The Future You

This is cool. Send an email to the
Future You.

Work Spam

So when I get email spam that is titled,
"Wanna Get PAID to PAR-TAY???!!!"
what exactly do you think this would
entail?

a.) Paid to remove some item of clothing?

b.) Paid to make small talk with people in a stuffy room?

c.) Paid to get drunk and embarrass myself in front of my
'co-workers' who I could only assume were other people
that responded to the "PAID to PAR-TAY" ad ?

d.) Paid to wash a million dishes and throw away
empty beer bottles?

e.) Paid to wear a lampshade on my head?

f.) Paid to have a drunken, mascara running fight with
my boyfriend?

g.) Paid to set out a bunch of food and get nervous no
one will show?

h.) Paid to bear hug someone I just met and say,
"I love you man!"

Long Island Accent-It Will Never Die

Sometimes I can't shake my Long Island
accent. For the love of god I still say "pitcha"
(phonetic spelling) instead of "picture". I'm
basically saying "let me see that pitcher" as
in a pitcher of water or a baseball player not
as in a photo of one's baby or cat.

One day I can shake this. I know I can.

Informational Interview

Yesterday I went in for an informational interview
with a man pretty famous in his field. He is known
in TV circles as someone who tells it like it is-good
or bad.

I went into the interview with the mind set that
going back to work in the world of TV was my
dying passion. Somebody important told me
that once. Convince yourself of something until
you believe it.

Within five minutes of talking, the man said, "As
you may heard of, I like to cut through the bullshit
and tell people what I really think. So here it is-
you strike me as someone who has a talent in
many things but you are not focusing on what
you really want to do. Forget all this TV bullshit,
what do you really want to do?"

Me: (Pause. Sigh. ...don't say it...) "Write"

Him: "There you go. It's that simple."

Me: "Not really. I need to make money. I'm not
interested in writing TV scripts-comedy writing or
promos-I'm not good at it. Just the way I'm not
a poet. It's a certain talent. I need to find a balance
between a day job and writing on the side."

Him: "Fine-you don't want to write comedy-but it's
this simple-writers write. I once had a meeting with
Ted Turner. On his desk was a plaque that read,
"Lead, Follow or Get Left Behind". You need to make
a choice. You seem a little spoiled. If you really want
to write then go get a bullshit receptionist job and
stop worrying about what other people think. And
write! Look at the woman who wrote Seabiscuit.
She had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and it took
her eleven years to finish it. You need to bite
the bullet and make a decision NOW-otherwise
you will end up my age with a really cool blog."

HI MR. SHEPARD

So this weekend my boyfriend gave his dad a very
thoughtful gift. A blog. His dad is a fantastic writer,
poet, father, photo taker and frankly an all around
handsome and swell guy. You may think this sounds
very 'kiss ass' of me and well? You may be right.
After all, my boyfriend was kind enough to include
A LINK TO MY WEB SITE on his dad's new blog.

So Mr. Shepard-- boyfriend's dad--just by the off
chance you are reading this and are wondering why
your son dates a girl that ponders such mind blowing
topics as "What Bagels Would Say If They Could Talk"
or even "What's With Totally Naked Chicks In The
Locker Room?"--I can assure you that you nor any
of your extended relatives have anything to worry
about. Your son is in my good hands. After all it may be
true that I write the occasional blog about things like my
smelly pants but I can assure you I'd never
consider this type of blog writing even in the realm of
such pieces as the one you wrote recently (when you
weren't teaching advanced graduate physics
classes) for the The Philadelphia Inquirer.

Again, if there is one thing I can assure you--it is
that your son ...is sooooo in the grip of my good hands.

A Reading

Tonight I went to a reading of a famous author.
He is a somewhat new author and youngish one.
When he got to the stage he said, "Can I get
some water up here?" No please or thank you.
If it were me, the new author, the young author
about to start a reading-trust me when I tell you
this would not be my opening line.

