AKA The Girl

Babysitter, babysitter, where for art thou babysitter?

2006-09-06T16:54:00.000-04:00

In honor of the unveiling of Baby Suri and the announcement that Baby Shiloh Brangelina has been knighted by the Queen and the anticipation for Baby Britney 2.0’s arrival, I will treat you all to a child-themed post…

OK, anyone who has kids is more than welcome to explain to me where I might be wrong in assuming this… Perhaps the fact that I don’t have children and don’t even know if I want to have them is clouding my judgment here…. Then again, perhaps it’s not….
Since when did it become acceptable to have kids in the workplace? I’m not talking about people who work at Disneyworld or the zoo…I’m talking about investment banking firms and restaurants/cafes. Now, before I get started on my tirade, I want to make something clear – I don’t have an issue with kids in the office on the official “take your kid to work day” [1] and I don’t have an issue with kids coming in for a few hours on a half day just before/after a holiday (i.e. the Friday before Memorial/Labor Day or the day after Thanksgiving). As far as I know, no one is really working on those days anyway.

No, I’m talking about just a regular-ass day like any other… I’ve noticed that it especially happens towards the end of the summer, but it can be a year-round occurrence. Through my non-Mommy eyes, this is what it looks like to me - your kid has nothing on his/her agenda for the day – camp is over or school is closed, and rather than actually make arrangements, you pack your brat along with your salad and head into the office. Once you arrive, you go about your business, doing your work while your colleagues are exposed to your hyperactive, pietre dish, snot nosed spawn. I’ve heard parents say to the kids that they bring in to the office on more than one occasion, “OK, Mommy/Daddy has work to do. You go find something to keep yourself occupied with.” Lots of times, these parents unleash their kids on their secretaries. Um, OK, because planning your days and doing your grunt work and getting you from point A to B on time and reminding you to eat and pee is not enough to keep your secretary busy. No, that’s certainly not enough work. Why have a secretary when you could have a nannytary or an assistanny? Multitasking, people! It’s all about the multitasking! But of course, you’re the working parent who does it all, thank-you-very-much! I’m sorry, but the going rate for nannies in NYC is what, about $25/hr? I highly doubt that anyone who drops their kid on their assistant is going to leave a couple of crisp hundos on the desk at the end of the day… Not that anyone with a corner office or who has their own assistant reads my blog, but just in case one stumbles upon this little rant – guess what – your secretary cannot boss your kid around. Your kid is an extension of you, and by dumping your kid on your secretary’s lap, you are in essence, forcing the person that your company pays to assist you with work related tasks to be all smiles to your little brat. I’m really sure that it was your assistant’s plan all along to eat lunch at a cheesy theme restaurant. I mean, grown ups without kids eat at Chuck E. Cheese all the time. It’s my favorite lunchtime destination, for sure! You know, it’s one thing if you want to step on your assistant, but to have your kid do it too? So, now your assistant feels like crap and isn’t getting their work done. On top of that, they’re not going to yell at your kid – so, essentially your kid is at the helm… Oh, and don’t even get me started on the people who don’t have an assistant – their kids just go straight to driving the general public of the office crazy without the pit-stop at the nannytary’s desk.

You know, if I took off my shoes, stuck my finger up my nose, and started doing summersaults down the hallway while screaming[2], I would most likely be escorted out of the building promptly. If I went into a corner office and plugged my iPod into the PC and started pumping SexyBack by Justin Timberlake so loud that it could be heard clear across the floor[2a], it wouldn’t matter if it was 5:30pm, HR would still tell me to pump my pop outside because at this firm, we work (not rock) around the clock.

When I was a kid, my mom stayed at home, so there was none of this going to the office with her malarkey. However, whenever we went out in public, we were by her side, quiet – unspoken unless spoken to, etc. And for those rare occasions when we started to get out of line, my mother had a secret weapon. She may not have believed in dinosaurs, but my mom was a firm believer in what we call simply “The Pinch”. Imagine, bony fingers grabbing you just above your elbow, punching while pulling and twisting a slight bit. Man, my mom could patent “The Pinch” and sell it as a self-defense technique. I know one or two overly aggressive drunken football players from high school who can attest to the power of The Pinch (and my fingers are not nearly as bony as my mom’s).

I mean seriously, if I started hiding under people’s desks while they were off making copies and welcomed them back[3] by growling, I’d be sent to the psychoanalyst on my way out the door. Oh, and I’m pretty sure that if it were me sashaying down the line of stalls in the ladies room peering into each crack in the doors to see who was conducting their “business”, I’d be sued as well as fired.

