tall and gorgeous and proud, making pregnancy look like a stylish walk in the park while still welcoming all of us into her home for delicious dinner parties and shabbatot.
today was no exception. she looked as incredible as ever, happy as a clam and totally, utterly laid back. she is going to be a fantastic mother--the mom that is patient and understanding, cooks with the best of them, buys her kids the coolest clothes, keeps a warm, open, clean home, gives great advice, plays basketball, carpools everyone to where they need to be, works her ass off, and makes it all look easy.
her beautiful, healthy little peanut of a son is lucky to have her, and i feel lucky that i'm getting the chance to watch this family grow from the very beginning.
10am, West 4th street(transfer to the F train):
transferring from the A to the F at west 4th street, i run smack into the ex mentioned in thermopalyespace. needless to say, we have not been in touch.
we spoke for exactly one subway stop. i apologized for what had happened, saying that had i known sending an email asking after the wellbeing of him and his girlfriend would have provoked such a negative reaction, i never would have sent it. i thought i had made my intentions very clear.
he agreed with me, and in turn apologized for what i had dealt with. then, he started to tell me that although she can be very (get ready for the #1 euphamism in 2007) "fiery," she really does have a lot of wonderful qualities and...
that's where i cut him off. he's not responsible for her actions, and i'm the last person to whom he needs to justify his relationship.
he digests this for a moment, stands up, mutters something about bad luck and the walls having ears, shakes my hand and declares "im going to move away from you now." which is exactly what he did. he got up, walked to the other side of the subway car and sat down, keeping his head turned so far in the other direction i hope he didn't get a cramp.
while we were both sincere (i believe, i hope, though i can't speak for him) in the apologies that we didn't really have to make, i can't help but wonder what was going through his head... discretion? paranoia? nobility? desire? regret? nostalgia? buyers remorse?
regardless, reliving the past conflict and love issues were draining, and my heart was palpitating at work for another two hours.
11am, the office:
my mother calls me. we have not spoken in 5 years. i don't even know how she got my cell phone number.
apparently my grandfather passed away last night.
mind you, she didn't call to tell me that. rather, as my brother has stopped answering her calls (for reasons similar to why i stopped talking to her) she was looking for alternate contact information to let him know about grandaddy's death.
that was the extent of our conversation. i wasn't even invited to the funeral.
i don't feel sad--which isn't to say that i won't. but i feel guilty about not feeling sad, regardless or how estranged we were.
and there you have it. birth, love, conflict, resolution and death. all in one helluva monday morning.
whiskey anyone?
UPDATE
i went on an interview after work that went quite well. he didn't laugh at me when i said that i wouldn't work for less than double what i'm currently making, and put my contact information in his blackberry. i take these as good signs.
and, i passed my real estate exam.
a dear friend gave birth to a baby boy last week, and this morning was his bris.
only one of our other friends from high school has become a mother, but we have been so removed (not in principle, just practically) because of her religious lifestyle that it didn't make much of an emotional impact.
this new mother, is still an integral part of my social and jewish life (as a matter of fact, i met my boyfriend at her house during a holiday last year). for the past nine months she carried herself and her unborn child around tall and gorgeous and proud, making pregnancy look like a stylish walk in the park while still welcoming all of us into her home for delicious dinner parties and shabbatot.
today was no exception. she looked as incredible as ever, happy as a clam and totally, utterly laid back. she is going to be a fantastic mother--the mom that is patient and understanding, cooks with the best of them, buys her kids the coolest clothes, keeps a warm, open, clean home, gives great advice, plays basketball, carpools everyone to where they need to be, works her ass off, and makes it all look easy.
her beautiful, healthy little peanut of a son is lucky to have her, and i feel lucky that i'm getting the chance to watch this family grow from the very beginning.
