My dad and I drove home together from NYC back to New Jersey to attend Night #1 of our Passover Seder. When I opened the passenger side door of my dad's car, I was quite surprised to hear Bad Romance by Lady Gaga blaring inside. "Hey Laur, (he said) we should really go to a Lady Gaga concert sometime--you and me, what do you say?" Oh em gee. (Is what I say). If you know my dad...Craig, better known as Craig David (or Doodles to some), then you may just find this about as perfect as I do.
My fifty-nine year old father, dressed in his business suit, was belting out the lyrics to Bad Romance. Even better, is that my twenty-one year old sister, burned the Gaga CD for him. While at times, my dad can certainly be funny, silly and raunchy. (Especially raunchy). Craig David (Can you fill me in?) also has a very serious side, one that Lady Gaga just does not quite match up with. We listened to Lady Gaga the whole ride home. (And needless to say, we did not fight once about the radio, and thus it was a dream car ride).
I recently mentioned to someone that in every group of friends I have, I am constantly the butt of all jokes. Whether I am with my college friends (who affectionately nicknamed me Speed bump), my camp friends, (who affectionately nicknamed me whore, and have various chants about me), or my high school friends (who affectionately refer to me as Melissa Joan Hart in Can't Hardly Wait--ya know, the girl who wants everyone to sign her yearbook). It is a role that I have come to accept, and even sometimes one that I like. I must admit that 83% of the time, I deserve the ridicule. (I tend to overshare--mostly about bodily functions and strange sexual experiences.) And, I have done a number of things over the years that have easily provoked this teasing.
From, refusing to admit that it's not 2002 anymore, to being caught blowing my nose into my comforter at sleep-away camp, to being pulled over 18 times in the span of fourteen months, to having an earth-shattering clap, to having a diet that consists solely of frosted flakes, Hershey bars, grilled chicken slathered in ketchup, with watermelon on the side, to making out with my high school friends, long after high school had ended, to looking like an Asian 92% of the time, for driving on the wrong side of the road, (more than once), for using my brother's drumsticks for my own personal pleasure and for carrying a homeless man sized bottle of Bacaaaadi with me at all times, I certainly have made it easy on my friends to find good material to poke fun of me for.
I wish I could say that it was different in my own family; but alas tonight at our seder, things were no different; as my dad and brother took turns making fun of me. (Heatzbabi was at school, and Little Mimi would never dream of making fun). Even though, I kind of love the teasing, and know that it is out of love--one thing is for sure...I am writing a book, that I hope will be published one day, and I'm pretty sure that I just may have the last laugh on all of you, after all. (Muhahaha).
Monday, March 29, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Sometimes Twins Hook Up
If you understand the deep meaning behind this blog's title, you can laugh, and then thank Ryanruss (for his creative genius) and the Berlowi (for existing).
Last night my friend Nate asked me if I ever hoped that awkward, embarrassing and uncomfortable things would happen to me so that I would have something funny to blog about. The answer to that questions is yes. All the time. There have been many times when something awkward, uncomfortable or completely humiliating is happening to me, and all the while in my head, I'm thinking: Wow. This will make for a dang good blog entry.
Case and point. On Thursday, one of my best friends found out that she "matched " for the medical residency that she wanted. (The hospital chose her, she chose them). Truthfully, it sounds more like sorority rush to me--but I ain't judgin! A surprise party was thrown yesterday afternoon at an outdoor beer garden in her honor.
Hmm...now hypothetically speaking of course, I may have had a late night rendezvous with one of her medical school friends back in November. Hypothetically speaking of course, he may have also been an identical twin. Even back in November, I knew that I had absolutely no idea which twin was which, but had remembered their names based on their outfits. I think it is perfectly fine not to be able to tell the difference between identical twins that you don't know very well. However, once saliva has been swapped, not knowing which twin was which just seemed tacky. I assumed that if and when I saw this guy again, it would just be the two of us, (so I would know it was him) or, I would have my friend send me a secret text, preparing me of their outfit choices for the night. Okay, Lauren--hook up with an identical twin, not a problem. Yup, unfortunately it would not be quite that simple.
