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!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
PS
i have a collection of stuff that has accumulated at work.
looking in my closet, i noticed that my rain boots are part of this collection.
i could have had dry feet on wednesday night, but i'm a dumbass.
looking in my closet, i noticed that my rain boots are part of this collection.
i could have had dry feet on wednesday night, but i'm a dumbass.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
rainballs in my eyedrops
last night was good. last night was real good.
the boy came to pick me up from work, which is always appreciated. we were planning on going to park slope to run some errands and have dinner, but with the torrential downpour occurring, we opted out. it took us 20 minutes to walk the two blocks to the train station, because we kept stopping for respite wherever we found a suitable ledge or accessible lobby, it was that bad.
we finally make it into the train station, and i take stock.
soggy sneakers? check.
bad hair that is wet and frizzy, but not wet enough to look good in any way? check.
soaking wet bottom half of dress? check.
walking down the platform, i noticed a huge waterfall landing right on the track, and couldn't help but wonder if god was getting electrocuted while pissing on the third rail.
by the time we got out of the subway at 8th street, the rain had died down. of course we got caught in the only 15 minutes of diluvian shit storm... we somehow ended up getting dinner at dojo. nostalgic for our thankfully non-existent days as nyu students, i suppose. but it was cheap and yummy.
dinner is done, and we head to the upper west side for the crowning jewel of our evening. tickets for harry potter were purchased weeks ago, and we wanted to be there early to get good seats. (harry potter is a big deal in my life. and what?) so we showed up at 8pm for a 9:30 movie. a little ridiculous, perhaps, but we had the best seats in the house.
the friend that we had come with spotted someone she knew and called her over. the girl ends up sitting right behind us as she exclaims "oh my gosh, how ironic"! not even alanis morisette defines ironic that incorrectly. she later went on to say that she's subletting a place on 99th and west end, do we think she'd be ok walking home on her own... i wanted to punch her in the face so badly.
so, i'm not going to ruin anything for you, but the movie is amazing. like, really really really good. incredible casting, funny dialogue, heartfelt emotional moments... the plot is boiling up... it's getting really exciting....
and the screen goes black. half an hour before the thing is over.
the audio isn't turned off for 10 minutes. finally, the lights go back on and it gets quiet again. lights off. lights on? lights off? it goes back and forth for a few minutes while the crowd is practically rioting.
princess behind me wants to know what exactly is the problem. i turn around and respond that if anyone knew what the problem was, it would most likely be dealt with.
she shuts up.
eventually, the manager comes to the front of the theater and tells the crowd that they will all be given free movie passes, as the problem is not rectifiable. angry hordes start streaming out of the theatre, muttering about how poorly this was handled, complaining about the incompetence of the management etc... even my boyfriend says he never wants to come back to the theater.
hold up a second. how often do reels break? if they do, is it possibly to resynch the film with the sound? i certainly don't know the mechanics of what actually happened, and what could have been possible...
plus, do you have any idea the brass balls it takes to get up in front a room full angry, pushy upper west side, lox fressing, jewish wizard wannabe's and tell them that they are not going to see the end of the harry potter on opening night? give the poor guy a break! some camel jockey comes to america, works as a cashier in duane read for 9 years, gets new job at the movie theater shoveling popcorn for a while and finally gets his big break promotion to manager-and you expect him to be some kind of customer service expert?
so of course i was dissapointed. and am DYING to see the end of the movie, but so it goes.
we walk from 84th to 100th street and decide to take a bus the rest of the way uptown. at THE VERY NEXT STOP there's a dude in the wheelchair waiting to get on. of course. now, it's not like i have anything against the handicapped. it sucks enough for them already. but the process takes a while, when they need to get on the bus, and that is annoying.
the busdriver comes back, opens the back wheelchair lift for the guy to get on... the next thing i hear is a woman across from me as she shouts 'oh my god, he fell out'!
the guy TOTALLY fell backwards on his head.
of course i was horrified, but if i had seen it on youtube, i probably would have laughed my ass off. does that make me a bad person?
the bus driver stands there, with a look on his face that could only be described as apathy mixed with a hint of 'i was almost done and this drunk crippled fucker has to ruin my night'. which is kind of terrifying, when you think about how many lives this guy is responsible for on a daily basis.
so we get off the bus, and decide to walk the rest of the way.
what more could possible happen in the next 15 blocks, i wonder?
and of course at 122 and broadway there was a three care pile up.
*insert twilight zone music here*
the boy came to pick me up from work, which is always appreciated. we were planning on going to park slope to run some errands and have dinner, but with the torrential downpour occurring, we opted out. it took us 20 minutes to walk the two blocks to the train station, because we kept stopping for respite wherever we found a suitable ledge or accessible lobby, it was that bad.
we finally make it into the train station, and i take stock.
soggy sneakers? check.
bad hair that is wet and frizzy, but not wet enough to look good in any way? check.
soaking wet bottom half of dress? check.
walking down the platform, i noticed a huge waterfall landing right on the track, and couldn't help but wonder if god was getting electrocuted while pissing on the third rail.
by the time we got out of the subway at 8th street, the rain had died down. of course we got caught in the only 15 minutes of diluvian shit storm... we somehow ended up getting dinner at dojo. nostalgic for our thankfully non-existent days as nyu students, i suppose. but it was cheap and yummy.