But I know- it’s hard to see the field when your head is up the cow’s ass. So, let me tell you, your kids are not cute while they are in the workplace. As soon as they slap on that little visitor’s pass, they become hideous distractions. A 3 legged, 2 headed donkey-man with mange and halitosis would be less of a distraction. Odds are, your child is too young to stay home alone unsupervised and you brought them to the office so that someone could keep an eye on them. Here’s a HINT – if your kid is going to get in trouble being home alone where they have access to video games, toys, computers, etc. odds are that they should not, SHOULD NOT, be running around an office full of paper shredders, copy machines and nasty people like me all by themselves. I’m sorry, but I think that as a grown up, I ought not have to censor myself – telling an annoying salesman that he’s a “poopie-head” and to “take my name off his flippin’ list” just doesn’t seem effective. It’s like watching “Scarface” on UPN. Unacceptable. As a member of the workforce, I ought to be able to come to work and be left alone while I blog about the things that annoy me rather than being kicked in the shins by them…. So, next time you’re taking your kid home from the office, don’t come complaining to me if they have a giant bruise right above their elbow…I simply cannot help it if I have to channel my mom and The Pinch…

I swear if I ever own a business that has employees with children, there will be a sign at the door: “You must be this tall to ride this ride.” [4]

[1] (I’m lying, I have issue with people bringing infants into the office for an extended period of time on the Take your Kid to Work “holiday” – I mean, isn’t the whole idea behind it so that your kid can see what it’s like to slave away at your job all day and begin to understand why it’s important that they a) marry rich and b) leave you the hell alone when you get home because you just had a crap day? Besides, I thought that the big draw for bringing your kids to work is that you can get all that backed up “busy work” done – I mean, what infant is going to file, staple and collate for you?)

[2] don’t think I haven’t thought about doing it, on more than one occasion.

[2a] don’t think I haven’t thought about doing that, on more than one occasion either.

[3] and giving them myocardial infarctions

[4] Oooh, I could probably avoid dealing with my fear of “little people” that way too. Sweet.

Going down as my breakfast was coming up

2006-08-31T13:32:00.000-04:00

OK, just a quickie [1] - but I promise that there will be something bigger and better shortly.

I hate elevators. Being closed in a relatively small box that goes up and down on a cable is not my idea of a good time. Then, for shits and giggles, let's give ourselves even less room in that little box, by acting like animals to fill up every square inch of floorspace, so that on every stop, 15 people have to get out so that the person in the back row can get off, in essence, causing this trip to take twice as long, seeing as how every freakin floor has been selected as a stop.

I don't like the fact that in a crowded elevator, I am breathing other people's mouth-breath, ass-breath, armpit-breath, etc. It's gross. Lots of times, I hold my breath as long as I can, and now that I've quit smoking, I can go a few more floors than before. What I can't do, however, is stop hearing things without resorting to surgically implanting my iPod to my side.

So, persons who may someday ride in an elevator with me, I beg you to be aware that I am involuntarily in earshot...

Thus, do NOT discuss ANYTHING to do with your reproductive life. I'm just going to get a cup of coffee. I don't want to know about how you're "trying to have a baby". I'm sorry, but even if you are attractive (which you know the people who volunteer this stuff in elevators never are), I do not want to be forced into thinking about you and your significant other having planned baby-making sessions. In essence, you've just kidnapped me and brought me to your bedroom and tied me up and tortured me with views of your hairy back while you do your wife who has a thermometer in one hand and an ovulation chart in the other. You're an evil mental-kidnapper, and I propose that there be some sort of legal punishment for subjecting me to this craptastic torture.

Similarly, I don't want to know about vasectomies or tube tying operations either. You know, pretty much anything to do with the parts of our bodies that we generally would not expose in the Vatican ought to be off limits. Actually, all body parts - except hair (the kind on the top of your head) are hereby deemed inappropriate material for elevator discussion.

Because next time I hear something along these inappropriate lines, I will gladly turn to you and tell you all about how I just threw up a little bit of my breakfast burrito into my mouth. And I will, in striking detail, explain to you what it feels like to regurgitate a jalapeno.

Thank you kindly.

[1] Just realized, the title is "Going down" and the first sentence is about a "quickie"... unintentional, I swear.

I BLOW

2006-08-10T18:05:00.000-04:00

So, according to Wikipedia:

A whistleblower is an employee, former employee, or member of an organization who reports misconduct to people or entities that have the power to take corrective action. Generally the misconduct is a violation of law, rule, regulation and/or a direct threat to public interest -- fraud, health, safety violations, and corruption are just a few examples.

