Happy (Almost) New Year



Terror, schmerror. Police everywhere. That's NY for ya. Bit chilly out there, too. Better bundle up if you're gonna do the tourist thing under the Swarovski ball.



RD, I've got a blank CD. That puppy's being burned tomorrow!

I'm dreaming of a whi...wet? Christmas, just like the one when I got soaked



It's drowned rat territory out there kiddies, at least in NY. Rayna's not back from Andalusia yet and Puy might be in Valencia, too, travel maidens that both of you are! ;-) Vanessa Ayan's probably got snow left and right, but that's Breckenridge for ya. I love hearing from all of you!



My godmother's still pretty sick, though the lasixx is finally kickin' in. She'll still be in hospital through the weekend. That means another rip-roarin' year at my mother's friend's house. The Drunk and his enemy will be picking at each other like crazed baboons, nit for nit and scab for scab. Maybe I'll just bring a bottle of wine and drown it out. It's the holidays, right? Seriously, I watched this spectacle last year and it was like a sociology experiment. Still, "no" ain't in mom's vocabulary, so this is her idea of fun. I'm too distracted by the neighbor's reindeer lawn display to fight it out, so I'll just bite the bullet and have some roast beef. I'd rather go see "Peter Pan", I hear Captain Hook is quite a hoot in this version. Maybe in January.



Well, the tree is up, decorated, lit, the angels are in the window, the gifts are wrapped, the food is ready to cook, all we need is a bit o'snow! In addition to the Happy Squirrels on the concourse, there's also a huge display of pictures about Hannukah and Christmas drawn by the children of Rock Center's employees---exec's kids, window washers, security guards, admins, you name it and their kids have something painted, crayola-ed, sparkled, glittered, glued, cut, pasted, connected, or scotch-taped. The real way to appreciate this holiday is to see it from a child's eyes.



Happy Gingerbread and sugarplums everyone!

The news item of the day...



Fishermen Dress Lobster As Barbie



MOUNT DESERT ISLAND, Maine (AP) _ Practical jokers Jim Bright and Chris

Costello never imagined that their idea of dressing a female lobster in a

Barbie outfit _ accessorized with pink high heels _ would save her from the

steam pot. But it did _ at least 10 times.



Where do they get these things...

Bad news & Good news



The bad news is my godmother is really ill. She's on Lasixx pills to control the fluid in her heart and lungs. It's congestive heart failure, and I really hope she makes it through Christmas. After this post, I'm heading off to the hospital. The other bad news is we're getting brand new servers at work. Most, if not all, the PCs froze or acted slow yesterday. We also got the requisite email from HR about toning down internet jokes, forwarding, etc. Whatever. With the meeting I went to yesterday morning, there's going to be a total rehaul of my office's work process, so that means less time to futz around on the internet. Hey, if it means a better system and an easier way to work? I'll curtail my blogging to weekends and not worry about it. Explorer's been shutting down, as well. I'll have to go to Netscape--ugh.



The good news is that RD has re-emerged and gave that famous doll as a gift. He says it could have gone over better, but it is the thought that counts. It just might take a while, but I think there's potential here. And a glorious 1/2 day yesterday allowed me to get out of work at 12:30 and hightail it over to the Balanchine exihibit at The Performing Arts Library. It's essentially a complete timeline of all his work, his quotes, books, choreography, and mementoes from his dancers and people he worked with. It's really something. A continuous video stream of a class taught by Suki Shorer shows the variants on passe as a pose, a movement, and a component of more difficult steps. Merrill Ashley was the featured ballerina, and she really did have the best feet in the business. Balanchine's 100th birthday would have been next month. It will be a marvel to see what Peter Martins's has revived.



All in all, a good day.



(Marie, loved the barbie pic! Very funny.)

Fellissimo's Happy Toy Project 2003



For some reason, this made me think of Meg (did you get my card yet?)...In 1997, a company named Fellissimo began a project designed to cheer up children in war-torn parts of the world. The company asked its Japanese customers to search their closets for swatches of fabric from clothes that meant something to them. The swatches had to be 4 x 4. Soon, 30,000 pieces of fabric from all parts of Japan were literally assembled. These fabric pieces created 1,100 smiling stuffed toys. They were given the name "Happy Toys."



"Happiness", the initial project, gave way to the "Happy Bear" in 1998. Since then, there have been various animals made out of 4 x 4 swatches. Themes have included Hope, Friendship, Kindness, Love, Humor, Wisdom, and Courage. An 18 foot Christmas tree comprised entirely of pine cones and animals stands at Fellissimo's headquarters in Japan. The design house here in NY has loaned this tree for display downstairs on the Rockefeller Concourse near Hallmark cards. Walking past it this morning, I thought "Well, that's an interesting thing to do with beanie babies." As I got closer, I realized they were little squirrels! These cuties, also known as "Smiling Goodwill Ambassadors", have been distributed to children including Japan, Vietnam, Rwanda, Kosovo and Afghanistan. They have movable arms and legs and are patched together with little buttons for eyes. This has got to be the best thing I've seen all week.



I love this holiday so much. And the Grinch is on tonight at 8! Cracks me up when he slices roast beast for Cindy Lou Who.

Sad, lonely and growing old? I think not.

Update: October 3, 2017. The person that this post was written about is now a registered sex offender in CT. He was caught with child pornography and was convicted in 2008. A bit of internet sleuthing helped me find him. So much for me being the "degenerate" he told everyone I was. It's also why I can't seem to find him at all (or him attacking me, like he used to) on the 'net. Not having any media presence is probably part of his parole agreement. I love getting the last laugh. Narcissists always do themselves in. He did it with 12 images of someone's kid he could pleasure himself to. Sick.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, really. I've managed to save more money this year (wow), I have more friends, and more joy lately than I can shake a stick at. Even my health has improved, according to my blood tests. My team of doctors are impressed. I have love, my mother, a great job, and even my precious boo Dexter turns 11 on Friday. In fact, he's sitting here next to me as I write this, purring. Black cats are a charm.



Hearty Christmas wishes to those that have been good and generous to me this year: RD, Margie, Rosanna, Robert LaMarca, Randy, Jamie, Mom, Bea, Pat, Louella, Barbara, Rick, the other Rick, Judy, Anna, Michelle, Pengy and her mom, Andrew, Antonella, Dan, Becky, Liam, Hank, Mell, Chris, Leila, Mark, Amy, Jenn, Duane, Dwayne R., Marie H., George T., Tom, the other Tom, Kenny, Josie, Jay, Damone, Mike, Salvatore, Pierre, Rayna, Thelma, Jackie and Charlie, Paul, Walter, Jon, Zip, and Deborah. Lonely? I think not. These are people I never spoke about or introduced you to due to your nasty ways. If anyone wants to get the shit kicked out of them, I'm sure you have a daily list. You're just pissed off because I'm nowhere near it anymore.



Remember: you walked up to me that night in the summer of 2000. I wasn't looking for you. I was remembering Otis's last days before he died. He was a dear friend who suffered. I thought you were a dear friend, but I've watched you make other people suffer, and that is unforgiveable. Not that you have a conscience, it's only how nice the gifts are before you suck the life out of people and throw them away. By the way, last year's ornament was $1.59! Would I rate more? Maybe, but only if someone else paid for it first. And Pengy knew about Tutta Pasta because I told her. So much for "well, it was a last minute thing." How insulting. Good luck with the Durango, though. It is a fine vehicle. Haven't looked at the link in weeks and then surprise! Guess everything happens for a reason.



Pick up the phone? No, I can say it right here and save on long distance. When you explain why you didn't come to my father's funeral or even send a belated birthday gift this year, maybe I'll understand. Oh, wait. That's right---I didn't give you something expensive first. I keep forgetting, it's about what you can take from people. It's not about real emotions, it's about "mimicking" emotions so others think you're generous while you're actually sucking them dry.



Shame you couldn't see this sooner, I guess Joe was too busy to drive you to your computer...



Merry merry Christmas, Happy Zippy New Year and God Bless!

A Wing Ding Thing



So, tonight's the night of the office Christmas party. Haven't had a whirligig since the former president left. Will this be a mission impossible stealth politics party? Or is it simply about white wine, hors d'oeurves, and chit chat? Could be both. I get to yuppie-watch, regardless.



They said snow, but it looks like more rain. Feh. I was going to put more lights up, but I'll get drenched with the windows open, so forget that.



My godmother's been having heart trouble, so Mom's over there today. I'll probably see her on Christmas and happily avoid the drunken fest we've been stuck at for the last 2 years. They practically begged Mom to go and she caved in to "yes, ok." Whatever, count me out. Last year I got to be in the middle of a snipe fest with two of her old friends. Imagine "The Odd Couple" without any punchlines, there ya go.



Personally, I'm ready for Snoopy's Xmas special, I certainly hope I didn't miss it. I think they're repeating the Grinch too. There's a news report that some kids deflated this big Grinch and stole it off someone's porch in upstate NY! That's hilarious and yet "grinchy" at the same time.



Ok, 1hr 45 mins and counting to Chardonnay and Cucumber sandwiches.



(or whatever else they serve.)

The Tree is Up!



Eventful day, kiddies.



Redhead and I went from National Wholesale Liquidators in search of a decent tea kettle and cat litter to Home Depot, where we battled the crowds for a decent 7.5 foot tree. We managed to yank out a passing 6.5 footer with an extra long trunk, but it was damn cold out there. Had I had gloves? I would've stayed longer and went for the bottom of the pile, which was about 4 feet high, to find a nice 8 footer. For $27.15 including tax? I'll fight to the death next year for a good tree. Slim pickins wasn't the problem, there were just too many 6 foot trees, and that ain't my style. Call me insane, but any girl raised on Nutcracker just can't accept a tiny tree [the tree in Nutcracker grows to 80 feet onstage.] So, off with the 6.5 foot-ish mini-monster we went. Exact change made the cashier coo and purr. They shrink-wrapped the tree to the top of the car, and we sped down the highway. Passing Court Street just before we arrived, I thought of the many pizza places and Italian restaurants, so naturally a convo about pizza began. We decided to drop the tree off in my living room(that new stand is KICKIN'), and parade past Dyker Heights to get to Lenny's on 20th Ave. Yes, the photo of Stallone and Travolta is still there. Two slices with fresh basil later, we went zigzagging through the streets and saw why Con Ed really LOVES Bensonhurst. Six lights to every brick is the order of the day. Stevie Wonder could see these displays, really.



