Jersey-Girl Lost

The One Where I Start Blogging Again

2011-07-05T17:46:00.001-05:00

So a lot of dust can settle on a blog when it’s left abandoned for nearly a year. A lot can change as well. For the whole five of you that will bother catching up with me, and the three new subscribers I’ll probably gain from this post, let me give you the Cliff Notes version of the last eight months…

I’m back in New Orleans.
I briefly and triumphantly returned to my former career, only to discover that in the six months of my absence the inmates had taken over the asylum… And possessed among them about as much knowledge of the restaurant business as actual asylum inmates.
A dozen 50+ workweeks later I realized that any attempt at instituting (or expectation of) skill, knowledge, or basic capability was an exercise in frustration, so I bailed.
Subsequently, Man and I got back together. So far so good. More than so-good. Pretty-damned-good actually.
I’m currently in the midst of trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up… Again.
My thirty-fifth birthday is looming dangerously on the horizon.
In totally unrelated-to-my-birthday news, I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat or screaming at least once a week.

There you have it. I could probably go into more detail about these bullet-points, but having just lived through them I don’t really feel like it. So let’s just move on from here.

Now that I’m not working, or recovering from working every given moment of every given day, I’ve got some time on my hands. So I think I’ll start writing again.

In the meantime I’ve compiled a collection of my favorite entries in this blog that I’m sad to see collect the dust of abandonment. A “greatest hits of my own narcissism” if you will. Something to keep you busy while I’m constructing the next entry…

I Was Told There's ALWAYS a Barf Bag! (the one where I recount my very first flight.)

There Wasn't Even Room For J-E-L-L-O! (the one where I get myself impossibly and embarrassingly trapped inside a strappy dress.)

Who Is It? Who's There? How Do I Say It Again? (the one where I experience the Saints’ first Super Bowl in the Quarter.)

La-Benneton-Roulette (Or Something) (the one where I learn the importance of making up holidays in New Orleans)

My First Mardi-Gras (the one where I don’t really say much. I just look super-cute in the picture….)

Cinderella's Diamond Encrusted Pooper-Scooper (the one where I think I’d make a good relationship expert.)

Happy reading!

Neener! Neener!

2010-12-27T13:56:00.001-06:00

Snowday!!!

I don’t think you ever get too old to wake up in the morning and run to the bedroom window in hopes enough of the white stuff has fallen that you don’t need to get out of your (pink) jammies (with teddy bears on them, thankyouverymuch!). The only difference between childhood and adulthood snowdays is the amount of accumulation it takes to shut your life down for the next 24 hours (and the size of the jammies you’re wearing). As a child all it took was a mere few inches and I was spending my afternoon with the neighbor boy and his red-racer sled. As an adult, work doesn’t end until the snowfall resembles something Nostradamus predicted.

Lucky for me…

The thing about living on an island is that should anything happen to compromise the bridges in and out of town, you’re stuck until further notice. Needing to get to a shift at a restaurant that shouldn’t have bothered opening today anyway doesn’t constitute emergency use of the causeway. So, it isn’t so much that my job isn’t open today. It’s just that I can’t get there (Aw, shucks!).

I did have to trudge out into the New Jersey tundra briefly for much-needed snowday supplies (frozen pizza, cookies, Pepsi). It took me about half an hour to make a ten minute trip, but I’m all warm and comfy now (yes, back in my jammies.) I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee and a stack of Vogues to catch up on. So, to any of my inland coworkers who may be reading this….

I Make Pretty Today.

2010-12-02T00:19:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time I was a decorator.

It all started nearly a decade ago. I was working in a little shop in Philly and I got bored, so I started redressing the windows. I wish I had a picture of what I’d done because it’s to-date my favorite display I ever did (A floor to ceiling Christmas tree composed entirely of green monkeys, decorated with red monkeys and topped by a yellow monkey star). Fairly proud of my work, but thinking nothing of it, I went back about my day. What I didn’t know is that the woman who designed and decorated for the mall I worked in saw my display and snapped me up as her new assistant. For the next few years I worked under her, decorating malls and storefronts and large parties. The only reason I quit is because it’s piece-work. Sporadic according to season or event. Though the job made me totally happy, I had to leave it or starve to death trying to manage around it.

I made the mistake once of telling this story at work. Now the owner’s wife fancies me their personal decorator. I knew it was coming, so I wasn’t surprised at all when I walked in this afternoon and found she’d dragged dozens of wreaths, two Christmas trees and enough garland to wrap around the place twice. Ornaments, glue-gun, ribbons and mistletoe all awaited my arrival. Happy to have a reason to be anti-social (I was in a bad mood today) I set to work making the place pretty. I have to say, with every shiny orb I hung on the tree my mood lightened until I eventually forgot what was bothering me in the first place. It’s not done, but I’m pretty proud of what I did so far.

I have to admit, I’d forgotten how much I enjoy doing it and by the end of the night I’d heard “Why don’t you do this for a living?” so many times, I started wondering if maybe I could….

As soon as I get used to the feeling of hot-glue spilling on my fingers again… Owie!

The Curious Case of The Odd-Smelling Flowers

2010-11-28T22:03:00.001-06:00

Everyone at work is already buzzing about the upcoming Christmas party. It’s not that I work for jerks, it’s just that they aren’t very sociable when it comes to their staff. However, once a year they throw procedure to the wind and show that they really know how to host a shin-dig. I’d like to tell you the story of the girl that got way too drunk at the last party I attended, but shamefully that girl was me. No one realizes they’re the “drunk one” until they break a heel on an Atlantic City street and find themselves face down in front of an oncoming cab… I mean, that’s happened to you, right?

That night I learned that no matter how many tequila shots mixed with vodka chasers (Ugh! Was I serious?) you’ve consumed, you develop the reflexes of a cat when your face is about to become hamburger meat in a yellow-cab’s wheel well.

Not to mention the fifty dollar bill I suspect accidentally stuck in the juke-box instead of a five, as well as the fact that I couldn’t get out of bed until sometime around sunset the next day. But that’s not what this blog is about.

Pollyanna aka the “Secret Santa” game.

As though the holiday season isn’t stressful enough, we faithfully add every year the obligation to guess what someone you barely know, who you never really gave a second thought to until you were forced to pull their name out of a fishbowl would like as a Christmas gift… For ten bucks or less. I’ve been given cheap perfume (really cheap), cop-out gift cards to stores I don’t shop in, and misshapen plastic ornaments that still smell of the factory in a country that doesn’t even have Christmas. I’ve decided that the true object of this game is to purchase something for your unsuspecting recipient that they at least won’t throw away until after the party.

It seems that no matter how hard you pray while you’re sticking your hand in that fishbowl you never get the person at work you know best. No, you get someone you either hate or have to ask “Who is this?" This year I got one of the kitchen guys. I could have done worse, at least he’s nice to me. Back in October when he caught wind that it was my birthday he ran outside and picked me a small bouquet of flowers from the pots he keeps out back. He presented them to me in a milkshake glass and I kept them on my kitchen table for about a week before they died. Sweet gesture, right? Unfortunately he didn’t know the truth about his flowers.

About a week ago I showed up for work to find the flower pots had been moved indoors. They looked pretty sitting there, but in the confines of the corridor I noticed a very peculiar, very un-flowery smell coming from them.

“What’s up with the flowers?” I asked when I got inside.

“It smells like that because so-and-so has a bad habit of getting drunk at night and pissing in the outside flower pots!” Then he got up and took them all out to the dumpsters.

But…

Wait.

Those are…

My birthday flowers!!

So I know what I’m getting this guy for Christmas this year.

Chia-Pets. Keep them in your window and hope so-an-so doesn’t finish a six-pack and find them.

I threw away the milkshake glass.

When Housemaids Scrub the Floors, They Get the Spaces In-Between.

2010-11-21T21:40:00.001-06:00

Though I tried to avoid it at all costs, I found myself sucked into Bravo’s collection of useless Real Housewives series. My favorite is New York (Team Bethenny!) followed by New Jersey and then Atlanta. I can’t help myself. These overtly decadent and decorative women pretending to nurture careers and families when we all know they’ve never put in more effort than it takes to hold themselves upright in a manicurist’s chair in their lives makes me giggle.

All of them, that is, except for the Beverly Hills ladies. They don’t make me laugh. They don’t make me smile. They make me very sad and a little sick to my stomach the way I felt that first time someone showed me the Faces of Death web site. I find myself grotesquely fascinated and a bit horrified that people like this exist in the world. And that there are other people willing to broadcast such things for the rest of us to see.

They’re all dead-eyed and vacant; sporting plaster-of-paris mannequin faces. Sad and bored in ways that only an obscene amount of money can buy. Lonely from rattling around in their silly mansions all alone while their husbands do whatever someone does to afford such a life, they cling to eachother like a support group. They don’t seem to like eachother much at all—especially the sisters—but who else understands the pangs of despair when you realize you’re nothing more than a bullet-point on some man’s list of net worth and assets?

This show proves without a doubt two things:

1. Money can’t buy you happiness. It can buy you enough plastic surgery to form your mouth into something resembling a smile, but it won’t be actual happiness.

(This lady freaks me out the most.)

2. Weezer got it all wrong.

(I still like the song, though.)

All the Fun of a Hangover Without the Tequila Aftertaste.

2010-11-16T19:40:00.001-06:00

I left work early yesterday because I was feeling a bit out of sorts. Run down, couldn’t concentrate, generally just blegh.

By midnight I was sitting on my bathroom floor for the second time, staring into the dark abyss of the toilet’s u-bend and wondering if I had some form of food poisoning or the flu. (Thank Gawd I’d cleaned the bathroom Sunday afternoon!) By the third trip to pay my respects to the porcelain god I just didn’t care anymore. I felt like I was being turned inside out and I wanted it to end.

Then my face caught fire while the rest of me shivered like a hairless cat in the snow. Then every inch of my skin began to crawl with aches and pains.

Great. Flu it is then.

I crawled into bed with the heat cranked as high as it would go, and cocooned into four blankets where I stayed until about two this afternoon. I was at work by three, on my way home again by four-thirty. I guess there was something about the waitress standing off in the corner looking all green and shaky that might put people off eating in our establishment, so they sent me home. Or it could have been that when someone tried to hug me my body ached so bad I actually started to cry. I’m such a baby when I’m sick. Sequestering myself at home is more for the benefit of no one needing to hear me whine than it is about being contagious.

So here I sit, wrapped in my favorite furry blanket waiting for a delivery of Won-Ton soup and fried rice in the hopes that it will fare better inside of me than that ill-fated grilled cheese from earlier.

My kingdom for another bottle of flat ginger ale…

(I finally start blogging again and I dedicate an entire post to being sick… Such is Emma.)

Perhaps Whoop-Ass Comes in a Pop-Top?

2010-11-12T12:00:00.001-06:00

Tapioca pudding.

Where has it been all my life?

I’m not quite sure what it’s made of, and I don’t know what those little orbs of yummy floating around inside it are, but I’m hooked. I can’t keep my face out of the stuff and that is a problem. I was briefly relieved of my addiction this week when we ran out of it at work, but a couple days later one of the cooks turned up with a vat of it so big I could have sat inside and eaten my way out. I hadn’t been so happy since that surprise sale at the Steve Madden outlet.

Anyway, I’m afraid that this new tapioca addiction of mine is going to hinder all the weight-loss progress I made. I was discussing my little dilemma with a friend over coffee (There may have been pie. I admit nothing!) when they suggested that I take up some form of martial art. Um… Have we met?

I probably should start actually working out, though. Especially since this tapioca thing is clearly going to destroy me.

The truth is, I get bored at gyms. It’s repetitious and boring and I stopped wasting my money on memberships years ago. The last time I tried, I dropped a ridiculous amount of cash to join one of those fancy-pants casino spas, then spent more time in the hot tubs and steam rooms than anything else. To be completely honest, I only remember passing the actual gym part of the spa on my way to the sauna. What I need is something more structured and disciplined that will actually hold my interest.

I took a kickboxing class for a while when I was like 22, but that was a long time ago. I think these days I may need an actual can opener to get that can of whoop-ass open (Electric, please).

Chicken Salad and Mousse. It’s What’s For Dinner?

2010-10-15T21:06:00.001-05:00

I ran into an old friend today. I think it’s been about 15 years since I’d seen her, so you can imagine my comfort-level. Especially when you consider the fact that I was trying to sneak off to the supermarket in my jammies after a long day of pretending I was one of the couch cushions. Not exactly how one would choose to present oneself to an old friend after 15 years.

But isn’t that always when you run into someone?

Speaking of the grocery store, shopping is a totally different experience when you’re shopping for one. I hadn’t really thought about what I was tossing into my basket until the time came to lay it all on the, er, line.

The groceries of a single lady: More money spent on hair and skin care than food.

So here I sit wearing my pumpkin enzyme (pumpkins have enzymes? And they go on your face?) and vitamin c masque eating a chicken salad with soggy croutons (Note to self: Don’t put on the dressing if you’re going to have a 20 minute phone conversation before eating) listening as what sounds like the entire cast of Jersey Shore moves into the place downstairs.

The great thing about winter rentals is they’ll probably be gone by Monday morning.

Cable Television: Watch At Your Own Risk

2010-09-25T00:46:00.001-05:00

Sometimes watching Discovery Health makes me wonder if there really is no God.

Tonight’s bizarre medical condition has been brought to us from Egypt. It’s the story of a little girl named Manar Majed who was born with two heads. Not only was she born with a second head growing out of the top of her own, but that head had its own brain and thus its own consciousness. It had no body, no heart, no other nervous system. Just a head that cried while Manar slept. It smiled at the doctors and nurses in the hospital. It was capable of having emotions independent of Manar. It was alive. It cried and laughed. Can you imagine seeing that?

The head had a fully formed brain that survived from the functions of Manar’s body. Being what’s considered a parasitic twin, the head’s existence was putting Manar’s life at risk. Her heart failed six times trying to support the extra life. A decision had to be made to separate the two. In spite of the fact that this head was clearly conscious and developing its own personality, in order to save Manar’s life it had to be killed.

Sheesh.

Perhaps I should have opted for another Roseanne rerun before bed instead of this.

Goodbye, Shoobies!

2010-09-06T16:35:00.001-05:00

To a place like Ocean City, the world spins on a separate axis; a thriving year that lasts from Memorial Day to Labor Day. In that time, this tiny barrier island off the coast of southern New Jersey is packed ocean to bay with the buzz of a thriving tourism industry.

Living up to six deep in one bedroom summer rentals, it feels like the tri-state area opened up and spilled the contents of its residency onto our beaches, into our restaurants and in line at our convenient stores. All at once they come, and it never fails that all at once they leave. Residents of this town know better than to even try using the bridges on or off the island on those two pivotal days of the Ocean City year.

Some of the local businesses don’t bother staying open but for that small time frame. They make so much money from these tourists they can afford to close for the fall and winter and spend the season in more tropical locales… Ironically becoming “Shoobies” themselves somewhere else.

I guess that’s what you call the circle of life.

This morning I watched them go. New York, Pennsylvania and Delaware license plates all in a row; in line for their turn on the bridge out of town. This morning you still couldn’t get a seat at the coffee shop. You had to wait in line everywhere and grit your teeth at the beach sand and coco butter smell of the people you’ve been forced to tolerate all summer. You couldn’t have paid a thousand dollars for a parking spot, but you could laugh as a man in a Mercedes complained out loud about a quarter for the parking meter.

Then, like the ebb of the ocean, they were all gone. I emerged from a stint on my couch to find the parking lot below my balcony not just empty, but totally abandoned. The town sits in absolute silence. Just like that. The invasion of Planet Ocean City has ended and the shore has been left to the care of it’s residents once again.

That is until the next rotation and the OC year begins again.

In An Effort To Fit In, I Start Trombone Lessons Saturday.

2010-06-25T10:07:00.001-05:00

Ladies and Gentlemen (whoever’s left actually reading this blog), a miracle has occurred!

(Cue the choir of angels!)

Okay, maybe not a miracle, but I wanted to get your attention. I do have news, though… Are you ready?

Man and I are moving.

Most of you may recall this post where I divulged to my best beloved that I hate—with every fiber of my soul—living in the suburbs. The truth is, I’m just not cool enough to pull off living among the tree-lined streets and manicured lawns of American suburbia.

You know what I mean. Every neighborhood has at least one slightly too-cool-to-live-there family of hipster parents sporting elaborate tattoos at every neighborhood association meeting or block party. Though the “normies” of the ‘hood tend to look at them with a small mixture of suspicion and mistrust, it’s secretly nice to have them around. They lend a certain air of realism to the area. They fool the other residents into believing that maybe they aren’t so far removed from their own abandoned rockstar dreams of the early 90’s.

I’m not that awesome. When I leave for work in the mornings I’m just another suburbanite upstart wondering if I have time to stop at Starbucks on my way to the office (or in my case, the restaurant). Whenever I allow myself to come to this realization I die a little inside. If I’m going to retain any shred of my former “cool” I’m going to have to live someplace… Well, cooler than here.

Now that my personal economy is on an upswing, Man agreed that we can start looking. Hopefully by the time promotions, raises and bonuses rain down from the apex of the corporate mountaintop we’ll have something picked out. Though I wish it could be the million dollar condo of my previous post, chances are closer to not.