Well, Wiki-Writers, get your little fingers ready to write an update to that definition… I’ve been thinking about it, and there’s one thing I know I’m good at – coming across people who suck, getting mad about it and writing about it here. I think that makes me a new brand of whistleblower…I’m not ratting out Big Tobacco to the government – but I am ratting out Big Assholes to you, my 5 readers. I figure that since I’m a member of this organization that I like to call humanity, I’ll report social misconduct to you (assuming you have the power to take corrective action by spreading the word, eventually causing the Assholes to stumble across this blog and read about themselves in black & white – and purple, since sometimes I like to write in purple). So here’s my edit to the Wiki entry:

A social whistleblower is The Girl or other member of humanity who reports misconduct to the public, who has the power to take corrective action by spreading the word. Generally the misconduct is a violation that The Girl deems inappropriate social behavior and/or a direct threat to public interest as it pisses The Girl off, and no one likes it when she’s mad-- fraud, health/safety violations, general idiocy, and corruption are just a few examples.

FU to SUVs

2006-08-09T16:18:00.000-04:00

I know that there are some good people who drive SUVs. I’m sure that I’ve forgiven 5 people that I know for owning vehicles originally designed for the military to carry their precious cargo through the rough and tumble landmine infested streets between their neighborhood grocery store and their garage.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit – I drive a hybrid car. Am I biased towards fuel-efficient vehicles? Yes. Do I feel that I have the right to be just a little bit smug? Yes. Anyway, with that being said, now back to my rant…

I’m not going to steal Al Gore’s material. Do I care about the environment? See above. Do I think that our dependence on oil, which we have little of and countries hostile to us have a fair amount of, puts us in a bit of a pickle? No. Not at all… I think it puts us smack in the middle of the econo-sized jar of Vlasic Kosher Dills – and not those puny sandwich stackers – I’m talking full sized, so big you can barely get them out of the jar without injury because their stems break under their massive weight pickles.

But that’s not why I’m speaking out against SUVs. No. There is something far more important than our environment and socio-economic stability fueling this girl’s giant combustion engine… My patience. And like the polar ice caps and the US’s status as a superpower, my patience are in a state of decline.

I accept the fact that we live in a big is better and Hummer huge is best society. And I accept that not everyone gives a hairy rat’s ass about what happens to our planet as a result of our high-falutin’ needs to be able to receive instant gratification by carting our Pottery Barn and Best Buy purchases home the same day in our Tahoes. I also understand that there ARE potholes in NYC that require 4WD.

What I don’t understand is this: why is it that every SUV driver that I encounter on the road seems to have received a free Super-sized Stupid Sandwich with large fries Extra Value Meal for free with their SUV purchase? I mean, seriously, why is it that the bigger your vehicle gets, the dumber you become while behind the wheel? NOTE: if you are one of the approximately 7.25% [1] of people who have an SUV and actually know how to drive, please read on and kindly bring it up at the next SUV&ME club meeting. Your brethren are giving you a really bad name…

Was I napping when FOX News[2] broke the story about how research has shown that once your vehicle reaches a certain size, you no longer have to put forth any effort while driving and can, instead, focus on your blackberry while putting a packet of splenda into your triple shot mocha-caramel-vanilla-hazelnut SKIM frappuccino with extra whipped cream, while simultaneously changing the DVD so that those whailing banshees in the back seat zone out and become good little children once again, allowing you to concentrate on that email and enjoy that cool, skim 300,000 calorie beverage?

Out of the kindness of my shriveled, cold heart, I offer these tips to SUV drivers:

#1- You are not driving a mini-fucking-cooper. This means that you do not fit in 7” parking spaces. Think about it – if the driver of a BigWheel would have to parallel park, you WON’T fit. This also means that you should not try to squeeze your way into my buffer zone in traffic. You trying to fit into my in case I get rear ended I’d rather not plow the guy in front of me space is akin to JLo trying to get that ass of hers into a size 0 pair of jeans or Bea Arthur trying to get her massive man-feet into a pair of size 5 Manolos or Tom Cruise trying to get into a society for sane people – it just ain’t going to happen.

#2- Be aware of puddles, potholes, and manhole covers. Be aware of them while you drive right over them. Be aware of the fact that your vehicle is meant for offroading. It is highly unlikely that normal onroading will destroy it. Recently, I was stuck behind a woman in an SUV who actually held up traffic for a good 3 minutes while waiting for the oncoming traffic lane to empty out because she was unwilling to drive through a puddle that while it was wide, was no more than an inch deep. I’m sorry, but if I am able to get through something in my Honda Civic, your BMW X3 should also emerge from such situations unscathed.

#3- Speed bumps and rumble-strips – See #2.