My friend's party was mostly our high school friends, and a group of her college friends. (Therefore, I did not anticipate the arrival of any unidentified twins). I was busy drinking my German beer, happy to be outside wearing flip-flops, when I saw one of the twins walk into the garden. But, holy fuck. Which one was he? I immediately tried to find my friend, but she was not to be found anywhere.
Help! What do I do? If I don't go over and say hi then that would be really rude of me, but if I do go over and say hi, and it's not the brother that I "know." Then, well--that's just plain old embarrassing too. So, instead I did what any mature twenty-six year old would do. I put my sunglasses on. (Really good disguise, right? He'll never recognize me in my generic Ray Ban aviators).
I hid. I hid until I found my friend, and made sure to keep my back to the twin at all times. When I finally found my friend, she told me to relax--it was the "other twin." Crisis averted. But, I think that I learned a pretty valuable lesson here, and that is: If you make out with an identical twin, and you see him at social gathering, make sure you have brought a pair of sunglasses with you, just in case.
Last night my friend Nate asked me if I ever hoped that awkward, embarrassing and uncomfortable things would happen to me so that I would have something funny to blog about. The answer to that questions is yes. All the time. There have been many times when something awkward, uncomfortable or completely humiliating is happening to me, and all the while in my head, I'm thinking: Wow. This will make for a dang good blog entry.
Case and point. On Thursday, one of my best friends found out that she "matched " for the medical residency that she wanted. (The hospital chose her, she chose them). Truthfully, it sounds more like sorority rush to me--but I ain't judgin! A surprise party was thrown yesterday afternoon at an outdoor beer garden in her honor.
Hmm...now hypothetically speaking of course, I may have had a late night rendezvous with one of her medical school friends back in November. Hypothetically speaking of course, he may have also been an identical twin. Even back in November, I knew that I had absolutely no idea which twin was which, but had remembered their names based on their outfits. I think it is perfectly fine not to be able to tell the difference between identical twins that you don't know very well. However, once saliva has been swapped, not knowing which twin was which just seemed tacky. I assumed that if and when I saw this guy again, it would just be the two of us, (so I would know it was him) or, I would have my friend send me a secret text, preparing me of their outfit choices for the night. Okay, Lauren--hook up with an identical twin, not a problem. Yup, unfortunately it would not be quite that simple.
My friend's party was mostly our high school friends, and a group of her college friends. (Therefore, I did not anticipate the arrival of any unidentified twins). I was busy drinking my German beer, happy to be outside wearing flip-flops, when I saw one of the twins walk into the garden. But, holy fuck. Which one was he? I immediately tried to find my friend, but she was not to be found anywhere.
Help! What do I do? If I don't go over and say hi then that would be really rude of me, but if I do go over and say hi, and it's not the brother that I "know." Then, well--that's just plain old embarrassing too. So, instead I did what any mature twenty-six year old would do. I put my sunglasses on. (Really good disguise, right? He'll never recognize me in my generic Ray Ban aviators).
I hid. I hid until I found my friend, and made sure to keep my back to the twin at all times. When I finally found my friend, she told me to relax--it was the "other twin." Crisis averted. But, I think that I learned a pretty valuable lesson here, and that is: If you make out with an identical twin, and you see him at social gathering, make sure you have brought a pair of sunglasses with you, just in case.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Five Years From Now...
Someone who shall remain nameless, recently asked me to compile a list of all the things that I want for myself five years from now. I was asked to write down; where I hope to be, what I hope to accomplish, and who I want in my life. This may sound like an easy task for most, but for a person like myself, (who wishes that it was still 2002), this would not be any ordinary feat. (In hindsight, I think that was the very purpose of this exercise--looking forward, instead of back-- but none the less, this assignment would be a challenge).
There I was, sitting at my computer during one of my prep periods at school. (Prep period=kids are at some sort of special, are not in the classroom, and therefore is the quietest part of my day). I was supposed to be creating math homework for my students, but instead as gchat and facebook sat minimized at the bottom of my computer screen, I began to fantasize about my future, and the life I may have. I began to think about the things that I really wanted for myself five years from now, when I'm thirty-one. (Holy Crap).