Tomorrow it's off for Mom's gifts at Target. Kraft also mailed me a free coupon, due to an improper amount of Oreos I found in the last box. It pays to mention screw-ups to quality control!



RD, how are you? Do you still have that doll? Please pick up the phone.

Thanks.

Holiday Prep Update



The countdown to Mom continues. Only 2 days left! She's here on Monday. I am getting the tree today near Home Depot. $25 plus tax on a giant 7.5 foot balsam. Can't beat that price.



Might I add how Nutcracker Thursday night was divine, excepting one ballerina who was really off. It's my 24th year of chasing this music I love, and NYCB, once again, did not disappoint. I remember the days of Katherine Healy and Peter Boal from 1979-80...Katherine is now retired from ballet and guests occasionally with Ice Theatre of New York. Peter is a principal dancer with NYCB. This year's cast had many new faces, many of whom are daughters and granddaughters of people I remember from the 70's and early 80's!



As for that out-of-place ballerina, her name is Yvonne Bourree, a fine last name considering it's also a difficult ballet step. Her name couldn't save her this time around...coming out of a supported ronde de jambe, she actually fell INTO her partner, the incomparable Nikolaj Hubbe. The next step in the grand pas de deux is a turning shoulder lift, and she almost knocked him over. Lastly, two minutes later, during a pirouette, a piece of her costume flew off. My eagle-eyed focus and strong binoculars caught all this, of course, but any balletomane could see this was an "off" night for her. I like her, too. Not as much as that beguiling creature Miranda Weese.



Leading the marzipan shepherdesses, Miranda sparkled with high elevation and a crisp attack on her battements. Dancing slightly ahead of the music, she landed ON the note every time. This is what catches an audiences' eye! She is a dancer for whom gravity and its rules should not apply. I envision her skimming the floor, floating and never touching the ground. One jete begins where the last one ended. She leads your eye forward and you ache when she disappears into the wings.



Once more thing I noticed, too: on stage left, the set design from Act I shows a shadow of a yellow cat in the window. I swear on my life I never actually looked at the set before Thursday night! This cat is a visual reference to Mourka, George Balanchine's cat. She is immortalized on that wing, and I never noticed! How genius--George's sense of humor is still intact 20 years after his death. How sweet is that? Mourka even had her own book in the late 60's, it's a collector's item now if you can find a copy.



A quarter of a century and Tchaikovsky still thrills me. I hope I never grow up...

From the Fairy Kitchen!



SUGARPLUM RECIPE



Thin Syrup



1 pound of plums



1/2 pound of sugar



pint of water



Thick Syrup



2 pounds of sugar



2 tablespoons of water





Make a thin syrup of half a pound of sugar and a pint of water. Slit a pound of plums down the seam and put them into the syrup. Poach gently until only just tender, taking care that they remain covered with the syrup, or they will lose their color. Cool, cover and refrigerate overnight.



The following day make a thick syrup of two pounds of sugar and two tablespoons of water. Boil until a little dropped in a bowl of cold water makes a thick but soft ball. Remove from heat and allow to become cold. Then carefully drain the plums as completely as possible from the first syrup and place them gently in the second thick syrup. Reheat and scald only until the plums look clear, taking care that they are completely covered in the syrup. Allow to cool again. Then empty them into a shallow ceramic or glass bowl, cover tightly and allow them to develop flavor in the refrigerator for a week.



Take them out and spread them apart on dishes or plates. Cover loosely with baking paper, put them in a warm, dry place and turn them every day until dry. If you put them in a very low warming oven, turning them every half hour, at first, then every hour, etc., they can be dried much more quickly. At this stage a home fruit dryer can also be used if desired.



(Courtesy of an online Christmas recipe forum. Google is the best!)

So this is Christmas...



I just realized I hit the wrong button. Everything I wanted to post disappeard.



Whatever, I'll take a whack at it tomorrow.



[:-(]

NEWS ALERT!!! IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!!



It's officially snowing!! Get yer asses outta bed and go jump around in it!!!



This concludes the Loopy Lulu News Alert System. Carry on.

Things that I love that nauseate others

Dead-On Balls Accurate



"This is the right moment, dear Pisces, to extricate yourself from relationships that you feel have seen their day. This won't be easy to do, but you must. In both your professional and private life, you are too hesitant to get out of situations or obligations that are distasteful to you. You are afraid of hurting people or of making them mad. But, in the end, you are hurting yourself. Give more importance to your own needs, and follow your own path."



And a thought from Rob Brezny..."You might enjoy Pearl Cleage's novel Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do. It's got soulful characters, a strong social consciousness, and a dramatic mix of suffering and redemption. But you don't have to read the book to carry out the advice in this week's horoscope. All you have to do is write your own personal version of "Some Things I Never Thought I'd Do" -- a two-page stream-of-consciousness essay is fine -- and then go out and start actually doing the things you've described therein. Life will bring you entertaining revelations in the coming week, Pisces." (thank you Free Will Astrology!)



And birthday wishes to two of my favorite skaters, Katarina Witt, who put me back on the ice after an absence of 6 years; and Sylvia Fontana, an Italian champion, who was born in Staten Island, but raised in Rome. You inspire me with your dark beauty.



More thoughts on what this season means to me tomorrow...

Maria Callas would have been 82 today...



And Taffy (my complex cat) would have still believed it was her divine right to get on a stage and meow. Callas was known as "La Divina" thoughout Italy in the 50's, but this was really Taffy's alter ego. If she wasn't covered in fur? She'd have traipsed over to the Ritz Thrift Shop and demanded mink. MEOW DAMMIT GIMME MY COAT! Taffy passed on to that catnip sock in the sky on November 27, 1999. Her photo is on the back of my door.



In other news, it's snowing. I could feel it when I went to bed last night. My window was open about an inch, which resulted in Dexter climbing on my head. It was a sharp cold, and there were no stars. High humidity + temperature drop = a lovely reminder from the Snow Queen! I love snow, always have.



In 1977, my father and I were walking over to Lutheran Medical Center, where my mom worked. We passed Sunset Park and decided on hot chocolate at a tiny luncheonette called SeeBodes. Whatever got into him, I don't know, but we walked back to Sunset Park with some time to kill (Mom got out at 5), and we climbed to the top of the hill. He pulled an old ironing board from a trash bin, and told me to hold on for dear life. We WHOOSHED down the hill, which was covered in a fine powdery snow. After that, it was always an ironing board or nothing. I don't think I had a sleigh ever! He took old belts, snapped two of them together as handles, and greased down the ironing board with Pam cooking spray for less traction. Ghetto? Maybe, but it's our tradition and I love it. You can fit three tiny kids or two adults on an ironing board. Sleds? It's one person or nothing. Beat-up giant pizza pans work well, too.



With Pam on the bottom, of course. (Don't tell my Mom, I don't think she could handle it.)

Joey Ramone Way



Monday after a holiday, and yes, I'd LOVE to be sedated, but I just wanted to mention that Joey got his street near East 2nd and the Bowery yesterday afternoon. Tons of fans came out in the windy cold just to see the unveiling. That's really something.



My dad pointed out the Ramones to me back in 1979. I was 7 years old. Just a few years later, I had my first leather jacket, which I wore proudly. Dad took to the gallery next to CBGB's where there was a slinky tabby cat named "Fish". Fish didn't really dig anyone, but he always sat near my dad. He'd walk across the bar, plunk his tail across my dad's arm and purr wildly. My dad was the only customer who rated such an expenditure of energy and attention, and was quickly recognized as a customer of special value. "That cat likes that guy," they would say. I finally met Fish in 1989. He sniffed, turned his head and ignored me. Ironic that Dad hated cats (and they hated him) until I brought Butchy, our first cat, into the house in 1974. 2 year olds with pleading whines have a tendency to get their own way, I guess. I don't know if Fish is still alive, but that gallery is still there. I'll have to stop in soon.



If Pengo was given classical music, I was given jazz in large amounts. I owe my entire Ellington collection to my father. Sara Vaughn, Carmen McCrea, Dinah Washington, Billie Holiday, Willie "The Lion" Smith, Hank Jones, and Phil Schaap were common names in my house. Sunday mornings were about "blue plate special" breakfasts and DixieLand blaring out of the kitchen radio. I swear on my life he managed to find radio stations my dial didn't have! Kentucky Bluegrass, weird Talk radio (waaay before Imus), Opera, Big Band, even metal I can attribute to his fiddling with the dial. I wouldn't even know WSOU if it wasn't for him. "Here. That's a station you'd like." And he was right!



The advent of CD's in 1990-91 affirmed what he secretly desired: a replacement for his cherished music on worn audio cassettes. Many of his tapes snapped entirely. He'd fling them madly with a string of expletives as they smashed upon hitting the wall. When I got my first JVC cd player, I kept him in mind. Dave Grusin did a host of arrangements based on Ellington's and Count Basie's original works. Those were two cd's I jumped at. $10.99 each? Hey, I'll take it. I swear to god, it was like watching the Tasmanian Devil calm down right in front of me. The look of serenity and joy on his face listening (with tear drop-like clarity) to these recordings is really not something I can describe. I was amazed myself at the layer of sound, after listening to garbled and muffled squeaks coming out of the old tape player. I began to collect much of my own stuff. By the age of 21, I had amassed a pretty sizeable Miles Davis stack. Dad hated Miles Davis for his racist views of white men, but respected him as an artist. We both agreed "fusion" wasn't what real jazz was about, but I still pulled out Bitches Brew when he wasn't around. Miles's finest recordings were between 1948-1959, in our opinion. "Yesterdays" always stops me dead in my tracks.



He also showed me punk, for which I'm forever grateful. Wendy O. Williams, Sid and Nancy, Johnny Rotten, and most of what came out of CB's and the East Village in the late 70's was pretty amazing. He enjoyed anything that said "fuck you" to the establishment. He might have been an older man, but his spirit had a ripped t-shirt and a safety pin in his ear!