dinner is done, and we head to the upper west side for the crowning jewel of our evening. tickets for harry potter were purchased weeks ago, and we wanted to be there early to get good seats. (harry potter is a big deal in my life. and what?) so we showed up at 8pm for a 9:30 movie. a little ridiculous, perhaps, but we had the best seats in the house.
the friend that we had come with spotted someone she knew and called her over. the girl ends up sitting right behind us as she exclaims "oh my gosh, how ironic"! not even alanis morisette defines ironic that incorrectly. she later went on to say that she's subletting a place on 99th and west end, do we think she'd be ok walking home on her own... i wanted to punch her in the face so badly.
so, i'm not going to ruin anything for you, but the movie is amazing. like, really really really good. incredible casting, funny dialogue, heartfelt emotional moments... the plot is boiling up... it's getting really exciting....
and the screen goes black. half an hour before the thing is over.
the audio isn't turned off for 10 minutes. finally, the lights go back on and it gets quiet again. lights off. lights on? lights off? it goes back and forth for a few minutes while the crowd is practically rioting.
princess behind me wants to know what exactly is the problem. i turn around and respond that if anyone knew what the problem was, it would most likely be dealt with.
she shuts up.
eventually, the manager comes to the front of the theater and tells the crowd that they will all be given free movie passes, as the problem is not rectifiable. angry hordes start streaming out of the theatre, muttering about how poorly this was handled, complaining about the incompetence of the management etc... even my boyfriend says he never wants to come back to the theater.
hold up a second. how often do reels break? if they do, is it possibly to resynch the film with the sound? i certainly don't know the mechanics of what actually happened, and what could have been possible...
plus, do you have any idea the brass balls it takes to get up in front a room full angry, pushy upper west side, lox fressing, jewish wizard wannabe's and tell them that they are not going to see the end of the harry potter on opening night? give the poor guy a break! some camel jockey comes to america, works as a cashier in duane read for 9 years, gets new job at the movie theater shoveling popcorn for a while and finally gets his big break promotion to manager-and you expect him to be some kind of customer service expert?
so of course i was dissapointed. and am DYING to see the end of the movie, but so it goes.
we walk from 84th to 100th street and decide to take a bus the rest of the way uptown. at THE VERY NEXT STOP there's a dude in the wheelchair waiting to get on. of course. now, it's not like i have anything against the handicapped. it sucks enough for them already. but the process takes a while, when they need to get on the bus, and that is annoying.
the busdriver comes back, opens the back wheelchair lift for the guy to get on... the next thing i hear is a woman across from me as she shouts 'oh my god, he fell out'!
the guy TOTALLY fell backwards on his head.
of course i was horrified, but if i had seen it on youtube, i probably would have laughed my ass off. does that make me a bad person?
the bus driver stands there, with a look on his face that could only be described as apathy mixed with a hint of 'i was almost done and this drunk crippled fucker has to ruin my night'. which is kind of terrifying, when you think about how many lives this guy is responsible for on a daily basis.
so we get off the bus, and decide to walk the rest of the way.
what more could possible happen in the next 15 blocks, i wonder?
and of course at 122 and broadway there was a three care pile up.
*insert twilight zone music here*
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
welcome back, we'll miss you
an old friend of mine was in israel for the past year and a half.
next month he is leaving again to start law school.
last night we had a barbeque in his honor.
now anyone that you marginally care about who returns home after being away for so long deserves a welcome back hoo-ha of some sort. but this isn't just any friend.
this is the guy who can compliment you on your make up and garnish a salad beautifully without losing his masculinity.
this is the guy who in high school rolled everyone's joints. even though (at the time) he didn't smoke, he still did it better than the rest of us.
this is the guy who would pick us up in his jeep when we were homebound during snowstorms to joyride in the supermarket parking lot snow moguls...
this is the guy who devised his own LSAT tutorial system and helped israeli kids ace the exam, while taking care of his grandmother who was ill.
frankly put, this friend is absolutely the man. and he has been dearly missed.
i volunteered to make kefta, a delicious middle eastern kebab, which i generally do pretty well. since i was working all day, and schlepping via public transport to northern new jersey from brooklyn, the hostess graciously agreed to pick up my grocery needs. so i sent her a shopping list.
when i arrived in new jersey, i realized that the gracious hostess had confused parsley with scallions. (for those of you who are, or ever become familiar with my friend panda, this makes an abundance of sense.) so i threw in some extra mint and sumac and hoped for the best. not my favorite batch, but still tasty.
it's always great to have a bunch of friends together, and despite the heat and humidity, last night no exception. we joked, ate, listened to music, caught up... one friend told me the best piece of news i've heard in a while, but it's still under wraps, so you'll have to be patient with that one.
getting back to the heat and humidity-i do not personally know anyone who enjoys this combination. but you know who loves heat and humidity? mosquitoes.
you know what else mosquitoes love? me.
that's right. i don't know if it's a pheromone, blood, genetics or bad luck thing, but those suckers go after me as if i were the last red blooded bitch on the planet.