#4 – Multiple choice: You are behind someone who breaks down on an on-ramp. There is a space that’s just 2” short of you being able to get through (read: regular cars would fit), and there is a line of 5 people behind you (first and foremost – me). Do you:

a. sit and wait for AAA, keeping the broken down guy company.
b. back up.
c. throw her in 4WD and go over the 3” curb that’s preventing you from continuing on your merry way to Costco or Sam’s Club or wherever you’re going to fill the back of your Trailblazer up with bulk packs of Bounty and Cheetos.

I’ll give you a hint – it’s neither “a” nor “b” (nor any combination of the two such as “a” for 20 minutes followed by “b”).

OK, that concludes the first lesson in how to drive your gas guzzling, earth killing monstrosity of a vehicle. I’m sure that’s all you can fit in your head at the moment anyway – because unfortunately, brain size doesn’t correlate to vehicle size. Learn the rules and live them. We’ll discuss the remaining issues some other day – most likely the day you cut me off by invading my buffer zone and then proceed to go .05 mph over a puddle that you sat in front of for 27 minutes debating about crossing only to come to a full stop and try to throw it in reverse to avoid a speed bump[3].

[1] margin of error +/- 7.25%
[2] I know, it’s an oxymoron FOX + News
[3] Note, this will also be the day that I get out of my car and bitchslap you all the way back into that roomy trunk of yours.

Workin for the city...

2006-06-27T03:30:00.000-04:00

I promise, I'm still alive. Though, for all you knew I could have been abducted by evil clowns (that's redundant), chained up to a Wonderwheel filled with lead in a room painted with green and yellow stripes and pink polkadots... being fed nothing but the whipped cream pies and seltzer water that Bozo and his buddys threw at me for practice.

Thanks for trying to find and rescue me. Lucky for you I was actually working, vacationing, working, and then vacationing again. Then I was apartment hunting. Now I've used all my vacation days, found an apartment and am just workin for the city... ok, I don't work for the city... I work in the city, but it's just easier to say than "workin for the investment firm that manages money for all the investment firms that you hear about on TV but you never heard of this one because we don't deal with the public directly unless you have so much money that you don't ever watch TV because it is financially beneath you to stare at a little light box and be awed by fancy things because you could just stare at the 4 balinese orphans that you just bought from the circus and make them do tricks without commercials". So, yeah, I'm workin for the city... but hopefully I'll have some time to post that's not when I'm not exhausted...maybe, if you're good, Girlie Clause will even give you something to read that makes sense...

Pre-feature Commercial

2006-03-01T12:58:00.000-05:00

OK, OK. I know that in the trailer I promised you "Office Idol: An Adventure in KaraNOke" would be coming to a blog near you soon. It is. I mean it. Just think of this as the commercial prior to the movie that you paid[1] to see.

So, one of my esteemed fellow cubicle dwellers recently left the firm. He was my partner in sarcasm and is sorely missed. Awh. Bleh! Anyway, earlier today, someone called for him. I am just now realizing that I may have unintentionally given that caller a very wrong impression...

The conversation went a little something like this:

Caller: Hello, is Cubicle Boy there?
The Girl: Oh, I'm sorry, um, he is no longer...(rather long pause as I was covering 8 people's phone lines for a multitude of reasons, plus actually trying to do my job - shocking - I know)... Cubicle Boy is no [SNIFFLE (I have a stuffy nose)] longer with us. [SNIFFLE].
Caller: Oh, I, Oh, uh, goodness....
The Girl: [Distractedly] Is there something that I can help you with?
Caller: [Nervously] Uh, no. Thanks. Um, have a good day? Bye.
[CLICK]
-Fin-

Um, so, Cubicle Boy, if you're out there still keeping up with the blog, and you somehow hear that you've gone to that great big cubicle in the sky....whoops! My bad.

-AKA The Girl
[1] Hmmm, there's an idea... Maybe I should get paid to bring you the next post....

Trailer...

2006-03-01T10:18:00.000-05:00

So - I've been busy [1] these last few weeks.

Actually, this blog has begun to serve its purpose - no, not making good litterbox lining or excellent kindling for starting subway track fires - though I suppose those are both purposes I could support... I actually started working on my book again, after months of total stagnation. More about that some other time.

Anywho, on with the trailer...

Coming soon to a blog near you
Office Idol
An Adventure in KaraNOke

[1] Dreaming/nightmaring about the Golden Girls counts as busy, right?

And the card attached would say...

2006-02-17T16:59:00.000-05:00

So, imagine that your family [1] is being held hostage. You are contacted through shady means, and advised that you have a single opportunity to save your loved one. In order to prevent execution by electrocution, you, my friend, must endure [2] one passionate, hot, sweaty night of lovemaking with the Golden Girl of your choice.

The clock is ticking. The hostage is begging you for his/her life. Who will it be?