He spent a lot of time near the Bowery and near Fish. I'm sure he's as happy about Joey's sign as I am.

Ok, it went better than I thought



And now a comment on my ridiculously stupid office: WHY ARE WE HERE? I get up early (after a fun night, might I add) and there are no buses, there are slow trains, it's raining outside and no one really feels like being here. It's me and PB, and a multilingual executive who doesn't deal with the people we deal with at all.



PB is still bitching about the day after Christmas, but what else is new? I seem to get stuck with people who do nothing but piss and moan when they don't get their own way, it seems. Petulant mewling cabbages, they are! Ok, I'll stop.



Last night was a resounding success. This is a real family, with real values. THANK GOD. Yes, they went down the same dysfunctional beaten path as my own relatives, but the heart is blue-collar Fuck-with-us-and-we'll-kill-you staid and true stand-up beliefs. No bullshit, no games, just them, the table, three cats, 1 dog, a newborn, and 2 very colorful kids. They call a spade a spade, and that don't come easy in this day and age.



Ashley, the 13 year old girl, is a budding beauty with sandy hair, blue eyes, and an ever-expanding Barbie collection courtesy of grandma, my redhead's mother, who ate turkey, played some music and snoozed on the couch. We held our tryptophan a little better due to Chock Full of Nuts coffee, but then again, we're weird like that. We discussed dolls, dads, school, cats, cooking, skating, and TV. This kid's got a good head on her shoulders, and so does her brother Dan, who lives for video games. Hand-eye coordination is the way of the future, so I'm sure he's a whiz on the computer. Each child has inherited the King sense of sarcasm and irony. These are sharp kids. The house is filled with projects, books, a big PC in the living room, and only some video games and some DVD's. In true Irish tradition, I saw books everywhere. This is heartening in the MTV-sound blip era in which we live. They can think on their feet, and that is a real joy for the ages of 13 and 8. The newborn is just angelic, white blonde hair, blue eyes and a squeaky laugh. She didn't cry once, and watched us all with wide eyes and wiggles. She was passed around from lap to lap and didn't squirm once. Talk about a good baby!



So, that's that, I guess. And now, the intro of Red to my mom. THAT blog will be a long entry.



Hold onto yer hats, kiddies! She's coming up in three weeks!

I have 11 1/2 vacation days coming to me!



Talk about karma....glad I left that starbucks card on the floor. A computer glitch in HR revealed I have 11.5 vacation days FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS YEAR. That means I get a full week off to take care of La Apartmente before Ma Mere flies in from Sunny Retiree-ville. I can do my closets, respackle my ceiling, dust, take things to the dry cleaner...in short? All the things I can't do with my day to day grind.



I almost fell over when my office manager told me. And PB? The look on her face was suicidal. The day after Christmas and now all this.



I'm LOVING it.

Worky before Turkey



Well, the deluge has begun, kiddies. People are leaving the office, things are just nuckin futso around here.



Strange dreams plagued me all weekend long. Shifting shapes, dropping off things, stammering down Escher-like steps, falling, flying, headaches, backaches, achy legs and feet. And this was laying down! My subconscious is working overtime, I swear.



Got my coffee, having my cranberry muffin. Eyes barely open, thank god for extra strength mascara to keep me blinking. That way I fool people into thinking I'm awake.



Kashi has a meat store twin! Yes, the meat and pork store near my apartment has a non-white calico with a split-personality face---orange on one side, black on the other. Swirly with orange, like fire. Chubby, happy, very content to sit near the provolone and salami. I always seem to find the stores with cats, but I've been going to this place for years and never noticed this bugaboo. Probably since I went in right before closing, they must have let him out to roam. All that carnivorous joy! Steak, chicken, pork, pepperoni, bacon, stock, bones, chicken livers. The scraps alone would explain the purring and contented looks! Glad to know that. Cangianos has one, too. Had one in Bensonhurst when I was there, too. My Aiello's is now a Key Food. They had a big dog in the back.



Other than that, my weekend was uneventful. Redid the resumes--redhead's and mine to prepare for the job smackdown that is now affecting us. I might be safe, Red's barely hanging on. Oh well, there's dignity in all work, I guess. The more I try and tell this to certain people, the less they listen. It's much easier to complain, lie, and get people to buy you things. That's sad, if you ask me.

Republican yuppies suck (oops, that was redundant)



More politics in this office making me gag and hack: add up the number of firings + the number of upper echelon execs getting hired and you have breeding grounds for resentment, backstabbing, and a possible pay gap/class war. Upon mentioning I don't have a DVD player yet, I heard resounding moans of OH GOD. VHS must stand for "Very Humble Schmuck."



I also shop at Old Navy, Strawberry, and Conway, use coupons, frequent diners rather than neuveau riche "eateries" (what in the FUCK does that word mean), enjoy conversations with cab drivers, street vendors, 99 cent-store owners, elderly ladies with small dogs, UPS guys, FedEx drivers, laundromat attendants, and my local grocer, who is Korean and tells bad puns in broken English (he's hilarious!)



NOT one of these people would even be worth looking at according to these macchiato-worshipping morons. I, in my infinite blue-collar wisdom, have always maintained that the road to success is paved by talking to these people EVERY SINGLE DAY. How can you get that phone call if you reach the secretary first? Do you expect the doorman to let you in if you don't smile? That cab will sit in traffic and feign deafness if you try to instruct them in a snobbish way if you're trying to get crosstown to a meeting.



I hate yuppies more than I can stand it. I deliberately shove myself into commentary about our mayor and president, whom everyone loves around here. Blasphemous, I must seem. Goddamn shame these people don't realize it's the middle class that built this city, and it's the middle class who will sit back and laugh at them.

Let the passive-aggressive games begin!



Once again, more attacks on the fact that I'm right. The inimitable proof stands before us, but there are only sheepish remarks.



The battle for the day after Christmas began in earnest yet again. We have lost one employee (no surprise there, his own boss is leaving) who was covering for that day. Once again, I was asked to cave in. Once again, I said NO. I am spending that day off with my mother and later with Pengy. It is her birthday, and we are going to celebrate it happily. Black Friday will be insane with shoppers punting each other like footballs. This is all the more reason to kick back, have cake, and watch the stupid folly of ribbons, scotch tape, and wrapping paper at 50% off. She has had a particularly trying time with hospitals, assholes, and annoying emails from pseudo-friends, so this is just the time to celebrate.



Now I will enjoy sitting back and watching Princess Brat fall on her face. Let me explain: my father called one of our cats, Taffy, Princess Bitch. And oh, lord, she was! This cat firmly believed that she was Maria Callas and waited to be pampered every minute of every day. She regularly sat and watched her own reflection when we turned off the tv. She routinely smacked the butter dish to the floor for paw-licking when I baked, boiled potatoes, or ate toast. She took our turkey hostage one year when it was defrosting in the sink--I mean actually SAT ON IT and chewed away one side of the breast while the ice drained down the sink. We served the bird after boiling it and saying our turkey was deformed. She chewed, bit, and scratched the couch into shreds, and for all this we put up with her fussiness, her beautiful green eyes, and her sonorous meows at 2 am. She charmed us into submission, hence the term "bitch". Brats, by definition, aspire to be bitches, but bitches themselves know and take complete control of facts and utter weaknesses, thereby winning every time. Therefore, brats are wannabes by nature. They piss, moan, and act like children, but do not win. They cannot win, because they fear actual power plays. What you get is drowned, half-sopped attempts at mind games. All that's left is pure, unadulterated passive aggression. Princess Brat, Ghetto Cow's successor, suffers from this. What's truly amusing is that she thinks I don't know this. It's always good to be one step ahead, kiddies. Your ass is covered and it saves mucho moolah on Excedrin.



Examples: today, we are having computer problems. I say this person can help us. She says this person cannot. I send an email (did you email? insecurity), and a phone call (are you gonna call? just did, duhhh) and who comes down to reset the system? Precisely the person I was told (by her) doesn't work here anymore. Once again, I'm right.



All of this is pissy messiness over the fact that I'm getting that day off. I love to watch people who sneer down their nose at me fall on their faces. It's truly heart-warming and inspiring. And, like I've said before: all the nail tips, perfume, leather purses, Gucci boots, Prada pants, and Chanel pocket planners CAN'T help you when you don't know what you're doing. In the office or in life.



I'd love to know what Taffy would do. I clearly visualize a shredded coat or a peed-on purse. I'll bet anything she's sitting on my dad's lap right now, purring with vicious delight.

Enjoying my free coffee!



Yup, kiddies, I bought a biggie dark roast courtesy of that phantom Starbucks card. Pretty good, extra cream with sweet 'n'low. And now for a wrap-up of the day's news.



I was hoping they'd put some media attention on this disgusting scumwad Scott Peterson who drowned his wife and unborn baby in Frisco Bay, but once again our favorite alien with the straightened hair and silly putty nose has stolen the spotlight. Yes, I'm talking about Jacko. Wacko Jacko.



Wasn't 10 years worth of hush-hush and a whopping multi-$$$$ settlement enough to keep him away from little boys? Of course not. I think he did it. Like Howard Stern has stated many times, "HEY MIKEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE THE LITTLE GIRLS?" Ya never do see little dresses, tea sets and barbies strewn around Neverland, huh? I haven't. It's become crystal clear to me that "Playing with Bubbles the monkey" might be secret code for an entirely different activity! Christmas is coming, I wonder if they'll be playing "Nutcracker." I shudder at the thought.



The Evil Asshole of the Day award goes to a so-called veterinarian in Staten Island (we can still smell that landfill from here). This litter of puppies came in to have their tails docked--a hellish procedure indeed, but I'll get to the point. This moron decides "Let's put them on the heating pad!" One by one, these poor little buggaboos were burned. The woman, not realizing what happened, watched nearly all 9 of them die, scarred and scalded, after taking them home. A heartbreaking photo of the last survivor is in today's Daily News. Heating pads are almost never used and unadvisable for baby animals, due to the delicate nature of their body temperature. That's why you see puppies and kittens wrapped in fabric blankets, not electric blankets, DUH!!! I am sketchily reporting the details here, because the story was very upsetting to read, but the gist of it is, out of 9 babies, only 2 are still alive. They have blisters on their faces, too. I've hated two places my entire life: Florida and Staten Island. SI has just scored another point.