seriously. i'm like a one-woman bug zapper, you WANT to go camping with me. literally, i once woke up covered in mosquito bites. no one else in my tent had even been touched. there are approximately 3 mosquitoes in all of orange country california, but when i went last summer, they had all bitten me.
in any other analogous situation i would be flattered, but it really just gets itchy.
moving right along.
it hit at around 9:30 with the vegan cheesecake and vodka soaked watermelon. the fireflies had come and gone. my feet and arms started getting it first. then my face. and then, those little fuckers started going for my ass, like it was a pin cushion.
there was no off to be sprayed, and the citronella torches were most definitely not doing the trick.
so i'm sitting there looking like a maniac, swatting all over the place, uncomfortable and paranoid. i ended up going inside and making my boyfriend scratch my butt. ladylike, huh.
today, my tooshie is still itchy. and as well all know, the only thing that compliments a posterior better than cellulite is bug bites.
but, with only a few weeks before the academic season begins, it was well worth it.
welcome back, ori, we'll miss you.
next month he is leaving again to start law school.
last night we had a barbeque in his honor.
now anyone that you marginally care about who returns home after being away for so long deserves a welcome back hoo-ha of some sort. but this isn't just any friend.
this is the guy who can compliment you on your make up and garnish a salad beautifully without losing his masculinity.
this is the guy who in high school rolled everyone's joints. even though (at the time) he didn't smoke, he still did it better than the rest of us.
this is the guy who would pick us up in his jeep when we were homebound during snowstorms to joyride in the supermarket parking lot snow moguls...
this is the guy who devised his own LSAT tutorial system and helped israeli kids ace the exam, while taking care of his grandmother who was ill.
frankly put, this friend is absolutely the man. and he has been dearly missed.
i volunteered to make kefta, a delicious middle eastern kebab, which i generally do pretty well. since i was working all day, and schlepping via public transport to northern new jersey from brooklyn, the hostess graciously agreed to pick up my grocery needs. so i sent her a shopping list.
when i arrived in new jersey, i realized that the gracious hostess had confused parsley with scallions. (for those of you who are, or ever become familiar with my friend panda, this makes an abundance of sense.) so i threw in some extra mint and sumac and hoped for the best. not my favorite batch, but still tasty.
it's always great to have a bunch of friends together, and despite the heat and humidity, last night no exception. we joked, ate, listened to music, caught up... one friend told me the best piece of news i've heard in a while, but it's still under wraps, so you'll have to be patient with that one.
getting back to the heat and humidity-i do not personally know anyone who enjoys this combination. but you know who loves heat and humidity? mosquitoes.
you know what else mosquitoes love? me.
that's right. i don't know if it's a pheromone, blood, genetics or bad luck thing, but those suckers go after me as if i were the last red blooded bitch on the planet.
seriously. i'm like a one-woman bug zapper, you WANT to go camping with me. literally, i once woke up covered in mosquito bites. no one else in my tent had even been touched. there are approximately 3 mosquitoes in all of orange country california, but when i went last summer, they had all bitten me.
in any other analogous situation i would be flattered, but it really just gets itchy.
moving right along.
it hit at around 9:30 with the vegan cheesecake and vodka soaked watermelon. the fireflies had come and gone. my feet and arms started getting it first. then my face. and then, those little fuckers started going for my ass, like it was a pin cushion.
there was no off to be sprayed, and the citronella torches were most definitely not doing the trick.
so i'm sitting there looking like a maniac, swatting all over the place, uncomfortable and paranoid. i ended up going inside and making my boyfriend scratch my butt. ladylike, huh.
today, my tooshie is still itchy. and as well all know, the only thing that compliments a posterior better than cellulite is bug bites.
but, with only a few weeks before the academic season begins, it was well worth it.
welcome back, ori, we'll miss you.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
i need caffeine
i'm feeling rather uninspired and instead of workinghave been focusing my "energies" elsewhere...
ebay is great, you can find almost anything. i won a lovely, white dress last night. granted, i almost prematurely ended my friendship with shanna because i was yelling at her to "refresh!" compulsively.
whereas i generally use ebay to find cute vintage dresses, now that i no longer have the time or energy for store perusal the way i did in my pre-day job existence, i've recently started looking for other fun things such as G1 optimus prime transformers and turbans. today's personal favorite was this-
www.instructables.com teaches you how to do things.
carbonated fruit is pretty amazing, but the "not liable" section is most definitely my favorite.
www.jacksonpollock.org
i'm a genius
ebay is great, you can find almost anything. i won a lovely, white dress last night. granted, i almost prematurely ended my friendship with shanna because i was yelling at her to "refresh!" compulsively.
whereas i generally use ebay to find cute vintage dresses, now that i no longer have the time or energy for store perusal the way i did in my pre-day job existence, i've recently started looking for other fun things such as G1 optimus prime transformers and turbans. today's personal favorite was this-
www.instructables.com teaches you how to do things.
carbonated fruit is pretty amazing, but the "not liable" section is most definitely my favorite.
www.jacksonpollock.org
i'm a genius
Monday, July 09, 2007
very superstitious
we all have our ups and downs with any kind of spirituality, and recently i've been in one of my less observant phases--i haven't been to synagogue or prayed in a long time, and i've been missing chicken parmesan more than ever...