At one time I had a weekly column in my university
paper. It was kinda popular I have to say (toot toot)
It was not unlike my blog in style-blathering on and
on about the everything nothing in my life. One time
I was asked to give a reading in front of a giant room
of people. There were a lot of mirrors and people
sitting cross-legged listening. I wore a purple shirt
and jeans. When I got to the mike I turned bright
red with embarassment. My opening line to the
audience was, "Hi. Forgive me if I turn the color
of my shirt." I guess we all can panic.

MANHOLES

What Are They All Looking At?
And Why Are There No Chicks Looking In There?

Ten Things You May Not Know About Me

1.) When I was little I sat on a cactus and mom spent
an entire day pulling cactus needles out of my ass

2.) I used to trap my friends in my bedroom and act out
an entire episode or whatever show I'd seen that day
word for word until they begged me to go home

3.) In high school I stole the driver's ed car for a joy ride

4.) I used to be married

5.) I HATE cleaning out the fridge and I HATE taking out
the trash

6.) I took a ride once on the Forbe's yacht

7.) I like Fresca soda

8.) A Jamaican woman once died in my arms and then was resuscitated back to life

9.) I hate my butt

10.) I wrote a novel when I was seven and it was titled "My First Book".
It was a mystery and it was very 'Nancy Drew' like

Reasons Enough Not To Date Me

I'll drink all the water from the Britta
filter and not fill it back up again.

I'll wake up 10 times in the night walking
around saying things and will flip around
in the bed like a dog rolling in the grass
as I try to go back to sleep.

I'll put two gigantic quilts on our bed
meant for cold, stormy winter nights
when it is only September and it is
around 75 degrees with 90% humidity.

Parents-They Are Only Human

Sometimes my mom speaks louder to people
from other countries. I always want to say,
'Mom-they are foreign-not deaf' but I don't.

Sometimes in sushi restaurants dad will lay
the hot washcloth to wipe your hands with
on his face as if he is in a spa. I want to say,
'Dad-you are not in a spa' but I don't.

I'm sure they have a lot to say about me.

Only In Brooklyn

Only in Brooklyn can one walk down the
street and pass three ten-year-old boys
of Italian descent-one saying to the other,
"I love mozzarella don't get me wrong but
I frickin' love a salad with goat cheese
medallions."

Socks. My Very Own.



Many of you may not know this about me but I am
a total sock stealer. It started at a young age when
I'd rather steal my dad's black socks from his drawer
then wear my own. Then it moved on to boyfriends
and various people I lived with. Why you might ask?
I'm not sure. I like to use my own personal socks for
bed. Yesterday, I bought myself a pair of white and
pink tiger striped socks of my very own. They just
make me so happy I can't even tell you. Here is a
photo of them.

What I'm Not Doing

Today in the mail I got a class bulletin from my Alma
Mater with updates on what various people are doing
with their lives. I went to a small, all women's college
in the south. Scattered throughout the update -and
I'm not kidding-were at least five or six mentions of
women that were "enjoying their free time scrap
booking and collaging". What am I doing wrong?

Dirty Stankin' New York-You Too
Can Make A Difference

Every day I walk past a giant pile of garbage
exploded all over the street near my house.
It is close to the subway and there is broken
glass, soda cans, wet newspaper, a dirty
yellow shirt, a brown stuffed animal bear
with no eyes, etc. Each day I pass this junk
hole and think 'What the fuck New York???'

Tomorrow I am going over to this hell hole with
a pair of gloves and a couple of plastic bags to
clean this up. Why? To win a community lame-o
brown noser award? No. Because I am a human
being with two arms and legs and am capable
of picking up garbage even if it is not mine.

I grew up in a small town by the beach. All of
the people I grew up with pitched in and did
beach clean ups on a regular basis. I believe
that a community is not a community if you
don't give back in some way even if it means
picking up some guys dirty underwear.

Well...maybe I can leave the underwear.

My Historic (or should I say Hysteric?) Love Journal

When I was home recently I found my 9th grade journal.
It was floral on the outside and the inside cover was full
of "memorable quotes" from songs and various people
of historical note. I can't remember any of them or why
I chose them.

For pages upon pages I wrote about three guys from my
small town life. For blog's sake I will label them A, B and C.