Personally, I think we should move into Treme before HBO causes it to gentrify.

I’m Already Picking Out China Patterns, Is That Weird?

2010-05-31T10:20:00.001-05:00

I used to blog every day faithfully. Now, if I can manage an entry every three weeks it’s some kind of accomplishment. However, I have news, and I wanted to share it with all of you.

I have a crush.

*giggle*

I met my crush on the internet (go figure) a couple weeks ago, and what began as a fleeting interest has grown into full-on-obsession. I have my crush’s web page bookmarked, and I hate to admit this, but I visit at least once or twice a day. That isn’t to say I’ve made my interest known to anyone. My fear of rejection is just too much right now. So I simply open the page, bypass any contact information (I’m just not ready to take that step yet.) and move my mouse straight onto the photo gallery icon…

… Which is where the real fantasizing begins…

I’ve become such a woman obsessed, I even went so far as to find the object of my utmost desire’s address so I can stand quietly on the street-corner and attempt to catch glimpses in the windows.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve got It just that bad.

I thought at first that this would be another of my passing fancies. Something I got over in a couple weeks, leaving me to resume life as usual. But, no. I can’t get over this one. It’s totally consumed me and everything I do. I spend nearly every waking moment of the day dreaming about what a beautiful union it would be.

We were made for eachother, ya know? And someday I’m going to work up the nerve to walk right through the front door of that building and declare my undying devotion to my new true love…

A girl can definitely get her “Happily Ever After” on in a place like that!

I’m The Colonel, You’re Elvis… Without the Embarrassing Tragic Death, Please.

2010-05-06T21:58:00.001-05:00

I know I’ve been a terrible blogger this past month. I’m currently transitioning from “restaurant worker” to “restaurant manager” (Go me!), so I’ve been pulling six day work weeks.

Part one of my plan to become a celebrity restaurateur is complete…

On top of the whole job thing, Man and I have been working on his career as the next great art photographer. (Dream big. It’s the new black.) Last week a friend of mine’s band (Retro Vertigo) played a small bar near our house, and I have to say… I’m proud of my man. It was his first time doing anything like this, and it turned out great! He got some great shots, and the band is totally impressed with his work. To celebrate, we finally bought the domain.

(Click the picture to see more)

The only thing the site is missing right now is a how to buy prints function… Which will be corrected shortly, as I’ve decided that since I’m “managing” his career I want my 20% cut. (I’m the colonel to his Elvis.)

Flashy sports cars don’t buy themselves is what I’m sayin…

So, as soon as I settle into an actual solid schedule again, I’ll be back to blogging my little heart out. I just wanted you guys to know I haven’t abandoned you. I’ve just been totally exhausted. I went from nothing to do to having lots to do, so socializing on all levels has fallen to the wayside.

Miss you guys.

Em.

Murderous Gangs of Debutantes On The Loose!

2010-04-26T13:32:00.001-05:00

Since the reckless use of the “download” function seems to be what destroyed my last computer (hey, did you know that there’s a such thing as computer viruses? ‘cuz apparently i didn’t.), I’ve been treating this new one as though the slightest addition to the hard drive will cause a major catastrophic meltdown…

Which it will, if anything happens to this new computer.

However, a life without itunes isn’t a life worth living, so I finally bit the bullet this afternoon and added it. Since most of the music on my former lappy was ill-begotten through Limewire (again, viruses? never heard of ‘em!), I don’t actually have an itunes account. Later tonight Man and I are going shopping for an external hard drive and some itunes gift cards so I can join the ranks of legitimate music fans, but in the meantime I’m sitting here listening to internet radio.

Which brings me to a funny aside. After my successful download and install of itunes, I bounced out into the living room and declared: “Hey! I can listen to internet radio now!”

To which Man replied: “Yeah, Em. Welcome to 2003.”

Hrmph!

So, pardon me if I’m about to tell you something people living in 2010 already know…

For the last two hours I’ve been listening to what has fast become my new favorite internet station. FTV Hits, which broadcasts music from fashion/runway shows around the world. Pretty cool.

So I’ve been playing this little game with myself all afternoon. A song comes on, and I try to imagine what kind of clothes or which designer would use that particular tune. It’s all been pretty standard fare so far: Slow remixes of European electronica and the occasional 80’s hit.

Then they tossed me a curve ball.

Lil Wayne.

Yeah, I know. Rappers seem to be the new Lagerfelds these days, but… I dunno. Call me a fashion show purist, but Lil Wayne? What on Earth would I send down a runway to the tune of someone who can make sex sound so dirty, sweaty and all-around nasty I almost don’t want to do it anymore?

Then it struck me.

Ball gowns.

But not just any old collection of formalwear. No, if I was handed a Weezy track and told to match it to clothes, I’d do Cotillion gowns.

‘Cuz there ain’t nothin’ more gangsta than an old fashioned Debutante ball.

Ouchie (Wordless) Wednesday!

2010-04-21T19:20:00.001-05:00

It’s kinda late, but…

From awkwardfamilyphotos.com

Serenity now. Serenity NOW!

2010-04-20T21:17:00.001-05:00

In an attempt to inject a little serenity into my life, I’ve decided to start getting up an hour earlier in the mornings. The one thing I liked best about working later shifts was I had all that time to ease into the idea of my day. I’d make a pot of coffee, grab a bagel, listen to a little music or meditate (when I was going through that Buddhist phase). I had time to tinker with my hair, and do my makeup properly.

Then I started working mornings, and all that pre-work serenity went out the window. It was get up and get going, like, now! Some days I’m in such a rush I show up with my hair still damp.

Not. Cute.

So I’m doing this new thing, hoping to reclaim a little “Me Time” in the mornings. (Like a total lame-ass) I’ve got all my clothes set out, all the accompanying jewelry on the nightstand. I figured out how to set my coffee maker to brew fresh Starbucks in the morning, and there are headphones next to the lappy so I can listen to something upbeat over coffee.

No bagels, though.

I forgot the bagels.

D’oh!

Oh well, I’ve still got Buddha.

Om.

Like It’s a Frikkin Casting Call for “My Cousin Vinny”

2010-04-19T13:38:00.001-05:00

Have I introduced you guys to my new BFF?

I mean, if a television show can be one’s “Best Frikkin Friend” (I just coined that term, make note.), Jerseylicious is totally mine. I want to have Friday night slumber parties with the show, take it shopping, and talk about boys over expensive coffee drinks. I hope we get married on the same day, buy houses down the street from eachother and have lots of little guido babies that will grow up together.

Mostly, I want to trade shoes with my bestie, J-Lic.

Especially these:

Seriously, where do I find those?

Magic All Up In This Bitch!

2010-04-14T12:00:00.000-05:00

I can’t just leave this as another Wordless Wednesday post. Honestly? It’s more of a “Speechless Wednesday” type thing.

I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised at all by the existence of this song. Clearly this is a case of a band earning enough money to start their own record label, therefore cutting out the man in charge who may go “Hey, guys… Perhaps this isn’t your best idea.” Sometimes artistic freedom isn’t necessarily a good thing. Especially when you just know this band’s legion of brainless followers are listening—declaring they know exactly what these people are talking about.

Case in point, this gem:

I see miracles all around me
Stop and look around, it's all astounding
Water, fire, air and dirt
Fucking magnets, how do they work?
And I don't wanna talk to a scientist
Y'all motherfuckers lying, and getting me pissed

Seriously?

I would accept this line of thinking from say, an ancient tribe of indigenous peoples ala “The Gods Must Be Crazy” or perhaps from a caveman frozen in ice these last few millennia. However, over the centuries there are people who have successfully cracked the code and figured out just how a magnet works. Something about electrons and certain kinds of alloy. Ionic something or other… Don’t ask me to spell it out for you, but I know the explanation is out there.

But then again, we can’t trust science. Those motherfuckers are all liars anyway. Once again, the profound thinking of a pair of men in cheap carnival gear has set the record straight. They’re all liars. Not only do they lie to us about magnets, but also about what causes a rainbow after the rain. And let’s not forget the conundrum of long-neck giraffes.

How them bitches grow they neck so long, yo?

Also, it isn’t genetics or DNA that causes a child to take on the appearance of the parent. It’s mothafucken magic.

Last week I declared there’s nothing worse in this world than an intelligent stoner. You know the type: He gets real high and waxes philosophic about the nature of reality, the impending computer revolts and the likelihood of a 2012 Armageddon. I always hated these people back when I was a stoner myself. All I wanted to do was eat potato chips and watch cartoons, and they wanted to discuss the relevance of Nietzschean Philosophy in our modern times.

Total. Buzzkill.

But I’d rather endure hours of that than the droning of a wannabe-smart stoner, as these people clearly are. Wannabe-smart people say things like:

Music is all magic
You can't even hold it
it's just there in the air
Pure motherfucking magic Right?
This shit'll blow your fucking mind

Um… Yeah.

Emma Bloggerhands

2010-04-13T18:48:00.000-05:00

Guess who's back.
Back again.
Emma's back.
Tell some men.
Rub my back, rub my back rub my back! (na-na-na)

This past Friday The Queen of Everything (i.e. my mother) arrived in NOLA to visit her beloved Princess of Quite A Lot (i.e. me). Needless to say, there wasn't a lot of time (or energy) for blogging the last five days. It was an absolute blast hanging out with mom again. We hung around The Quarter (I only had to wrench the daiquiri out of her hand once!), and did some shopping on Magazine Street.

Whatever work The South did on turning me into a polite, good-natured young lady this last year was totally dismantled by my mother in five days, so look out. Jersey's back in the house.

I guess you've noticed there have been some changes around the blog... Again. I was getting tired of trying to be "a blogger" all the time. For a while I was eating, sleeping, dreaming blogs. I was constantly working my brain trying to come up with ideas "other people" would like. As much as I adore the undivided attention of strangers, it was getting a little taxing. So from now on, this blog has no theme. It's not meant to be exclusively about anything, but whatever happens to be on my mind that day.

Like right now? I'm thinking that it's close to impossible to type successfully with these damn fingernails! I got sick of looking at my chewed, stubby fingers last week and took myself out for a much-overdue manicure. Now I'm completely useless. I've been dropping things left and right, and I'm about as proficient a typist as Edward Scissorhands.

When I get them redone next week, I'm definitely having them trimmed.

Wordless Wednesday (Plastic Pants Edition)

2010-04-07T16:17:00.002-05:00

Friggin' A!

Look Out, Ansel Adams!

2010-04-05T12:00:00.002-05:00

It seems the double-whammy combo of a cold and raging pms knocked all the funny out of me, so there won’t be a blog today. Try not to riot in the streets, I’ll be back tomorrow.

In the meantime, I want to show you something else I’ve been working on. Man’s a photographer! So far he’s been calling it a hobby, but I think it’s time his work saw more of the light of day than just hanging in our house. So I’m taking over the business end of things. Perhaps taking on a new project will help with this case of the insufferable homesicks.

Here’s a video of some of his work. The rest of it can be found here: districts.weebly.com (We’ll be buying a domain by the end of this week, so people can start actually buying things from us.)

Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz!

2010-04-01T12:00:00.000-05:00

As it has been my tradition every season change since I moved here, I have a cold. My throat is sore, my eyes are itchy, and my nose? I woke up this morning with a Mississippi River style snot-stream running from of my left nostril. (How do you like that imagery?)

I also have cramps, but that’s not so much a tradition thing as it is a double-whammy of reasons to stay in my jammies and eat ice cream all day.

Ah, speaking of that, I’ve been thinking all morning that perhaps my “I hate Suburbia!” tirade was more a result of a hormone fluctuation than an actual feeling. I don’t hate living here, I’m just a city fish out of water. I’m not used to being two-miles removed from the nearest Starbucks. I’m unfamiliar with the concept of planning a day, as opposed to simply deciding “I’m bored.” and leaving the house knowing I’d eventually find something to pique my interests within four city blocks. My senses don’t know how to take the smell of a fresh cut lawn in the spring, having been exposed for years to the stink of the heat rising off a broken 75 year old sidewalk.

The truth is that after a year, I still haven’t given the ‘burbs a chance. Though I’ve been happy in my relationship, I’ve been too busy lamenting over what was to come up with a new what is.

Part of my problem is Man and I are a one-car couple, which limits my adventuring a bit. He’s got the car while he’s at class, which isn’t a big deal except for those days when I’m off work and left to rattle around the house all day alone. There’s only so much laundry I can do before I start snatching at my own eyelashes. By the time he gets home I’m going so stir crazy I start machine-gunning off places I want “us” (me) to go just to get out of the house. He hasn’t got his bag off his shoulder yet, and I’m running off to the bathroom to fix my hair and put on my face so he can turn around and we go right back out.

Not fair, I know.

I’ve considered teaching myself to navigate the labyrinth of public transit options down here, but there’s only one. A bus that—by the time I walk to the stop I might as well have walked to Baton Rouge. Not to mention it would take two hours and a couple of transfers to travel what should be a 20 minute car ride. No thanks. Especially not with the merciless Louisiana summer just around the corner. You can just call me Em Pit-Stains by the time I get anywhere.

The obvious solution would be for me to stop buying shoes and gnomes and slippers and kitchen gadgets, pay to have my license reinstated in NJ and buy a car. The idea of the freedom to go shopping, lunching and exploring all by myself makes me absolutely giddy! I dream of a little red convertible and big sunglasses. Of the wind in my hair and a caramel macchiato in the cup holder.

Of course, even if I do somehow manage to stop buying shoes, gnomes, expensive coffee and bedroom slippers, the reality is still more along the lines of this:

Wordless Wednesday (Gem Sweater Edition)

2010-03-31T12:00:00.000-05:00

I’m Not Cut Out For These Clean Streets.

2010-03-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

I’m bored.

Out of my mind.

As in Spent-Two-Days-In-My-Jammies bored.

As in Looking-Forward-To-A-Trip-To-The-Grocery-Store bored.

As in Actually-Cleaned-The-House-A-Little bored.

The problem?

I hate the suburbs.

A lot.

Last week man found me in our bedroom staring at my computer and ~~blubbering~~ ~~like~~ a ~~psychotic~~ quietly weeping all over a torn tissue. I’d been ruminating over photos of my old neighborhood, of the coffee shop where I hung out, of a street that I could navigate with my eyes closed…

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, handing me a new tissue to replace the one I’d demolished.

I remained silent. Well, unless you count the mewling.

“Well…?”

“I…” I began, but lost my nerve.

He stared at me. Stared through me.

“Baby, I love you, and I love our life, and I’m so glad I’m here, but…”

“But what?”

Then, with all the emotion of a guilty spouse divulging the excruciating details of a torrid indiscretion, I pulled in a deep breath and blurted out the following words:

“I-I-I H-haaaate the Sub-bur-bur-(choke)-burbs!” And then begin to sob.

The confession hung in the air between us for what felt like forever. He stood in heavy silence as I blubbered and bawled over and over again “I hate it! I hate it so much! I’m so sorry, but I hate this town!”

I watched, helpless, as he pulled a screwed up face.

He got all tight lipped, like I’d just fed him a lemon.

His eyes watered.

Then he began… To laugh. Hysterically.

“FINALLY!” He chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye, “I’ve been waiting a year for you to admit you hate it here!”

“W-what?” I sniffled, coughed, wiped.

He sat on the bed beside me and wrapped his arm snugly around my shoulders. Respectfully he tried to contain his giggles. Thanks.

“Baby, nobody in their right mind likes it here. I’ve been thinking there’s something wrong with you because you keep saying you like it here.”

“I lied.” Sniffle, wipe, weep. “I didn’t want you to think I was going to up and leave someday.”

“Oh, Baby.. I wouldn’t think that!”

Thanks. Not only am I bored, but I’m boring and predictable to boot. Not to mention stationary. I feel better by leaps and bounds now.

After he graduates, we’re moving.

What Do Garden Gnomes, The Eiffel Tower, Rain Boots and Coach Sneakers Have In Common?

2010-03-29T12:24:00.000-05:00

I can’t leave the house without adult supervision anymore.

At the very least some sort of electronic monitoring device.

Or possibly a shock collar.

This past Wednesday I went to Pier One because I needed a new coffee mug. I came out with a complete set of China.

Before that I went into Target for… Honestly, I forget what I went in for, but I left with a couple of pint sized garden gnomes and a pair of sock monkey bedroom slippers. Are they not all kinds of awesome?

Be that as it may, they weren’t what I’d initially gone in for.

Then there was the rain boots I got while looking for new work pants.

Another trip to Target a week later landed me this adorable, but useful for nothing but ascetics, Eiffel Tower candle holder. We’d originally gone in to look at desks for me, but they didn’t have the one I wanted. (Had I actually paid attention to the web site, I’d have known that.) Instead I got something I thought would look cute on the desk that I don’t actually posses yet.

I know.

That brings us to this afternoon when I insisted Man take me to the mall so I could find something to wear to The Video Game Symphony. I found a Yoshi tee shirt at Hot Topic-- a store I only go into anymore when I want to torture myself with the reality of being at least 15 years removed from anything even remotely cool. (Do they even say “cool” anymore?) That reminds me, who the hell is this Justin Bieber? There was a wall of tee shirts dedicated to this kid’s face. Since when am I so out of touch that I have no idea about popular culture? This reminds me of Grandpa Simpson when he said “I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was. Now what I'm with isn't it, and what's it seems weird and scary to me, and it'll happen to you, too!”