the bottom line is that of late, i've been increasingly disenchanted with judaism as anything more than a culture...
and finally, god punished me.
for going to a yankees game on shabbat, of all things.
until saturday, every yankees game i had been to was victorious.
whether steinbrenner or alex rodriguez (sigh) knew it or not, i had become the yankees' good luck charm.
but alas, on saturday the yankees lost to the los angeles angels, (which roughly translates to 'the angels angels'. lame.) in the 13th inning due to three fielding errors in one play.
of course this is not the worst of it.
previously, when going to games, i would see other people returning to their seats with large containers of salty, melty, delicious looking cheese fries. although i was always interested in getting some, i opted out as the kosher hot dog and beer stands were closer and had shorter lines.
however, on the 7th day, the day of rest there were no kosher hot dogs to be had.
so i went to get cheesefries.
at yankee stadium, the cheesefries come in two sizes, large (which is actually not that large at all) and jumbo (which true to it's name, is probably a few fries short of a half gallon).
when you wait 20 minutes on an 8 person deep line for fast food that is already prepared, you understand the tipping system. Had these people been working for 15%-20% of their sales, they would have been hauling ass to bang out those bud lights and quarter pounders.
instead, the only thing i saw done with any relish (no pun intended)or efficiency was the licking and sucking of nacho cheese off of the plastic food handlers gloves. which begs two questions: 1) why bother with the gloves if you're going to stick them in your disgusting mouth 2) what on earth was i thinking proceeding with this "food"?
anyway, my friend and i finally reach the front of the line and obtain our artery clogging goodness. we block the disturbing image of glove licking out of our minds and returned to our seats.
the first bite was delicious. so was the second. by the third i was questioning my judgment, and halfway through my stomach was feeling funny.
by the time my man and i (DON'T JUDGE ME) had finished our bucket of cheese fries, we were fantasizing about roman vomitoria, hallucinating about heart attacks and just plain uncomfortable. to say the least. and this was only the 5th inning...
by the 8th inning i thought world war three was beginning in my belly. my stomach was making noises i had never heard before, and all i really wanted was to be in close proximity to a private, civilized water closet.
and then there were 5 more innings!
so now you understand. it's not just that the yankees lost (mind you, they KILLED it the next day), but i had to sit through 8 innings of nothing, on a hot, humid day, with trans fat seeping out of my eyeballs and cheese fries turtling like a motherfucker.
all because i went to a yankees game on shabbat.
very funny, god.
the bottom line is that of late, i've been increasingly disenchanted with judaism as anything more than a culture...
and finally, god punished me.
for going to a yankees game on shabbat, of all things.
until saturday, every yankees game i had been to was victorious.
whether steinbrenner or alex rodriguez (sigh) knew it or not, i had become the yankees' good luck charm.
but alas, on saturday the yankees lost to the los angeles angels, (which roughly translates to 'the angels angels'. lame.) in the 13th inning due to three fielding errors in one play.
of course this is not the worst of it.
previously, when going to games, i would see other people returning to their seats with large containers of salty, melty, delicious looking cheese fries. although i was always interested in getting some, i opted out as the kosher hot dog and beer stands were closer and had shorter lines.
however, on the 7th day, the day of rest there were no kosher hot dogs to be had.
so i went to get cheesefries.
at yankee stadium, the cheesefries come in two sizes, large (which is actually not that large at all) and jumbo (which true to it's name, is probably a few fries short of a half gallon).
when you wait 20 minutes on an 8 person deep line for fast food that is already prepared, you understand the tipping system. Had these people been working for 15%-20% of their sales, they would have been hauling ass to bang out those bud lights and quarter pounders.
instead, the only thing i saw done with any relish (no pun intended)or efficiency was the licking and sucking of nacho cheese off of the plastic food handlers gloves. which begs two questions: 1) why bother with the gloves if you're going to stick them in your disgusting mouth 2) what on earth was i thinking proceeding with this "food"?
anyway, my friend and i finally reach the front of the line and obtain our artery clogging goodness. we block the disturbing image of glove licking out of our minds and returned to our seats.
the first bite was delicious. so was the second. by the third i was questioning my judgment, and halfway through my stomach was feeling funny.
by the time my man and i (DON'T JUDGE ME) had finished our bucket of cheese fries, we were fantasizing about roman vomitoria, hallucinating about heart attacks and just plain uncomfortable. to say the least. and this was only the 5th inning...
by the 8th inning i thought world war three was beginning in my belly. my stomach was making noises i had never heard before, and all i really wanted was to be in close proximity to a private, civilized water closet.
and then there were 5 more innings!
so now you understand. it's not just that the yankees lost (mind you, they KILLED it the next day), but i had to sit through 8 innings of nothing, on a hot, humid day, with trans fat seeping out of my eyeballs and cheese fries turtling like a motherfucker.
all because i went to a yankees game on shabbat.
very funny, god.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Irresponsible Drinking
My first hangover was one of the least glorious days of my life.
I woke up on a Sunday morning after an Orthodox Jewish weekend retreat for teenagers (haha), in the front seat of a friend's car, smelling of puke (possibly urine?), wearing one shoe, and having no recollection of how I got there.