I'm also happy to announce I've found that handwritten phone number from a certain "musician" who accused me of stalking him last summer. As I remember it, he gave me his number after telling me he was separated. The way he tells it? I found his number from a phone book (he said it was unlisted, why would I do that) and proceeded to chase him with all my living might. Um, NO. He's a coward and an asshole who couldn't say "I'm actually married and I've hit a rough patch with my wife." And for the record, I called once, emailed twice, and then realized, 'Wait a minute, I think I've been lied to." And guess what? I WAS RIGHT.



This asshole tried to save face, but who gives a shit? His only claim to fame is hiding behind his own LACK of talent be it music or pathological alibi-creation. How fucking laughable! And guess what? I had a witness! Someone else was standing right next to me when this happened!!! Overall? If I gave less of a shit about the people I met last summer? I'd be in a coma.



Attention mindless CHILDREN: Some of us work and have real jobs. Some of us have educations and know what's worth caring about. Some of us don't sit on our asses and watch time pass ineffectively while lying, manipulating, and scheming others to hide our own fears. Some of us actually pay for our own things, take responsibility for our own dreams, and don't fester in grandiosity when it's really mediocrity.



Cleaning out my desk at home has produced huge amounts of ridiculous scrap paper and old business cards that will be going right into the trash when I get home tonight. That little handwritten "gem" I'm keeping, however. I can't stand being called a liar.



Especially when I'm RIGHT.

Starbucks Card Incident Update!



RE: The $50 card I found two weeks ago....apparently, no one claimed it or came back. So, the department where I found it will share the bounty with me. 4 people have gotten coffee or Tazo Chai tea, and I'm going to get my free cup tomorrow. They offered, I accepted, the rightful owner has not called, emailed, or returned. Ho hum, we tried!



But this is better----we ALL get a piece of the action, caffeine-wise. KEWL!

Now that's going a bit too far...



Man's Finger Stuck in Pay Phone for Hours

EAST ST. LOUIS, Ill. (AP) _ A man and a pay phone were rushed to a

hospital after he got his finger stuck in the coin return slot while trying

to retrieve his 50 cents. Emergency room doctors gave Emanuel Fleming a

painkiller Monday and pried his middle finger loose using a wooden device and

lubricant, ending the three-hour ordeal.



This must be the universe in reverse: I found $1.25 in quarters in a payphone around this time last year. I was stupefied!

Moving onward...



The most rotten dream came to me last night: walking through a semi-familiar street, I stopped to realize that my skates were not part of the bags I was carrying. I panicked and thought 'well, they were here a minute ago.' WTF??? Slowly, my clothes started disappearing, too---first my socks, then my pants, my jacket, my shirt. All I had on were undies and my backpack. They literally dissolved! I have no idea what this means, but it did get my ass outta bed this morning good and early.



I felt a huge push to rush out much earlier than normal since the mental defectives at the Dept. of Transportation ixnayed

the car-pool rule through the Brooklyn tunnel, which the X27 passes into. What does this mean? Let's see...pre-9/11, I remember (and not fondly) waits of up to 25 minutes or more trying to get past hordes of cars, even in the HOV lane. Why? One person driving was not a "rule". This made any "flow" stop dead. Now, since the wonderful complacency of "Al Qaeda won't kick our ass again" is coming into people's minds, the DOT has decided they don't want to hear bitching and moaning from SUV loving yuppies and assholes who don't want to carpool. Gee, someone's feelings are hurt, or these bastards simply don't want to answer the phone, so let's just repeal this rule from 6-10 am, and fuck up traffic like it used to be. As a result, I could barely CROSS the street, let alone get to my bus this morning, 20 minutes early. Why? Tons of people were waiting to get on the BQE ramp at 65th St. I HIT TRAFFIC BEFORE I WAS EVEN EXPECTING TRAFFIC. God forbid there's an accident (it's only a matter of time, really) or someone slows down and shifts lanes (causing an...er ACCIDENT), this will only add 30 more minutes to my trip, which will take my travel time from 1 hour and 15 minutes to 1 hour and 45 minutes, waiting, huffing, cursing, and sweating included. But what do I know? I'm just a stupid sheep who goes along with the MTA and DOT's "guidelines." Guidelines!!! That's a contradiction if ever I heard one.



In other news, annoying people still abound---will the hangups stop on my phone? Will people who secretly hate me change their blogs/websites (yes, former neighbor, I know you and your husband have one, it's called "google")? Can I get through the holidays in one piece without any sniping whatsoever? Damned if I know....



Stay tuned, kiddies! Things are about to get batty.

And lead us not, into temptation...



But let someone find the $50 Starbucks card they lost. Yes, kiddies, I had a question of Scruples put before me not less than 20 minutes ago.



Turning to go into the ladies room, I saw what looked like a lost ID card on the floor. I flipped it over, and it was a $50 Starbucks card. I picked it up and took it back to my desk. I called the 800 number, and it wasn't registered, but it was magnetized and ready for use. The big question: who did it belong to?



I asked around, and no one claimed it. It seemed that my honesty alone stopped 2 people from saying it was their's. One of the women in human resources is sending out an email that there is a lost card and could someone possibly come get it? If not, the $50 will be frozen and canceled, like an unused debit card.



Yes, I am in love with Starbucks peppermint hot chocolate, which is only available thru January, and 50 smackeroos worth would satisfy my choco-lust. But, what if that was me? What if it was a gift? Who is this person and do they know it's gone? The many unanswered questions lead me to one answer: karma.



It's not to keep or spend. I am trying to do the right thing. If the people I handed it over to spend it all? Then let karma kick them in the ass. I have enough grappling with inner problems. This is just a bit o'temptation I didn't succumb to today.



And maybe, just maybe, something nice will happen to me. That tastes just as good as hot chocolate, kiddies.



;-)

NY voted "No"!



Well, Bloombucks little plan was trounced horribly on Tuesday, even though only 13% of voters turned out. That's really saying something when NYers, who supposedly don't give a damn, come out with such a strong opinion. Bloombucks, the idiot moron that he is, considers the fact that it got on the ballot a victory. This proves what we all know: he's woefully out of touch with the average middle-class NYer. This is a democrat town. Despite the fact that he switched parties, he is neither a Democrat or a Republican, really. He spends tons of his own money, and wields influence where he sees it. I don't think he fits any particular dogma, but again--this does not fit the mentality of most politicos in this city. He's a idea guy. We need a go-to guy. And one that cares about all colors, creeds, and socio-economic backgrounds.



While many people adored Giuliani, the fact of the matter remains that race relations in this city were strained. He was a one-borough mayor, and he saw fit to govern Manhattan, but not the other 4. Why? Manhattan's where most of the money is, the other four boroughs are where the poor and middle class hang out. Bloombucks has basically followed this lead. According to him, NYC should be a residential rich haven, and the businesses should be filing their sooty asses out to the other boroughs. Gee, thanks. How grateful you are. Mark Green was much better suited to run this city, since he worked in public service for 21 years, but he's got one huge problem: his mouth. When he gets angry, his mouth tends to spew bile. I do this to ill effect at times, myself. Is is any coincidence we share the same birthday? Methinks not. Other than his anger management problem, he was clearly the choice to take on the many factors that make this city complicated. Alas, his campaign fell to pieces after much sniping with Freddy Ferrer, a truly useless politician if ever I saw one. Giuliani backed Bloombucks, G was knighted for 9/11, presto-change-O! Bloomie won the mayoralty. And are we better for it? No. Taxes are up, the schools suck more than ever, people are leaving Manhattan in droves and jobs are being bled to cheaper towns and cities if not folding completely. I think the next guy is going to have to strike the word "endorsement" from his vocabulary.



2004's gonna be a helluva year, and 2005 is the year Bloomie gets his Richie Rich ass kicked in. I can't wait.

Ralph Macchio is 42 today



Ok, kiddies, if that didn't make you feel old, how about this? My redhead and I took a lovely stroll near the water yesterday and stopped in a deli to get some water. We stood there completely astonished when we came across an actual package of Jiffy Pop popcorn in the foil container. You know, the one you had to shake and wiggle over a stove top? I swear I could almost hear my knees and back creak like Hagatha the old Strega right then and there. We walked away and promised we'd take our geritol together. Yeessh...



And please, I beg of you, if you're in NYC, please vote NO on referendum 3 today. This question is a thinly veiled plot to not only destroy the two-party system we have in place, but it will guarantee that those with loads of money will win elections again and again. Do we want more Bloombergs? I sure as hell don't. I also don't want any Ahhnolds, either. Republicans want to change the rules instead of changing the problems if it doesn't suit them. This is bratty bullshit. They know damn well they can buy their influence and power. The problem is not an ideological difference between the two party electoral process, it's the fact that mothers can't find daycare. The middle class is sliding into poverty and will soon be dead. The poor are worth something, why can't the schools teach this very fact? Gentrification is destroying not only mom-and-pop stores, it's wrecking the livelihood of older residents who cannot afford $4,000 per month rents. People make neighborhoods, NOT condos. There isn't enough parking as it is, why knock down houses that were foreclosed to build ugly brickfests with shitty windows so five more Lexxus's can cram in? Let someone else move to this house and have a lawn, a garage, a rose garden in their front yard. These are the problems, not the fact that these fuckheads want all the power and glory. Bloomberg's doing a good job? In a pig's ass he is.



Rise up, people! Your vote counts. Polls are open until 9 pm. Remember: it's not who votes that counts, it's those who DON'T vote that counts. Scary indeed.

Remember to brush and floss!



Polar Bear Gets Two Root Canals

TACOMA, Wash. (AP) _ It was check-up day for Boris the polar bear as the

1,018-pound carnivore underwent two root canals and other medical checks

while under anesthesia at the Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium during the

weekend. ``Everything went really smoothly,'' said Tukwila dentist Edmund

Kwan. ``It's like working on a person but even better! He's asleep!''



Ok, it's a slow news day. Whaddya want me to do?