But I digress.

So I got my shirt and I should have known to leave the mall immediately.

However, there’s a problem.

Sitting square between myself and the exit closest to the car?

The Coach store.

And there’s a new pattern in the window.

Ladies and Gentlemen, an addict knows they’re going to use before anyone else does. Perhaps there’s something in the air surrounding them that buzzes with relapse-- or maybe it’s just a certain kind of craving that takes hold at the most base level of the soul-- but the addict knows even before he knows. I knew when I stepped through the door that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The sales girls saw me coming a mile away (perhaps it was the large Coach purse already slung over my shoulder), and they descended on me like a pack of back-alley crack dealers that just saw someone twitch. The bag, the matching sneakers, the scarf, a wallet and something called a “wristlet” which is just a tiny purse big enough for a pack of cigarettes, a compact and possibly a house key, were all thrust into my hands. It was all “NEW NEW NEW! Just released Friday afternoon! MUST HAVE! MUST HAVE! Isn’t this adorable? And this…? And this would look so cute with this!”

Once in my hands, a fabulous, brand new, designer purse is harder for me to let go of than puppies.

It was dizzying. I mean literally, I became dizzy and disoriented. It was like one of those movies when all the characters’ heads grow to the size of HR Puff N Stuff creatures and words become unintelligible. They had just about talked me into dropping every cent in my wallet when I threw up my hands in the universal sign for “Back da F* up!” and stepped away from them backwards, the way one would an advancing pack of brain-hungry but incredibly snappily-dressed zombies.

“Just give me a minute here, ladies. I need to take a breath before I make any decisions.”

I grabbed Man’s hand and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and a little perspective.

Five minutes later I marched in that store with every intention of explaining to them that—thank you very much, but I’d be back next week for the purse when I had a little more cash to move around. (Creative Economics I call it. I should teach a class.)

Which I guess wasn’t a lie…

Since I came out with the shoes.

I Have A Feeling The Dog Lady And I Are Going To Be An Ongoing Saga All Summer…

2010-03-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

Blah.

I was in a terrible mood all day. (I seem to find myself in this mood once every 28 days. Go figure) Like the kind of mood that causes me to want to kick in the throat anyone who looked at me funny.

Or seriously.

Or at all.

As a matter of fact, the simple infraction of being anywhere in my presence was kick-to-the-throat-worthy in my eyes today.

(Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to work this morning.)

Speaking of things that make me want to punch a staple into the webbing between someone’s toes… The Dog Lady. (The story begins here.)

It seems Mister Steven “I’ve Gained A Few” Segal has labored up onto his winded white horse and trotted off into the sunset, leaving me to deal with Old Drunky and her three tiny terrorists on my own. I’ve considered everything from valium laced Milkbones to borrowing the neighbor’s Pitt Bull. (It’s a dog-eat-dog world, right?) However, I don’t actually hate small dogs--I just hate their irresponsible cheap-beer swilling elderly owners-- so neither option sits well with my conscience.

Come see me after two more weeks of that incessant barking and ask me about my conscience.

Anyway, I think I’ve formulated a plan. Next time I venture into the back yard I’m going to record those little dogs yapping, yapping, yapping at me. Then, next time I’m alone in the house I’m going to load up the recording, set the biggest speaker I can find in the window of our house closest to a window of hers, and turn it on.

Continuous loop.

Top volume.

All day long.

And when she finally sobers up long enough to figure out what’s going on, she’ll either realize the error of her horrible dog-ownership ways, or she’ll toddle over to my house to ask me to turn the sound off. At that time I’ll calmly explain to her…

Who am I kidding?

I tried to warn you…

The Secret Failed To Mention That The Dishes Can Be Mystical…

2010-03-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

I’m as happy as happy can be!

Well, I’m as happy as happy can be, having completed her set of Pier One place settings.

We can now have two friends over for dinner, and have matching salad bowls, appetizer plates, dinner plates and coffee mugs to serve them with. That is, provided mom sends me the other two sets that are sitting in her storage facility in Jersey.

Aren’t they just adorable?

They’d discontinued the pattern on the big serving tray, and it was the last one in all of existence (I swear!) marked down to $26, so I picked that up as well.

Now we can eat our Domino’s pizzas in class, baby!

And now for the sentimental back-story…

My mom started buying me this set when I gave up on my treacherous party girl life and moved into a quiet little apartment by the shore. She provided me with a set of two, because she said that according to The Law Of Attraction, a single woman should always keep two of everything. It attracts to her home a romantic dinner for two.

So I sat in my quiet apartment eating Chinese take-out off of my adorable plates, wondering who was coming for dinner. I’d admire the quaint little rooftops and palm trees, imagining what a place like that would be like. I pictured myself walking hand-in-hand with someone in this neighborhood—exploring storefronts and kissing at the crosswalks. (I know. Stay with me. I’m getting to my point!)

Then Man came into my life and I wound up here in New Orleans.

As we were putting the new set away tonight I told him about the Law of Attraction thing and why my mom bought me two place settings.

Then I got online to send her a picture of something.

I found this photo I took of the French Quarter from atop the Sheraton downtown….

I was thinking something a little more tropical at the time, but… We’re only one climate up from rainforest, and we do have palm trees, so I’m callin’ it a win.

Okay, enough of the mush. Regularly scheduled snappy blogging resumes tomorrow!

It Is, As Some Admiral Once Said, A Trap.

2010-03-24T19:15:00.001-05:00

Tsk tsk…

And here I thought the internet was chock full of nerds, gamers and sci-fi geeks such as myself. Things have changed since the 90’s. I remember a time when the interwebs were the province of the socially challenged Star Wars/Trek fanatic. Now anyone with a wi-fi connection and an iphone can access our little corner of the universe.

Nowhere’s safe for us nerds, dorks, dillweeds, and geek-burgers anymore.

Sigh…

That was a photo of Admiral Ackbar, by the way. He’s the guy in Star Wars who declares “It’s a trap!” .0005 seconds before Imperial Forces blew everything to Hell and back. Thanks a bunch, Admiral Obvious.

Now that you’re in the know, you should find this amusing…

Or maybe I really am just that big of a nerd…

Next “Wordless Wednesday” I’ll try to be less obscure.

Or maybe I’ll be even more so…. ;)

Wordless Wednesday (Ironic Edition)

2010-03-24T12:00:00.000-05:00

*nudgewink*

I Don’t Have Children. I Have Shoes. My Shoes Are My Babies.

2010-03-23T12:50:00.001-05:00

There’s a species of fly in Southern Louisiana called The Crane Fly. It looks like a giant mosquito, but it doesn’t bite. Nor does it do much of anything aside from buzz around your head, your windows, get into your house and annoy you-- either directly by landing on your ear, or indirectly by sending your cats into a frenzy. Other than that, the Crane Fly has no purpose.

As a matter of fact, I read somewhere that the Crane Fly exists only to mate and then die.

Off the top of my head I could name 20 people in my town alone who seem to be taking their lifestyle cues from this largely unnecessary species of insect. Out of the 20, I encounter at least 10 on a daily basis.

All ten of them have at least once given me shit about my certain life choices.

You see, around here I’m a freak. Something ungodly, close to evil.

I’m 33, I’ve never been married and…

Drumroll please…

I don’t have kids.

By choice.

*cue old horror movie music*

Listen, I’m not about to go on a rant bashing motherhood. Nor am I an active member of the SSCCATAGAPP. (Well, not always.) Parenting is a noble and respectable thing. Kids are great, what with them being the future and all. They just aren’t for me.

To my ovaries I’ve said “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Up north I could declare this little fact about my childless status to a round of nods and sounds of “Mmm-Hmmm” from other childless 30-somethings, and even a few mothers. Having your first baby after 35 isn’t uncommon, and I know a few who waited until 40. The decision to make sure your life is just so before you introduce new human beings into the mix is totally understood, if not welcomed. I mean, we’re all packed on top of eachother up there, anyway. No need to add more people to the crowd.

In the South? Well, that’s a whole other story. I can’t answer the “Do you have kids?” question without a round of gasps, pitiful looks and an interrogation about the functionality of my reproductive organs. I think it’s funny that it’s the only explanation anyone can wrap their heads around. I must be malfunctioning in some way. It can’t be possible that I just don’t want to.

Sadly, the same reaction isn’t given to the never married thing. That doesn’t bother anyone. But how dare I not fulfill my womanly obligations by not procreating by the time I had my third period!

I even had one girl declare “Pffft! Well you too old to have chirren now!”

Pardon? WTF is a chirren?

Or the girl who told me she was done having her children at 27. Apparently menopause sets in decades ahead of time down in Deliverance country.

I thanked her on behalf of the rest of the country for not subjecting us or our taxes to any more versions of herself.

Then there was the woman whose two children live with her sister on the other side of Lake Ponchatrain who wanted to tell me what a gift motherhood is (while she breathed bourbon all over me).

I’m not even touching that one.

I’ve finally started answering the “Do you have kids?” question with a series of snarky retorts:

Kids? Oh, I can’t. I’m allergic. Whenever I go near a kid I break out into hives. (Almost sort-of true.)
Nope. I have stuff. And all that stuff is going to be exactly where I left it this morning… Without a peanut butter and jelly sandwich crammed into it somewhere. (To which the parent entertains me with stories of expensive things that have housed rogue sandwiches… As though that’s somehow going to sell me on motherhood.)
I don’t have children. I have shoes. My shoes are my babies. (A quote I heard on Desperate Housewives one afternoon just before I took a nap.)

Answers 2 & 4 once got me a raised eyebrow and an angry “So you’re saying material things are more important?”

Um… Yes. That’s exactly what I said.

I mean, it’s not like—In the immortal words of Apu Nahasapeemapetilon-- “this country is dangerously under populated.”

So get off my back.

Coming To Terms With The Monster I Created.

2010-03-22T12:00:00.000-05:00

Was it utterly naive of me to think it impossible to become a widow at the age of thirty-three?

I’m too young for all that black shawl, damp hankie stuff, right? Thirty is the new puberty or so they say. I should be in the prime of my life-- laughing it up somewhere with other pubescent thirty-somethings about how we managed to stave off adulthood for one more decade.

But no.

Here I am.

In silence.

It’s been going on since Christmas, but I’m only just now coming to terms with the terrible events of those nights. I introduced him to “The Game” in the first place, and the culpability for what happened next has weighed heavily on me ever since.

Now I go to bed alone, hearing the echoes of what went down in that alley—what goes down in alleys just like it every night all over the world—reverberating through the dark corridors of my conscience. I sigh heavily into the lonely night, and clutch his pillow before drifting to sleep, waiting for footsteps in the hallway that I never hear coming.

I dream about the garbage strewn streets, the sound of the car as he navigated uptown, downtown, mid-town, in search of the next mission… In search of an escape. I’d sigh heavily in his ear, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy becoming a master of things that didn’t fit our little suburban world. Of outsmarting the police. Of slipping in unnoticed, getting the job done and slipping out like a wraith in the night.

And that’s what he has become to me.

The people around us tried to warn me. They explained to me that once you introduce a man to things such as this game, he would be lost to it forever. But he seemed to eager to learn the ins and outs of how things worked. I thought it would be fun for a while. An escape from our usual pick-up-the-mail, dinner for two, clean the closet on Sundays lifestyle. He was getting bored, I could tell. He’d stopped hanging out with his friend Mario weeks before. I thought this might add a bit of excitement to our lives.

Then, the inevitable happened. The image has burned itself into the forefront of my memory.

Shot down in the middle of the day. Executed on the street like some worthless animal, and for what? Was the life of this otherwise decent and wonderful man worth this? I say no.

The official story is he was in possession of a small sack of diamonds belonging to the Russian Mafia, but I know the story runs much deeper than that. Someone was sending a message. His screw-up cousin Roman owed money to powerful and merciless people. Was it a case of mistaken identity? Perhaps.

Personally, I believe it was payback. I think this was an act of retaliation for the time the men he worked for sent him into Fu’s Chinese Restaurant to assassinate the powerful and malignant Mr Fu himself. You don’t just get away with things like that, you know?

All I have left of the man I love is this photo I took just before it happened….

That’s right, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am a Playstation Widow.

Don’t cry for me, I brought this on myself.

After all, I did buy him the damned thing for Christmas.

… What?!?

Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner. Someone Really Should.

2010-03-19T12:00:00.000-05:00

Let me show you something…

That’s a picture of my “desk.” A folding table pulled up to the edge of our bed. So when I point to the bed and tell company “This is where the magic happens.” what I mean is my intellectual magic. Unless, of course, Netflix has sent us a movie. Then my computer ends up on the bed and my “desk” becomes an eating-in-front-of-the-tv table. My computer becomes “that warm thing” the cats curl up around on the bed.

Speaking of the cats, that reminds me…

This is a mostly empty corner of the livingroom allotted for the sole purpose of an old cat bed.

This is where the cats choose to sleep:

Two prefers the ottoman. Two has also gotten a little pudgy over the winter and doesn’t fit in the corner-cat-bed. Any bigger, and I’m gonna start calling him “Three.”

Sidney, when she’s not sleeping on the table under the lamp, snoozes on a kitchen chair.

Fanny prefers keeping an eye on the knives.

There’s a fourth cat, Puffy, who enjoys spending his time napping in the driveway.

In other words… No cats in the cat bed. Ever.

This?

This is a mission oak style corner desk I found at Target.com this afternoon. Not only does match the rest of the furniture in the livingroom, but it fits snugly in that empty corner by the window. I wouldn’t have to keep my coffee on the floor beside the bed, running the risk of forgetting it’s there and knocking it over every time I get up. There’s a cute little drawer where I could neatly keep all the little scraps of paper I write blog ideas on throughout the day, and I can just picture my file box on one of those shelves underneath.

Not to mention, I wouldn’t spend hours a night sequestered in the bedroom like some Phantom-Of-The-Suburbs style shut-in.

I mean, I’m just sayin…

Cinderella’s Diamond Encrusted Pooper-Scooper

2010-03-18T12:00:00.000-05:00

You’ve heard it a million, zillion times in your life.

So why are you still searching for your fairytale ending?

Stop wasting your time. Stop searching for Prince Charming in every man you come across. He isn’t there. He isn’t coming. There are no frogs to kiss. There is no magic apple. There is no Fairy Godmother waiting in the wings to turn you into the perfect princess, no mice in the walls with exceptional gown-tailoring skills. A pumpkin is just a pumpkin, be it after midnight or ten-thirty-six in the morning.

No. Fairytale. Endings.

Period.

Look at it this way: Should Prince Valiant ride up to you on his big white horse to sweep you off your feet and take you to his castle on the hill, you know what you have tomorrow? A big load of horseshit to clean up.

Once we graduated from crayons to pencils, we became too old to get wrapped up in this Disney-fed happily ever after crap. Yet, here we are– some of us well into our thirties and forties– still finding ourselves repeatedly disappointed when it turns out our new-found prince farts in his sleep or would rather watch the game than turn an eye in our direction. Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m here to tell you: There isn’t a man walking this planet who doesn’t fart in his sleep. And frankly, so do you.

“Happily Ever After” only happened if Cinderella and Prince Charming dropped dead by the end of that week.

Relationships, if they’re going to work, require work, but for some reason we don’t want to do it. We want to find that “soulmate,” and we think that once he’s found there isn’t a stitch of work to be done beyond the utterance of those three magic words. If you’re still clutching with both fists that belief, stop. You’re on the express train to disappointment-ville and it’s going to crash soon.

The problem is we tend to mistake that new car smell of a budding relationship for true love. Those first few months seem like the absolute embodiment of everything we’ve ever wanted in love and before you know it, we’re hooked. We’re addicted, quite literally, to the rush of new love. (Studies have been done about the chemical reactions that happen in the brain when we fall in love, but that’s another blog for another time.) At first it’s perfect! It’s the fairytale I’ve been looking for! This guy is everything I’ve ever wanted! My new boyfriend! True Love Always! Horray!

A year later you’re sitting on the couch watching him crack a beer and scratch his butt wondering what ever happened to your perfect mate. What happened was: He’s just another flesh and bone mortal. Just like you. There was nothing mystical about the creation of this human being. He’s just a man, and chances are he loves you as much as a mortal man can, but… Cinderella didn’t mention this part, did she?

So you break it off and start the search anew. You start the cycle again with a new man and a year later, you’re sitting on the couch seething because…..

See the pattern? Sometimes the ugly truth is: It really isn’t him. It’s you. You’ve been duped into relationship laziness by Hollywood depictions of relationships that probably wouldn’t have worked in real life either. Isn’t this cipher making you dizzy? Stop for a moment, take a deep breath and ask yourself:

When he rode up on that big white horse, didn’t you realize it was going to poop eventually?

I’m posting this from my other blog for two reasons: 1. I’ve been working like a dog all week covering the ass of someone who clearly has no clue about life, love or how to be a productive human being on the planet. So I didn’t have the time or access to humor to prepare anything for today. 2. I’m deleting that blog today. I don’t really like Wordpress. I haven’t decided if I want to move it to Blogger, or just delete it all together.