For those of you who need a refresher the Golden Girls =

Feistey sex-pot Blanche Devereaux (Rue McClanahan)
Rapier witted, husky voiced Dorothy Petrillo-Zbornak(Bea Arthur)
St. Olaf's favorite blonde, Rose Nyulan (Betty "have your pets spayed or neutered" White)
Sophia "I'll hit you with my handbag stuffed with condiments from various eateries" Petrillo (Estelle Getty)

So, my friends, who will it be? Which Golden Girl will you screw to save your loved one?

I really do want to hear about it. Unleash your wild GG fantasy. No cop-outs. I don't want to hear "none of them" [3]. Now, of course, I can't ask you to share without sharing alike.

I am a total Bea Arthur Girl. The way I look at it is that with her rugged good looks, booming voice and unquestionable man-hands, she might be better than some of my previous boyfriends. If I close my eyes, who knows, I might enjoy it. :)

I asked this at Sunday dinner with the family once. I beleive I just blurted out: "If you absolutely HAD to fuck a Golden Girl, which one would you choose?"

My mom didn't even have to think about it. Her reply: "The little one." Meaning Estelle Getty. Hmmm, she's little and old (kind of an anti-T-Rex). Maybe she can convince my mom about the dinosaur thing, considering that she was a kid at that time...

[1] If you could care less about your family, just substitute someone that you really care about – Ronald McDonald, your fave Teletubby, Tom Jones, your third grade teacher, etc. If you are truly a heartless bastard who cares for no one, then YOU are the hostage & this is your one chance for freedom.
[2] Enjoy might be the appropriate word for some of you
[3] I'd love to hear "all of them".

Digital Colosseum

2006-02-14T17:55:00.000-05:00

An example of what I was referring to earlier -

Watch: VP shooting victim has 'heart attack'

Someday, my friends. Someday, we will be able to watch people have heart attacks for reals on the TV-machine. We're approaching the age of the Digital Colosseum - can't wait to Pay-per-view some lions eating the hell out of modern day gladiators...

I'm going to sign up the guy who keeps on keepin on with the over the top loud singing in my office.

Everyday Valentines

2006-02-14T17:44:00.000-05:00

Here are some samples of the Valentines I sent out today:

Dear guys (and possibly gals) who plow the streets in my neighborhood,

Thanks for the Valentine’s present – I’m so proud of you for doing such a crap job of plowing. Falling on my ass in the ice/snow in the middle of the road was such a spectacular way to start my Valentine’s Day! You know, I didn’t really want to wear those beige pants that I spent 20 minutes ironing this morning. Going back inside and picking a new outfit after I was already running late was such fun!

Kisses,
The Girl
PS – My car getting stuck on the ice (again) was way too over the top – you guys are too good to me!

Dear guy who ran a stop sign and made me slam on the brakes on the not-so well plowed streets making me fishtail into a snow bank to avoid smashing into you,

Wow, baby, you really got my heart pumping this Valentine’s Day. Thanks for saving me those 5 minutes that it would have taken me to get my first cup of coffee this morning. You’re too sweet.

Hugs,
The Girl

Dear Lady who made me miss my subway because you had to stop in the middle of the turnstile to put on your glasses and check your balance as the V train pulled in and then away while I was stuck behind you in a throng of morning rush commuters,

You had $32.00 left on that card. Were you worried about not getting on the subway in MARCH? Happy VD. Speaking of VD – I hope someone gives you the gift that keeps on giving today - herpes!

Love,
The Girl

Dear dude who saw me running (in HEELS) for the elevator and then heard me yell “Hold the elevator please” yet stood as still as an Oscar statuette,

I’m really sorry that I pushed all those extra buttons between my floor and yours. I don’t know where my head was this morning.

XOXO,
The Girl

Dear lady who must’ve eaten a massive bowl of Colonflakes and, although there were 6 empty stalls in the bathroom, chose to occupy the one right next to the one I was in this morning,

Gee, thanks for making my already crappy morning just a bit shittier; literally. There is nothing like hearing you “drop the kids off at the pool” in such close proximity to really make my day. FYI – those were not the brown treats I was expecting.

All my love,
The Girl

Operation Toon Takedown

2006-02-14T12:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I love reading the headlines on CNN.com -in particular the video headlines. So as to let you know that you're clicking on a video link, they put the word "watch" after the link - I've noticed that when you read the whole thing as one, it's a sure fire way to ensure hilariously fucked up little tid-bits. For instance, while back when that car full of kids died and then their grandfather had a heart attack - of course, they had a video about that. Which went a little something like this: Man has heart attack after finding out about the deaths of his 10 grandkids WATCH.

There's usually one like this too: Toddler mauled by rabid coyote WATCH.

Oh, CNN, you!