In brief, my friend proceeds to tell me how I had passed out the previous night after accidentally drinking the majority of what I thought was a water bottle. By that point, I was already so far gone, I couldn't tell that what I was drinking was more "Poland" than "Spring." I was carried in and out of houses, had fingers shoved down my throat (by my crush at the time--mortifying!), and had been somehow fed a muffin in efforts to keep me from dying.
I show up at home, petrified of what awaits me. I should have been back the night before, didn't call to say I'd be late, am wearing one white tennis sneaker and one black sock, have alcohol seeping out of my pores, and am feeling so ill that I no longer want to be alive.
Dad opens up the door, notices nothing unusual as I spin some tale about how there was an optional extension to the retreat, and tells me that I have an hour to get ready...
Get ready for what, you might be wondering, as I was for a brief moment...
Until I remembered that my cousin was having a first birthday party for her oldest son. My entire extended family would be there (the first great grandchild! Kenaiyna Hora!), and I was puking my brains out.
To this day I don't know how I made it through that party without my cover getting blown. I was practically wearing a flashing neon "HUNGOVER" banner on my chest.
I guess my family couldn't imagine that their darling 15 year old national finalist bible scholar cousin/niece/granddaughter was getting shit faced at Russian open houses in Manhattan Beach...
***********************************
Over the years, the nature of my hangovers changed. For a while, no matter how persistent I was, I would not get hung over. This may have had something to do with my being perpetually drunk, but I digress.
Time inevitably caught up with me. Hangovers are now full day, complete incapacitation ordeals in which I can hold down nothing-no greasy breakfast, no alka seltzer, no ginger ale... not even water--until about 7 pm. The only things that help are time, sleep and the occasional bong hit.
It's brutal, it's long and I know I deserve it-which certainly does not help.
***********************************
My last hangover was the result of an open bar fund raiser that I went to with my friends from work. I don't know if job related stress was the root of our binge, or the combination of all our personalities lead to consumption greater than the sum of its parts... but boy oh boy, did we get saucy. To the point that I'm uncomfortable disclosing some of the events.
But to sum it up in one detail, we ended up at some hellacious club called Butter.
And yes, I know how many things are wrong with that.
The next morning, I wake up naked and alone in a room that I've never seen before. Apparently I knew that had I gone home, I would not have made it to work the next day, so my coworker invited me to stay at her place.
Still drunk, we both puke, brush our teeth and get on the train, clutching our heads in discomfort and shame.
Upon arrival, it was immediately apparent that I could not stay at work. I could barely talk to people, every 5 minutes I had to run to the bathroom, I reeked of cigarettes and booze... It was a bad scene.
That week in my office there had been a meeting the theme of which had been "honesty is the best policy." So I called my boss, told him the situation and asked if I could go home. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," was his response.
I'd have to stay the whole day.
(So much for rewarding honesty. Next time I'm calling in with a stomach virus.)
So of course, it gets better. Or worse, depending on your love of tragicomedy.
In my position, interaction with buyers is primarily over the phone. Most of the people I work with will never even know what I look like. But that day, I had volunteered to take someone on a final walk through inspection of their unit.
I had completely forgotten until the concierge called me to say that the buyer was on his way up.
I went to the bathroom, puked again, splashed some cold water on my face, sucked it in, smiled, and walked out to greet him.
We go down to his apartment, and they're redoing the floors in the unit directly across the hall from his. These fumes are unbearable under normal circumstances, and my circumstance is far from normal. The plumbers working on his apartment had been smoking in the bathroom, so the whole back of the apartment smells like an ashtray.
The gods were against me.
I knew it would be a challenge, but I was going to make it through this walk through without tossing my cookies. Again.
So this guy is taking pictures, shmoozing me, getting phone calls, being real thorough... We're talking white glove, fine tooth comb inspection here.
But I'm being a trooper. I'll make it back to the office.
Finally, we're done. I lock up the apartment, walk back down the hall, press the elevator button to return to my office when it suddenly hits me.
Bile rising in your throat is never a pleasant experience, especially when you're in a professional environment and have nowhere to go.
Thankfully (?), some construction workers were in a unit across the hall with the door open. I excused myself, ran into the apartment, kicked a Mexican out of the bathroom, closed the door, and puked my ever loving guts into this toilet.
Only to realize that the toilet was not working.
So I shut the lid, straightened myself out, walked back out and said "sorry about that, thank you for your patience." As if I could salvage any hint of propriety or smoothness at that point...
Hopefully the guy just thought that I was knocked up.
******************************************
So obviously, I'm never drinking that much again.
Until the next time.
I woke up on a Sunday morning after an Orthodox Jewish weekend retreat for teenagers (haha), in the front seat of a friend's car, smelling of puke (possibly urine?), wearing one shoe, and having no recollection of how I got there.
In brief, my friend proceeds to tell me how I had passed out the previous night after accidentally drinking the majority of what I thought was a water bottle. By that point, I was already so far gone, I couldn't tell that what I was drinking was more "Poland" than "Spring." I was carried in and out of houses, had fingers shoved down my throat (by my crush at the time--mortifying!), and had been somehow fed a muffin in efforts to keep me from dying.
