Me and The Babe

There are certain people that I know I could have been or could be friends with. Perhaps I have World Series fever, but I have no doubt that back in the day, me and George Herman Ruth were BFF and we were totally tearing up the town prohibition style.

Me and Babe Ruth would have hit if off famously and he would have been wowed by my extensive knowledge of Yankees baseball. And when I say extensive knowledge, I mean the Richter Scale of Hotness that I rank all the players on. Matsui? He's for the birds, I prefer a more rugged man … Swisher is definitely a 10.0. Dip, mohawk, and all.

Also, I could have totally been his wingman doing the late-night thing. He was known for being a playboy of sorts and enjoying the hooch and the love of a lady friend or two. I am sure he worried if the ladies loved him for 'George', or if they loved him for being 'The Babe.' I sympathize with the man because I know what it's like to have people throw themselves at you because you are so rich and beautiful. I do have a fur jacket and not to toot my own horn, but I was a Paul Mitchell hair model.

Come to think of it, perhaps there is more to this fictitious friendship than I originally suspected. Our lives most certainly overlap … there is our love of the good life, the rubenesque figure we both share, and of course our appreciation for the greatest baseball team ever. The House that Ruth Built is kind of like a home to me, I've spent quite a few hours there over the years. Now, I am not saying that in another life I was Babe Ruth, I'll leave that up for you to decide, but I will say that there is nothing that is making me believe otherwise. Period. End of story.


Go Yanks!

Fashionably Fat

Hello blog, it has sure been a while. One of my many legions of fans called me to tell me that she was quite sad that I had not posted in while. Well, have no fear … the blog is back. So much has happened since my last post. Most importantly, I have not dropped dead due to the oppressive heat wave that has hit the city. I am sweating as I write this because I am envisioning myself walking to Grand Central and through the slums back to my house tonight. I might meet my maker on Lexington Avenue … at least I'll be fully clothed, the only appropriate way to bite the bullet.

Speaking of clothes, Project Runway was on last night! I am so happy to have this little show back in my life. I didn't watch the entire episode (I fell asleep like a loser), but there was one designer who said she makes clothes for ALL women, many who are Plus-Sexy. Well, that is a novel idea. I had to laugh at this lunatic because she is obviously going nowhere fast in the competition. Since when is it fashionable to be a chubster? As a chubster, I feel like I don't want to see Two-Ton-Tilly strutting down the runway. It must go against nature or something. A while back a bunch of designers came out and said that they didn't want to use really skinny models in their shows (I think it was in Spain … they love churros and pork, so I can kind of understand). That's a personal preference, I guess, but I think that if you make a statement like that, then you better make those leather cigarette pants fit Star Jones' pre-surgery ham hock legs. You want fatties on the runway, you have to make clothes for fatties, buster.

It's no surprise that, for the most part, clothes look good on smaller people. There are some gals who pull off crazy looks with panache. Beth Ditto, my girl from The Gossip, is quite fearless and that is commendable. However, I was reading Vanity Fair last night and the interviewer showed a picture of Beth Ditto to Oscar de la Renta and he cringed. Like shuttered when he saw her picture. It is shocking to see someone of that girth jammed into a Herve Leger bandage dress. I mean I saw Hilary Duff in one and even she wasn't looking in top form.

Bottom line is, when I scour over Vogue or W, or any fashion magazine for that matter, I don't want to see some woman who looks like me. I want to see skin and freaking bones. I want a size 00 lady to have the skirt pinned in the back to make it fit. If all of a sudden larger gals are in my beloved fashion mags, I am going to have to find other ways to hate myself … and I just don't have time for that kind of nonsense.


Beth Ditto from The Gossip

The Unhappiest Place on Earth

I know people that love Disney World … or is it Disney Land? I don’t know and it really makes no difference, they are both terrible. Some people flock to Disney and it makes them really happy. It is supposedly ‘the happiest place on Earth.’ Well Walt, I beg to differ. I went to Disney World once and it was the worst trip of my entire life. As a matter of fact, if God ever does the opposite of blessing me and somehow I end up with a child, or gross, more than one, they will never go to any Disney park and they should consider it a gift from me to them.

Before I get into the story of why I harbor such hatred towards Disney World, I will say that I went when I was 9 or 10 under the guise of a dance trip with my mom and sister. Dance was never a really good thing for me to get involved with. Sequins and spandex never have been, and never will be, a look that works for me. Also, during a particularly heated argument at Magic Kingdom, I think my mom got so mad at me and Sissy that she left us there. That could be gross exaggeration, but in my mind, Sissy and me had to fend for ourselves and make it back to our hotel room sans any parental guidance.

There are certain things that stand out in my mind as being particularly heinous from our first (and only) trip to Orlando. First, those pre-historic looking turkey legs ... WTF. Why someone would make a spectacle out of them self and eat that thing in public is beyond my comprehension. And if you are eating said turkey leg and wearing a fanny-pack, I mean honestly, shoot yourself now. Second, I am not a fan of rides. I was too afraid to go on Space Mountain and I don’t think my family has ever fully forgiven me for ruining that magical moment. I did go on the Tower of Terror and I think my equilibrium has been askew ever since.

That being said, if for some reason I do ever go back to Disney, I don’t even know if they would even let me in the park. See we had a bit of a run in with Snow White. I didn’t know that my mom liked her so much, but when she saw her from about 200 feet away, Lynno charged her and pushed many young girls out of the way. She was reprimanded by Snow White who had to ask her to please calm down … I was scarred for life.

So if for some reason there are hungry mouths that I am legally obligated to feed and care for, they will not be hitting Disney World. They are going to experience the world the same way that I did … by watching a lot of trashy TV including General Hospital and Jerry Springer. That’s what I did and I think I turned out OK. I mean I DO have a blog.

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.