Today I noticed a video (sans "WATCH") entitled: "Some Muslim leaders say cartoon violence is un-Islamic."

I am so starting a Jihad on Saturday morning cartoons. You hear that, GI Joe? You're going down. I will burn you in effigy, but for real. Hey Transformers, you know what's more than meets the eye? My Allah-powered sword severing your break lines and/or spinal cords (not too sure of the genetic makeup of a Transformer). Watch out Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - you will be swimming in the sewers of hell by the time I am finished with you. Oh, and you Thundercats... For you I've saved the best of all my Jihading skills. You will be tied down while I ululate so loudly that your cat/man eardrums burst. Let's see how that affects your freaky cat-balance skills. ALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALAALALA!

Oh, and BTW, in the breaking news front: "Man shot and wounded by Vice President Cheney suffers 'minor heart attack' after birdshot becomes lodged in his heart, hospital spokesman says." Is it just me, or does minor heart attack strike you as a funny term? Personally, I'd be pissed as all hell to be classified as having a "minor" heart attack. Shit, mo-fo, a heart attack is a fucking heart attack. Don't trivialize it by calling it "minor". When I hear "minor" I think of two things -
1. Poor bastards who have to pay off the local drunk so as to score some cheap beer, peach schnapps and zimas,
2. Not a big deal - as in cuts and scrapes.

Granted, the guy that was shot is most likely a douche-bottle of epic proportions. I mean, he hangs out with Dick for fuck's sake. But shit, "the VP shot me and all I got was this lousy minor heart attack?"

-AKA The Girl

A leg shaking wake-up

2006-02-08T21:41:00.000-05:00

I'm in a voluminous empty space. It is dark - the pitch-blackness seems to have sucked all sound out of the world. Suddenly a click - a spotlight floods down, bearing all of its intensity from the center of what I now realize is a tent. Simultaneously, as though light created sound, I hear it. Din din-din-din-na-na-na - (CLOWN MUSIC!) accompanied by something that sounds eerily like my mother's weed-wacker. I'm looking along the edge of the spotlight for an exit when I'm nearly run down by a miniaturized mini-cooper [1] that is driven so erratically, I imagine there must be a drunk, mentally challenged 8 year old at the helm. Suddenly, the tires let out a squeal that competes with fingernails on a chalkboard and the car spins to a stop. Hundreds of clowns pour out the doors and leap from the trunk. But these aren't ordinary clowns. They're little people. Next thing I know, from the waist down, I'm surrounded.

THIS is my worst nightmare.

OK, so I know that lots of people are "ascared"[2] of clowns. I just don't like the hiding-behind-happyface-when-I'm-really-a-murderer vibe that they usually seem to have going on. Plus, the multi-crazied rainbow hair throws me a bit... IMO, the only people who should have crazy colored hair like that are punk-rock folk. And when's the last time you were at a punk show and got sprayed by a flower-cum-water pistol by a dude with a pink and purple mohawk and a red (not from cocaine) nose? Clowns are the anti-punks... It's just not right.

But clowns are only part of my nightmare... I'm most obviously ascared of something else too. And it's really hard for me to admit.
But damnit man, Mini-coopers really freak me the fuck out. OK, actually mini-people freak me the fuck out. I'm ascared of midgets/little people/wee folk/whatever the hell you wanna call 'em.

The crap thing about it is that I'm totally aware of how ridiculous this fear is. I hate it, and even when I am in the same vicinity as a wee one, I am, on many levels totally amazed at the fact that I'm in a panic. However, I just can't help but fear that some day, when I'm not paying attention, a mini-man will sneak up behind me and bite down on that tendon behind my knee. I'm talking really get all up in there like a drunken best man with a hot hooker at a Vegas bachelor party. I mean, it's totally insane - at 5'1", I'm not even tall enough for my knee to be midget-mouth high... But whenever a little person is around, those tendons of mine tremble.

-AKA The Girl

[1] I know that seems redundant, but it was super-tiny.
[2] afraid + scared = ascared, and it's MUCH worse than either of its parts.

Land of the lost...

2006-02-08T17:05:00.000-05:00

I have had a monopoly on shocking dinnertime announcements in my traditional (read: Republican )[1]), Irish Catholic mother’s house for quite some time. Some of the better ones under my belt include:

“I don’t believe in Catholicism, or God. Please pass the stuffing.”
“I’m moving in with my boyfriend, may I have the gravy?”
“Cousin K. is a lesbian. Bread, please.”
“I’m not going back to NYU. I’m going to canvass for a non-profit environmental org. Potatoes, please.”
“Oh, my new boyfriend is a Conservadox Jew. More ham, please. It’s quite tasty.”
“I quit my job. I’m going to Europe for a few months. I leave next week. Could you pass the salt?”

