I'm one sick puppy.

I was just writing an email to a friend and I have thoroughly disgusted myself. I have a tendency to become obsessed over the smallest and most insignificant things. Below is an excerpt from said email which I am totally embarrassed by:

What are you up to? I am getting crazy with the Internet stalking. This time it's all aimed at my latest obsession, Robert Pattinson. I watched Twilight and now I am thinking of turning vampire. Hope we can still be friends. I was thinking, they don't eat real food, so I'll definitely get skinny (maybe only because I'll be dead, but whatevs). It will suck though because I can't get tan anymore. He is in the city, and my stalking has gone to the next level. I got dressed this morning thinking, 'what should I wear if we run into each other.' My sources tell me he was in midtown yesterday ... I am sure he doesn't make it a point of trolling around these parts (Midtown is so un-hip), but you never know.

Case closed, I am a sicko who is not fit for this world.

It has to be the sushi.

Forgive me, for it has been nearly a month since my last blog. I am feeling particularly sick over this, although that could be due to the sushi that I ate for lunch or the lingering disgust I feel toward a certain person who posted the most unflattering Facebook pictures of me this past weekend. Not to worry – they were all untagged immediately, however the emotional scars will last a lifetime.

This feeling of restlessness is not a good sign. I’ve experienced this before and it almost always results in impulse shopping, travel, or other unwise choices. I am still most definitely in college-mode and the thought of spending my summer indoors, trapped like zoo animal, is causing me distress. I long for the days when I could linger over a late afternoon al fresco lunch or make it to Alive at 5 at 4pm. Those days seem to be over and this summer I will be lucky if I even make it out for 5 minutes to pick up lunch. (When you are the only one in the office, even going to the bathroom becomes a process). Actually now that I think about it, since the aforementioned FB pics have surfaced, lunch is no longer an option – crack is going to be my new hunger suppressant. I think the sweating alone (as demonstrated by Whitney Houston) will be enough to make any gal bathing suit ready.

I think I need a vacation – time to really decompress and work on a tan that, if I really try, can rival the natural skin color of a Latin American. I’m getting quite sick of the same old, same old and living the life of a vagabond. Life after graduation should not be this exhausting or disheartening, for that matter. I thought your 20s were supposed to be the time to live it up, all while figuring out what you want to do with your life. Am I a bad person because I didn't know what I wanted to do when I started college? Am I an even worse person because I still didn't know after I graduated? I don't think so, but maybe that's the way it is. They don't prepare you well enough in school. They say if you work hard, "network" (barf.), and are patient, you will find opportunity. Well I have done all of those things for literally two years and I am still here … blogging away about hard it is to find a job. I used to be quite particular, I understand that wasn’t the way to operate, but I have lowered my standards to the point where I might be dressed as a hot dog handing out flyers in Time Square.

Thanks, I am so happy I spent 100 grand (interest adds up) on college to come to this shocking realization. I guess my current job isn’t so bad, I mean it (barely) pays the bills. I just fear that if I ever get a real job, e.g., one that doesn't allow me to blog during the day, my brain will have turned into mush and I won't even know how to open an excel spreadsheet.

How did Lindsay Lohan get so lucky? Her job is as an "actress" and I haven't seen her doing anything but act a fool and jetset to Hawaii. That's the life for me, for real.

The Big Comfy Couch

Yesterday I ventured out to take advantage of the beautiful afternoon. And when I say ventured, I mean I had to take the NYC subway and it was the most exhausting/exhilarating moment of my life. Too bad that wasn’t even going to be the highlight of my day, because on any other day it would have been blogworthy.

I was to meet up with my good friend LL and my newest city friend Theresa. I had explicit directions from my Iphone that told me that in order to get to the LES and meet up with these ladies I had to take the 6, then transfer to the F at Broadway-Lafayette to go to 2nd Avenue. Well, I was a little late because several trains went by, but they were not clearly marked F, so I refused to get on. Anyway, I digress because the real fun was right around the corner.

Me and the ladies were going to have some brunch and pick up a couch that they found on my favorite creepster hotspot, Craigslist for their new apartment. We meet these super nice gals who were selling their couch and there was an exchange of some dinero. At this time we were waiting for the professional movers that were also found on Craigslist that were supposed to maneuver the couch out of the LES and up, up town.

Well I was not prepared for what I saw come up those stairs … there was a man, who I can only describe as scrawny. Like wayyyyy scrawny. He said something about being an ex-professional skateboarder. I couldn’t really focus on him because I was too busy staring at his "business partner." She was a small person (as in short) with the biggest breasts I have ever seen in my life. She must have noticed my mouth hanging open because she said, "I’m really strong." Well these professionals were of zero help, unless you count help as knocking pictures off the wall, ripping a couch, and damaging a front door, but who am I?, obviously not a professional mover.

The movers must have gotten sick of us telling them how to do their job because we went out to check on the status of the move and they had left the giant sleeper sofa jammed in the narrow stairwell. Left, as in, fled the scene. LL called them, and the big breasted, little woman, said something like, "Wait to talk shit about us after we move your stuff, bird." I don’t understand the 'bird' reference, but will now call everyone I know bird.