10am, West 4th street(transfer to the F train):
transferring from the A to the F at west 4th street, i run smack into the ex mentioned in thermopalyespace. needless to say, we have not been in touch.
we spoke for exactly one subway stop. i apologized for what had happened, saying that had i known sending an email asking after the wellbeing of him and his girlfriend would have provoked such a negative reaction, i never would have sent it. i thought i had made my intentions very clear.
he agreed with me, and in turn apologized for what i had dealt with. then, he started to tell me that although she can be very (get ready for the #1 euphamism in 2007) "fiery," she really does have a lot of wonderful qualities and...
that's where i cut him off. he's not responsible for her actions, and i'm the last person to whom he needs to justify his relationship.
he digests this for a moment, stands up, mutters something about bad luck and the walls having ears, shakes my hand and declares "im going to move away from you now." which is exactly what he did. he got up, walked to the other side of the subway car and sat down, keeping his head turned so far in the other direction i hope he didn't get a cramp.
while we were both sincere (i believe, i hope, though i can't speak for him) in the apologies that we didn't really have to make, i can't help but wonder what was going through his head... discretion? paranoia? nobility? desire? regret? nostalgia? buyers remorse?
regardless, reliving the past conflict and love issues were draining, and my heart was palpitating at work for another two hours.
11am, the office:
my mother calls me. we have not spoken in 5 years. i don't even know how she got my cell phone number.
apparently my grandfather passed away last night.
mind you, she didn't call to tell me that. rather, as my brother has stopped answering her calls (for reasons similar to why i stopped talking to her) she was looking for alternate contact information to let him know about grandaddy's death.
that was the extent of our conversation. i wasn't even invited to the funeral.
i don't feel sad--which isn't to say that i won't. but i feel guilty about not feeling sad, regardless or how estranged we were.
and there you have it. birth, love, conflict, resolution and death. all in one helluva monday morning.
whiskey anyone?
UPDATE
i went on an interview after work that went quite well. he didn't laugh at me when i said that i wouldn't work for less than double what i'm currently making, and put my contact information in his blackberry. i take these as good signs.
and, i passed my real estate exam.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
RIP jew horn
for the past 10 years, i've had a fatty cyst on the top of my head that those in the know have endearingly referred to as "the jew horn." i only had one, because i'm only half jewish.
(compounding ironic digressions:
-i was once asked by one of my texan cousins where i was hiding my horns, as i was a jew.
-fatty cysts run in the goyishe, texan side of the mishpucha)
throughout the years, i've asked various doctors if they want to poke, test or remove the jew horn--but the response has always been that unless it grows bigger or starts to bother me, it would be unnecessary.
2 weeks ago, it started hurting so i decided it was time to say goodbye.
monday was that day.
dr. avram (chosen for his chosenness and close proximity to work) and his lovely, sweet assistant magda, explained that they would sit me down, numb the area, cut me open, pop it out and sew me back up. the entire excision should take no longer than 20 minutes and i wouldn't feel a thing after the initial anesthetic.
and thus, my jew horn was removed. truly a sad day for protocols of the elders of zion enthusiasts everywhere.
now, they said that there might be some oozing, and i was given gauze pads.
they said that there might be some complications, should i shampoo and not rinse thoroughly enough.
they said i should wait a few days to blow dry my hair.
they said that there might be some slight discomfort, in which case i should take tylenol, not advil.
they DID NOT say that when the anesthesia wore off, my head would feel there was a searing hot machete in the middle of it-and accordingly, no, i was not given any kind of sufficient pain relief medication.
fuckers.
anyway. i get back to work, cannot think straight, chow down on extra strength tylenol (hardcore, right?) and miserably suffer through the rest of the day, wanting nothing more than to be at home, listening to bebe gilberto in my bed with the lights off.
but of course, this was not meant to be.
my amazing and very talented friend shanna (myspace.com/shannazell) was playing a show that, for both personal and professional reasons, was a big deal to her. big enough that i was not going to dissapoint, no matter how sorry i was feeling for myself.
so, i prepared myself mentally and physically. (for the record, marijuana is a much more effective pain reducer than tylenol.) and off i went.
on the train ride over, i started thinking about how i would explain my reticent disposition. people expect borderline annoying boisterousness from me, and i couldn't see straight... explaining the whole cyst issue and back history is aggravating and decidedly unsexy:
yes, i know it's disgusting
no, it didn't hurt forever, only for the past two week
no, i don't have cancer
yes, they're going to biopsy it
yes, i did get stitches
no, i didn't go under general anesthesia
no, i didn't get pain killers
yes, i will have a scar
no, you can't look at it...
the cover story was that i was bitten in the head by a baby albino tiger while taking my niece to the petting zoo. to make sure that further interrogation was avoided, i would add definitively that i was insisting on having the beast put to sleep.
mind you, throughout the night people actually believed this bullshit. i didn't know whether to be more upset that people thought i was evil enough to have a baby tiger killed, or concerned that people were so dumb that they bought the story...
i mean come on, tigers at the petting zoo!??!
anyway, on with the evening...
upon arrival at rockwood music hall, i offer shanna whatever help i can give her and she graciously declines. i sit at the bar to order a seltzer water (it was time for tylenol dose number 2), the bartender looks at me and asks if i had purchased my jacket at beacons closet recently.