Granted, these aren’t earth shattering statements to you or me. However, to my mom, a self-proclaimed “creature of habit,” who considers going to the Pathmark instead of the Shop Rite a big change. That, coupled with the fact that they were all made before I turned 22, these are pretty heavy announcements.

Going to my mom’s house for Sunday dinner is a ritual in our family. There is usually little drama, except when my Drunkle is around [2]. So, of course, I was shocked when two weeks ago, my mother dropped a dinner table announcement that trumps all of mine combined. For the 26 years that I have known her, my mother has been keeping a secret of ginormous proportions. It’s easier for me to admit that she’s a card carrying Republican [3] than to retell her secret. But here goes it… My mother does not believe in…. brace yourself…. DINOSAURS. Yes, you read that correctly. The woman thinks that dinosaurs are fake – the stuff of sci-fi writers.

Me: But Mom! We’ve been to the Museum of Natural History! You’ve seen the bones! The fossils! WTF?!?!
Mom: Yeah, but no. I’ve never believed in them, ever since my third grade field trip to the AMNH. I mean, they’re just too big. Come on, they’re just too damn big.

I was in utter shock. My brother (I call him Skunky/Skunkers/etc.), a teacher, tried his best to explain timelines and theories of extinction, but he too was unsuccessful. Skunkers and I got our significant others in on it, and the 4 of us, armed with countless hours of late night Discovery Channel hours under our belts were unable to convince my mom that dinosaurs existed. My main question was that if dinosaurs didn’t exist, where the hell did these giant bones and skulls come from? My mom’s theory – wooly mammoths (she kind of believes in them) and beached whales who buried themselves in mass graves. Creative scientists then pulled from this jumble of bones and made these dream creatures…. I’ll never wonder where my creative side comes from….

When we could not sway her, I decided that a trip to the museum was necessary. So, last Sunday, we all piled into my little hybrid and went to the museum. After 4 plus hours and many exhibits, I asked my mom her opinion… At which point, she replied, “I cannot confirm or deny the existence of dinosaurs.” Oh, how true to her Republicanism.

So, now I’m left to ponder how I regain my title of Dinner Table Shock Master. At this point, aside from saying “I’m pregnant [4], please pass the brontosaurus burgers,” I think I’ve lost. Suggestions are welcome.

-AKA The Girl

[1] Shudder. Wince. Shed a tear.
[2] He is a whole other can of worms, that Drunken Uncle of mine. More on him some other time.
[3] Shudder. Wince. Shed a tear.
[4] Knowing what I now know about my family, I think it would probably be criminal for me to bring offspring into this world…

Coming attractions...

2006-02-08T09:26:00.000-05:00

Check back later today - you will be able to feast on the Fake-asaurus Rex or learn all about my insanely ridiculous fears...

A Million Little Countersuits....

2006-02-06T23:29:00.000-05:00

I don't care for Oprah. Then again, I don't care for a lot of things. But that's neither here nor there.

In the spirit of giving James Frey longer than the 15 minutes he's already received, I too will put my thoughts on the matter on "paper".

I don't give a rat's ass about "A million little scandals" or whatever his book is called. Will I read it? Probably not. Why, you ask? Not because I care if a writer embellished his story - seeing is perceiving. NO, it's just because I've heard that the writing is weak and choose to spend my spare time reading well written items - like the articles in Playgirl - I swear, I only buy it for the articles!

All kidding aside - I am not going to spend the rest of this post wrestling over what's true vs what's for sale. No. I'm more interested in the bottom line. Apparently, people like Jennifer Cohn (cave and under-rock dwellers- check this blurb out before going any further: TV Squad "The Lawsuits Fly Against Frey") are also thinking about their own bottom line.
Now, Ms. Cohn isn't the only one suing. Lawsuits are popping up faster than zits on the face of an acne prone 16 year old premenstrual Burger King fry-girl. This, among (many) other things, pisses me off to no end. I mean, for fuck's sake... it's a BOOK. You know, I read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, and I swear - if I don't see some dancing trees and a white witch, pronto - I'm going to sue the pants off of CS Lewis' estate. And the other day, in the supermarket checkout line, I swear I saw a National Enquirer headline that Lindsay Lohan isn't bulimic - it's morning sickness - her and BatBoy are expecting! Congrats, Lindsay - but if I don't see a Bat Baby in about 8 months - I'll see you - in court.

Maybe I'm jealous that I didn't think to read the book and ride on the Oprah tongue-lashing tide by filing suit, or maybe I'm just tired of reading about a new ridiculous adventure in Law-La land every day. So, I was doing some thinking. Now, I'm in no way trained to interpret the law - unless writing a paper on copyright infringement for my ex's corporate law class somehow qualifies me... (I got an A, BTW). But, I have a wonderful idea...