Wordless Wednesday… Sort Of (Philadelphia Edition)

2010-03-17T12:00:00.001-05:00

I moved to Philly when I was 23, and stayed there until I was 31. Lately I’ve been feeling terribly homesick for the city, so I dug up a few photos from my last trip home.

This is the doorway to my old apartment on South Street. I used to think it was so cool to have this as an entrance.

I would have starved to death three times over in my 20’s if I didn’t have this hot dog cart on the corner to go to with my scrounged change.

I really did like riding the subway. That blue line? That’s the El. It was my route for a year.

I used to spend hours at this coffee shop. Some of my best blogging happened there.

Which reminds me: Anybody reading this blog thinking of attending Bloggy Boot Camp in Philly? I’ve been considering going. Any excuse to spend a couple days eating cheesesteaks and good bagels.

My Chilly Milk and Ice Beverage Brings All The Gentlemen of Superior Intellect to the Acre.

2010-03-16T12:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been at this job longer than I care to admit. In that time I’ve developed a schedule of “regulars” who come in and ask only for me to serve them. Perhaps it’s my sunny personality *scoff* or maybe it’s the way the pancake syrup stain on my uniform brings out the desperation in my eyes, but they seem to like me.

On Wednesdays and Thursdays I have Thomas the Tax Guy. He meets with his clients at our place. He has a thing for bacon that’s been burned black, and—speaking of burned—should someone ever set his house ablaze, he’d probably die in the fire trying to decide whether to save his wife or his Playstation 3. It’s a tough call once you’ve logged all those hours of Grand Theft Auto.

On Thursday mornings I have “The Samurai.” They’re into some new-agey Deepak Chopra, Abraham-Hicks type stuff. (Think “The Secret” only more hard core.)

On random weekdays I get this guy who works next door. I’m not quite sure what his “deal” is, but he wears shirts like “Darth Vader was Framed” tucked into his elastic-waist jeans (pulled practically up to his chin). He isn’t morbidly obese, so I’m not sure what the pants are about. He has a little friend who has the kind of snarky superiority complex only a mom’s basement nerd can cultivate. He’s one of those “Worst Everything Ever” types. They’ve gone from complaining about everything and only tipping a dollar to complaining about most things and leaving three. I think I’m winning them over.

Saturday and Sunday mornings Jeff and Mark come in. I can only assume these two have been friends since college if not high school by the way they bicker at each other. It’s a total bromance. They sit and talk about bedroom furniture, some RPG and make up weird breakfast creations like oysters and hollandaise sauce over hashbrowns. One of their concoctions made it onto our new menu, though I don’t know who’s brave enough to order it.

Recently I’ve acquired another pair of friends on Sundays. An affable couple of slightly rotund gentlemen who will sit at one of my tables for hours (I mean like five straight hours) drinking coffee and mapping out some kind of total immersion role-playing game. I used to think they were scientists or something with all the papers containing unpronounceable words spread around the table, but no. Hard core gamers.

Come to think of it…

All of my best customers are total, unadulterated nerds.

I guess it isn’t my personality or the pancake syrup stains at all. They can smell the Star Wars on me. They come in and they can sense that underneath all that makeup and Burberry perfume that I’ve seen every episode of Red Dwarf ever aired in the US. They know that I can Mario Kart them all into the ground, and that I currently hold tickets to the Video Game Symphony. Despite all my efforts to seem cool and fashionable and trendy, they can sense that I’m a fellow geek and they gravitate to me.

What I’m trying to say is:

My milkshake brings all the nerds to the yard.

Dear Nerdy Regulars (Should any of you happen upon this blog):

I love all of you dearly, and it’s your total nerd-ness that I find so endearing. So please take this with the sense of humor it was intended to have… In other words, don’t stop tipping. My Red Dwarf DVD collection is nearly complete.

Nanoo-Nanoo,

I Was Told There’s ALWAYS A Barf Bag!

2010-03-15T15:59:00.001-05:00

This is a copy of a blog I wrote on March 18th of last year. This past Monday was the one year anniversary of my very first flight, and I have to admit… My next trip to New Orleans was by train. This past November I flew back to Jersey to see my mom, and I burst into tears as soon as we became airborne. I’m never going to get the hang of flying.

Anyway, I dug this out of the dusty ruins of my old Myspace blog…

Last week, Monday morning to be exact, I was having a total meltdown panic attack.

What could possibly be wrong, you ask? I was off work for the next five days, I was on my way to the beautiful city of New Orleans to spend time with my wonderful Man... Money wasn't an issue, my hair looked great, and-- best of all-- I was wearing jeans that made my tushie look spectacular. Life should be good, right?

So why the hyperventilating?

See, I was standing on a plane. I'd never been on a plane before.
Well, there was that time when I was 4 and mom took us to Florida, but I don't count that. I was too small to understand exactly what was happening.

Lift-off.

Leaving the Earth.

Nothing between me and the ground below but a heavy, solid, impossibly large chunk of steel and jet fuel.

My first thought boarding the plane was as follows: "OMG! I'm on a plane!" My second thought was "OMG! I’m on a plane! I can't do this!" I turned around quickly with every intention of punking out and rushing a cab to the train station, but the crush of passengers behind me was totally merciless and unmoving. To escape would mean to climb over the seats and scale the craft sheep-herder style, which would surely land me in handcuffs before I could say "Panic Attack!" So I pulled in a deep breath and turned back around.

With the contents of my last three meals threatening to show themselves in my lap, I found my seat and buckled in. The futility of the seat belt should something happen at 30,000 feet occurred to me and my insides did a somersault.

Where's the barf bag? I was told there's always a barf bag!

So there I am, squished between a brooding emo kid and a business man who doesn't seem to understand the sanctity of the arm-rest property line, trying to control my breathing and not become that girl freaking out on an airplane. Everyone else seemed so calm. They're reading magazines and checking their phones like they've done this a million times before. Like we're not about to do what the birdies do.

I remembered the words of a pilot I'd met recently: "The most dangerous part of your trip is the drive to the airport." he assured me, as though he'd also been in a car with my mother before. Then I thought of Man, and the comforting words he'd purred in my ear before I left. Words of science and velocity. Loving explanations of gravity and air-pressure. I wrapped it all around me like a security blanket and waited for the inevitable.

When that plane took off down the runway at a speed I didn't expect, I had nothing to think about but the fact that we were about to leave the Earth. I'll never forget the thoughts that ran through the corridors of my mind at that moment as I sat there with the in-flight magazine covering my face (except for that one eye fixed on the scene outside the window) like a terrified little child...

We'reontheground, we'reontheground, we'reontheground

WE'RENOTONTHEGROUNDWE'RENOTONTHEGROUNDWE'RENOTONTHEGROUND!

And then... Silence.

Call it "fell asleep" call it "passed out" or call it "out of body experience." All I know is I felt my head roll backwards, and when I woke up and it was an hour later.

I found the barf bag and kept it as a souvenir.

Diet Pills, Bad Tattoos, Poop-Story Wednesday (?), and A Blind Item

2010-03-12T12:00:00.000-06:00

A Collection Of Random Stuff From This Week That Didn’t Merit An Entire Blog Each…

Appetite Suppressants, Day One: Took half of what I was supposed to and still ran around the house like a speed freak. I think: Perhaps I’ll ease myself into the two-a-time thing as directed by the bottle. After the pill wore off, I discovered that Kraft Mac-And-Cheese is even more delicious when you add bacon.

Diet Pills Day One: Fail!

Hey, have you ever noticed that it seems to be the people with the most god-awful tattoos that are also the most willing to show them (and every other god-awful bit of ink on their body) to anyone who will look? Then they’ll go into great detail about all the other horrible tattoos they plan to get before giving you the (home) phone number of their (clearly working from his kitchen table) tattoo artist? I met a guy the other day who should have been wearing a shirt that read: I went to prison and all I got were these lousy tattoos!

… and hepatitis.

What was the deal with Wednesday? When I came home and settled into my usual post-work blog reading, I found three separate and unrelated stories about poop.

First I laughed my ass off at Steam Me Up Kid with her post: Why Jeff Bridges is not helpful during an anal leakage crisis.

Then Chicken confirmed for me that I really don’t ever want to get pregnant, with her harrowing tale of a friend’s, um, tail-end with: Not My Poop Story, But Better.

After that I was treated to the knowledge that Walmart’s Great Value Fruity Puffs will turn your poop green, by Cynical Bastard in the middle of his post: A Little Q & A. (I found CB by trolling the “Next Blog” option Tuesday evening. Ya know, out of every 20 blogs out there I’m gonna say maybe seven of them are actually readable. This was one of them.)

Seriously, guys, next time there’s a theme day like that, let me know. I’ll tell you all the story of the time I found myself in a Burger King bathroom stall begging the old homeless woman who was bathing (and muttering to) herself in the sink to pass me a bit of toilet paper. Or a hand towel. Or the front page of that day’s newspaper. Or one of the small furry creatures that I’m pretty sure she was keeping in her cart.

I would have given her every dollar and cent in my wallet, as well as my ATM pin code that day.

Ah, I miss life in the big city…

Appetite Suppressants, Day Two: I bet the pills will work better if I don’t forget them on the table next to my bed.

Blind Item (Something that ran through my mind this week that I couldn’t say out loud for the sake of not getting smacked): Golly, if you didn’t bleach the shit out of your hair every four weeks faithfully, you wouldn’t have a bail of hay atop your head…

Appetite Suppressants, Day Three: Do NOT! Take! With Coffee!!!

And, finally, have I mentioned how much I L.O.V.E. Windows Live Writer? See how you’re reading this blog on Friday afternoon while I should conceivably be at work? Well that’s ‘cuz I wrote it Wednesday night and set the program to post it for me! Oh yeah, I’ve been doing it all week (except when something didn’t post properly on Thursday). I’m like three blogs ahead of myself now, so no more forced un-funny posts that I scribbled off in 20 minutes. Now I can take my time, edit, rework and polish.

Also, I’m taking the weekends off from posting. I’ve noticed that traffic goes way, way down on Saturdays and Sundays, so I’m going to use those days to work on the next week’s blogs.

I’ve got them all set to post at noon on weekdays. I figure, if you’re eating a sandwich or a cup-o-noodles at your desk, you’ll want something to read. Perhaps you could be a dear and pass the link to your other cup-o-noodles office mates? I’m a total attention-whore, I know.

I'll Bet Chuck Mangione Does Not Use a Kindle.

2010-03-11T15:54:00.002-06:00

Hey, have you noticed that…

*text notification sound*

Hang on, I have a text message.

From Man To Me: I just saw the most incredible thing.

From Me To Man: Whazzat?

From Man To Me: Someone TALKING on an iphone!

From Me To Man: Ew! How uncool. They should be playing games and updating Twitter, not TALKING! How three years ago!

Because, seriously? Who actually talks on the phone anymore? I don’t even know why we bother calling them “phones” when clearly they’re pocket-sized-futuristic-communicator-device-thingies. Honestly, I haven’t heard my phone ring since that time one of my co-workers got tanked and they called me to cover her shift.

Touch of the flu my ass. The Tequila-Flu maybe!

The phone thing reminded me of an article I saw on The Onion. The headline read 90% Of Waking Hours Spent Staring At Glowing Rectangles.

“A new report published this week by researchers at Stanford University suggests that Americans spend the vast majority of each day staring at, interacting with, and deriving satisfaction from glowing rectangles.

"From the moment they wake up in the morning, to the moment they lose consciousness at night, Americans are in near-constant visual contact with bright, pulsating rectangles," said Dr. Richard Menken, lead author of the report, looking up briefly from the gleaming quadrangle that sits on his desk. "In fact, it's hard to find a single minute during which the American public is not completely captivated by these shining…these dazzling…."

"I'm sorry," Menken continued. "What were we discussing again?"

Ah, you chuckle, but how much of your day do you spend with your face stuck in your computer, television, ipod, and pocket-sized-futuristic-communicator-devices? That says nothing about the fact that I’m pretty sure if the internet were to shut down—even for a day—I might actually cease to be.

And now? Now we have The Kindle. Or, as I call it, the ipod for book nerds.

On first sight, I wanted one. Mostly because I have an unhealthy love-affair with all things gadget. I’m a marketing executive’s wet dream when it comes to things like this. Especially when I discovered I could own one of these fun things in the same shiny purple as my laptop and ipod.

Then I saw the price and nearly choked on my Caramel Macchiato! (Also known as a “Varamel” at The French Press my friend Rachel and I discovered last Sunday night.) ((Yes, I have actual organic friends… Well, two actual organic friends.))

I don’t know that I’ve spent $500 on books all year, let alone shelling out the cost of my laptop for yet another glowing rectangle that will—in all honesty—become just another thing weighing down my already overstuffed purse. Then I’ve got to pay for the books, too?

Thanks, but no.

Frankly, I like my books. I like the pretty art on the covers, and I enjoy the way they look on the shelf. A person’s book shelf says a lot about who they are. Examining someone’s bookshelf while they’re making coffee in the next room isn’t nearly as creepy as picking up and digging through their Kindle in the hopes that they don’t emerge from the next room and thus create one of those awkward “Um… What are you doing?” moments.

However, I don’t want to become the paperback equivalent of vinyl collectors. You know who I mean. You walk into their apartment and are treated to the sight (and smell) of shelf upon shelf of dusty old record albums. Then they give you a speech about the superiority of vinyl over the nine thousand better ways modern technology has invented for us to listen to music. Then, if you haven’t poked your ears out with the splintered pair of take-out chopsticks these people always have rotting in their sink (no doubt from a vegan take-out place), they’ll shuffle through every album and force you to listen to scratchy, staticy old jazz that nobody ever heard of but that guy and his two friends.

Ugh. How many times did I find myself trapped at some after-hours party in someone’s grubby Philadelphia apartment thinking: The free drugs just weren’t worth this?

I mean, Chuck Mangione? Seriously? I’m going home.

I’m a Misunderstood Comic Genius.

2010-03-10T12:00:00.000-06:00

On the short list of things I never thought I’d find myself doing in my life, sitting outside of a Best Buy in the middle of the night with 200 of the same closest friends I celebrated the big win with, as well as a man in an oversized dog suit (Apparently his name is “Gumbo.”) was nowhere to be found.

Next time I’m about to nag Man that we don’t go out together enough anymore, I’ll be sure to remember this night.

So why, you ask, am I parked on my tushie on the cold pavement walkway outside this electronics superstore? Well, as it turns out, the New Orleans Saints have released something of a “greatest hits” DVD of this past season, and if Man doesn’t get a signed Blu-Ray copy of said disk he might cease to exist. (Frankly, I thought he’d already seen all these “highlights” having watched Every. Single. Game. But what do I know?) Hence: me and hundreds of other women’s Mans sitting outside, exposed to the elements and subject to various remixes of “Stand Up Get Crunk” for the next two hours.

No offense, Who Dat Nation, but I think we should start seeing other people.

Especially since none of you seemed to find my incredibly clever quip about Scott Fujita funny.

Man to The Random Fan to His Left: Nobody seems too broken up about the loss of Fujita around here.

Me Cutting In Before Random Fan Could Answer: I don’t see what the big deal is. You can pick up a sack of Fujitas for 3.99 at Taco Bell.

*crickets*

Screw you, it was funny!

There Wasn’t Even Room For J-E-L-L-O!

2010-03-09T12:23:00.003-06:00

I’m currently having 75 kinds of conniption fits and one panic attack.

I’m trapped in a dressing room, stuck in a dress, and I’m pretty sure someone’s going to have to call for the Jaws Of Life to get me out.

I’m not kidding you, I’m trapped in a dress.

This is so embarrassing.

Let me back up a little, since it seems I have nothing but time, standing here struggling against the world’s most stubborn zipper, my arms hopelessly pinned at my sides from trying to wrestle the whole set-up over my head…

Have I mentioned? This is So. Embarrassing.

Man and I recently made plans to go to the Video Game Symphony (What? It’s culture! Sort of.) with our two friends in April. No sooner had we acquired the tickets than I decided I needed a new dress. I think. What does one wear to a Video Game symphony, anyway? My thoughts turned to this adorable black-with-white polka-dot vintage number with the most delicate spaghetti straps and layered flowy skirt. Not too formal, not too casual, would look perfect with my leopard shoes and a little cardigan. Perfect. I want it.

After dinner, Man and I came to the store, where he agreed that it’s a perfect dress for the occasion and I should try it on. I know I’ve, um, grown a bit, since moving here but I’m pretty sure that I can diet and get into my old size by April. Right? Perhaps I should try it on just to see how much growth I’m working with.

So I found myself a discreet little dressing room in the back (In case there was grunting and heavy breathing involved, which it turns out there is. A lot.) Against all my better judgment, I zipped the zipper and wrestled the whole thing over my head, struggling harder than I thought I would with the breast area (Seriously, designers? Women have boobs. Design accordingly.), and that brings us to my current situation:

Trapped. In a dress.

Have you ever seen a cat get itself stuck in something like a bag or a blanket? You know how it goes into a total panic, then sits quietly for a moment before going back into a total writhing, scratching panic? That’s me right now-- torn between relenting to the situation and determined to get out of it without having to wobble out of this dressing room with this thing stuck around my mid-section and admit defeat. I got the stupid thing on, there’s got to be a way to get it off!