This ain't Burger King



Well, we have another round of "I'm going to do it my way" problems popping up. Mostly at work. How about telling us how we're supposed to adapt to change? Instead of no communication and then watching us fall on our faces. Unclear emails are a hoot, as well. We don't need visual people in this office, we need people who understand nuances of language. Run-on misspelled sentences with incorrect phone numbers are a hindrance, not a plus. And I truly adore these methods because it is made to seem that I am the incorrect party, which is not the case. At least not when it comes to work. Teamwork only works when a system is put in place, not when I'm stuck with a bunch of changes no one is clarifying.



Another word of caution to friends and family: I cradle a phone in my ear all damn day. My neck truly hurts at the end of it. I spent yesterday afternoon going through hordes of People magazines in my doctor's office. I have four doctors--an endocrinologist for my thyroid and endocrine problems, a gynecologist for my hormonal issues (this falls under endocrine, too!), a regular physician, and a dermatologist for my hair and skin problems (which also falls under hormones and endocrine systems.) I absolutely refuse to give anyone an itinerary of what I do, where I go, when I go, or why I have to. I am an adult, case closed. Unresolved issues of rage and torment erupt violently when I think to the lack of boundaries I lived with in my childhood and adolescent home. If you haven't figured it out yet, the weekends are a better time to call me. My neck doesn't hurt as much, but I am not a phone person. Legend has it that I burst into tears while sitting in a high chair as a baby the first time I heard a phone ring. This still holds true. I hate phones.



Another thing: I watch maybe 4 hours of television a week. I don't want to miss my shows. I pay good money for cable, and I'm going to enjoy it. These shows are: Smallville, 20/20, Unwrapped, and the vh1 specials on 1986, 87, and 88. I skate on Thursday mornings. That means I get up at 4:45. I go to sleep at 9 pm. If I am tired during the week regardless, I will go to bed. It is too damn bad if you don't like it, I don't care if you hate figure skating, this the one joy I have left. I have to get up in the morning. I have a demanding job. I work a 45 hour, 5 day week. I am ready to fucking collapse at the end of the day. I don't want to hear any shit when I come home because I haven't called you or emailed you back. Capisce? Yes, mom, this includes you. I haven't had the money or the time for a vacation since 1999. I do not have rich relatives or a sugar daddy who will buy me first class tickets to Aruba, so knock it off already. If I seem stressed out, curt, tired or crabby, I'VE JUST EXPLAINED TO YOU WHY. PRINT THIS OUT IF YOU CAN'T REMEMBER.



If I am out of my office, guess what? I have an answering machine and a cell phone. That's why I bought them. If you get a voice mail, that's why I have voice mail. FOR MY CONVENIENCE. If you cannot handle the idea of having to wait, then don't call or send an owl with a letter like Harry Potter does. I absolutely, for the love of god, heaven and every saint, REFUSE to give people an itinerary of where I go or what I am doing. If I asked for the same thing, all of you would stick lawsuits up my ass sideways. Yes, mom, that means you.



And please no lectures about the fact that I sleep late Saturdays and Sunday. I work. I don't sit in front of a computer and pick my nose all damn day. I've earned the right to lay there for as long as I wish or at least until a feline friend needs a food/water bowl refill.



And please don't tell me to "shut the fuck up." If I hear this phrase again, even in passing, I will lose it. A litte consideration, folks? That's all I ask. I am truly exhausted.

No candy this year...



I'm going to watch the parade go by. I haven't done so since 1997, so I think it's time. After that, I'm hightailing it over to the nearest theater and watching "Alien" on the big screen. Dan O'Bannon's "monster in the basement" formula really works in space. Halloween on a Friday? When's the last time that happened. I'm always running around watching the next moment ahead of me, so I don't remember a lot of Halloweens. The last few good ones were always at 1738, my childhood home.



I distinctly remember 1981 with Jessica Manzione, a classmate that my mother disliked, inexplicably. My mother disliked all of my friends, now that I think of it. I went to Jessica's apartment, trick or treated and spent the night over there. We had to be separated because we were laughing so hard. Her gray cat, Pixie, kept attacking the zipper on Jess's sleeping bag and this was hysterical to us. She lived on the second floor of that huge building near Cropsey Park. I last saw her when I took my SAT's in November 1988 in a futile attempt to best my rather embarrassing score of 900. Since there was no money, 900 seemed enough for a community college, but I felt the Kaplan-ette kids' sting. Their expensive classes ensured they'd hit 1100 or above. One girl got 1140 and felt like a failure. She went to St. John's on a sports scholarship, too. Name escapes me, but the bad perm on her head will stay with me forever. The hit song in 1981 was "He's So Shy" by the Pointer Sisters. To this day, I hear this song and smell autumn leaves and Snickers bars.



I won't be around for candy if I stay in the city this year, but I'll see all the lunacy. I don't plan on drinking, but maybe a cup of apple cider. Sad, all the kids will pound on my door at 4 pm. I'm sure the knocking will scare my cats.



Then we roll into November, another month that feels like a truck hitting me. This will mark the 8th year that I probably won't have turkey. I might have had turkey at Robert's house in 2001, but I remember Rose's apple pie and lasagna more than the bird. 1995 was the last great Thanksgiving. After that, if I didn't organize it? It didn't happen. Now, there's work before and after that Thursday, so I don't know. If I don't do it, it doesn't get done. Let that be my epitaph. Maybe I'll find a $12 special at a diner and have a nice waitress wait on me. I'll leave her a nice, fat tip. I deserve gravy and gobbles.

Rollin, rollin, keep them doggies rollin...



Insanity abounds, but I was extra fast this morning. Blazed to work, opened the door at exactly 8:59 am.



I caused quite a commotion on the X37 express by shouting at the driver to put the air on. It's 90% humidity and the bus was about 80 degrees. I sat there dripping after running down the block. Other people piped in only AFTER I said something, which is why I'm convinced 98% of people are sheep. I love when they turn around and look at me. I always go "WHAT??!! Did I say something WRONG?" They usually turn and go back to grazing like the idiots they are. I am decidely un-PC in a time where it's insurmountable to say the right thing, the thing no one else has the guts to, or simply the truth. My golly gee willigers, someone's feelings might get hurt. Bad enough the MTA's dissecting my paychecks piece by piece, I have to sit at 8 am and sweat like a pig? OH, fuck that. It's humid and hot. You're at work, I'm trying to get there. Turn the damn air on.



Then I told 23rd St to go kiss my ass by hopping on the 6 train---4 short stops to 51st street where I blazed up the blocks past St. Pat's into my building. Can't be too careful or paranoid with job-hockey ruling the order of the day. This place is becoming a business just like everything else. If I could go back in time? I would have signed up for every business class available in high school and took classes on entrepreneur ventures. More people are working at shittier jobs with less pay, no benefits, and a sense of being on a tightrope with no net. At least if I failed, I could only blamed myself, the location, or my business plan.



Personally, I'm ready for this city to bottom out. The divide's coming between the ultra-rich and the poverty stricken. What these corporate-minded yuppie bastards don't realize is that class division will divide their ranks as well. If the ultra-rich keep getting richer, the somewhat-rich will drop down to what once was the lower middle-class. The merely rich will be considered the poor, the destitute, the "wanting". Anyone who knows a damn thing about yuppies is how much they despise drops in status of any kind. They are so image-conscious, so consumer-addicted, and success-driven that they simply will not stand to be in a lower level of anything. God forbid New York Magazine drops their neighborhoods or martini bars from the Top Ten Lists, oh it's a travesty for all concerned. Not getting a table at Sarabeth's? Steve Madden shoes suddenly being as worthless as Pay Less? Oh god, get out your umbrellas, those bloody bodies will be hitting the pavement very soon after plunging from their condo windows.



There's a change coming kiddies. The middle class will only stand for getting kicked in the head for so long. Bloomberg and his cronies are going to get their asses kicked in the next election, make sure you're registered to vote. And Bush and his "invented" war---well, I can't wait to see what happens there. People have had enough of lies and spin. I thought "Wag the Dog" was a so-so movie. I watched it again recently and shivered. That's exactly what we're living in, and boy, it scares the holy hell outta me.



I'm all for rioting in the streets. Just gimme a bat and I'm ready.

Another long week ended



And what a relief. With all the changes around here, you'd think you'd get a cappuccino from a decorator or something. Floor plans, exec changes, office space being switched, measured, rerouted, rebuilt, or ready to be shredded, trashed, or thrown away. Instead of candy dishes and fresh flowers, there should be Excedrin dispensers on every floor. I got here at 9:03 this morning and almost keeled over. That idiot I keep running into on the bus in the morning drives TOO DAMN SLOW. I certainly leave enough time, and he manages to find every red light.



None of my eBay items sold, I guess people are broke from buying Halloween candy? Just a thought.



An interesting question from a very neurotic buyer went to the tune of "Does your magazine pass the "sniff" test? I have allergies. Is it moldy? Dusty?" "



Thanks for asking, I usually get a butter knife and smear spores from a petri dish on all of my items. I have cats too, I make sure they shed, sneeze, and piss on my magazines. It's a delightful aroma! I await your frenzied bidding." I mean, have you ever?



It's just too damn much. I've got an old Barbie up I totally forgot about. Let's see if they leap over each other to get to it. AHHH!!! 5:30--Freedom Time, kiddies!



Buh Bye.

It's not like I didn't know...



More disappointment abounds. And it's starting to show up in my face. I got a good look at myself this morning when I rushed on the 6 train at 8:42 am. Droopy eyelids, frown lines, forehead burrows. I don't think plastic surgery or botox could take away the idea that I've simply had it and can't deal with any more.



My job is ????? Will I be here? Will I not? This thing that resembles a relationship I'm supposed to be in is starting to resemble a convenient arrangement for someone with no clear priorities. It's also obvious to me that he is going into the bends of a depression. Depressed people can't make head nor tail of their lives. So the obvious question is, Why Is This My Problem?



Now, now, please don't start on me with all the "Oh ye of little faith" garbage. I'm not buying it this time.



Let's stick to the facts.