We were obviously incapable of moving this behemoth anywhere. Theresa frantically called other movers off Craigslist to see what the deal was and if anyone could help. We were a real fire hazard and several people had to climb over the railing to get by. Finally 3 strong, handsome, and extremely nice young men picked up the sofa, brought it down three flights of stairs, and high-fived us girls who could do nothing but stare at them in awe.

Damsels in distress we were, and we were more than happy to be rescued.

Below is a pic of Theresa waiting for the second bunch of movers after the couch made it down the stairs.

Easter Purging

Yesterday afternoon, I was at the end of my rope. I was on my knees gripping the lid of the toilet, with my finger as far down my throat as I could muster. I am ashamed to say I had been here before and it was all my doing. I don’t know what put me over the edge. Perhaps it was that last meatball or the fresh mozzarella smothered in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. No – I know what it was. It was that bowl of chocolate trifle for desert. In my defense, it was fat-free cool whip.

Oh boy, I really felt sick after Easter dinner. Between the yummy appetizers, Italian wedding soup, and pasta my dad slaved over, I was donezo. I could hardly move. I ran/crawled upstairs to the bathroom where I wasn't quite sure what would happen. After that clammy feeling came on and writhing on the floor for a few moments, it became very clear to me what had to be done.

"Pull the trigger," I heard over and over in my head. "You have done this before." Well, normally it’s done 3am and only because the room is spinning. This was not the case yesterday. Anyone who has ever had the pleasure of eating anything my dad makes knows what I am talking about. The man, if nothing else, can cook. And he wants you to eat until you drop. I've been known to give in on a few occasions, yesterday was a holiday, after all.

However, Big Mike is also a fan of the summer BBQ at our beach house in Clinton. Sissy won’t eat in a bathing suit. I think she is on to something. Nothing says sexxxxy more than a bathing suit busting at the seams and a face covered in Big Mike’s bbq sauce (I don’t know how he makes it, but it takes several days and is quite labor intensive. His ex-sister-in-law says Big Mike has made 3 good things in his life: me, sissy, and that bbq chicken). In order to avoid the busting bathing suit syndrome, this summer I vow to eat in stretch pants. Crisis averted.

Sole Sister

I hate using the word jealous. It makes me very uncomfortable because I feel like there is a lot of anger associated with the word. I prefer envious, see … not so angry. When people say, “I’m so jealous you aren’t working today” are you mad that I’m not working or just wish you weren’t working either?

Anyway, I digress because I am going to purposefully use the word jealous because I AM jealous. I am jealous of my sister because she made the most fabulous purchase when we were in San Francisco. See Sissy was in desperate need of a pair of black boots. The ones she had been wearing were shameful. I didn’t want to be seen with her when she had them on, which was unfortunately, quite often. Sissy and I went to my favorite place on earth, Saks. And the Saks in San Fran was fab. I was beckoned by the Louboutin Gods and felt my feet take me to the display even though I did my best to resist. I was not there to shop after all, I was there to help Sissy.

She tried on pumps, I said, don’t bother with those. Try on those boots. She said no because she didn’t want to fall in love with them and then feel pressure to buy them. I said there is no such thing.

There was a bitchy patron watching our every move when Sissy tried on the boots. She made a snide comment that Sissy had the boots on the wrong feet. I thought, no way, MY sister would ever be so dumb. OMG Sissy DOES have the boots on the wrong feet, "take them off, take them off," I screamed at her in my mind. Sissy said something about them looking different when they are standing up, but I couldn’t even listen, I was too busy figuring out where I was going to die.

The salesman asked us if we needed any water. Sissy was about to pass out after the wrong foot incident so she accepted. I declined. I didn’t want this bitchy patron to think I was even close to being human.

Long story short, Sissy is the proud owner of beauteous pair of 100mm knee high Christian Louboutin boots. It was the best purchase of either of our lives and I am insanely jealous. See, even normal people aren’t able to jam their calves in those boots. Sissy almost had a bit of a problem, but we did our best to shove her legs in there anyway. If I was able to wear them and could afford them, I’d have several pairs by now. But I don’t and I am totally jel. Actually, who am I kidding ... even if I couldn’t afford them (which I can't), I’d have a least one pair.

Wear them well sissy, you deserve them.


P.S. – after this shoe debacle and with the 20% discount that day for opening up a charge, Sissy bought me a pair of sunglasses. Now she can be jealous of me.

Tales from the Spa Cave

What is better than a long weekend in California? Probably a full week in California, but I will take whatever comes my way. I just got home from a wonderful little escape to San Francisco and the Napa Valley where I wined, dined, and wined some more. I have never been a wine aficionado, I am still not, but at least now I know the techniques to look like I know what I am doing.