Perhaps if I get it turned around and position this hopelessly frozen-in-place zipper in front I can reach under the skirt and free myself. I’ve been in here a long time, Man’s going to come looking for me soon. What if he brings the dressing room attendant with him? They’re going to come knocking on this door any second now and see the ridiculous situation I’ve gotten myself into! The attendant and my boyfriend are going to have to work together as a team (Team Fat Girlfriend!) to get me out of this garment, and I’m going to have to move back to Jersey, then crawl into a little hole and die. I’m just going to die!

Speaking of die, I suddenly can’t breathe so well. Oh! My! Gawd! I’m about to suffocate and drop unconscious on the floor of this dressing room. Now he’s really going to come looking for me. They’re going to find me stuck in this dress, the bodice halfway between front and back, turning three shades of red and un-effing-conscious on the floor!

I think I’ve hit my panic button again, because—like the cat in a blanket—I’m struggling as if my life depends on it… Which it feels like it does.

*pop*

What was that?

That’s nice. I’ve just snapped one of those delicate spaghetti straps clean off.

*pop*

There goes the other one.

Pardon, but are you fucking kidding me?

It seems that the broken straps have given me the space I need to reach under, undo the zipper and take the first reasonable breath in what seems like 20 minutes. This is what it must feel like to be freed from a hungry, squeezy snake. I sit on the little bench and catch my breath. Now I feel like crying.

Instead, I find myself starting to chuckle. If this isn’t blog-worthy, I don’t know what is.

I do my best to put this dress on the hanger and emerge from the dressing room (Victorious?). I can feel my face burning as I hand it back to the attendant, then grab Man by the hand and lead him out of the store like the place is on fire.

“Didn’t you like it?” He asks.

“No. Let’s just go.”

“You wanna try on another one?”

“No.”

“Where are we going?”

GNC. I left that store and went straight to the other side of the mall to GNC where I spent my dress money on appetite suppressants.

I know. Don’t look at me like that.

No, seriously. Somebody Get Me a Shovel and a Plastic Bag.

2010-03-08T08:00:00.002-06:00

I believe in intelligent design. That is until I take a good look at the other malformed inhabitants of our third rock. Then I start to wonder if perhaps our great creator wasn’t dropped on His or Her omnipotent head (multiple times) as a Godly baby. Sometimes I find myself lying awake at night wondering if the atheists are right, and life on this planet is a totally random biological accident with no greater purpose involved. Perhaps we are just a collection of bullshit cells and atoms that happened to mold together into the just-so configuration to create something resembling consciousness.

I mean, it’s the only reasonable explanation for the existence of the Kardashians.

As a writer, I’m observant by nature. This is not the gift one would think it would be. I spend my days mired in a tangle of hard questions, like: Why does hate still exist? Why do we still kill and torture each other and the animals? Why did that woman think it was a good idea to color her hair the same gaudy red-gold color as the circa 1987 jacket she’s wearing today, and why did nobody mention to her that you can spot her and her hideous jacket from outer space?

(Perhaps it was a bad idea trying to write in a public coffee shop. I’m finding the people around me quite distracting. But I digress…)

When it comes to the collective “D’uh!” uttered by the society we’ve created for ourselves, one only needs to turn on the evening news to hear its resonating echo. Not only can you witness international simpletons in action, but—if you’re very lucky—you catch a glimpse of some numb-nuts in the next county who did something epic such as thinking it was a good idea to trade two children for a pair of exotic pet birds.

Stories such as this are proof-positive in my opinion that we have finally reached “Old Mother Hubbard Status” when it comes to children. There are people out there who have so many, they don’t know what to do. Also, we’ve clearly saturated the market. I remember a time when a healthy American child would fetch the price of a shiny new car. Now all you get are birds.

If I’ve got my conversion-rates right, our cat Fanny has already dropped off the feathered equivalent of a kindergarten class at the back door.

(Forward all objections and hate mail about what I just said to Em_Static@gmail.com)

Hey, if you liked this, you should really stop by In Through The Out Door and read more about Bitch and Moan Mondays. I almost forgot about it, but since I'm always complaining anyway....

With a Little Help From My Friends… (That Means YOU!)

2010-03-07T20:06:00.003-06:00

I’m not blogging tonight (this doesn’t count, swear!). I know I promised a blog a day for Lent, but what’s happening is: I’m coming home from work and rattling off something between dinner and bedtime. Though it was an incredibly useful exercise in getting me back in the habit of writing, I’m starting to feel my posts are forced and insincere. Certainly not what I know I can do given the time to concentrate, write and edit. Some of my favorite blogs have happened on my days off— when I’m settled in front of my computer with a cup of coffee and something to complain about. (And we all know I always have something to complain about.)

What I’d rather do tonight is read.

That’s where you come in. I can sit here all night and find three out of 10 blogs I want to follow, or I can cheat and ask the people I’m already following to link me up to who they like to follow.

I know we’re supposed to do the follow thing on Fridays, but I’ve always been a late bloomer.

So tell me… Who are your favorites?

Aside from me, of course. ;p

Bad Relationship Rehab: For Anyone Who Needs To Take 12 Or So Steps Away From The Drama

2010-03-06T21:06:00.000-06:00

FINALLY! Success!!!

About a month (and four days) ago I returned to my Blogger blog fuming at Wordpress. See, I have a blog over there and I'd forgotten the password. After half a dozen attempts at retrieving said password I gave up and came here... And forgot all about that Wordpress blog.

One month later I realized I was having them send the reset to the wrong e-mail. Hence my inability to gain access to my own blog.

Er... My bad.

So now I have two blogs! This one, and my relationship advice blog. I'm gonna have to get organized here...

Anyway, I haven't touched it since January, and there's only three posts, but if you're interested here's the link:

Click Here!

I'd also like to mention that one month (and four days) ago Heart & Hairspray had a grand total of like five readers. Now I'm up to forty-four!

Housewife Ho-Down

2010-03-06T16:08:00.004-06:00

I've recently become a bit addicted to the "Real Housewives" shows on Bravo. I'd always avoided the OC gals like the collagen-injected plague, but it turned out this week that there was always an episode on when I got home from work. I left it on as background noise while wandering the interwebs, and before I knew it I was hooked. Perhaps it was the natural magnetism of all that silicone that drew me in, but it was more my routing for Vicki. I sat through three torturous episodes, waiting for someone to realize she's the only person on that show with any sense of reality... Sort of.

Nobody ever did. I think the words "job" and "work" caused a short in their circuits. It's really the only explanation for Lynne's hair.

It's called finishing balm, sweetie. Give it a shot.

The Jersey housewives were a given. I watched them religiously every Tuesday night when it was on.

... then the reunion special, the deleted scenes special and the deleted scenes special part two. I think I missed the third. Was there a third? That's the thing about women from the Garden State. We don't shut up.

Ever.

Atlanta Housewives? I was Team Nene from episode one!

Perhaps Kim could sell Lynne one of her wigs to hide all that terrible frizz.

I was always indifferent to the NYC Wives. They lost me at Countess. Like, is she serious? It's like the Maestro episode of Seinfeld. Then again, I refuse to answer to anything but "Her Majesty" around the house.

(I wish.)

Anyway, I'm giving them a second chance, because I've picked up an interest in Bethenny through promos and commercials. I'm 20 minutes into my second episode and I already want to be her when I grow up.

"Hold up there, Countess. I'm gonna need a minute of silence." She's my effin' hero!

I Wonder If The Monkey Waiters Need a Third

2010-03-05T19:51:00.002-06:00

Well there you have it.

A monkey could do my job.

Literally.

Please, no one tell my boss about this. Apparently the monkeys work for soy beans. Unless I get paid in magic soy beans, the gal at the Steve Madden store only takes actual currency.

Wordless Wednesday (Juju Edition)

2010-03-03T16:05:00.000-06:00

In a French Quarter gift shop.

So Awesome!

2010-03-02T17:43:00.000-06:00

I forgot to mention this, but apparently Windows 7 is set up for obsessive bloggers such as yours truly. You can write, edit, insert pics, reformat and post right from your desktop. I mean, as far as I know. This is my test run with the new program.

By the way, did I mention it’s soooo pretty!!!

Seems I Got A Little Loosey-Goosy With The Subscribe Feature.

2010-03-02T12:47:00.000-06:00

Blogging is serius bizness. Not only is it the writing, rewriting, editing, photo-finding/editing, posting, re-reading, re-editing and then re-posting. It's also seeking out fellow bloggers, leaving comments and finding other ways to shamelessly promote yourself without alienating anyone else. It's a full time job on top of a full time job, and sometimes the little things in life slip through the cracks.

Such as not noticing that it looks like Hurricane Laundry (Category 4) rolled through your bedroom.

EEP!

Perhaps it's time to take a couple steps away from the keyboard and set some stuff straight.

That's better.

Hey, did you happen to notice the testimony to my gnat-like attention span in the room? I mean, aside from all of it?

It's the stack of four unread magazines sitting on the shelf.

Four doesn't seem like such a big deal, unless you take into account the fact that I've acquired all four of them in the same two week span.

Through the mail.

Then the bills for the subscriptions came.

Ooooh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!

Seems magazine subscriptions via the internet should be a little harder to get. Perhaps Conde Naste Publications should include an "Are you sure you have the kind of time to read all these magazines?" button. You know, like G-Mail's drunken e-mail filter. I was high on the idea of being privy to all that fashion news. Now all my fashion news is making an awesome $30 per year coaster.

Perhaps this calls for a new feature here at Heart & Hairspray. "This Month's Mail." It'll be a monthly blog where I gather up and then review all the random magazines and offers I'd signed up for via the internet that month. Apparently when you subscribe to stuff online you find yourself also subscribed to things like the ugly cookbook catalog I received today.

I didn't know people existed in the world who still think the country goose motif is a good idea.

Look For Me On The Evening News.

2010-03-01T12:40:00.000-06:00

This is my first installment of something I discovered last night called "Bitch and Moan Mondays." Not that I'm a ray of sunshine any other day of the week, but it's nice to have an excuse to complain.

Last week I declared that I hate hipsters with the white hot intensity of a million more hateful versions of me. Nothing inspires more ire in my soul than a pair of skinny jeans and an ironic tee-shirt (Put a can of that swill PBR in the guy's hand, and I feel a hate crime comin' on!). Nothing, that is, until I met the lady next door. Or, more specifically, her dogs.

As the last willowy strands of winter in the South twist and break away, we're treated to the occasional glimpse of spring. I've never experienced such lovely weather in February before. Saturday night, as my mother back in Jersey was digging out from under three feet of snow, we had a barbecue with our two (and only two) friends. It's still chilly at night, so we ate at the kitchen table, but still... It was a nice evening.

Sitting outside watching Man do what men throughout history have been hardwired to do: throw dead animals on a fire, turn twice, dish out, I began entertaining notions of new lawn furniture. I pictured a table and chairs under a pretty gazebo. I imagined sitting outside on a warm April morning with New Lappy (coming tomorrow!) and a cup of coffee by my side. I saw Sunday brunch picnics and evening cook-outs with strings of white star lights strung about the fence. I began seeing myself as the fabulous Martha Stewart-esque entertainer I was meant to be.

I heard the music and laughter of a successful outdoor dinner party in my head.

I heard the shrill, fevered barking of three untrained wiener dogs on the other side of the fence.

Oh yeah. Now I remember why we hardly ever come out here.

As the story goes, the old woman next door was lonely sitting by herself on her back porch swing, swilling cheap beer until she passed out in the Louisiana sunshine. So, to keep her company, her son got her a mini-Dachshund. Said Dachshund took up the habit of sitting at the fence next to our yard (right under the bedroom window I might add!) and barking like a mad-creature.

All. Day. Long.

In an effort to quell the poor dog's anxiety, the lady next door thought perhaps if her pup had a friend to play with as she swilled cheap beer and passed out on the swing they would keep eachother company, thus keeping eachother quiet. So she gets another mini-Dachshund. Then there were two yappin-ass wiener dogs sitting at the fence barking.

All. Day. Long.

We aren't quite sure what the reasoning was behind the third puppy, but one day there appeared three (THREE!!!) yappin-ass mini wiener dogs at the fence. Now when we so much as think about stepping foot out the back door in the middle of the day (sometimes at night) we're treated to a trio of frenzied yap-yap-yap-yap! as the little ones clamor all over one another and the fence to get our attention. I've tried to wait them out-- hoping they'd eventually tire themselves and move onto sniffing eachother's butts or digging up the lady's flowers.

Ladies and Gentlemen, those dogs barked for twenty straight minutes without so much as losing a notch in the volume department. Nor did they seem to tire of jumping up and down, tripping over eachother or frantically wagging their nubby little tails. From my vantage point in the yard, I could see the old woman's feet dangling off the swing. That's it. I thought, She's finally drank herself to death.

The next day she and her pack of glorified rodents were out there again..

All. Day. Long.

This isn't to say we haven't tried to remedy the situation. We've called the Parish numerous times. It's little relief to know that she's at least stopped leaving them outside at night, but there isn't much that can be done during the day.

Then, hope.

While channel-surfing one sunny afternoon (I say "one" like I don't do it all the time), I saw a promo for a new reality show. It seems Steven Segal has been riding along with the Jefferson Parish police for quite a number of years now, and they've finally gotten around to making a show about it. Though he's a bit overweight and clearly nobody on the force takes him seriously, I remember Mr Segal as a no-nonsense, kick-ass-and-take-names Hollywood superhero.

Surely if I asked nicely the Parish would send him over to reason with the lady, and possibly (hopefully) tai-chi kick those little rascals into the next state (where they would hopefullly land in a junkyard guarded by a pack of hungry German Shepherds... Or lions.).

Sadly, Steven is across the bridge in the not-so-nicer neighborhoods battling drug dealers and drunken gun-wielding car thieves. Over here on the perpetual Sunday afternoon at the bird sanctuary side of the Parish, a threesome of annoying Dachshunds does not constitute a visit from the Marked For Death one.

Well, poo!

Perhaps if I go across the street and sell the neighbor kid some of my Tylenol PM, then swipe their soccer mom mini-van to take a joy ride through the bird sanctuary I can get someone who garners actual results to come into this neighborhood.

Or perhaps if I ever invite you over for a barbeque, you should steer clear of the wiener-schnitzel.

Do you have any annoying neighbor horror stories?

11.5% Adds Up After A While

2010-02-28T20:25:00.001-06:00

While I'm waiting for VH1 to discover me as the next hottest clip-show commentator, I wait tables. Let's get something straight: I don't hate my job. I mean, I put up with a lot of b.s. from people who don't seem to understand that I wasn't hired by their mother to specifically cater to their every outlandish request, but I also brought home $300 for two days' work this weekend, so... It all washes out in the end.

The problem with food service is you have to watch people eat. You need a diet plan? Nothing will put you off your own lunch like witnessing a 75 year old man who was clearly never taught not to eat (or breathe for that matter) with his mouth open masticate a plate of over easy eggs. In a word, gross!

Not that it matters. Anyone in the restaurant business will tell you they've forgotten what a hot meal tastes like. I don't know what it is, but you could be sitting through the slowest lunch shift in the history of time, and as soon as you serve yourself up a cheesy, gooey, sausagey omelet everyone in town shows up at your door. By the time you manage to get back to it to steal a bite, your delicious meal is more an egg-colored Styrofoam pillow. Yet somehow I've managed to gain 10 pounds working that job.

Go figure. You just get used to cold food after a while.

The thing I hate most about my job (that I don't hate) is this notion the rest of the world has that I should hate my job. That it's beneath most people and that I should be somehow ashamed of what I do. Yeah, I'm crying all the way to Coach.

My Horrific Car Accident and Who's Picking Up Dinner Tonight?

2010-02-26T20:57:00.001-06:00

I know what you're thinking.

Another new banner?! My Gawd, will this chick ever settle on something?

In short, no.

I've been known to change my clothes three times in one day just because I got bored with what I had on.

I also once spent an entire day rearranging the furniture in my apartment, only to decide I hated what I'd done and put it all back. My roommate had no idea what happened except for the uncomfortable feeling that everything was just a couple inches to the left. We parted ways shortly thereafter. I always wondered if it had something to do with my fiddling with the feng-shui of the apartment...

It probably had something to do with my discovering she'd trashed me online and destroyed my best sweater (I found it crammed under her bed!). I threatened to have all her possessions waiting for her on the sidewalk if she didn't am-scray by that Saturday afternoon. So, yeah. Probably not the furniture.

That Sunday I had to rearrange everything again to make up for the lack of her tacky crap hanging around everywhere.

Then I moved to a new apartment.

Get the picture? I hope so, because I'll probably change it tomorrow.

Since I started this "Blogging for Lent" thing, I've only been able to think about one thing: This blog. Are the colors right? Does it look like something I tossed together in Photoshop? Should I say this, or this, or this?

Frankly, I'm getting a bit bored with myself. I can't imagine how you feel.

It seems that since the dust from the recent avalanche of holidays has settled, Man and I have also settled. Neither of us have done anything in roughly two weeks that isn't a prior obligation (school, work, check the mailbox for a Netflix delivery.). We've been sitting in this house like two frogs on a lily pad-- occasionally croaking at eachother over what to do about dinner. Tonight? Chinese take-out. I expect the argument over who's going to get it should start within the next ten minutes.*

If I don't start actually doing something I'm going to end up a blogger who blogs about how much she'd like to be a blogger. (Say that five times fast.) Also, with all the sitting and eating I'm going to end up actually looking like a big bullfrog in a pair of tasteful capri pants (and insensible shoes) come spring.