I show up at home, petrified of what awaits me. I should have been back the night before, didn't call to say I'd be late, am wearing one white tennis sneaker and one black sock, have alcohol seeping out of my pores, and am feeling so ill that I no longer want to be alive.
Dad opens up the door, notices nothing unusual as I spin some tale about how there was an optional extension to the retreat, and tells me that I have an hour to get ready...
Get ready for what, you might be wondering, as I was for a brief moment...
Until I remembered that my cousin was having a first birthday party for her oldest son. My entire extended family would be there (the first great grandchild! Kenaiyna Hora!), and I was puking my brains out.
To this day I don't know how I made it through that party without my cover getting blown. I was practically wearing a flashing neon "HUNGOVER" banner on my chest.
I guess my family couldn't imagine that their darling 15 year old national finalist bible scholar cousin/niece/granddaughter was getting shit faced at Russian open houses in Manhattan Beach...
***********************************
Over the years, the nature of my hangovers changed. For a while, no matter how persistent I was, I would not get hung over. This may have had something to do with my being perpetually drunk, but I digress.
Time inevitably caught up with me. Hangovers are now full day, complete incapacitation ordeals in which I can hold down nothing-no greasy breakfast, no alka seltzer, no ginger ale... not even water--until about 7 pm. The only things that help are time, sleep and the occasional bong hit.
It's brutal, it's long and I know I deserve it-which certainly does not help.
Some especially memorable hangovers include:
-The day before Yom Kippur 2 years ago. As if that "holiday" isn't torturous enough...
-My last day at SIP (a bar I worked at last year), when I showed up in a tutu as promised, and 40 minutes later paid a girl 50$ to cover my shift
-The day after Killian's goodbye party, when I puked so much from 2 sips of a ginger ale that they almost kicked us out of Red Bamboo and had to sleep it off at her Dad's house
***********************************
My last hangover was the result of an open bar fund raiser that I went to with my friends from work. I don't know if job related stress was the root of our binge, or the combination of all our personalities lead to consumption greater than the sum of its parts... but boy oh boy, did we get saucy. To the point that I'm uncomfortable disclosing some of the events.
But to sum it up in one detail, we ended up at some hellacious club called Butter.
And yes, I know how many things are wrong with that.
The next morning, I wake up naked and alone in a room that I've never seen before. Apparently I knew that had I gone home, I would not have made it to work the next day, so my coworker invited me to stay at her place.
Still drunk, we both puke, brush our teeth and get on the train, clutching our heads in discomfort and shame.
Upon arrival, it was immediately apparent that I could not stay at work. I could barely talk to people, every 5 minutes I had to run to the bathroom, I reeked of cigarettes and booze... It was a bad scene.
That week in my office there had been a meeting the theme of which had been "honesty is the best policy." So I called my boss, told him the situation and asked if I could go home. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," was his response.
I'd have to stay the whole day.
(So much for rewarding honesty. Next time I'm calling in with a stomach virus.)
So of course, it gets better. Or worse, depending on your love of tragicomedy.
In my position, interaction with buyers is primarily over the phone. Most of the people I work with will never even know what I look like. But that day, I had volunteered to take someone on a final walk through inspection of their unit.
I had completely forgotten until the concierge called me to say that the buyer was on his way up.
I went to the bathroom, puked again, splashed some cold water on my face, sucked it in, smiled, and walked out to greet him.
We go down to his apartment, and they're redoing the floors in the unit directly across the hall from his. These fumes are unbearable under normal circumstances, and my circumstance is far from normal. The plumbers working on his apartment had been smoking in the bathroom, so the whole back of the apartment smells like an ashtray.
The gods were against me.
I knew it would be a challenge, but I was going to make it through this walk through without tossing my cookies. Again.
So this guy is taking pictures, shmoozing me, getting phone calls, being real thorough... We're talking white glove, fine tooth comb inspection here.
But I'm being a trooper. I'll make it back to the office.
Finally, we're done. I lock up the apartment, walk back down the hall, press the elevator button to return to my office when it suddenly hits me.
Bile rising in your throat is never a pleasant experience, especially when you're in a professional environment and have nowhere to go.
Thankfully (?), some construction workers were in a unit across the hall with the door open. I excused myself, ran into the apartment, kicked a Mexican out of the bathroom, closed the door, and puked my ever loving guts into this toilet.
Only to realize that the toilet was not working.
So I shut the lid, straightened myself out, walked back out and said "sorry about that, thank you for your patience." As if I could salvage any hint of propriety or smoothness at that point...
Hopefully the guy just thought that I was knocked up.
******************************************
So obviously, I'm never drinking that much again.