I am going to be 32 in less than 6 months. I have worked very hard through a fucked up family, abusive bureaucratic schools and relationships, I have tried to maintain my dignity and play by the rules. This has given me nothing.



Can I ask when I'm supposed to have some success? If I left New York (which is a real possibility in the next 5 years), would these problems go with me? Would they improve? Moderate themselves? Disappear completely?



Who in the fuck cares? I have done so much, and gotten so little back. My phone barely rings, unless it's my office calling or my mother. How many more years will I have her? Do I give up and say fuck it all to hell? Do I try to work harder? I can barely get out of bed on the weekends. And everyone around me seems to have some sort of crutch or utensil to help them up. I don't and I don't even have the sense to quit.



File under insult + injury: I recently found out that some of the more expensive gifts I've gotten for Christmas were actually re-gifted. That's that gorgeous ghetto word for "I'm too cheap to take money out of my pocket for you." If not that, they were passed around, no one wanted the item(s), and then they came to me. I actually like three of these gifts, but the rest I'd like to burn with lighter fluid. And to think I thought highly of these people? I am extremely grateful for the people that told me of such insulting travesties, though. A good friend is one who tells you the truth, not what you want (or what they think you want) to hear. I'm not putting Chapstick on to kiss someone's ass, which is precisely what they expect of me.



I am going to try to get through this holiday season in one piece. The people who make an effort, stay in my life. The ones who don't? Good luck getting in touch with me. Emails and answering machines don't count for shit.

Thinning the ranks



Scary time here. About 50 people are gone. Attrition and change rule the day here. Loadsa jobs gone. Let's see if I make the cut. It's Survivor around here, yet more proof that although we are not like other companies, it ain't that different.



Just when I think I should take it easy comes news like this. I'll stay neurotic and workaholic, thank you.



Steely Dan blasting on the RealPlayer, loving Aja as usual. This is almost 30 years old, still slammin.



Rereading Toller Cranston's take on Sonja Henie last night. This man should have his own column in the Globe & Mail. Bad enough CBC got rid of him as a commentator. I need his blustery, creative opinions given the fact that a whole crop of skaters this season are ONCE AGAIN using "Swan Lake" for their competitive music. Just take the damn bird and shoot it already. The last time I saw a hapless pixie attempting a double axel to this tiresomeness, I yelled "PULL!" right there in the rink. The coaches got the joke, but I don't think the mommies were very happy. And the costumes are just tired, too. A junior competitor this season looks like a Pigeon met Pocahontas on the road and flew to Vegas. The result is a fringed sequined diseased mess of white, silver, and winged cutouts. White does not equal simple and pretty.

Imagine a dove trying to fly through black snow. Bleah.



More doctor's appointments too to check out my liver functions after all this medication I'm on. I used to have a fear of needles. After all these blood tests? I'm over it.



Somewhere out there a voodoo doll is screaming.

A completely worthless weekend



Well, my day off went bust, kiddies. I can barely wake up because I am so damn tired plus the fact that, puhhlease, I had to get up at my normal time and rush rush rush. J walks in, after a 21 hour ambush from his piece of shit car, and I ask him to drive me. We get there with 5 minutes to spare and I find out "Sorry, your appointment was canceled." Well, fuck you Princess Receptionist, no one told me! I wasted a damn vacation day thinking I'd be in this office 2 or 3 hours and I could have been working? Well, isn't that sweet.



I'm so pissed off at this point that I say To Hell With It All and we decide to go have breakfast. J has to beat the clock due to municipal parking ( 1 hour, 2 quarters), and we hop off at the post office, down from St. Finbar's church. Ok, one thing accomplished. I am too tired to think right now, let alone get to my next appointment, which was to ask about a thyroid sonogram and then to a blood test. I was livid. I go home, pay for an auction and look at 2 listings I put up, and then decide I'll do laundry. That was also a failure.



Turns out the laundromat's pulling a nice little scam. Reset the dryer clock for 7 minutes, not 10. That means you have to put more money in for less time. All of the dryers were set on "low heat" as well, not that I noticed this. So, after I ran 5 quarters for 32 minutes (I used to get 40 minutes), I notice all my sheets are still damp. More quarters. More time. My planned trip to Target (by train, not by car) was now off by 1 hour. I finally get to Target at 7:30 pm, which means I have no time to shop. I grabbed what I could and hightailed it to the R train, soaking wet due to rain. I get home at 9:40. There's no way I'm cooking a damn thing, so I order take out. That takes 45 minutes.



Dinner at 10:30. Nice. Tons of calories I can't burn. Wonderful.



Saturday and Sunday were also a waste. I think I need a new pillow and a blackened room with no clock so I can sleep uninterrupted, not unlike a ghoul or a vampire. Considering how much I'd like to rip people open lately and watch them bleed? I might have already turned into one of these creatures.

I am off tomorrow, praise the lord



Now, the big question is can I get the money that my former manager owes me? Due to consistent nagging from his wife, he never paid me for cat sitting probably to spite her. This was the weekend I had my wallet stolen back in APRIL. I ran into him again, with her, and he promised the ever-mysterious funds. Unlike my mother, I will get this money from him by ambushing him. He does payouts on the register at Wollman, just the right time to remind him of money. Yes, kiddies, that means I'll be headed into Central Park after work.



His huge bratlings resemble that Gilligan's Island episode where all the fruit has radiation and grows really large. His newest kitty is totally black with a white spot on his neck and reminds me of Olive, even down to the squeakster "meow." Well, I won't watch them again if I don't get paid! He knows this. He also knows I will not comment on the disastrous nature of newspaper/magazine build-up in his front hall. Let's just say his wife has a beenie baby "problem" and there are bags and bags from Hallmark everywhere. He could make a killing on eBay with this stuff. Lord knows I was tempted to take a few. They're nice people, just very disorganized.



As for disorganization, I'm getting more militaristic by the day. I ruthlessly tore through a stack of old magazines and closet lunacy with fervent glee. If I can't think of 3 good reasons to keep it? Out if it's ripped/stained, eBay if it's in good shape. Why on god's green earth did I need 5 different articles about Mickey Mantle's death? 1 is enough. The rest will travel somewhere else. And the cookbooks are going out, too. I think my John Beard collection about Meats, Fish, Bread, Pasta, and Desserts is enough. Anything else is conspicuous consumption and must end.



Queer Eye has helped, too. All I need to do is take the same object and look at it in a different perspective, make some catchy Carson commentary, and it's either thrown out or redirected somewhere useful. If they can take hairy galoots and teach them how to fix their space and shave better? Then what the hell is my problem?



Anyway, I'm excited--another Target trip tomorrow. Huge boxes of Boo Berry cereal for $2.89, can't beat it!

Tiger & Lion Update



Well, from the "I Told You So" files comes word that the lion cub that was snatched by an idiotic New York Post reporter is not doing well. Poor fuzzer was ripped from mama's giant paws and now is suffering from pneumonia, dehydration, and general disorientation. It's struggling to maintain body warmth, and is not doing well on formula. Bottom line? This Post asshole should have his skin ripped off by mama's big claws for pulling such a stupid stunt. Hey everyone! I can purchase plutonium and get away with it! Now, where do I add hydrogen to make a bomb? Just because you can do things on the internet doesn't mean you have to follow through. And the people that took the money for this poor creature have such incredibly bad karma coming their way, there's not even a scale to measure their bad luck.



Roy is also not doing well after Montecore's little Tiger fit 2 Fridays ago. He had a stroke on the operating table, and lost huge amounts of blood. Anyone else would have been dead by now, but this is 2003. The Grim Reaper's been having a fucking party lately, and I hope his mighty scythe doesn't take Roy out. I always liked him better than Siegfried for some reason. He's dehydrated and weak as well. The show is up in the air, but Monty the Tiger has been allowed back on the habitat and is no longer quarantined. Like Dexter says, Cats will be Cats.



My little maniacs left me a nice surprise on my blankets in the form of a hairball. I wiped off what I could and will trot playfully off to the laundromat on Friday. It's so lovely that my schedule does not permit doing anything else.



I guess it's a strange metaphor that I connect with these sinewy creatures. I had to jump around and perform stupid tricks and was ripped from comfort quite early in the game, too. Someone asked me recently about the first time I felt like an adult and I answered, "Age 7." I was cooking for myself, ironing my own clothes, doing my own hair, feeding cats, doing laundry and taking out the garbage. I distinctly remember dismantling my dollhouse at age 9, thinking to myself "Why is this here? I need the space for more books." That's why I'm so good at taking care of other people. The real question is, who the hell takes care of me? This question has gone unanswered for so long, it's an unspeakable phrase. Maybe if I stood in front of a mirror and said it out loud, I'd have my answer?

The New Age



And a hearty congratulations to RD, who has a new computer and cable hookup. Doesn't the digital age feel....





GOOD???!!!!



ah cha cha cha cha chaaaaahhhh.

Change is inevitable, folks



The folly of people who can't deal with change in any form is a topic that keeps popping up. My mother, friends, my redhead, and even someone from high school I ran into are bringing up this topic in myriad forms. It's incredible.



Go with the flow, people? Ok? It won't kill you. I'm losing my boss to an office in NJ in two weeks. All his stationery and biz cards are now useless, his job has been eliminated. You don't see him or me sweating it, do you? Why create insane situations just to keep holding onto the past? It's over, it's done, it's gone. Deal with it. Improve. Pick up, do your research and see how you can tailor the situation to your needs, not some outmoded concept someone else who isn't even around anymore told you how to do it. How many old tapes have to play in someone's head before you realize "this has nothing to do with me"?



And why all the disappointment? Old things go out so new ones can come in and make things better. I am so completely grateful that time moves forward and not backward. It's a blessing. Any fantasy I may have about going back in time disappears into thin air when I think of how much I was at the mercy of other people about 10-15 years ago. The fleeting moments of happiness were pure illusion. The reality was for every tiny happy moment, there were about 10 more where I was completely blindsided and kicked in the head. I was a punching bag for so many assholes, the sides of my face and back had dent marks.