I mean, I could tell you about the horrific car crash Man and I had this afternoon, but it was honestly just a little old lady in a Buick with 37 prior dents, and a handicap license plate that bumped into the back of the Toyota at a red light. Not a scratch on either car or any of us.

No blog material there. Unless you count the misleading headline I used to trick you into reading this whole boring entry.

In other words, I've got to start getting out there again and doing things so I have stuff to write about. When I'm done with the whole blogging for Lent thing, I'm gonna take a day or two break, get this blog together and start giving my readers a reason to keep coming back. I'll have an actual story to tell, and-- knowing me-- it'll be veeeeryy interesting.

*In case you were wondering, we wound up going together under the stipulation that I stay in my jammies and don't have to get out of the car.

Oh Horray! Now It Can Suck on Blu-Ray Too!

2010-02-25T20:51:00.001-06:00

Tonight's blog almost didn't happen.

On a grand scale of bad days, it didn't quite merit sitting around looking at random pug pictures, but I didn't exactly feel like playing on the internet either. I'm only sitting here now with all the funny knocked out of me by a raging headache for two reasons. One being I made a commitment to blog everyday for the remainder of Lent (I refer you to this post if you're new here.) I don't want to get out of the habit of writing every day no matter what. So here I am.

The other reason is as follows:

While I was laying in bed with the covers half pulled over my face, watching a mini-marathon of "The Housewives of OC"-- A scant replacement for my beloved Jersey Wives, or even the kick-ass Atlanta ones (TEAM NENE!)-- I saw they've released Where The Wild Things Are on DVD. Perhaps it was the trauma of having actually seen the movie in theaters that caused my brain to black out the event entirely, but I'd totally forgotten it's existence until today.

So, since the two Tylenol PM I took are starting to catch up with me, we're going to revisit my original movie review of Where The Wild Things Are:

Where The Whiny Things Are

For anyone interested, I'm currently organizing an angry mob to storm the gates of Spike Jonze's house this coming Friday night with a possible post-lynching pit stop at Dave Egger's home should time and weather permit. A coffee and finger snacks meet-and-greet will be held an hour before we leave in the cafeteria of the local Presbyterian Church on Main Street. Please bring your own pitch-forks, rusty old rakes and torches as I don't have enough of these things at my disposal for everyone. Donations of lighter-fluid, ropes and large rotten tomatoes will be greatly appreciated. The sign-up sheet for this event is hanging out in the hallway. Thank you.

Click The Angry Mob To Read The Whole Blog

We'll return to our regularly scheduled blogging program tomorrow...

Most likely.

Wordless Wednesday (Boardwalk Edition)

2010-02-24T16:20:00.001-06:00

Another one from my hometown...

They Had Me At "Passion Purple"

2010-02-23T15:53:00.001-06:00

Ladies and Gentlemen(man), I have no will power what-so-ever!

No, I'm not talking about the fact that I just inhaled what was left of the Cookies and Cream ice cream. (I found a cookie deposit in the middle and it was all over from there.)

Yesterday I made this grand declaration that I wasn't going to buy a new computer until my blog had 500 followers. My reasoning was that by 500 subscribers I could consider myself a "serious blogger" and thus justify the expense. Also, I figured by 500 I would have found the *ahem* balls to try having something of mine published, possibly signed up for a writing class or two, maybe join a writers' club... Ya know, things that might put a shiny new laptop with all the specs to good use.

No such thing happened.

What did happen was Man and I decided to scrap the Valentine's Day Do-Over and stay home last night. We stayed in a hotel in The Quarter for The Superbowl, then we stayed at the same hotel in The Quarter for Mardi Gras, so we both kind of just wanted to sleep in our own bed for a while.

I didn't know it was humanly possible to grow so bored with the constant need to celebrate.

So we stayed home and it was an incredibly relaxing evening sitting quietly in front of our respective electronic addictions: Me my computer and him his PS3. Then he comes to me with a proposition. Seems his laptop has, as you guys put it yesterday: "Shit the bed" or "went tits up." It's dead and he wants to get a small netbook for taking notes in class. However, he can't bring himself to buy a new machine unless I do too. I tell him I'll go to Best Buy with him, but no promises. I need to stick to my word! What would my readers think of me if I cracked the very day I made the deal?! I can't be a wuss about self control anymore!

...

My new laptop will be shipped to the store March 2nd.

I had to order it special because it's "Passion Purple."

Serious blogger, indeed.

sniff You like me, you really like me!

2010-02-23T10:33:00.000-06:00

The Blogging Academy has once again bestowed me with a blogger award, and since I've only been at this regularly for a short time I'm pretty excited.

Thanks, Homesick Cajun!

Okay, according to the rules of blog-awarding you have to post 7 things about yourself you may not know. Well, since 20 of my now 25(!) readers have discovered me within the week, this should be easy.

1. Before I die (or before it crumbles), I must see the Coliseum in Rome. Shamefully, this comes from an unhealthy obsession with the movie "Gladiator."

2. I like to fancy the notion that my life is a chick-lit novel. I've been known from time to time to walk around with a running commentary in my head as though I'm narrating the story. I'm on my own best-sellers list.

3. My favorite pair of shoes is a super-sexy, super-high heeled pair of leopard silk and shiny patent leather Steve Madden peep-toes. I've never worn them, but I have them positioned in the closet so that I can admire my babies every time I open the door. Someday I'll have occasion (and balance) to wear them.

4. After thing number three I guess it goes without saying that I have a problem with impulse control. Especially when it comes to shiny, stylish, pretty things being sold at a sweet discount. And especially when it comes to shiny, stylish, pretty footwear.

5. I not-so-secretly daydream about being asked to be one of those guest commentators on VH-1. You know, like "I Love the 80's" or "Best Week Ever." I'm snarky! I can be quippy! Call me!

6. The sound of seagulls and that gross sulfur-y stench of low-tide makes me terribly homesick. Yesterday there were seagulls in a parking lot fighting over a bag of garbage and I got a little weepy.

7. I'm slightly addicted to internet memes. My current favorite is Hipster Kitty, because I hate hipsters with the white-hot intensity of a thousand more hateful versions of me.

Now you have to pick seven people to pass this award on to:

1. Thirty: Own Up To Being Grown Up (Though I will never do such a thing!)

2. A Day In The Life of a Surferwife The name of her blog alone makes me miss living at the beach. *sigh*

3. A Southern Belle Trying Not To Rust 'Cuz I'm a Yankee that'll never pass as a Belle. I curse too much in public, and I think petticoats make my ass look fat.

4. It's Blogworthy Because everything totally is.

5. The Lost in Suburbia Blogs Because I am, too!

6. Tales From The Chicken Coop Because I totally endorse girls behaving badly in public!

7. Diary of Curvy Jones A blog I discovered about ten minutes ago, but love already!

So there you go. I'm starving, so I'm gonna go make breakfast then tell everyone they have an award here.

Filed Under "Think Before You Speak"

2010-02-22T09:52:00.001-06:00

I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I talk a lot of smack.

If you didn't notice, you're not paying attention.

Perhaps I was on a high from surviving the recent avalanche of holidays, but last week I heard myself say-- out loud-- that when (Yes, when!) I get 500 subscribers I'll buy myself a new computer. It didn't seem like such a big number until I realized I've been blogging for months and only reached 22.

478 subscribers to go.

Any of you got friends that need new random rants to read?

It's not that I can't just go over to Best Buy right now and pick up that pretty pink Dell I've been eyeballing. It's just that, it doesn't make sense to do such a thing. My current laptop works just fine, if not a little slow and probably riddled with more viruses than Mr Burns. This laptop has been with me through two apartments in Philadelphia, two in Jersey and this house in Louisiana. It's been packed up, dropped, had the "T" key pulled off by a toddler, and subject to the fevered typing of many angry blogs and e-mails. There's a brown stain on the keyboard-- evidence of countless trips to free wi-fi coffee shops and cafes-- and a worn out sticker that I thought was clever for all of ten minutes a year ago on the back.

The thing is, I know it's desperately time for an upgrade. Parting with ol' Lappy T. is the technological equivalent of breaking up a relationship that you know has run its course. Of course there are better, more attractive, more exciting and new fish in the sea, but none of them are the fish you know so well.

Sure, when I come home every afternoon I have to turn my laptop on then go kill time for 15 minutes while it boots up only to hopelessly freeze on me ten minutes into reading my e-mail (Three times yesterday!), but...

All my favorite pictures are on here and I'm too lazy to transfer them to disk.

So, perhaps I was deliberately putting off replacing Lappy a little longer when I made my grand declaration of readership. Or maybe I'm just so arrogant I really think I'm that good. Either way, despite the fact that I can buy a new laptop whenever I want, I'm standing by my word.

As long as Lappy T stands by me.

Scientists from the RAND corporation have created this model to illustrate how a "home computer" could look like in the year 2004. However, the needed technology will not be economically feasible for the average home. Also scientists readily admit that the computer will require not yet invented technology to actually work, but 50 years from now scientific progress is expected to solve these problems. With teletype interface and Fortran language, the computer will be easy to use.

WTF is the big steering wheel for?

Do I Hear Banjos?

2010-02-21T17:16:00.001-06:00

Today's blog can be summed up in one statement:

I now know what it would be like to serve breakfast to the Beverly Hillbillies.

An actual statement I overheard today:

"It's the man's job to keep the dumbass wife in line!"

Whatever you say, Cletus. Nice white pride tattoo, by the way. Dick.

Sometimes I need to hear these things. Ya know, in case I'd forgotten I live in the deep, deep south.

Tylenol. Pepsi. Nap. In that order.

Bigger Than Jesus

2010-02-20T21:38:00.001-06:00

WARNING: If you're not one to have a sense of humor about religion, Jesus, Easter or Catholicism, you probably want to read something else. Might I suggest some nice, inoffensive pug pics instead. Everyone likes pugs, right? Anyway, consider yourself warned.

I was raised Catholic. I mean, if you consider being enrolled into Catholic School when I was too young to know better, then forced to go to church every Sunday, Holiday (Religious as well as Secular), and special event like-it-or-not for the entirety of my young life being "raised Catholic." That is, until I was deemed old enough to decide for myself. Guess what I decided. I decided to sleep in on Sundays.

It's Lent right now, and I've made a few snarky comments about giving up holidays, or how the decision to eat a cheeseburger or not on Fridays isn't really the same as being publicly whipped, humiliated, then crucified and left for dead. What can I say? I'm funny. Sometimes that funny comes at the expense of others...

...Or the core religious and spiritual beliefs of others.

I don't do Lent. I just never saw the point. Like I said, refraining from trash tv for 40 nights, or abstaining from whole milk lattes seems a bit of a slap in the face of the story of Easter. Frankly, if I was Jesus I'd be up in Heaven this time of year like "Pshhht! Are they serious? Sooo not the same thing!"

Then there's cases such as the couple I encountered in the gas station store Wednesday evening. Drunk as skunks, high as heck, buying more booze and cursing enough to make an off-shore man blush, they were both sporting the mark of having gone to church on Ash Wednesday. Um... Can we say hypocrisy?

Yeah, we probably can't.

But then I started thinking about Lent not as an empty religious tradition, but as an exercise in building character. A chance to break bad habits as well as form a few new good ones.

I have this terrible habit of getting all gung-ho about something and then dumping it within the week. (Remember how I was gonna take up baking?) This blog tends to be one of those things. I'll blog like crazy for a week or two and then.... *crickets*

So, even though I'm late by a few days, I promise to blog every day for the remainder of the next 40.

Jesus just went all "Pshhht! My peeps totally wrote The Bible. Top that!"

Well, I accept your challenge, Jesus.

This house has a lightening rod, right?

...

Valentine's Day Redux

2010-02-19T21:29:00.001-06:00

My back hurts.

I came home this afternoon and took a very necessary nap. I don't know who didn't get the memo that Mardi Gras is over (so GTFO!), but there's still a decent amount of tourists meandering around. Unfortunately, they tend to get hungry. As my luck would have it, these lost souls with their lack of social grace, basic manners as well as their belief that they are the only people in the restaurant (and possibly the world) find their way to me. Honestly, what is it about leaving one's zip code that causes one to forget how to function in a public place?

And while we're on the subject, what is it about leaving an 11.5% tip that says the waitress shouldn't chase you through the parking lot and kick you in the shins? Oh yeah, Lady. I did the math!

But I digress...

I came home and took a nap. I woke up with a painful spot in my spine as though someone had been repeatedly punching me right there for hours. Random pains in my back have been an ongoing problem for about two months now, exacerbated by this Mardi Gras crap. Who knew waiting on jerks and their hyperactive offspring was so hard on the body? I can't take it anymore. I need a chiropractor.

Or...

The other thing that sucked about this week is that Valentine's Day fell on the worst work-day I ever experienced in my life. (Crying out by the dumpsters, anyone?) By the time I got home I didn't want to do anything but sit quietly and wonder what I'd done with my life. I managed, however, to muster the energy to open the gift Man got me. (Nothing cheers a girl up like coming home to a beautiful string of pearls!) Most awesome gift and a shared bit of chocolate-explosion cake later, and we decided to reschedule Valentine's Day for this Monday night. Which gave me an idea...

A visit to a chiropractor, or a night at the Sheraton with a jacuzzi tub and a big squishy bed costs about the same, right?

Let's Man and I put my collection of 11% tips to good use.

Everywhere Else In The World It Was Just "Tuesday."

2010-02-18T18:20:00.003-06:00

My first Mardi Gras was a shining success.

Light-up bunny ears, Hell Yeah!

Well, there was that incident at one of the parades when I nearly fist-fought a lady over a string of plastic beads (Worth all of 0.25 American, I'm sure).

In my defense, she was taking bead-catching faaarrr too seriously, and after 20 minutes of this bitch knocking into me or shoving me aside, I'd finally had enough. We both caught the same string, and thus the stand-off began. She wouldn't let go. I wouldn't let go. Our eyes met, and just as the thought to break the strand to spite her crossed my mind, Man intervened.

It just isn't worth it, Em.

Sigh. Of course he was right. Going to war with some woman on the streets of New Orleans over little plastic baubles would have been stupid. Especially since there seemed to be an unending supply of such things that day. It was the point though! She was acting like they were throwing money off those floats! Someone had to teach her some parade-manners, and leave it to me to try bringin' Jersey-tude to the party.

After that I gave any bead, coin, toy or stuffed animal that I managed to body-check or wrestle away from that woman to the little girl standing to my left. (Spite is the new violence.)

However, I swear to all of you: I would have brought it to blows had that bitch tried to get my string of fiddle playin' alligators.

After This I'm Giving Up Holidays For Lent.

2010-02-14T22:10:00.002-06:00

By the end of the day we were referring to our shift as "The Valentine's Day Massacre." My motto for tomorrow?

Tips or GTFO.

After work, Man and I are heading straight downtown until Tuesday night. Should I survive the Bead-Pocalypse, we'll return to our regularly scheduled blogging program.

Oh yeah, and I got a blog award from B Sparkly. Thanks! The links will come Wednesday as well, since I have about 0.05 seconds of coherent consciousness left before I lapse into a coma. (Today really really sucked!)

See ya'll Wednesday!

Universal Understandings

2010-02-11T20:33:00.000-06:00

Last week I had a dream that I was in a shoe store trying on boots. I had a wallet full of cash and for some reason a massive store credit. Though I was surrounded by what seemed like an unending display of fabulous footwear, I couldn't decide on anything and the store was closing in five minutes.

This, my friends, is a metaphor for my life.

Yeah, only I would take a dream about shoe shopping and categorize it under "Profound Self Discovery." The subconscious speaks to us in terms only we can understand.

You have your universal understandings, I have mine.

I Can Has a Sedative?

2010-02-10T20:00:00.003-06:00

I just made a total ass of myself.

I know... I know... Try not to look so surprised. :/

If there's one thing I'm never going to get used to in this neighborhood, it's all the random dogs I see wandering around. Perhaps I'm still used to life in the city where everyone had an apartment, and their dog's didn't see the light of day unless it was securely on a leash or running around the dog park. Around here everyone's got a house with a yard, and they (logically) simply let their dogs go play out in those yards. The problem with back yard doggies is: They become good escape artists.

Since I moved here I've been surprise-doggied by a German Shepard, a Husky, a Basset Hound (not so scary), and a Golden Retriever. I have yet to get used to this. I'm sure it has something to do with that incident back when I was 17. While walking home from the store one afternoon I was "surprise-doggied" by a Rottweiler who had escaped from his pen and was very very irritated with me for wandering too close to his yard.

I believe my exact thoughts were: I'm just gonna throw these underpants away when I get home.

It's not that I'm scared of dogs. I'm not. I love dogs. I prefer dogs over any other pet one can own. I've owned dogs. I even had a few playful moments with a friend's incredibly ominous looking pitt bull who seemed to enjoy nibbling on people's noses as a sign of affection.

What I'm trying to say here is dogs per se are not my problem.