Until the next time.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
you've got to be kidding me
develop, don't destroy brooklyn?
don't get me wrong.
despite my current employment situation, underneath it all i agree with the sentiment.
but why is it, that i only see these shirts on the white kids "from" bed-stuy riding fixed gear bikes or yoga moms running midday errands with their $3,000 strollers in brooklyn heights?
people, YOU are the destroyers.
are you aware?!?
your dead horse kicking, hipster brooklyn t-shirts are undermining the look and culture of your neighborhood as much as your gluten free spaghetti and kombucha juice are pricing out the long time residents.
you really want to develop and defend brooklyn?
i've got a 3 step plan:
now if you'll excuse me, i'm going to catch up on my chomsky reading while i get a mani-pedi from the nice oriental lady down the block.
don't get me wrong.
despite my current employment situation, underneath it all i agree with the sentiment.
but why is it, that i only see these shirts on the white kids "from" bed-stuy riding fixed gear bikes or yoga moms running midday errands with their $3,000 strollers in brooklyn heights?
people, YOU are the destroyers.
are you aware?!?
your dead horse kicking, hipster brooklyn t-shirts are undermining the look and culture of your neighborhood as much as your gluten free spaghetti and kombucha juice are pricing out the long time residents.
you really want to develop and defend brooklyn?
i've got a 3 step plan:
1) take your liberal arts degree and move back to kansas, or whatever other dustbowl you came from.
2) get yourself a nice place, which will inevitably be cheaper than what you have here.
3) send the rent/mortgage differential to a public school in canarsie as an art program grant.
now if you'll excuse me, i'm going to catch up on my chomsky reading while i get a mani-pedi from the nice oriental lady down the block.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
unwanted junk
and i'm not talking about yard sales...
saturday it was blue states lose.
they warned me, but i still opened it up.
and there, in full fabulous majesty, was some inbred glitterati queen who looked like he had gotten his iridescent mac body shimmer confused with his coke, dangling his shriveled cock and balls off the balcony.
(i do not miss drugs)
sunday it was in tompson square park.
with all the expensive pizza places on avenue b, tenement shit hole apartments with horrendously inflated rent, and clean up that has been done, this park is still home to some interesting characters. in the middle of a lovely, wholesome game of go fish with a few friends, i turn to stretch my back right as a homefully challenged gentleman to my left accidentally drops his pants, revealing his filthy, uncut, filthy (did i mention filthy?) member.
(15 feet away has never been so close, and i may or may not have thrown up a little in my mouth)
last night, it was at the yankees game.
at a major sporting event, one is never at a loss for stimuli. as i was surveying the tier and people around me, staring me right in the face, was the scrotum of the fat guy. in the seat right behind me. suddenly, all i could see were balls and belly.
(by that point, i never thought i'd want to have sex again)
of all the things to come in three's...
saturday it was blue states lose.
they warned me, but i still opened it up.
and there, in full fabulous majesty, was some inbred glitterati queen who looked like he had gotten his iridescent mac body shimmer confused with his coke, dangling his shriveled cock and balls off the balcony.
(i do not miss drugs)
sunday it was in tompson square park.
with all the expensive pizza places on avenue b, tenement shit hole apartments with horrendously inflated rent, and clean up that has been done, this park is still home to some interesting characters. in the middle of a lovely, wholesome game of go fish with a few friends, i turn to stretch my back right as a homefully challenged gentleman to my left accidentally drops his pants, revealing his filthy, uncut, filthy (did i mention filthy?) member.
(15 feet away has never been so close, and i may or may not have thrown up a little in my mouth)
last night, it was at the yankees game.
at a major sporting event, one is never at a loss for stimuli. as i was surveying the tier and people around me, staring me right in the face, was the scrotum of the fat guy. in the seat right behind me. suddenly, all i could see were balls and belly.
(by that point, i never thought i'd want to have sex again)
of all the things to come in three's...
Monday, July 02, 2007
buy backs
at most neighborhood bars, after ordering three rounds and acting like a mensch, the bartender will gift you a round of drinks.
"i've got this one"
practically speaking, a buy back reduces the price of your previous drinks by 33%. but more importantly, everyone likes to feel appreciated. even a bar patron, and even by a bartender.
happy patrons generally translate into well-tipping drunks.
and then everyone wins.
what's beautiful about the buyback is that although it is built into the price of the three drinks purchased prior, it's an unnecessary courtesy.
freebird on the jukebox =no buy back
"gimme a long island iced tea"=no buy back.
prolonged cleavage-instead-of-eye contact =no buy back.
people who demand buy backs =no buy back
buy backs, where they are still given, are a small piece of righteousness in an otherwise unfair world.
****************
i don't drink the way i used to. accordingly, i have not cultivated relationships with any bartenders in my new neighborhood the way i would have done a year ago. so i don't drink for (relatively) free anymore. and the cycle continues.
but more than getting buy backs, i miss giving them.
i miss giving buy backs to the guy that comes in and is thoughtful enough to ask me how my day is going instead of the douche bag that inquires into my dating status.
i miss giving buy backs to the girl who brings her friend in to get her drunk because she just got dumped, instead of the prissy, demanding brats that inevitably make up every bachelorette party.
i miss giving buy backs to the public school teachers and kids in bands instead of the obnoxious lawyers and condescending hedge fund managers.
in the real world, its the alpha dog sociopaths in power suits that get the raises and the respect. entitled, soulless bitches in pointy shoes get special treatment.
please don't get me wrong. i hardly think that bars and bar culture is ideal. but in this one, tiny, seemingly insignificant, topsy-turvy instance, justice is served. and it's on the house.