On my list of five years from now, were things that would probably be on many people's lists. Oh, you know things like financial stability (having more than $4.32 in my bank account at one time). I'd like to still be living in NYC. I'd like to be in some sort of stable relationship, (ya know, not being persuaded by two Israeli soldiers to have a threesome, not being called a whore by a homeless man early one morning, and not returning a pair of boxers to their wrong owner) Yes, just some of my sexual highlights of this past year. But, one thing made the list that may surprise some of you. This may be an uphill battle, but it is certainly not unattainable. Five years from now, I would like to have written a book. (FYI: If you are reading this blog, and have had some sort of sexual encounter with me in the last ten years, you will be making it into my book, or erotic novel--as I'd prefer to call it). Don't worry--I'll give you a fake name, but consider yourself warned.
I have always enjoyed writing since I was very small. This was part of the reason I decided to became an English major at The University of Rhode Island, (a major that many deemed pointless), but I have a job, so it looks like I win.
Most recently, I have begun to aspire to a writer who really is top of the line in my book. A writer whose use of language, and word choice are that of perfection. Her writing is absolutely hilarious, pee in you pants funny. Listen, I don't use that phrase lightly. There is nothing funny about peeing in your pants. (As, I have been known to do this on many an occasion. Namely, after being motor-boated by Julia Kaplan in the Camp Schodack dining hall).
Who is this author that I adore? Her name is Chelsea Handler--and she just so happens to hail from my hometown, Livingston, New Jersey. (Hollaa 07039!) Her writing is unbelievably witty, smart and vulgar. The way Chelsea writes makes me laugh outloud alone in my room, outloud alone in the bathroom, and outloud (not alone) on the subway.
In the first chapter of her new book, Chelsea writes about a sleepover party that she attended in the third grade, where all of the girls practice masturbating. For those of you that don't know--let's just say this: I unknowingly humped (vigorously) doorways and chair edges from the tender ages of 6-9. Reading this chapter, I felt like I was reading from the pages of my own diary. For this reason and many more, Chelsea is my inspiration, and if you need a good pee, a good book to poop with, or just a good laugh until you cry, pick up her newest book, Chelsea, Chelsea, Bang, Bang...pronto.
There I was, sitting at my computer during one of my prep periods at school. (Prep period=kids are at some sort of special, are not in the classroom, and therefore is the quietest part of my day). I was supposed to be creating math homework for my students, but instead as gchat and facebook sat minimized at the bottom of my computer screen, I began to fantasize about my future, and the life I may have. I began to think about the things that I really wanted for myself five years from now, when I'm thirty-one. (Holy Crap).
On my list of five years from now, were things that would probably be on many people's lists. Oh, you know things like financial stability (having more than $4.32 in my bank account at one time). I'd like to still be living in NYC. I'd like to be in some sort of stable relationship, (ya know, not being persuaded by two Israeli soldiers to have a threesome, not being called a whore by a homeless man early one morning, and not returning a pair of boxers to their wrong owner) Yes, just some of my sexual highlights of this past year. But, one thing made the list that may surprise some of you. This may be an uphill battle, but it is certainly not unattainable. Five years from now, I would like to have written a book. (FYI: If you are reading this blog, and have had some sort of sexual encounter with me in the last ten years, you will be making it into my book, or erotic novel--as I'd prefer to call it). Don't worry--I'll give you a fake name, but consider yourself warned.
I have always enjoyed writing since I was very small. This was part of the reason I decided to became an English major at The University of Rhode Island, (a major that many deemed pointless), but I have a job, so it looks like I win.
Most recently, I have begun to aspire to a writer who really is top of the line in my book. A writer whose use of language, and word choice are that of perfection. Her writing is absolutely hilarious, pee in you pants funny. Listen, I don't use that phrase lightly. There is nothing funny about peeing in your pants. (As, I have been known to do this on many an occasion. Namely, after being motor-boated by Julia Kaplan in the Camp Schodack dining hall).