Having a large black lab hidden under the cover of night pop out from behind our front hedge while I'm trying to enjoy some fresh air (i.e. I'm a dirty smoker.) is a Very. Big. Problem. So big, in fact, that I'm likely to just about injure myself trying to get through the front door after having said large black dog surprise me.

Nothing says "I shouldn't go out without my helmet" like smacking face-first into the front door because it didn't open as fast as I was trying to move, subsequently causing the residents of my house to come running, only to find me trembling and babbling about the hound of Hell that's about to tear us all to shreds. The Cerberus, however, turned out to be the neighbor's perfectly friendly black lab that just wanted to wag his tail and say hello.

Fantastic. I've created a new lol creature. The lolCerberus.

What's a Wordless Wednesday?

2010-02-10T16:43:00.000-06:00

My subscription list is full of posts entitled "Wordless Wednesday." I'm new to this, but from what I gather I'm just supposed to post a picture. Well, it's been a long day. Any excuse to cop out of an actual blog post is cool-and-the-gang by me.

This is a picture I took about a year ago while wandering around the boardwalk back home in Ocean City (Jersey, not Maryland.)

Honestly? I think those are all pretty good "Life Codes" as well.

Who is it? Who's there? Who's that? Wait... How do I say it again?

2010-02-09T11:14:00.003-06:00

I've never been anywhere for anything big. I somehow managed to live 33 years without being present for a major historic event. No natural disasters, earthquakes, political movements or hostile takeovers. (I moved to New Orleans in May and we had a totally hurricane-free hurricane-season.) My answer to the question "Where were you when... happened?" has always been "I was miles away. Probably on the couch."

I've never in my life been a part of history.

Until this past Sunday.

Hey, Emma. Where were you when the New Orleans Saints went to and then won their first Superbowl in the history of the team?

I was standing on Bourbon Street with what quickly became tens of thousands of my closest friends.

I'm thinking of inviting them all over for dinner Saturday night.

Wait. Let me amend that. I was standing under a balcony on Bourbon Street when the clock ran out and the win became official. Apparently the people up there were each holding one of the street's famous jumbo-sized cocktails, because in a matter of 0.05 seconds I was covered in liquor. Mostly beer, but I think I smelled a little rum and tequila on the fur lining of my sweater the next day.

And all day I was wondering why so many people were walking around carrying umbrellas. I thought they knew something about the weather I didn't know. Well, I guess they sort of did.

New Orleans Newbie Life Lesson #42: Don't stand under a balcony when something exciting happens on Bourbon Street.

Life Lesson #43: If you must stand under a balcony, be prepared not only for a gin-shower, but to be pelted in the head repeatedly by fistfuls of beads. Ow!

Yeah, apparently those umbrellas work double-duty as shields, too.

Speaking of beads, Man explained to me that only the tourists can't catch them. A seasoned New Orleanian can simply raise their hand and the beads seem to somehow float like graceful little plastic birds into their palms. Perhaps it's generation upon generation of bead-catching blood running through their veins, but I think it's an evolutionary defense mechanism like the spots on a leopard. If you don't catch them, they end up in your eye. Or hitting you in the face. Or knocking the cell phone out of your hand, causing you to scramble in a panic to get it up before one of your 30,000 new friends steps on it.

Don't be fooled. That kid's got quite the throwin' arm on her!

So it became my mission to catch as many beads as possible. Not only as an attempt to make myself official, but to keep myself from sporting a black eye at breakfast the next morning. I kept my guard up, kept my eyes on the balconies and I'm happy to report I caught every bead that sailed my way.

Woo!

PROLOGUE: Despite all my kvetching about NOLA's in-general terrible eating habits, I must confess that I sat here writing this blog with a big fat piece of leftover King Cake for breakfast. I'm back on the diet tomorrow. I swear!

PROLOGUE II: I've moved on to the leftover guacamole and Tostitos. God help me, why did we bring this stuff home with us?

La Benneton Roulette! (or something...)

2010-02-06T20:02:00.002-06:00

If there's one thing I've learned since moving to New Orleans, it's that there's always a holiday.

Back in the real world (i.e. New Jersey.) there's a certain spacing of holidays that leaves one with a sense of celebration without causing one's head to spin clean off one's shoulders. Here in the Big Easy it's different. Just when I think I've got a handle on things, I discover that I am smack in the epicenter of another freakin' holiday. I usually find this out by the inordinate amount of coworkers begging for days off, or showing up in the mornings smelling like they just rolled out of a gin distillery. There's one girl who looks like she's about to give birth to a keg. Seriously, a beer belly on a chick? Not. Hot.

But I digress...

Did you know that Christmas isn't over on December 26th? No, my friends. Christmas lasts until King's Day (January 5th), which is supposedly the day the three kings arrived at the baby Jesus' manger. There's a special cake for the occasion and everything.

They taste better than they look.

If you happen to get the piece with the little plastic baby baked inside, and don't die of asphyxiation because you weren't expecting to get a little plastic toy in your mouth, it's your responsibility to buy the next cake. Another thing I've learned in New Orleans is there's always a reason to eat cake.

Just ask the half of my closet that holds all the clothes I used to fit into until I moved to the Big Easy-To-Find-Cake-And-Cookies.

Alright, fine. I celebrated Christmas until January 5th. I ate the cake(s), and survived the babies with all my teeth intact. It's over now, right?

No.

Now it's Carnival Season. Carnival Season?!?!

Another thing on the long list of stuff I didn't know about New Orleans is that Mardi Gras isn't just that one Tuesday. No, it's a month of parades, parties, masquerade balls and, of course, a new rotation of King Cakes and tiny plastic choking hazards. I can't take it anymore. My waist can't take it anymore. And my jeans? Every time I put them on these days I can just about hear the stitches and buttons screaming for mercy.

This city is making me fat. With a capitol FAT.

But fine... Fine. It's tradition, and who am I to argue with hundreds of years of tradition? Frankly, I can't argue, because I've only recently gotten a grasp on the accent down here. Yeah, now people only have to repeat something to me twice as opposed to the dozen or so times it took when I first got here in May. So instead I began to artfully dodge the cakes, cut back on my eating and started to get an in-general grasp on my eating habits.

Then the New Orleans Saints win their first NFC Championship in the history of the team and the city has a whole new holiday to look forward to: Superbowl Sunday.

Now bigger than Christmas, bigger than Mardi Gras, bigger than the second coming itself, the city has another reason to celebrate. Even I, the first to declare "I don't care about football," can't ignore the game this year. I'm surprised to find a giddy little knot in my belly waiting for tomorrow's big game. We're going to be in the French Quarter all tomorrow night, and I have to say: I think it'll be cooler than actually being in Miami. Man's family got a suite somewhere near Bourbon Street so we can watch the game and head out to join the celebrations.

As I type this, his mother is in the kitchen fixing a royal feast of chicken wings and 7-layer bean and guacamole dip to bring with us. And sitting on the kitchen table? Two of the biggest King Cakes I've ever seen in my life. So much for that diet I thought I was on.

As they say in Cajun Country:

Laissez les bons temps rouler

(That's cajun-french for "Let the good times roll!" which I thought until five minutes ago sounded a lot like "La Benneton Roulette!")

Fun With YouTube: Wafflepwn

2010-02-05T19:50:00.002-06:00

Man is in the home-office with the door shut. This could only mean one of two things:

1. He's writing a paper for one of his classes.

2. He's looking at porn.

I've chosen to believe it's option #1, because if it was option 2, it would have to be something really vile that he would feel the need to shut the door and keep me out. Like worse than "Honey! Come here, you gotta see this!"

Needless to say, my boyfriend and I tend to have strange but compatible senses of humor. Two words: Goldfish porn. PETA would not be amused.

We, however, thought it was hysterical.

To be fair, he's really in there writing a paper and I know that. Also in our defense, we aren't some depraved porn-watching pair of sickos. Sometimes we watch things like this:

What's the deal with the remote control? Like, how is sodomizing yourself with a universal remote going to teach your mom a lesson about canceling your World of Wafcraft account? Oh yeah, and why in God's name did you leave your pants on when trying it? I'm just sayin. Logistics, kid. The devil is in the details.

I know, I know. At my age I shouldn't be laughing out loud to the antics of bored teenagers with obviously no parental supervision and access to too much technology. What can I say? I'm immature for my age.

"Three million people wanna know why you shoved a remote up your butt."

Quote of the century.

I'm a Candace!

2010-02-04T20:38:00.003-06:00

Either I'm one of those people that holds onto a trend until long past its expiration date (My well-worn faux leopard fur coat circa 2004, anyone?), or I exist in a constant state of being retro (I wore that coat faithfully every winter until this year when I was forced to retire it into the family storage facility. Louisiana winters do NOT require fur coats; faux or otherwize.), but I found myself more exited than one should be over the acquisition of my season one Sex and the City DVD.

I've always kind of wanted to own the seasons of SATC, but for some reason I could never locate season one. I'm such an OCD freak that I couldn't bring myself to start with two. I'm sorry, but you don't start with two! If you were supposed to start with two, it would be called one. Get it? So imagine my euphoria when I finally came across a season one that wasn't part of the $200.00 box set.

But I digress...

I'm sure Man believes-- as I'm also sure you do-- that I'm holed up in our bedroom with a mug of chamomile tea and my favorite pillow (faux leopard to commemorate my coat) watching episode after episode (In order!) to revisit some fantasy about being "A Carrie" or "A Miranda" or whatever. No. Ever since the advent of this show and the accompanying "I'm a..." merchandise, I've been searching for my "I'm a Candace" tee shirt or coffee mug.

Candace Bushnell.

Right after my mom, and just before the Ab Fab gals, Candace is on the top of my list of heroes. She wrote the book that became the show that captured our hearts. I never understood running around with your "I'm a Carrie" tee shirts. I'd rather be a Candace; the Goddess that created the world where the characters live. After all, that's all they were: Characters. Fictional women who don't actually exist. If I wanted to be someone non-existent, I'd be happy as Emma So-and-So from small town New Jersey.

I'm bigger than that.

I'm a Candace!

P.S. The peanut gallery can keep their comments about my "bigger than that" ass size to themselves, kthnx.

This Blog Is Dedicated In Memory of My Awesome Fur Coat
Winter 2004 - Spring 2009
May You Rest In Peace In A South Jersey Storage Facility, Old Friend...

Kvetchings of The World's Oldest Mean Girl

2010-02-03T21:04:00.000-06:00

Wordpress has caused me to slip into a white-hot rage.

I have a blog over there, but the site isn't recognizing my password and all efforts to retrieve or reset have been... Well, I'm not in a white-hot rage because I just remembered I missed last week's episode of Project Runway.

So here I am.

Anyway, as it turns out I have a whopping two loyal blog fans who noticed my absence from the internets. Ya know what? A journey to two-million fans begins with the first two, so who am I to disappoint? However, the problem I'm facing right now is Tabitha's Salon Takeover is about to come on. Also, I have an unopened issue of Vogue to drool over and the first season of Sex and The City on DVD waiting for me in the bedroom (Yes, I'm aware of what a media-whore I am).

Also, who can turn away from the train wreckage of Tom Sizemore on Celebrity Rehab?

The bottom line here is I have lots of distractions.

So, to my dear two loyal fans:

Please forgive the copy / paste cop-out job that is this blog. It's an entry from my little known or touched livejournal. I'd kept it a friends only entry, but since the bitch wanted to go public on her facebook about how much she hates me I don't care anymore. So, without further adieu, my blog:

(Originally posted January 6, 2010)

Imitation is not the highest form of flattery. I think it's annoying.
-- Pink

I know what they say about me.

I just don't care.

Ya know, it's not like I necessarily want to be a bitch at work. Every morning I arrive at 7 am (ish) and I'm promising myself "I'm not going to be a bitch today... I'm not going to be a bitch today... I'm not going to be a bitch today..."

By 9 o'clock I've failed miserably.

(It's not my fault, I swear!)

Okay, look: If someone could just tell me who I have to write to get the word out that Ed Hardy has been passe for two years (and that's being generous) I wouldn't have cringed when the chick on my shift thrust her enormous bright red purse by-- you guessed it-- Ed Hardy in my face.

"Look," she said with all the enthusiasm of a child that was showing you a scribble drawing of God only knows, "I got a new purse!"

"That's um... Very red."

Also, it's large enough that, should the need ever arise, she can carry around a 1983 Honda Accord.

(Don't ask me why I just referenced my mom's old car, it was the first thing that came to mind when I saw the bag.)

"That store's great," she continues, "They've got pretty good knock offs too. By the way, who's Fendi?"

Ohfortheloveofgod!

You see, this is my boyfriend's fault. If he hadn't been the most wonderful, sweetest, most thoughtful man in the whole wide universe and bought me that fabulous Coach bag I'd been lusting after for my birthday, these girls wouldn't be shoving any old badazzled sack they can get their hands on under my nose for approval as though I'd been anointed the Maharishi of purses.

Sheesh!

Merry Merry!

2009-12-20T22:46:00.000-06:00

In case you hadn't figured it out, I'm on a holiday hiatus.

Merry Christmas!

Pugs not Drugs (But I Could Really Use a Tylenol Right Now)

2009-12-02T20:17:00.000-06:00

It's been a crappy day.

Like one of those I barely Made it To the Car Before Having a Sniveling, Crying Meltdown After Work kind of days.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

Anyway, even though I scarfed down a bowl of Creole Cream Cheese ice cream with fresh bananas when I got home, and in spite of the two hour nap I took after, I'm still in kind of a downer mood. There's only one thing left to put a smile on my face.

Silly pug pictures!

Nothing makes me happier than a good lol pug.

So here is, in no particular order, a few of my favorites....

I hate when that happens, too.

I break for ice cream. Always.

I'm already saving for botox... Just in case.

Ut Oh...

Can you delete a few of my coworkers, too?

As long as you didn't drink my cocktail.

Werd.

I Made a Funny! (I Also Made a Mess in the Laundry Room!)

2009-12-01T12:24:00.000-06:00

Rainy day in the house checklist...

-- Big sweatshirt stolen out of man's side of the closet. Check.

-- Fuzzy pink slippers with the googly eyes.

Check!

-- Christmas mug of Godiva coffee. Check!

-- Washing machine spouting water all over the laundry room.... Err... Check?

(I do recall it being said that there's a clog in one of the hoses, but I was on an expensive-coffee-in-a-snowman-mug buzz and totally forgot. That is until I noticed something similar to the sound of a babbling brook coming from the laundry room. Oops!)

Anyway, I'm pretty proud of myself this year. I'm usually the person who waits until 7pm December 23rd to do my Christmas shopping. Running around a mall or shopping center gnashing my teeth and elbowing old ladies with the other shopping-warfare soldiers, I'd dig through the leftovers, spend too much money on ridiculous things, then hastily wrap the spoils of war in the bedroom while everyone else drank eggnog and mingled happily elsewhere.

But not this year!

This year I started early (yesterday) and I've somehow managed to fill out a stack of Christmas cards and get a few gifts ready to ship to my parents and Grandmother in Jersey. We've even got the tree up! It's a Frazer Fur that I'm pretty sure won't cause me to have terrible allergic reactions. And if it does? We'll just get a Niles Pine next year.

Ha! Get it? A Frasier Fur and a Niles Pine?? *nudgewink*

Happy Leftovers Week!

2009-11-30T11:49:00.000-06:00

Happy Days After Thanksgiving... A magical time I like to call "Leftovers Week!"

Honestly, my eating habits have become monstrous this week-- as will my backside if I don't stop eating pie for breakfast.

And lunch...

And, of course, after dinner.

Fortunately I didn't use the pie as a midnight snack last night. See, we put the Christmas tree up, and that was a fresh baked cookies occasion.

All I want for Christmas is a good plastic surgeon.

And now an "All The Cool Kids Were Doing It!" update...

Everywhere I went in the blogosphere I noticed these adorable signatures at the end of each entry. So I had to have one myself. Behold:

Chances are I'll change the font a hundred thousand times this week. I can never commit to things like this. Hence the constant changing of my blog background and layout.

This Time It's The Big One!

2009-11-24T10:26:00.000-06:00

I'm going to start blogging again.

And this time I mean it.

Not like those other times I said "... and this time I mean it!" but took a nap and went shoe shopping instead.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away, I was what you would consider a "blogger." Born mostly of boredom and the need to purge this Pandora's Box I call a mind, I spent hour upon hour parked in front of this computer making fun of my crazy neighbor, the kid working the movie theater concession stand, politics and literature. I've lost track of most of my readers, and due to an unfortunate compulsion to use the "delete" button I've lost most of those blogs. Since then I spend at least once a week insisting to myself that I'm going to get back on the blogging horse again. Because of that I spend at least twice a week sitting here staring at the "post new blog" button before I close everything out, shut the computer and wach a "Sanford and Son" rerun on Tv-Land.

Then I take a nap.

(If napping was an Olympic sport I'd be making my country proud right now. )

Anyway, in light of the fact that I have nothing better to do with my time... And in light of the fact that I think I've seen every episode of "Sanford and Son" twice over... I'm making a promise to myself that I'm going to start blogging again.

Again.

Where The Whiny Things Are

2009-10-20T11:28:00.000-05:00

Before we get started, I have an announcement to make.