Oh vino, I have come to appreciate you so. So much in fact, that I decided to treat myself at our resort/spa to a little package called the “Solo Vino” that they offered in their spa caves. It was described as a real treat to the senses with a body scrub, wrap, and massage. Well how could I pass it up, especially when they were going to rub, scrub, and wrap me in grape seeds and extracts? Well this Solo Vino package was not all it was cracked up to be. In fact, instead of it being a relaxing 2 hours, I spent a majority of the time in a full blown panic attack. Please, let me explain …

It all started out harmless enough. I will say that there was a bit of a wrench thrown into the plan as I was suffering from a monthly woman problem. My therapist lady didn’t even introduce herself to me until I was practically nude in the room. I’m sorry, call me old fashioned, but I like to know a person’s name before they start rubbing oils all over me. She really didn’t explain anything about the treatments to me, so I figured no problemo, I can leave my undies on. I guess I am not only old fashioned, but incredibly modest. She said, “Are you going to leave those on?” I meekly said, “Yes,” although what I really wanted to say was, “Believe me lady, you’ll thank me later.”

So she proceeded to scrub the crap out of me. This would have been blissful if the towel she gave me to cover up with wasn’t the size of a washcloth. And wouldn’t you know when she told me she was going to cover her face with the tiny towel as I flipped over, she dropped said towel and caught me mid-flip. NOT HAPPY. So now that I am all scrubbed, she proceeds to take a hose-like thing and rinse me off. Well I could have used some warning that I’d be stuck in wet bottoms for the rest of the treatment, but she didn’t seem to care.

Now comes this cave mud. She really slathers it on, and again washcloth size towel to cover myself. Thankfully she didn’t drop the towel this time, I think she got her fill the first time. Then she wraps me in plastic wrap and leaves for 15 minutes. In my 15 minutes of what was supposed to be relaxation I wondered how am I supposed to get this mud off and what on Earth am I going to do with these underwear because there is no way they can stay on for another hour especially with the massage coming up next.

Bottom line, after 15 minutes, I had no plan. Then she comes back in and gives me my next orders, “I am going to start the shower for you. Make sure you get all the mud off, I’ll clean up the room and give you some privacy. When you are done, come back out here and lay on your back and put the (washcloth size) towel over you.” So now I am in the shower and it becomes clear that the underwear are no longer wearable. But what am I going to do with them? I came up with the bright idea to shove them into the pocket of my bathrobe that was hanging on the door. So in my quick alone time between shower and table, I found a spare towel (thank god) and stuffed the goods in the pocket of my robe. What was really going through my mind was how this woman was going to react to my now obvious missing underwear. Luckily she didn’t say a single word although, I could practically HEAR her thinking, where are the underwear? Too bad she didn’t see the puddle forming by the door where the evidence was dripping out of my robe. Or maybe she did, I can’t be sure and was too mortified to even acknowledge my missing undergarments.

The massage was next, which went off without much fanfare. I was thinking of my sissy who was in the next room getting the same treatments. Was she suffering as much as I was? More than likely she ripped all her clothes off and showed her lady all the goods before they were in the room. Actually after our debrief of the experience, sissy said she was also thinking of me. Especially when she received her little towel to cover up with. Believe me, if it wasn’t working for her, it would not be working for me.

When all was said and done, I went back to the locker room and put on my clothes, sans any underwear. As a little surprise, I broke into a certain aunt’s locker and left a wet, muddy gift. She was not amused, but then again neither was I.

Third Eye Blind

Back in the day, as in 1996, when I was 11 years old, I was obsessed with Third Eye Blind. I mean totally obsessed, and this was really before I could submerge myself into the depths of the Internet doing my good stalking, I mean, “research.”

I had this friend who turned me on to them, and for that, I will always be thankful to her even though I have not seen/talked to her in about 10 years. So anyway, I loved 3EB. One time I went to San Francisco (where 3EB hailed from) and I made my Aunt call every Stephen Jenkins in the phonebook. We thought she found the right one and she left a weirdo message on voicemail saying something along the lines of, “Hi I hope this is the Stephen Jenkins from Third Eye Blind. I just wanted to say I love your music. We have three generations (my grandma was also on this particular trip) of fans that really love your songs. Thank you.” I know this is bizzaro, but see, I was a bit of a pain in the ass, and I think she thought it would make me happy and would stop me from being an all around miserable human being. (It did and that is why Auntie Mar continues to be one of my most favorite people ever).

Now that I have creeped myself (and everyone else) out it brings me back to my point of how much I loved this band when I was younger. I continued to like them through there last full record – “Out of the Vein” which came out when I was a junior in High School or so. The last time I saw them in concert it was at a teeny tiny club in Hartford; I might have been the only person that knew all the words to all the songs.

So 3EB have fallen off the radar a bit since then, who cares? They are still good … they are still the Semi-Charmed Life, Motorcycle Drive By boys that we love (although their lineup has changed a bit). You all can imagine my delight to find that they are playing in my very own Stamfeezy. It’s so close to me house I could walk! No more friends' parents driving us to Poughkeepsie or wherever else. This is awesome.

Needless to say, I’ll be making an appearance at this monumental show. It will be the first one where I can legally drink. I’ll be the girl wearing her Bonfire Tour t-shirt circa 1997.