"why yes," i respond. "how did you know?"
apparently, she had purchased it on ebay, it didn't fit her right, she sold it to beacons closet on friday and i purchased it the next afternoon for a mere 300% mark up. (sounds like a lot, but fret not. i got it for 18 bucks)
of all the thrift stores, and all the days, and all the jackets, and all the bartenders in new york city, i bought this girls jacket. what are the odds?!?
so anyway, as i sit there, chatting with the very stylish and charming bartender, shanna walks over with the action figure of the wannabe british invasion hipster. he's tall and handsome, with perfectly messy hair that probably had 15$ worth of bumble and bumble styling products in it, and is wearing a military inspired jacket and skinny jeans. (very original)
he introduces himself as 'jerry cherry'. i extend my hand, please to meet this lovely, unique, young fellow and introduce myself as nora bora. the explora.
well, that conversation did not go much further.
needless to say, shanna put on an excellent show despite her guitar having broken that afternoon--and i didn't want to die! (well maybe a little bit, when there was feedback.)
now, you must be thinking:
"you are the great dame for a reason. what a trooper, what a sport... going to a show to support a friend the day you get minor surgery. you pulled through and now you get to go home to enjoy the rest of your evening peacefully."
but you'd only be partially right.
monday was the birthday of kennedy. also known as princess drennedy mellifluous the first.
for those of you who do not have the pleasure of knowing this chocolate goddess of a crazy woman, from the aforementioned title you be able to infer that there was no backing out of that either.
long story short, we had a FANTASTIC dinner at counter-hummous royale with veggie merguez, cheese, paella, vegetables, the works... we finish up with a celebratory hazelnut ice creame-esque concotion for desert-with a rendition of happy birthday that had the entire restaurant applauding. and yes, we kept our clothes on.
as we pile back out onto the sidewalk to go our separate ways, i declare my cash poorness and start for the subway. turner, god bless her soul, shoves a 20 in my hand and hails a cab for me, insisting that when anything is cut out of your head you shouldn't have to take the subway home. what a gal.
so i get in a cab heading north on first avenue, settle in and ask the driver to take me to brooklyn by way of bowery and the manhattan bridge. he turns left on 7th street and as we approach 2nd ave i hear the blinker go back on... i ask if theres a problem with 3rd ave or if we can just take bower as i requested-not an unreasonable request, or so i thought.
he turns left onto second avenue anyway and says "maybe it's better if you take another cab."
and now i can say that i've been kicked out of a cab, which had never happened before despite any number of improprieties and illegalities...
so i get out, hail another one, go home, dress my wound and go to sleep.
thankfully, upon waking up yesterday, my head hurt significantly less.
today i was even able to shampoo!
(compounding ironic digressions:
-i was once asked by one of my texan cousins where i was hiding my horns, as i was a jew.
-fatty cysts run in the goyishe, texan side of the mishpucha)
throughout the years, i've asked various doctors if they want to poke, test or remove the jew horn--but the response has always been that unless it grows bigger or starts to bother me, it would be unnecessary.
2 weeks ago, it started hurting so i decided it was time to say goodbye.
monday was that day.
dr. avram (chosen for his chosenness and close proximity to work) and his lovely, sweet assistant magda, explained that they would sit me down, numb the area, cut me open, pop it out and sew me back up. the entire excision should take no longer than 20 minutes and i wouldn't feel a thing after the initial anesthetic.
and thus, my jew horn was removed. truly a sad day for protocols of the elders of zion enthusiasts everywhere.
now, they said that there might be some oozing, and i was given gauze pads.
they said that there might be some complications, should i shampoo and not rinse thoroughly enough.
they said i should wait a few days to blow dry my hair.
they said that there might be some slight discomfort, in which case i should take tylenol, not advil.
they DID NOT say that when the anesthesia wore off, my head would feel there was a searing hot machete in the middle of it-and accordingly, no, i was not given any kind of sufficient pain relief medication.
fuckers.