It started with my parents, two people who absolutely should never have met, and it continued with cousins, teachers, and "friends"---DEAR GOD I USE THAT TERM LOOSELY--who showed their true colors. The big difference from then and now is that these people made me believe that I deserved no better than what I was getting. I was continually spoken down to as if I were chattel, pure idiotic trash. The moment I learned to expose these imps for what they were? Holy shit, what a power shift. I've learned it's good to have enemies, it teaches you who your friends are. By a certain age, you should only be able to count 5 true friends or less on one hand. The others? They're scenery. No better than a new table or curtains in your life.



I'm going to finish up the year with the situation I'm in and look to zoom ahead come January. I'm not going to be able to do much with the holidays arriving, so I'm going to enjoy candy, turkey, and tinsel trees without the added stress. I'm not thinking of it so much as a problem, rather than a transition. The people who can't keep up with me? Sorry, maybe you should have asked the hard questions. I didn't even want to, but that's the way the ball bounces.



And a wonderful announcement: yes, I'm getting the day after Christmas off. Someone is just going to have to drive in. I ain't got a family. This person does. One more day isn't going to hurt. I come from a news background. This person doesn't. Too fucking bad.

Still barely alive



Yup, my arms and neck are still achy and horrible. A hot bath did not do anything for me. I dragged my ass outta bed, only to find that many people, including the drivers on the X27, also struggled to wake up. 3 crowded monsters crawled by me, so I was stuck at the stop till 8:25. Forget about being on time.



I am truly and utterly exhausted. My days off are scheduled with doctor's appointments to quell the headaches, hair loss, weight gain, acne, and general malaise that is Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. My thyroid has also told me to take a hike, too, in no uncertain terms. The palpitations, the nausea, the brain fog is there. Exercise is killing me, and I just want to sleep. My shoulders and back are particularly feeling horrible. By the time I get a decent massage or shiatsu, it all goes away after I step back outside the door.



It's too much. Typical ACOA guilt about not saving the world, I guess. My European friends laugh in my face at the hours I work. And for what? Recent reports say my 401K won't be worth as much by the time I need it. What's the point? I can't seem to find one.

Update on Roy (this off AP's newsbatched wire)



Doctors Say It's a Miracle Horn Survived

LAS VEGAS (AP) _ It is ``all but miraculous'' that entertainer Roy Horn is

alive and able to communicate after being bitten in the neck by a 600-pound

tiger, his doctor said Tuesday. Horn, of the ``Siegfried & Roy'' show that

has thrilled Las Vegas tourists for years, was able to move his feet and

hands and is responding to treatment, Dr. Derek Duke said at a news

conference at University Medical Center where Horn was hospitalized after

Friday's attack.

Stuck again



I have a distinct memory that keeps popping through my head....During December 2000, I made my Light Trip back to my old neighborhood. A Light Trip is one in which I zig zag to watch Christmas displays from where I presently live to my childhood home, a now-decrepit house in the middle of Bensonhurst. I had been given a two-week break courtesy of the shithole where I worked, and my mother had gone off to Florida to be with her closeted nightmare. (The Light Trips had begun in 1998, during a rum-induced decision to deposit a bottle of Taylor champagne on someone's doorstep near 21st Ave. The bus never came, so I ended up walking a full 5 miles.) I snaked my way up and in and over 17th Avenue park and stopped for a scene of Disney characters, animated and nodding in time to a medley of Mickey Mouse tunes. The beauty of this window was indescribable. Snow pelted me. I thought about how far away I was, and how I didn't feel like moving. I didn't want to go home, but I had no where else to go. I was rooted to the spot. How I wished for a hole in time to suck me in. I wanted to live right on that block and ring their bell and say how wonderful their window was. It was almost 11 at night. My desperation, confusion, and utter frustration is something that can't really be described. I guess I'm thinking of this because this feeling has returned. It's familiar, too.



I felt it during the winter of 1988 when I was stuck in a high school I didn't want to attend, and the man I adored didn't return the attention.



I felt it on my 17th birthday, 4 days after my father was released from South Oaks Hospital. He would be hospitalized twice more in three years, to no avail.



I felt it in 1990, when I dated that monster who took everything except my sanity. A long illness ensued.



I felt it in 1995 when I met Borgia (yes, he's related to the infamous Lucretia Borgia, who poisoned people), and once again this past year when he got married on my birthday. I crashed the wedding just to see what this lie looked like. True to his name, it was all poisonous.



This feeling is a combination of spinning-doubting-nausea-questioning-headachey fear with an extreme desire for aspirin, soup, books, bathtubs, sleep and a cat in my arms. There are more questions than answers, and I must continue to answer questions for others. They have no workable solutions to my questions. I get blank stares. Shameful that I have a mind that resists leaps of faith, or perhaps I could find some inner dialogue to quell this black muck in my head. I would truly kill for a distraction or some sense of hope.



I'm lost.

Sleep is ILLEGAL



Once again, I find myself too wound up at nights so I can't really go to sleep. Phones, TV, answering machines, radios...all these might be off, but you couldn't tell my body to relax if you tried. I still feel sluggish, achey, and utterly exhausted. The hour commute to and from work doesn't help either. I think I would need an entire week of sleeping until 2 or 3 in the afternoon to catch up. I even feel a stress cold coming on, which is only hastened by--SURPRISE!!!--lack of sleep.



So, instead, I will try to make myself feel better by playing my RealPlayer music thingie. I've downloaded a few good cd's into my PC (God I wish I had a Mac at work), so that will have to keep me amused. And as for pumpkin picking? Fuhgettaboutit!!! I hear my redhead's mother is going to be there. This is waaaaay too soon to be meeting parents, so forget that. His father made fascism a healthy-looking activity from what I hear. Yeeeesh, that's a little too close to what the men in my family were like. I hope "tendencies" aren't passed down through DNA or I'm running for my life. So, pumpkins with two siblings, a wife of 15 years, 2 kids, and "Mother", I really and truly don't belong there. A rather astute friend of mine commented that this meeting might simply be derived from their need to "feel me out". Hey, at least I know their curiosity might go along with deeper issues and behaviors. I've figured it out without the requisite doubtful headaches.



In other news, my holiday teas will soon be making an appearance in Duane Reade. Sugar Plum Spice and Nutcracker Sweet are two of my favorite blends that are only available from mid-October to January. They are decorated with Christmas scenes and are truly delicious. Sugar Plum is a blend of berries and cinnamon spice, Nutcracker is a vanilla-hazelnut infused black leaf tea. Both are scrumptious. I can feel the baking bugs biting me, I looked at my loaf pans the other day. A giant batch of carrot cake or banana bread is coming on, kiddies. My redhead brought me a box of Mallomars and I yelped with joy--straight into the freezer they went. They will stay in exile until tonight when I will sneak a few.



The ice is going down in Rockefeller Center, always a sign of the seasons. Tickets for Radio City are on sale now, and I'm going to refer back to my Amazon recommendations for new cookbooks. Looks like I'm spending Thanksgiving at home this year so I can go to work the next day. I'm still taking the day after Christmas off. After all, it's my astute friend's birthday. Old Navy, anyone?

I feel like I got hit by a truck...



Yup, it's the hormonal headache today, kiddies. It lasts 2-3 days and feels like my head is in a vice. It's so nice when your own body doesn't produce progesterone! I love it. All these medications are not only contributing to my ever-growing sense of bankruptcy, but my conspirator's mentality: they ARE out to get me, and they WILL watch me DIE. Then I get more pills and the hell starts all over again next month.



In other news, the pressure is on: I got an invitation from my redhead's brother to go pumpkin picking this coming Sunday. Strangers, their children, my period, and giant orange vegetables? This does NOT sound pretty. Not to mention the 3 hour car trip it's going to take to get out there. We haven't even hit the 2 month mark yet, this sounds loaded with mucky emotional waters. Let him see his nieces and nephews, I'll stay home and do the laundry, thank you very much. I've got a truckload of magazines I want to load on ebay, anyway. Taking money from strangers doesn't bother me at all, particularly when they enjoy my scanned photos on a slammin' website. Big orange vegetables? That's another matter entirely. HA HA HA



Monster paw piglets are burrowing under my blankets, since the heat in my apartment hasn't come on yet. Master P (Dexter) found it in his fuzzy heart to nuzzle near my pillow last night and DIDN'T stick his wet nose on me. The calico princesses found refuge on the couch away from the window. When my heat comes up, it will be a mad dash for my bed, which barely has room for me. My heating pad from 1980 finally died a quiet death. The coils simply don't work anymore, so I tossed it. Alas, poor coils! Bad for my knee though, it's killing me with the change in weather.



This is also the one year mark for the weekend I discovered Olive's cancer. It was the night of October 6, and she came to me in the bathroom. She flipped over so I could rub her belly--something she was not known for---and I was aghast to find these angry red gnarls that looked like the Evil Dead from her lower chest straight down to her tail. Mammary adenocarcinoma, which is the feline equivalent of Stage III breast cancer, was the diagnosis. Just like a woman would choose, all the breast tissue they could find was removed. It filled 3 mason jars from what Dr. Dontchik told me. Turns out the disreputable butcher that called himself a veterinarian left a piece of her fallopian tube inside her when they "fixed" her. Unlike women, cats still secrete estrogen unless all uterine cavity portions have been removed. It took 8 1/2 years for that hormone to kill her. I had no idea. It was a rainy day when I brought her in for surgery and it was a rainy day when I put her to sleep, May 31 of this year. Olive was really a special kitty.



And my dad's would-have-been birthday is October 10. The old goat would have been 68. I wonder if he's laughing with my former boss, who looked just like him. He would have been 67 on October 24. I've always hated September, but I'll be damned if I ever understand October.

How MUCH do I love Target?



Let me count the ways...a truly last minute trip yesterday with my redhead revealed not only do we have silly fun in the car(he was hurling sunflower seeds out the window at passers-by), I also know that it is damn near impossible to spend less than $40 at any given time in that place. Not that $40 is bad, it's good! A 25 pound bag of cat litter and a 5 pound canister of cheez balls is great when you have a car. I am simply stunned that on any given trip, I have never been able to spend less than $40. Last night, I came close--$32.79, but he added to the mix by dropping $19 since I didn't have enough on me, and we spend every Sunday together anyway. It makes sense to have the foods he likes in my cupboard. That's still a bit over $50. We also got microwave popcorn, which we go through like water. We are movie maniacs, so proper snacks are in order.