Who is this author that I adore? Her name is Chelsea Handler--and she just so happens to hail from my hometown, Livingston, New Jersey. (Hollaa 07039!) Her writing is unbelievably witty, smart and vulgar. The way Chelsea writes makes me laugh outloud alone in my room, outloud alone in the bathroom, and outloud (not alone) on the subway.
In the first chapter of her new book, Chelsea writes about a sleepover party that she attended in the third grade, where all of the girls practice masturbating. For those of you that don't know--let's just say this: I unknowingly humped (vigorously) doorways and chair edges from the tender ages of 6-9. Reading this chapter, I felt like I was reading from the pages of my own diary. For this reason and many more, Chelsea is my inspiration, and if you need a good pee, a good book to poop with, or just a good laugh until you cry, pick up her newest book, Chelsea, Chelsea, Bang, Bang...pronto.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Just a blog, about my friends
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my friends. I think about my old friends, my new friends, and those that fall in the in-between. Since moving to NYC, I have met some really amazing new friends; many of which I met through old friends. Between everyone's roommate's, boyfriends, girlfriends, fraternity brothers, sorority sisters, graduate school friends, (and the list goes on...) Each friend that I have met, has in part brought so many other great people into my life.
In fact, my own roommate who I met four years ago as Rachael, (my high school best friend's, friend from college), is now four years later--my little Bonkers.
There are the friends that I grew up with, that have known me since I was small. These guys hold a very special spot in my heart. I think about those friends, that I met at Harrison Elementary School back in 1989. These are the friends who knew me when my Friday nights were dominated by TGIF, and my wardrobe consisted solely of neon colors and sparkly sequins. These elementary school friends were the ones that I spent my afternoons with making potions, collecting inch worms, and later--would help me to stuff my bra. (Yes, each day for two months in the fifth grade, I would swipe the tape dispenser off of my teacher's desk, sneak into the bathroom, and tape little crumpled up pieces of toilet paper to my chest. I looked completely ridiculous. But, hey--I was eleven and I wanted boobs, REAL BAD--even if they were lumpy and lopsided).
(An aside: I would get my tit wish, five years later when my ta-ta's grew from B's to D's during the summer of 2000). Let's just say this: I started 11th grade, a new woman. But I digress...
Next, my elementary school friends and I traveled together on to the next chapter of our lives, at Mt. Pleasant Middle School. It was there that I would average three boyfriends a year, play spin the pencil, sport multi-colored braces, and attend 8766554 bar and bat-mitzvahs.
In the fall of '98, we moved on together to Livingston High School, where we would meet the other half of our future best friends. My highschool friends knew me through less than stellar times. Winnie the Pooh sweatsuits, (I'm actually wincing right now) chapstick necklaces, caterpillar eyebrows, and more braces--until finally, my five year battle with my awkward phase ended, and I reclaimed my status as a semi-normal human once more. With my friends, we learned how to drive together, we went to prom together, and we encountered all of the standard, growing up, coming of age, first time moments...together.
On Friday night, I attended a fundraiser for a highschool friend, who had recently lost a member of her family. I looked around the room of this bar, and it was like a league of nations of highschool cliques. Each group of friends were represented, and the outpouring of people who came to support our former classmate spoke volumes to me. It was amazing. Even though we are twenty-six years old, and haven't been in school together for quite some time now, gathered in that bar (aside from the fact that we are legally allowed to drink) it felt like literally no time had passed since we walked by each other in A-Hall, in Livingston High School. What more could I ask for? That's right. Nothing.
Oh. And, then there are my Schodack friends. And I think that you all know just how I feel about my Schodack friends. After fourteen summers spent at Schodack, these friendships mean the world to me. I met some of my 12123 friends when I was just eleven years old. While other friendships did not develop until later, in our teenage years when we were getting drunk together on nights out as counselors. And even years later, my former campers became close friends too. But, I think that all I need to say is this: On Saturday, I spent five hours parked on Marla's living room chair. Four of us camp girlays together, (BGbabe, Meelzy and Mawa) feasting on fine Italian cuisine, and giggling like twelve year olds. Updog, Shake-its, and Meelz's picture of a baby mouse suspended in honey on her kitchen floor made my stomach hurt from non-stop laughter. It really is true what they say. We literally did nothing but sit in Marla's living room eating pizza, but I'm pretty sure that I had the time of my life.