anyway. i get back to work, cannot think straight, chow down on extra strength tylenol (hardcore, right?) and miserably suffer through the rest of the day, wanting nothing more than to be at home, listening to bebe gilberto in my bed with the lights off.
but of course, this was not meant to be.
my amazing and very talented friend shanna (myspace.com/shannazell) was playing a show that, for both personal and professional reasons, was a big deal to her. big enough that i was not going to dissapoint, no matter how sorry i was feeling for myself.
so, i prepared myself mentally and physically. (for the record, marijuana is a much more effective pain reducer than tylenol.) and off i went.
on the train ride over, i started thinking about how i would explain my reticent disposition. people expect borderline annoying boisterousness from me, and i couldn't see straight... explaining the whole cyst issue and back history is aggravating and decidedly unsexy:
yes, i know it's disgusting
no, it didn't hurt forever, only for the past two week
no, i don't have cancer
yes, they're going to biopsy it
yes, i did get stitches
no, i didn't go under general anesthesia
no, i didn't get pain killers
yes, i will have a scar
no, you can't look at it...
the cover story was that i was bitten in the head by a baby albino tiger while taking my niece to the petting zoo. to make sure that further interrogation was avoided, i would add definitively that i was insisting on having the beast put to sleep.
mind you, throughout the night people actually believed this bullshit. i didn't know whether to be more upset that people thought i was evil enough to have a baby tiger killed, or concerned that people were so dumb that they bought the story...
i mean come on, tigers at the petting zoo!??!
anyway, on with the evening...
upon arrival at rockwood music hall, i offer shanna whatever help i can give her and she graciously declines. i sit at the bar to order a seltzer water (it was time for tylenol dose number 2), the bartender looks at me and asks if i had purchased my jacket at beacons closet recently.
"why yes," i respond. "how did you know?"
apparently, she had purchased it on ebay, it didn't fit her right, she sold it to beacons closet on friday and i purchased it the next afternoon for a mere 300% mark up. (sounds like a lot, but fret not. i got it for 18 bucks)
of all the thrift stores, and all the days, and all the jackets, and all the bartenders in new york city, i bought this girls jacket. what are the odds?!?
so anyway, as i sit there, chatting with the very stylish and charming bartender, shanna walks over with the action figure of the wannabe british invasion hipster. he's tall and handsome, with perfectly messy hair that probably had 15$ worth of bumble and bumble styling products in it, and is wearing a military inspired jacket and skinny jeans. (very original)
he introduces himself as 'jerry cherry'. i extend my hand, please to meet this lovely, unique, young fellow and introduce myself as nora bora. the explora.
well, that conversation did not go much further.
needless to say, shanna put on an excellent show despite her guitar having broken that afternoon--and i didn't want to die! (well maybe a little bit, when there was feedback.)
now, you must be thinking:
"you are the great dame for a reason. what a trooper, what a sport... going to a show to support a friend the day you get minor surgery. you pulled through and now you get to go home to enjoy the rest of your evening peacefully."
but you'd only be partially right.
monday was the birthday of kennedy. also known as princess drennedy mellifluous the first.
for those of you who do not have the pleasure of knowing this chocolate goddess of a crazy woman, from the aforementioned title you be able to infer that there was no backing out of that either.
long story short, we had a FANTASTIC dinner at counter-hummous royale with veggie merguez, cheese, paella, vegetables, the works... we finish up with a celebratory hazelnut ice creame-esque concotion for desert-with a rendition of happy birthday that had the entire restaurant applauding. and yes, we kept our clothes on.
as we pile back out onto the sidewalk to go our separate ways, i declare my cash poorness and start for the subway. turner, god bless her soul, shoves a 20 in my hand and hails a cab for me, insisting that when anything is cut out of your head you shouldn't have to take the subway home. what a gal.
so i get in a cab heading north on first avenue, settle in and ask the driver to take me to brooklyn by way of bowery and the manhattan bridge. he turns left on 7th street and as we approach 2nd ave i hear the blinker go back on... i ask if theres a problem with 3rd ave or if we can just take bower as i requested-not an unreasonable request, or so i thought.
he turns left onto second avenue anyway and says "maybe it's better if you take another cab."
and now i can say that i've been kicked out of a cab, which had never happened before despite any number of improprieties and illegalities...
so i get out, hail another one, go home, dress my wound and go to sleep.
thankfully, upon waking up yesterday, my head hurt significantly less.
today i was even able to shampoo!
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