A: I was wildy, crazy, madly in love with A. He was smart,
a great writer, he was witty and wise beyond his 9th grade
years. He was a challenge for me in more ways than one.
I liked him, wanted him to kiss me, be my boyfriend and
he flirted and teased me into thinking he wanted the
same. Sadly, there was one thing standing between us.
God. His family were Jehovah Witnesses and forbid him
to date outside the religion.

When I found this out it became my personal mission to
"save" not "change" him. Pages and pages of my journal
(can I have this time back please?) were devoted to what
A might be thinking, what I might say to A to get A to like
me and how exactly I should approach A about the whole
"Jehovah" thing. I mean... don't get me wrong, I too similar
to his religious beliefs- thought world powers and most
political parties were unwitting allies of Satan. However,
if Jehovah says that only 144,000 people were going to
make it to heaven, weren't his odds better dating me?

B: Was another super hottie. He was a blond, a Colorado
transplant and skater. For hours and days and months
on end I sat on cold, hard, cement curbs watching him
skate while my butt froze and my brain cells fell out my
ears-you know-like brain cells do. Time originally meant
for learning important things at that age like the inner
workings of the human respiratory system, were instead
devoted to pouring over "Thrasher" magazine and
memorizing every, possible skateboard term that ever
existed: Ollie, Kickflip, Half-Cab pivot...(can I also have
this time back please?)

Although B thought I had a nice ass (he told me in the
school library) B was not really in the "marrying" type.
Not that I wanted to get married to B in 9th grade but
sitting around stoned together watching Tom & Jerry
for 11 hours every Sunday was hardly the most intimate
and loving moment I could imagine sharing. Don't get
me wrong, 11 hrs of stoned cartoon watching is not a
bad thing. Could you just hold my hand?

C: C eventually became the love of my 10th grade life
but at the time of my 9th grade life I didn't know it. He
snuck up on me from behind-not literally-figuratively.
We were childhood friends first and then a lot of poems,
flowers, missed Curfews, Jane's Addiction concerts,
kissing and sex later-things changed. My journal went
from pages and pages of how I told him "I needed space"
and that "we were only in 9th grade dude" and that
"I needed my life and my friends too."

C eventually dumped me his senior year. He paid me back
that summer by bringing home his freshman year Vassar
girlfriend back to our small town. She looked like me. I saw
them everywhere I went. Pages and pages of my journal
were spent trying to figure out how I'd "lost a good thing"
and trying to figure out why we "couldn't just be friends".
(Can I please have this time back please?)

So there is my love history. A chunk anyway. When
I can't have you, I want you. The odds may be huge
but I can convince you otherwise. I don't want to
"change" you just "save" you. You can be stoned,
just hold my hand. If you could have the time back
would you really take it?

He Doesn't Like It Taken

Men-They Like To Shake It Up

Driving home with three dudes back from
Maine is an interesting experience. Aside
from the predictable goings on one might
expect from such a car ride: sports radio,
sports talk, burping, endless pretzel rod
munching, etc. there were also a few
surprises.

First I must tell you, despite my desperate
pleas and 'oh look! baseball cards!' false
attempts to get them to stop at one of the
10,000 amazing looking Yard Sales we passed
along the way-it didn't happen. Due to "bad
traffic ahead" I was told we have "no time" for
Yard Sales because we must plunge forth like
Labor Day traffic warriors until we reached
out final destination. No ifs. No ands. No buts.

Suddenly while dozing off I hear the following
words actually uttered: "Hey Tom, mind if we
stop off at the Shaker village gift shop if it's
open?"

Um...Shaker Village? As in Shakers like Quakers?
People that don't marry and weave baskets and
make candles and live off the land and pray a lot
to God? (don't quote me on this) I mean don't
get me wrong - I'm a girl that appreciates a good
Shaker village experience now and again but I can
hardly say this is what I expected.

For the record I'd just like to say that those three
guys spent more time in the Shaker Village gift
shop- smelling honey comb soaps, picking up
hand made candles and running their hands over
hand knit scarves then I did. And for what it's
worth-that's a good thing.