If Jennifer Cohn (et. al.) can sue for $10M in damages because she was in some way hurt by a book (damn those evil paperbacks), why can't I sue people like Ms. Cohn? Think about it - I'm sitting here, wasting countless, precious minutes of my life (and yours) blabbering on about these idiotic lawsuits... Prior to now, I had such wholehearted faith in the American judicial system (cough, cough. wink, wink. nudge, nudge.). Until now, I believed that the court was a place to be revered and honored - a place where issues of the utmost importance are decided on the balanced scales of Blind Lady Justice. By Jehovah, these people are making me feel so very disillusioned. They're making a mockery of our wonderful judicial system. They're making me mad, but worse than that, they're making me SAD - I'm going through a whole lot of pain and suffering here. I'm talking heroine addict in detox without methadone pain and suffering... In fact, excuse me - I'll be right back - I'm so upset I have to puke.

So, if like me, you're going to cry yourself to sleep because your faith has been shattered like a beer bottle turned weapon in a biker bar fight, join me - let's get some class action going on. If you're a lawyer, represent me. If you're Jennifer Cohn, don't despair - I'll only sue you for $9.9M. I'm sure that you'll be so emotionally scarred after my TBH attorney grills you on the stand that you'll need the money to pay your lawyer to sue me for hurting your feelings and calling you ~gasp!~ frivolous.

-AKA The Girl

PS - The other day in the subway, a crackhead told me that the Easter Bunny is in cahoots with those people who steal kidneys... Watch out, my friends - you think you're going to wake up with a basket full of marshmallow Peeps, but you end up in a bathtub full of ice missing your organs instead. That's some dangerous shite, and we all know that crackheads never lie.

I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my toes.

2006-02-02T21:54:00.000-05:00

I'm of the opinion that if you have an office with a door and you must, absolutely MUST leave said door open to torture your colleagues with your VDD (verbal diarrhea disorder)[1], you really ought to abide by a few simple rules [2]. So, if you are so bold as to SING at work with your door open, take a moment, shut your little pie hole and listen up.

1. Choose your song wisely. No, I'm not talking about vocal range. What I mean is this - the song that you are singing, humming and alternately whistling is bound to get stuck in the heads of your colleagues. Yes, I know that it's stuck in the hollow mound that sits atop your neck, but what's good for the goose isn't always good for the gander. I mean, if you had an STD would you go around spreading love without the glove? I didn't think so. So, keep in mind - your coworkers do NOT want your musical herpes. If you must sing at your desk, keep in mind - some music is not fit for human consumption in the workplace. Namely, the following:

-MC Hammer
-Vanilla Ice
-Tom Jones
-That damn X-mas song from the movie Love Actually )[3]
-Michael Jackson
-Country music
-Hair bands/Heavy Metal
-Anything that you've ever heard on a station that prides itself on being Lite )[4]
-Songs from commercials/TV themes/jingles of any sort )[5]

2. If someone actually makes the effort to get up off of their ass and actually closes your door instead of their own, take the fucking hint.

3. Relatedly, if someone actually requests that you stop making a racket, do not get belligerent.

My boyfriend, henceforth known as The Boy, works with a gentleman that we'll call "Scruffy". Scruffy started humming, frequently & it got on The Boy's nerves. Unfortunately, The Boy works in an office without doors. Fed up, The Boy asked Scruffy to please stop. Well, Scruffy took great offense to The Boy "imposing on his right to hum," which, according to Scruffy is an "intrinsic part of" his nature. Long story (within a very long story) short, this led to a near altercation, and eventually a No Humming in the office rule. So, a big cheers to Scruffy-the man who killed office humming.

Moral of the story: There is a reason you're behind a desk and not out touring with Justin Timberlake or a Steve Miller cover-Band. We're just not that into you.

-AKA The Girl

[1] A disease, I've noticed is nearly always accompanied by MCD (mental constipation disorder).
[2] Granted, the fact that you are ignoring the generally accepted "If you are about to sing at the top of your lungs/berate your wife/plan a fishing trip close your door rule makes this an exercise in futility.
[3] OK, any X-mas song, but especially that one.
[4] Lite beer is OK. Lite music is not. Unless, of course, you're watching your musical calorie intake.
[5] By no means is this list all inclusive.

The inevitable test post.

2006-02-02T20:49:00.000-05:00

So, welcome to my little narcissistic corner of the world. Yes, I am conceited enough to think that people throughout the world care enough to read the crap that spews forth from my semi-freakishly small hands....

aka The Girl.