I've got enough cereal, laundry detergent, cat litter, cat food, OxyClean, apple juice, eggs, and bathroom products to get me through the end of October, if not further. It's really really amazing. I could barely fit the Purex allergy-free detergent under my sink, it was about 4 pounds! Dexter sniffed the cheez balls, he's been known to enjoy potato chips and other weird things when I'm not looking. My only regret is that I did not have time to go through Isaac Mizrahi's new clothes section. I was hoping he'd turn up again--Todd Oldham at Kmart is just not my style, neither is Martha Stewart. I don't need Kermit the Frog Spring Green colored sheets. Kermit sheets, ok, but not the color of Kermie.



Target is so wonderful I look at my coupons and wonder "what do I do with these?" I don't actually need them, although it might be fun to pick up a $1.89 item and take 60 cents off. I think I'd get a kick out of seeing that at the register.



We made it home in time to catch "Carnivale", that new spooky show on HBO. Carnies are not just creatures that soccer-ball heads enjoy (wink, wink Ms. Penguin)! This is freaky stuff. You've got a healer who'd rather not heal, a priest who really does want to be God, a midget whose entire existence is a dream sequence, albeit a dark one, and a catatonic telepath whose daughter "hears" her "speak", and is quite nifty with tarot cards. Set in the dust bowl, this gives marvelous background to those suffering from tuberculosis. All that dust must do damage, eh? Nick Stahl has grown up. It's nice to see him in a real show. The last thing I saw him in was "Safe Passage", a pure piece of tripe where Susie Sarandon and Robert Sean Leonard wasted their talents. Nick was a baby with bad white-guy dreadlocks in that one. Don't bother, it's not even worth a rental. How these crappy movies get made I don't know. But the allure of buying the DVDs for $10 or less at Target makes it all better, I guess.

Grim Reaper 17? 18? The rest of us 0



I'm fucking losing count!!!



Rock Singer Robert Palmer Dies at Age 54

LONDON (AP) _ Rock singer Robert Palmer, known for his sharp suits and

hits including ``Addicted to Love,'' died Friday in Paris of a heart attack,

his manager said. He was 54. Palmer was on a two-day break in Paris following

a television recording session in Britain, his manager Mick Carter said from

the French capital.



But that talentless dimwit with SHITTY HAIR AND GRAVEL IN HIS THROAT, Michael Bolton, has a new record coming out.

Go play the Power Station record with Andy Taylor and Tony Thompson from 1985 and then play "Time, Love, and Tenderness." Which one made you want to cover your ears? Wasn't Bobby, that's fer sure....



I need to climb back in bed and cry.

I'm livin' on the air in Cincinnati....WKRP



In other radio news, our favorite pop star's high school yearbook is up for sale on eBay from Huntington, Lawn Guyland! 10 bids so far, and it's up to almost $300. One of her wonderful classmates decided to pimp it out and make some dough.

My yearbook wouldn't fetch $5 and a free peanut butter sandwich at a flea market.



I guess when it comes to his opinion of her singing, Screech is not just a character on "Saved by the Bell", kiddies! Yes, I'm talking about Mariah.



BTW, the Christmas "off" day war is still on. New developments to come in later weeks...

Baby, if you ever wondered...wondered whatever became of me



Gordon Jump of 'WKRP' and Maytag Ad Dies

LOS ANGELES (AP) _ Gordon Jump, who played a befuddled radio station

manager on the sitcom ``WKRP in Cincinnati'' and made his mark in commercials

as the lonely Maytag repairman, died Monday. He was 71. Jump suffered from

pulmonary fibrosis, said his cousin, Katherine Jump Wagner. The illness

causes scarring of the air sacs of the lungs, leading to heart or respiratory

failure.



Awww. I really really liked this guy.



Money problems persist, plus my umbrella blew out this morning, my shopping bag broke, my bus was skidding and the train I transferred to broke down! I had to get off and walk through Times Square before I chased my inside-out umbrella down the block. My hair and clothes look like a rat's nest. I'm tired, getting sick, I'm raggedy and rain-spattered. Why the hell did I get out of bed this morning? I could be sitting watching Kashi do the Dance of Death with The Evil Catnip Sock. That, kiddies, is mucho entertainment!

I can't believe how goddamn broke I am



Yes, kiddies, my salary is just paying bills. I make money, and it goes right out the window. I'm being nickel-and-dimed to death by all these tiny little taxes and surcharges and don't get me started on my cell phone bill. Apparently, Albany and Bloomberg have decided that cell phones are luxuries, they don't actually do anything other than annoy people in restaurants. It really doesn't make a difference that a family member might be miles away and needs to get in touch with you in case of disaster or death or dismemberment. Cell phones are for people who drink $5.95 lattes in Starbucks, yuppie scumbag bastards in SUV's, and hipster assholes who need to look cool and super blase as they go dancing in Webster Hall, which used to be edgy and cool, now it just sucks. I get a replacement phone through my equipment insurance plan, and the damn thing doesn't work. I pay a non-refundable fee of $35. Well, I called up and complained today and guess what? They credited me $35 since it doesn't work. NO bill next month, thank god.



Now for everything else. Reading the fine print on all my utilities makes me sick because the MTA gets a nice fee tacked onto my other bills. $2 per train trip isn't enough, I guess, which is also eating me THE FUCK ALIVE.



Oh, have I mentioned that I haven't had a decent vacation since 1999? I couldn't even get a three day weekend when I quit that SHITHOLE acting school because on of the administrators told me that day after a pay day (which every person who left usually took off without a problem) wasn't really a day off. I left on a Friday, and started immediately on a Monday where I am now. My father dying for which I took a whole week in 2001 off DOES NOT QUALIFY, since I ran around like a banshee begging these people to release the funds that paid for his funeral. That week, I also ran into my so-called best friend's husband/lover/boyfriend/whatever and was told that I should call THEM, never mind the fact that I was in MOURNING. But, I forgot: it's still all about her, which is why I banished the bitch from my life and have not regretted it AT ALL.



My yearly review will happen soon, let's see what bucket of tripe they hand me then. I want to know what the fuck it is I have to do to make more money so I can at least see the light of day with $200 more in my pocket than piecing for scraps like I have been since July. This really and truly sucks.



And speaking of "it's all about her", there is a person in here right now who thinks they're getting the day after Christmas off. No, I've been here a long time, I'm taking that day off. TOO FUCKING BAD.



I'm in a shit mood, kiddies, better be nice to me today!!!

Ok, enough sadness....

Let's move forward. RD needs serious help in choosing a cute gift for his little red haired girl (actually a blonde hee hee), a member of the band "Purple Soul." She recalled to him her horror at losing her entire Pierrot doll collection to a flood, a fate to which my collection succumbed, as well. I had tiny jester teddy bears and a huge Pagliacci doll that I won in a school raffle in 1981, that met a sad fate in my closet when my ceiling collapsed in a rain storm. I feel her pain. Now he is on the hunt for a new doll to simply "drop" as a gift, which means all that careless-looking stuff is really searching, hunting, and rehearsing honed to a fine razor's edge. The candle worked, let's see how this goes.



The Christmas listing has begun! Let me shamefully put here how little money I had last year after Olive's cancer diagnosis and subsequent surgery, which hit me in the pocket for a whopping $1100. I don't mind having spent it, but I would rather have had a tumor-free kitty and been able to share my bucks with friends and family during the holidays. I tried, I planned, but still got whomped on by bills, rent, food, and not knowing if Olive would make it. She hung on until this past May, but I still feel sidetracked. I planned and planned and it went into the crapper. So, it's out with the long-ass legal pad, and off I go. I'm starting now so I don't get in a slump.



I put up an Amazon.com wishlist that went nowhere for myself, so here's this year's rule for all of you: send me large, nasty hints about what you want. I don't read minds, I can't scry into a crystal ball, there is no Harry Potter-esque unicorn university where the secrets and wisdom of the Gift Certificate Gods will send me to get you the right thing. SPELL IT OUT, I AIN'T SANTA. And, if I should still screw up? No snivelling, no moaning/bitching/tantrums, and anyone who posts my gifts up on eBay will feel my full wrath. I'm a seller and a buyer, people! Better hide your email addresses if you don't want me to know you're "re-gifting", which is really a cheap ghetto word for "recycling a gift because I'm an ungrateful coward who's too lazy to stand on the exchange line." I'll bid on your stuff, win it back, and FLING IT at your head. And, no, YOU WILL NEVER LIVE IT DOWN. You won't get as much as pigeon poop from me when your birthday comes around, let alone Christmas.



As for me? Simple: silly bedroom slippers, candles (scented please, but no vanilla), cat-related items (mugs, calendars, Garfield), ballet stuff from the 70's, anything from Ice Capades in the 70's or 80's, winter-related thingies, new collectible Barbies, Snow Queen books (I have a small collection), Barnes & Noble, Amazon.com, Gelsey Kirkland anything, Toller Cranston items, or gift certificates to Old Navy, Strawberry, or Origins. There. Now you can't say you don't know.

I have no words...

Music Legend Johnny Cash Dies at 71

NASHVILLE, Tenn. (AP) _ Johnny Cash, a towering figure in American music

spanning country, rock and folk and known worldwide as ``The Man in Black,''

died Friday, his manager said. He was 71. ``Johnny died due to complications

from diabetes, which resulted in respiratory failure,'' said Cash's manager,

Lou Robin, in a press release issued by Baptist Hospital in Nashville.



TV Star John Ritter Dies of Heart Problem

LOS ANGELES (AP) _ John Ritter, whose portrayal of the bumbling but

lovable Jack Tripper helped make the madcap comedy series ``Three's Company''

a smash hit in the 1970s, has died of a heart problem, his publicist said

Friday. He was 54. Ritter fell ill Thursday on the set of his ABC sitcom ``8

Simple Rules ... For Dating My Teenage Daughter,'' said Susan Wilcox, his

assistant of 22 years.



Two of my absolute FAVORITE people. And I'm feeling like shit today myself, and might go home early. What the hell did I eat last night? Who am I to complain I'm still alive. I take it back...