Last but not least, I can never forget my Rhodies, (who I don't get to see nearly as often as I would like to). My college friends, who gave me rides when I lost my license via suspension, who helped protect me from Mattie B (the mentally challenged boy who lived down the street who threw things at me), who spoke to policemen when our parties got broken up, who sat on the beach in our sweatshirts together, who played lax with me, who tour-guided with me, who seawatched with me, who lived at 80 Ballsak with me, and who made my college years so much effing fun, that I will always think fondly of a little place called URI.
In short, (or in length--as this blog entry got quite long!) I know just how lucky I am to have such special groups of people in my life. And, I hope that we will all be able to up-dog it together, for a long, long time to come.
In fact, my own roommate who I met four years ago as Rachael, (my high school best friend's, friend from college), is now four years later--my little Bonkers.
There are the friends that I grew up with, that have known me since I was small. These guys hold a very special spot in my heart. I think about those friends, that I met at Harrison Elementary School back in 1989. These are the friends who knew me when my Friday nights were dominated by TGIF, and my wardrobe consisted solely of neon colors and sparkly sequins. These elementary school friends were the ones that I spent my afternoons with making potions, collecting inch worms, and later--would help me to stuff my bra. (Yes, each day for two months in the fifth grade, I would swipe the tape dispenser off of my teacher's desk, sneak into the bathroom, and tape little crumpled up pieces of toilet paper to my chest. I looked completely ridiculous. But, hey--I was eleven and I wanted boobs, REAL BAD--even if they were lumpy and lopsided).
(An aside: I would get my tit wish, five years later when my ta-ta's grew from B's to D's during the summer of 2000). Let's just say this: I started 11th grade, a new woman. But I digress...
Next, my elementary school friends and I traveled together on to the next chapter of our lives, at Mt. Pleasant Middle School. It was there that I would average three boyfriends a year, play spin the pencil, sport multi-colored braces, and attend 8766554 bar and bat-mitzvahs.
In the fall of '98, we moved on together to Livingston High School, where we would meet the other half of our future best friends. My highschool friends knew me through less than stellar times. Winnie the Pooh sweatsuits, (I'm actually wincing right now) chapstick necklaces, caterpillar eyebrows, and more braces--until finally, my five year battle with my awkward phase ended, and I reclaimed my status as a semi-normal human once more. With my friends, we learned how to drive together, we went to prom together, and we encountered all of the standard, growing up, coming of age, first time moments...together.
On Friday night, I attended a fundraiser for a highschool friend, who had recently lost a member of her family. I looked around the room of this bar, and it was like a league of nations of highschool cliques. Each group of friends were represented, and the outpouring of people who came to support our former classmate spoke volumes to me. It was amazing. Even though we are twenty-six years old, and haven't been in school together for quite some time now, gathered in that bar (aside from the fact that we are legally allowed to drink) it felt like literally no time had passed since we walked by each other in A-Hall, in Livingston High School. What more could I ask for? That's right. Nothing.
Oh. And, then there are my Schodack friends. And I think that you all know just how I feel about my Schodack friends. After fourteen summers spent at Schodack, these friendships mean the world to me. I met some of my 12123 friends when I was just eleven years old. While other friendships did not develop until later, in our teenage years when we were getting drunk together on nights out as counselors. And even years later, my former campers became close friends too. But, I think that all I need to say is this: On Saturday, I spent five hours parked on Marla's living room chair. Four of us camp girlays together, (BGbabe, Meelzy and Mawa) feasting on fine Italian cuisine, and giggling like twelve year olds. Updog, Shake-its, and Meelz's picture of a baby mouse suspended in honey on her kitchen floor made my stomach hurt from non-stop laughter. It really is true what they say. We literally did nothing but sit in Marla's living room eating pizza, but I'm pretty sure that I had the time of my life.