"i've got this one"
practically speaking, a buy back reduces the price of your previous drinks by 33%. but more importantly, everyone likes to feel appreciated. even a bar patron, and even by a bartender.
happy patrons generally translate into well-tipping drunks.
and then everyone wins.
what's beautiful about the buyback is that although it is built into the price of the three drinks purchased prior, it's an unnecessary courtesy.
freebird on the jukebox =no buy back
"gimme a long island iced tea"=no buy back.
prolonged cleavage-instead-of-eye contact =no buy back.
people who demand buy backs =no buy back
buy backs, where they are still given, are a small piece of righteousness in an otherwise unfair world.
****************
i don't drink the way i used to. accordingly, i have not cultivated relationships with any bartenders in my new neighborhood the way i would have done a year ago. so i don't drink for (relatively) free anymore. and the cycle continues.
but more than getting buy backs, i miss giving them.
i miss giving buy backs to the guy that comes in and is thoughtful enough to ask me how my day is going instead of the douche bag that inquires into my dating status.
i miss giving buy backs to the girl who brings her friend in to get her drunk because she just got dumped, instead of the prissy, demanding brats that inevitably make up every bachelorette party.
i miss giving buy backs to the public school teachers and kids in bands instead of the obnoxious lawyers and condescending hedge fund managers.
in the real world, its the alpha dog sociopaths in power suits that get the raises and the respect. entitled, soulless bitches in pointy shoes get special treatment.
please don't get me wrong. i hardly think that bars and bar culture is ideal. but in this one, tiny, seemingly insignificant, topsy-turvy instance, justice is served. and it's on the house.
Friday, June 29, 2007
thermopalyspace
i don't take myspace seriously, and don't think anyone else should either.
getting upset about anything remotely myspace related is ridiculously juvenile and, well, just ridiculous.
which is why when my boyfriend received a very insulting, completely inappropriate myspace message about me today from the scorned, insecure (and apparently bat-shit insane) girlfriend of an ex of mine, my initial anger quickly evolved into a tragicomic mix of pity and humor.
(to put the story in context, i did send this ex an email two weeks ago. the first one in over a year-stating clearly that i was in a very happy relationship and was just dropping a note to wish him and his girlfriend well. he responded that they had moved in together, and had gotten a puppy-even sent me a flickr link to show how happy they were. wonderful. end of story, or so i thought.)
what did this girl seek to accomplish by calling me names to my boyfriend whom she had never met? did she really take the time to research mine and my boyfriends profiles to make sure that she was sending her masterpiece to the right male in my top 8?
it was all nothing short of laughable.
in the end, i sent her a very nice email, saying that i was genuinely pleased to see how happy they look, how cute their dog is, how beautiful they had made their home, and that i apologize if my intentions had been misunderstood.
fucking bitch writes me back that she doesn't believe a word i say.
i guess she's right not to. i did lie.
but about one thing only.
that dog is fucking hideous. someone should make korean food or a football out of it.
the lessons from today's story are:
#1
under the umbrella of useful criteria for choosing your battles--if it's a battle that can only be fought via myspace, it's not a battle worth fighting.
#2
Main Entry: iro·ny
Pronunciation: 'I-r&-nE also 'I(-&)r-nE
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -nies
Etymology: Latin ironia, from Greek eirOnia, from eirOn dissembler
1: A girl who used to get naked at bars for free shots, classify herself as a swinger, and do booty calls via craigslist, refering to anyone else in the world as a rabid slut.
getting upset about anything remotely myspace related is ridiculously juvenile and, well, just ridiculous.
which is why when my boyfriend received a very insulting, completely inappropriate myspace message about me today from the scorned, insecure (and apparently bat-shit insane) girlfriend of an ex of mine, my initial anger quickly evolved into a tragicomic mix of pity and humor.
(to put the story in context, i did send this ex an email two weeks ago. the first one in over a year-stating clearly that i was in a very happy relationship and was just dropping a note to wish him and his girlfriend well. he responded that they had moved in together, and had gotten a puppy-even sent me a flickr link to show how happy they were. wonderful. end of story, or so i thought.)
what did this girl seek to accomplish by calling me names to my boyfriend whom she had never met? did she really take the time to research mine and my boyfriends profiles to make sure that she was sending her masterpiece to the right male in my top 8?
it was all nothing short of laughable.
in the end, i sent her a very nice email, saying that i was genuinely pleased to see how happy they look, how cute their dog is, how beautiful they had made their home, and that i apologize if my intentions had been misunderstood.
fucking bitch writes me back that she doesn't believe a word i say.
i guess she's right not to. i did lie.
but about one thing only.
that dog is fucking hideous. someone should make korean food or a football out of it.
the lessons from today's story are:
#1
under the umbrella of useful criteria for choosing your battles--if it's a battle that can only be fought via myspace, it's not a battle worth fighting.
#2
Main Entry: iro·ny
Pronunciation: 'I-r&-nE also 'I(-&)r-nE
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -nies
Etymology: Latin ironia, from Greek eirOnia, from eirOn dissembler
1: A girl who used to get naked at bars for free shots, classify herself as a swinger, and do booty calls via craigslist, refering to anyone else in the world as a rabid slut.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
i hate the word blog
i sort of hate the concept of blog as well.
but why the hell not.
everybody's doing it.
i'm not a chicken, you're a turkey.
but why the hell not.
everybody's doing it.
i'm not a chicken, you're a turkey.
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