Last but not least, I can never forget my Rhodies, (who I don't get to see nearly as often as I would like to). My college friends, who gave me rides when I lost my license via suspension, who helped protect me from Mattie B (the mentally challenged boy who lived down the street who threw things at me), who spoke to policemen when our parties got broken up, who sat on the beach in our sweatshirts together, who played lax with me, who tour-guided with me, who seawatched with me, who lived at 80 Ballsak with me, and who made my college years so much effing fun, that I will always think fondly of a little place called URI.
In short, (or in length--as this blog entry got quite long!) I know just how lucky I am to have such special groups of people in my life. And, I hope that we will all be able to up-dog it together, for a long, long time to come.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Just a Decade Behind
It always bothers me when I wake up in the morning, and I can't for the life of me--remember my dreams from the night before. For the exception of s-e-x dreams, this usually seems to be the case. However, I quite vividly remember the dream that I had on Friday night. That is because my dream combined two of my most favorite things: pop culture via the 1990's, and pop culture via the 2000's. I dreamt that Brian Austin Green; Beverly Hills 90210's, David Silver, (hubba-hubba) and I went together, to attend the funeral of Marissa Cooper (Mischa Barton) of The OC. I think it is extremely safe to say that I am the only one in the world who would have this dream.
Today, while at my friend, Diana's birthday brunch, I shared my Friday night dream with the group. That's when my friend Josh said to me, "You really are living a decade behind everybody else." I took these words to heart and realized something that the rest of you probably already knew. I really am living one decade behind the rest of America. Up until last week, (had it not been for the generosity of Daveedykins) I would still be tip-tip-typing away on my good ole' desktop--but am now the proud owner of a mac! Helloooo 2010. I am also quite possibly the only person I know who still uses a flip-phone. (And a pretty crappy one, if that). When I watch my eight year old students exchanging pin numbers for their blackberries, I know--I must really be behind.
I come home each and every day from work and watch television shows that are at least seven years old, if not more. (Most likely more). I prefer fashions from the '90's (which puts me two decades behind). And, I still dream of days when life was simpler, cruising around town, and spray painting the words SENIORS on my car's back window. In fact, this blog may be the only 2010 appropriate aspect that I have going for me, except for the fact that I have no idea how to make this blog any more technologically 2010 savvy with fancypantz pictures or graphics.
Last but not least, Galzbabi (my highschool bestie) has made her career out of celebrity findings. She spends her weekends with the cast of Gossip Girl, and my only response is, " That's cool, but tell me when you hang out with Luke Perry, ok?"
Today, while at my friend, Diana's birthday brunch, I shared my Friday night dream with the group. That's when my friend Josh said to me, "You really are living a decade behind everybody else." I took these words to heart and realized something that the rest of you probably already knew. I really am living one decade behind the rest of America. Up until last week, (had it not been for the generosity of Daveedykins) I would still be tip-tip-typing away on my good ole' desktop--but am now the proud owner of a mac! Helloooo 2010. I am also quite possibly the only person I know who still uses a flip-phone. (And a pretty crappy one, if that). When I watch my eight year old students exchanging pin numbers for their blackberries, I know--I must really be behind.
I come home each and every day from work and watch television shows that are at least seven years old, if not more. (Most likely more). I prefer fashions from the '90's (which puts me two decades behind). And, I still dream of days when life was simpler, cruising around town, and spray painting the words SENIORS on my car's back window. In fact, this blog may be the only 2010 appropriate aspect that I have going for me, except for the fact that I have no idea how to make this blog any more technologically 2010 savvy with fancypantz pictures or graphics.
Last but not least, Galzbabi (my highschool bestie) has made her career out of celebrity findings. She spends her weekends with the cast of Gossip Girl, and my only response is, " That's cool, but tell me when you hang out with Luke Perry, ok?"
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Ya Just Never Know
New York City is a strange place. With ten million people living on this island, it always sort of amazes me when I run into someone unexpectedly. Now, don't get me wrong-- if I had stood on the corner of 34th Street and 3rd Avenue two years ago, I probably would have seen my entire high school graduating class. (Love ya Murray Hill!). But, with all the possible things to do, and places to be in NYC, it really does baffle me each time I see someone, in some place, that I did not expect. These situations always seem to sneak up on you, and you just never know when you might run into someone unexpected...
On Saturday night, I went to the bar Ella (Ella, Ella, Ella), I had entered the bar by myself as I was running late (as per usual) and meeting a group of my friends there. I was making my way across the bar, towards my friends, when my eyes met the gaze of a stranger across the way. Only--wait just a second... he wasn't a stranger--he was actually a guy that my friend had dated a few months prior; things had not worked out between the two of them, and I hadn't seen him since. (FYI: My friend that dated him was also at this bar--needless to say she was moderately displeased by this situation). I was making my way towards him to say hello, when I stopped dead in my tracks. Standing next to this fellow was someone that I was also familiar with. I never forget a face. (That's actually not true, I forget faces often, but--thanks to facebook--I never forgot this face).
Hmm...how to say this tactfully? Standing next to my friends ex-boo, was someone who had seen the likes of my lifesize Luke Perry poster, late one night, last summer. Great. Fucking Fantastic. Oh, how I would love nothing more than to say hello to some asswipe who, um--ya know...with me, and then never spoke to me again. A true gentleman, if you will. But alas! It was too late, both boys had already seen me, and now I had no choice but to approach them. The small talk (or, unwanted stop and chat) between me and my friend's ex-boo's, friend (Did ya get that?) was uncomfortable at best. And the very obvious discomfort that this boy was feeling, gave me anxiety, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
Oh, New York City, you are a strange place, and I just never know when I may run into an old friend, relative, or late-night Luke Perry visitor.
On Saturday night, I went to the bar Ella (Ella, Ella, Ella), I had entered the bar by myself as I was running late (as per usual) and meeting a group of my friends there. I was making my way across the bar, towards my friends, when my eyes met the gaze of a stranger across the way. Only--wait just a second... he wasn't a stranger--he was actually a guy that my friend had dated a few months prior; things had not worked out between the two of them, and I hadn't seen him since. (FYI: My friend that dated him was also at this bar--needless to say she was moderately displeased by this situation). I was making my way towards him to say hello, when I stopped dead in my tracks. Standing next to this fellow was someone that I was also familiar with. I never forget a face. (That's actually not true, I forget faces often, but--thanks to facebook--I never forgot this face).
Hmm...how to say this tactfully? Standing next to my friends ex-boo, was someone who had seen the likes of my lifesize Luke Perry poster, late one night, last summer. Great. Fucking Fantastic. Oh, how I would love nothing more than to say hello to some asswipe who, um--ya know...with me, and then never spoke to me again. A true gentleman, if you will. But alas! It was too late, both boys had already seen me, and now I had no choice but to approach them. The small talk (or, unwanted stop and chat) between me and my friend's ex-boo's, friend (Did ya get that?) was uncomfortable at best. And the very obvious discomfort that this boy was feeling, gave me anxiety, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
Oh, New York City, you are a strange place, and I just never know when I may run into an old friend, relative, or late-night Luke Perry visitor.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Broken Pinkie Chronicles
It has been three weeks since I broke my finger. And though, it was only my pinkie (Thank God), my finger is completely deranged looking. Like, really not okay looking, and while I am grateful that I still have all ten of my fingers (and get to wear a special little pinkie condom)--I'm not sure if I will ever have a normal looking right hand again. Guess I can kiss my career as a hand model goodbye! Guess whose right hand appeared in a jewelry store's catalog modeling rings at age 13? Mmhmm, mine.
This broken pinkie experience has taught me that each one of my extremities are important to every day functioning. The following are a list of the things that have been made far more challenging as a result of having a broken finger.
1. Eating. My pinkie splint is covered in ketchup, chocolate ice cream and hot fudge. No matter how hard I try, my pinkie splint cannot stay out of the way of my plate, and the contents on it. I cannot eat without dipping my finger into one, or all of these items.
2. Handshakes. Every new person that I've met in the past three weeks has thought that I have a dead fish handshake. I can't firmly shake anyone's hand, and thus shake like a five year old with bad manners. (Or like Julia Kaplan playing the deadfish handshake game).
3. Typing. I type like a god damn 4th grader. (These blogs have required a very concentrated effort to avoid typo's).
4. Handwriting. My handwriting (which once won a contest in the 3rd grade for its proper letter formation and neatness) is certainly sub par these days. It's a good thing that my whole day doesn't revolve around writing on a board for people to see and learn from.
5. Ice cream scooping. I've given up, and just eat from the carton.
6. Keeping my hand warm. A glove does not fit over my right hand, and my hand does not comfortably fit inside my coat pocket. I hope that my pinkie doesn't catch frost bite.
7. Make-up Application. Applying any sort of make up that I need to rub onto my skin is quite challenging using my right hand. Yes, I can do it left-handed, but it's not the same, okay?
8. Drumstick masturbation. (Just kidding, sort of).
9. Clapping. For those of you that know me well, have been in a room with me for more than 15 minutes, and or spent your summers with me at Camp Schodack-- know that I love to clap. (And, I'm dang good at it too). Clapping, (like talking for some), is one of my greatest forms of expression. Saying that I love to clap (LOUDLY) is an understatement. I have been asked by various friends not to clap in their apartments anymore, as there have been noise complaints on my behalf. I can't NOT clap, whether it is in excitement in response to good news, clapping along to a beat, or just clapping in some sort of contest (which I partake in often). Some may say my clap is abrasive, but, I say that it's strong and hearty. Not having been able to clap heartily for the last three weeks has been painful for me, and could quite possibly be the worst part of this whole broken pinkie experience.
This broken pinkie experience has taught me that each one of my extremities are important to every day functioning. The following are a list of the things that have been made far more challenging as a result of having a broken finger.
1. Eating. My pinkie splint is covered in ketchup, chocolate ice cream and hot fudge. No matter how hard I try, my pinkie splint cannot stay out of the way of my plate, and the contents on it. I cannot eat without dipping my finger into one, or all of these items.
2. Handshakes. Every new person that I've met in the past three weeks has thought that I have a dead fish handshake. I can't firmly shake anyone's hand, and thus shake like a five year old with bad manners. (Or like Julia Kaplan playing the deadfish handshake game).
3. Typing. I type like a god damn 4th grader. (These blogs have required a very concentrated effort to avoid typo's).
4. Handwriting. My handwriting (which once won a contest in the 3rd grade for its proper letter formation and neatness) is certainly sub par these days. It's a good thing that my whole day doesn't revolve around writing on a board for people to see and learn from.
5. Ice cream scooping. I've given up, and just eat from the carton.
6. Keeping my hand warm. A glove does not fit over my right hand, and my hand does not comfortably fit inside my coat pocket. I hope that my pinkie doesn't catch frost bite.
7. Make-up Application. Applying any sort of make up that I need to rub onto my skin is quite challenging using my right hand. Yes, I can do it left-handed, but it's not the same, okay?
8. Drumstick masturbation. (Just kidding, sort of).
9. Clapping. For those of you that know me well, have been in a room with me for more than 15 minutes, and or spent your summers with me at Camp Schodack-- know that I love to clap. (And, I'm dang good at it too). Clapping, (like talking for some), is one of my greatest forms of expression. Saying that I love to clap (LOUDLY) is an understatement. I have been asked by various friends not to clap in their apartments anymore, as there have been noise complaints on my behalf. I can't NOT clap, whether it is in excitement in response to good news, clapping along to a beat, or just clapping in some sort of contest (which I partake in often). Some may say my clap is abrasive, but, I say that it's strong and hearty. Not having been able to clap heartily for the last three weeks has been painful for me, and could quite possibly be the worst part of this whole broken pinkie experience.
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