For anyone interested, I'm currently organizing an angry mob to storm the gates of Spike Jonze's house this coming Friday night with a possible post-lynching pit stop at Dave Egger's home should time and weather permit. A coffee and finger snacks meet-and-greet will be held an hour before we leave in the cafeteria of the local Presbyterian Church on Main Street. Please bring your own pitch-forks, rusty old rakes and torches as I don't have enough of these things at my disposal for everyone. Donations of lighter-fluid, ropes and large rotten tomatoes will be greatly appreciated. The sign-up sheet for this event is hanging out in the hallway. Thank you.

Yeah, so it probably goes without saying Man and I went to see Where The Wild Things Are last night. We even paid the extra few dollars to see it at the IMAX theater in Harahan so my disappointment could be delivered to me in sharp three-dimensional colors and realistic sound.

I don't know... Sometimes I wonder if things like this are a little over my head, but I still can't figure out where in the ten sentences of the original book did it say that the Wild Things were emotionally needy, socially inept, co-dependent and slightly schizophrenic boorish things prone to getting butt hurt and whiny during the one (and only!) wild rumpus in the whole movie.

I also never read that the Wild Things got romantically involved with one another, let alone suffered bad breakups where both parties acted like angst-ridden teenagers, storming off to lament alone, leaving a trail of broken posessions and terrible cliche' in their path. Frankly, that one girl (Did WT's even have a gender?) was a grungy flannel shirt and a copy of "Pretty Hate Machine" away from being the quintessential pain in the ass alternative chick of 1992.

You make this all go away....

No, seriously, could you? 'Cuz this sucks!

I understand what Spike was trying to accomplish with this movie, but that just serves to annoy me further. Not everything needs to be a social commentary. If I wanted to be preached at about the state of today's affairs I'd have gone to see Michael Moore's latest self-slap-on-the-back docu-ganda. I went into WTWTA wanting to be entertained, not chided for living in a world of broken homes and indifferent siblings. I expected to be brought back to a time when imagination was the key to escape, to happiness, to various worlds of joy and abandon.

Frankly, any child who would imagine a world of awkward moments and sniveling co-dependence to escape to is seriously disturbed and should be evaluated by a professional when he gets home from the Whiny Things' Isle.

I Hear We'll Get Keys to the Outhouse For a Bottle of Gin

2009-10-05T11:48:00.000-05:00

Being a lifetime fan of the written word, it's no surprise that I've become a text messaging addict. As a matter of fact, though I've "talked" to my mother every day since I moved to Louisiana, I've only actually spoken to her maybe twice... No wait, three times if you count voicemail. Here's a few gems from my Inbox Archives.

On the subject of planning our weekend getaway:

Him: Don't forget to look stuff up in Gulfport. Nothing too fancy.

Me: What counts as "too fancy?"

Him: Most places you'd like.

Me: Ok. Well, I hear tell there's this old dirt farmer in Mississippi what would let a couple of city folk such as ourselves spend the night in his barn for twenty bucks and some chewin' tabacky. Still too fancy?

Him: No, that's perfect!

On the subject of my impending birthday:

Me: I can't believe I'm going to be 33 next week!

Mom: I don't even want to talk about how old that makes me!

Me: Well, I haven't broken out into hives yet* and my birthday doesn't fall on PMS week this year so the casualties should be minimal.

*Yes, as my 32nd birthday got closer last year I started breaking out in hives. I spent my 30th birthday in bed for three days. I don't deal with aging well at all. I'm considering starting therapy now to properly deal with the event of turning 40 without having a total galactic meltdown.

Effortless?

2009-09-29T13:59:00.000-05:00

This is a picture of our cat Two (Guess which position he held in the litter-birthing race.). Two is doing his best impersonation of me today, and honestly? The resemblence is uncanny. (I'd pair this with a photo of me curled up on the couch asleep in the middle of the day, but I'm not quite as adorable when contorted on the cushions drooling all over myself.) I'd like to say something along the lines of "It's not that I'm a lazy person by nature..." but that would be a lie. I don't lie. Lies and their upkeep take effort. I hate effort.

This blog was supposed to be about my new life in New Orleans-- assimilating to my new surroundings, this whole new part of the country and what sometimes felt like another language (It took me a month before I understood more than every third word someone spoke.). However, thanks to Man and his family, my transition from New Jersey to Louisiana has been... Well... Effortless (Mostly.). To that end, I haven't really done much actual assimilating. I consider it a testimony to the easy-breezy nature of life in the South, but... Easy doesn't make for good writing, does it?

Easy and effortless have also caused me to, let's say outgrow my favorite hoodie, and with the weather finally becoming something that reminds me of Autumn, I'm very sad about that. Of course, sitting here watching old episodes of Desperate Housewives and listening to one of the cats cough up what I hope is only a hairball (Ick!) isn't going to get me back into that sweatshirt is it?

Perhaps I Was Bitten by a Werewolf That Used to be a Housewife?

2009-09-17T21:31:00.000-05:00

As if my coworkers didn't annoy me enough eight hours a day, five-- occationaly six-- days a week, they've managed to infect me with their germs so I can now think of them while I'm coughing and sneezing and hacking and snotting all over myself at home.

Jerks.

Needless to say, I haven't been in the mood to bake those pretzels I was talking about last entry. I do have the mix, though, and I'm really, um, interested to see how mine turn out. Not interested enough to do so in an Alka-Seltzer Cold Medicine-induced haze.

I've also got a bag of spiced praline pumpkin bread mix I'm saving for a special occasion. Man and I were talking to our other couple friends about a night at The Mortuary (An event I'm sure I'm a billion times more excited about than your average 13 year old horror nerd.). Of course, 20 minutes after the conversation, I had decided that we'd do a pre-haunted house dinner party complete with pumpkin place settings (Bought at Target tonight. The plates are pretty... And made of cardboard.) and an airing of "It's The Great Pumpkin, Carlie Brown" over coffee. I'll have to call the whole thing off, however, if I don't get the pumpkin shaped bunt cake pan I saw tonight.

Yeah, it's that serious.

I don't know where this sudden Martha Sweart-esque streak of mine has come from, but I'm gonna roll with it until the novelty wears off and I move on to obsessing over something else like learning to speak Italian or join a Roller Derby (You never know with me. I never know with me.).

Amish in the Swampy

2009-09-14T11:42:00.000-05:00

The irony of having spent $800.00 on a shiny new flat screen tv with all the technological fixin's just to find myself glued to old episodes of Sanford and Son and All In The Family on my mornings off does not elude me. Generally, by the time Good Times comes on (Dine-OH-Mite!) I've mustered up the motivation to start our laundry. However, it rained here for a straight week, which-- if I'm understanding it properly-- caused the water table in our neighborhood to rise. I've been advised not to do the washing until it recedes. I have no idea what a water table is, but I think it has something to do with the Medieval Style moat that formed in our somewhat sunken front sidewalk.

It won't be long before the crocs take up residence in there, I'm sure.

I know what you're thinking: A day off from laundry? Horray! But no. My favorite jeans are somewhere in that pile and I was hoping to get in some face time with the cashier at Williams-Sonoma today (Yes, I have favorite shopping jeans. You don't?) . I need to find out how I can get my Pennsylvania Dutch soft pretzels to taste like actual Pennsylvania Dutch soft pretzels before I blow $7.50 on their recepie as well as all the accoutrements one needs to bake such things (I'm pretty sure the secret ingredient is the blood, sweat and tears of horsey-smelling Amish women praying for the lost souls of their obese pretzel mongering clientele).

Last week I declared I would sell my left foot and the shoe on it for a warm Philadelphia soft pretzel, so I can only assume it's some kind of universal serendipity that I found a mix and recipe. I've been fooled before by Louisiana versions of the foods I hold so dear and crave so badly. Need I remind anyone of the disappointing cheesesteak debacle of last month? I stormed back into the place and demanded they remove the name "Philly" from the menu.

Anyway, back to the jeans. Since it started pouring (AGAIN!) while I was writing this, perhaps I could toss them out in the back yard with some detergent and do our laundry... Well... Amish style.

Or I could take them out front and beat them against the backs of those crocodiles in the moat.

The Road to The Local Bakery is Paved With Failed Cookies

2009-09-11T20:34:00.000-05:00

About an hour ago I bounded into the house like an excitable puppy; my face flush with the joy of certain discovery. Totally oblivious to the "Poor Dumb Yankee" look Man and his mother were giving me, I announced that six-- possibly ten-- of the leaves on the big tree out front had begun to turn colors! This, without a doubt, marks the end of a long and torturous summer as well as the beginning of my favorite time of year: Fall. Tingling with anticipation of pumpkin spice everything, Haunted Hayrides and my impending birthday (A Holiday in itself if you ask me... And you didn't.) I began to feel the old Autumn nesting instinct that always seems to catch up with me this time of year.

Until, that is, Man went out and inspected the tree himself.

As it turns out, those leaves are suffering serious sun damage.

Well... Poo.

I've decided, however, that I'm not going to let this minor seasonal setback take away my Autumnal Equinox Spirit. For the last few years I've deprived myself of all my favorite Fall indulgences (Except, of course, the Starbucks pumpkin spice latte. Yum-ness!), and I'm not going to allow the fact that I'm 1300 miles removed from anything resembling the season of my youth stop me now! If my scarecrow has to be wet down every thirty minutes to insure he doesn't burst into flames in the front yard, so be it! If my jack-o-lanterns cook on the front porch I'll just make pie of them! If I can't find an actual haunted hayride, I'll just go on a regular hayride and shout "Boo!" at random passengers until I'm satisfied. (Seriously, what's up with the lack of haunted hayrides, Louisiana? Have you no Halloween spirit?)

And if I can't bake cookies.....

Well, that's the problem. I suck at baking cookies.

The last thing I attempted to bake that didn't come out of a box marked "Betty Crocker" was such a miserable disaster I never tried again. I was seventeen and Mom's impending bridal shower had inspired me. I set out to bake heart shaped sugar cookies iced with her and my now step-father's name; one for each guest. What I wound up with was 30 misshapen hearts (They looked more like rear-ends if you ask me.). They were simultaneously undercooked, rock solid, burnt at the bottom and tasted (Yes, I tasted one!) of baking soda and failure.

Failure, as it turns out, tastes a bit like oven cleaner.

These were the days before I understood the difference between a tablespoon of solid ingredients and a tablespoon of liquid. Also, I didn't see the point in steps back then. It's all going into the same bowl, why not just toss it all in at once and mix? My intentions were good, but you know what they say: The road to the local bakery is paved with failed cookies.

Fifteen years later I'm still no culinary wiz, but I can follow a recipie and I understand enough about what tastes right with what to tweak things a little. I can throw together a meal pretty well these days, though I still keep one hand poised and ready to dial 911 should the need to do so come wafting from inside the oven.

So far, so good.

Baking, however, is a totally different animal. It's exact and precise. It's mathmatical and formulaic. One miscalculation and you're on your way to ass-shaped cookie-ville and nobody wants that. It's the Moby Dick to the Captain Ahab of my culinary experience and I'll be damned if I'll allow the white whale of confections to elude me another day! Well, maybe one more day... Possibly two depending on how tired I am after work this weekend.

Okay, not another week! I swear!

I've chosen a recipe that seems easy enough. At least according to FoodNetwork.com they've been categorized as easy, and that's all I have to go on. Shortbread cookies with melted chocolate tips. Nothing even remotely ass-shaped there. I can handle that, right?

Right??

I'll let you know how it turns out. Also, I'll keep that hand poised on the 911 trigger just in case.

The Lethargic Housewife of Jefferson Parish

2009-06-18T11:43:00.000-05:00

There's a pile of laundry and a clogged coffee maker with my name on them, but I can't seem to conjure the energy to bother with either. First of all, I'm kinda hoping "Old Brew-ey" is on its last legs so I can justly purchase one of those fancy-pants compact coffee shop machines with the attached milk steamer and bean grinder. Secondly, the idea of leaving the cool comfort of central air to venture into the garage where we keep the laundry machines makes me want to die.

Somewhere on my myspace page exists a blog where I made fun of people for warning me about the suffocating Southern heat. (Here.) I thought I was so cool back then... Literally.

Guess what?

They were right.

It's fucking HAWT down here.

Last week my beloved and I were sitting outside when he announced to me that a heat wave was coming. Coming?!?! I said. You mean this isn't it? Ninety-Seven degrees later I saw what he meant. I thought I knew humidity living by the ocean. You don't know jack about humidity until you've experienced it around a swamp. Good Lawd! I didn't know alligators could pant. (For the record the only place I've seen a gator since I moved here was at the zoo.)

In Louisiana the sun doesn't simply rise in the morning. It marches forward and demands recognition. It sits square on your shoulders, slapping you in the face declaring "I! Am! Sun!" over and over again until your brain loses the ability to process any cognitive thought other than fantasies about ice storms or rolling around on a bed of Popsicles.

The neighbors have a beautiful in-ground swimming pool. My first intention when I came here was to befriend them for the sole purpose of gaining invites to pool parties and such. However, they've been out there every day this week playing shitty music. Maroon 5? I'd rather burst into flames.

A First Month Retrospective

2009-06-06T13:35:00.001-05:00

Today marks my one month anniversary in Louisiana.

This could turn out to be a blog full of profound thoughts about changing one's life and taking chances for love, but... Well, you know me.

Hey, did you know that New Orleans and the surrounding areas is kind of swampy? Did you know that in such climates a bug can grow to be the size of a small rodent?

Yeah, me either.

Until one chased me out of the garage last week.

Also, they fly.

If you need me I'll be under the bed with a can of raid and an aluminum baseball bat until Fall.

Seriously, though, I've learned a lot these past four weeks. Like how to pump gas, which is no small feat for a Jersey Girl such as myself. It isn't as complicated as the gas station attendants led me to believe. However, it does smell funky and your boyfriend tends to frown a bit when you spill some and nearly turn his Toyota into a rolling death trap. Try to keep that in mind, Jersey.

Love you, baby... You've got the patience of a saint. xoxo

Speaking of New Jersey, my new favorite show started while I've been here. The Real Housewives of New Jersey is by far the greatest multi-female train wreck to come out of Bravo's Indulgent, Narcissistic, Useless Housewife machine. A Cunt, a Psychotic, a Doormat, a Soprano-wannabe and an Old Bitch with a God complex... Sounds like Easter dinner at the old family table to me. I'd go into detail, but I'm afraid it might make me homesick.

Honestly, the fat one's my favorite, but that's probably because I've gained something like 15 pounds this past month. Seriously! I thought we knew how to eat in the Northeast, but I was wrong. See, food up there is pretty synthetic. Cheesesteaks with Cheeze Wiz, French Fries With Brown Gravy, Funnel Cake (which is really just a beignet but shaped differently) and the occasional bagel with Philadelphia Cream Cheese. It's fattening, but it's easy to get rid of (for me, anyway.). Down here? This is the kind of food that binds to your DNA and doesn't let go. And I? Can't stop cramming every delicious, buttery, bar-be-qued, creamy scrap of it in my ever-widening face.

So there you go, a somewhat amusing glance at my first month down south. Hopefully the novelty of Everything Ettoufe will wear off and I'll be able to report next month that I can wear my own jeans again without feeling like I'm being tortured.

New Jersey.. It's not contageous, I swear.

2009-05-06T13:42:00.000-05:00

I've been here a total of four days and I think I finally recovered from that 29 hour train ride sometime this afternoon. You know how when you were little and spent the day at an amusement park riding all the rides, and the whole rest of the night your head still felt a little swimmy as though you were still riding the Tilt-A-Whirl? Imagine that times a thousand. When I first stepped off the train in Louisiana I nearly fell over because I'd forgotten how to walk on a surface that wasn't speeding forward while wobbling to and fro in a dogged attempt to toss me around.

Also, I'd lost all sensation in my legs from the knees down.

The ride itself was something of a sensory deprivation experiment. After a few hours the big tube you're sitting in becomes your reality. There is no world, just the scenery speeding past the window. The train becomes your neighborhood and the people around you your slightly annoying, quirky neighbors. I had no cellular reception for long stretches of time. I had no one to hang out with but myself. Every now and then, for a change of scenery, I'd walk the equivalent of a moving city block to the dining car where I found a surprisingly decent cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. I give the microwaved cheeseburgers 3 soggy stars. Strangely yummy in that "this doesn't taste like actual food" kind of way.

When I had reception, boredom bred marathon text and photo messages to Mom and Levi who were both treated to photographic evidence of my slow decay from perfectly mascaraed and excited to raccoon eyed and in desperate need of a hairbrush (I was totally about to raid the luggage car for my Crest Spinbrush, too!). I also sent pictures of interesting trees, the Washington Monument, some random stream and what I'm pretty sure was the site where those two hillpeople made the fat Yankee squeal like a piggy (That movie wasn't a documentary, um, right?).

In Alabama I saw a place where you can get your hair cut and have your truck detailed in the same place, but we were going too fast for me to get a picture of it.

Though the seats were roomy and comfy, I still wound up sleeping in positions a sideshow contortionist would find impressive, waking up every two hours or so for that blessed stop long enough to take a cigarette break. I'd doze off with some idea of where I was and wake up with no clue. Beyond Maryland everything started to look the same: green and alive. We don't know from lush anything in Jersey unless you're talking about that one guy who lives at the busstop with his case of Bud Lite and pack of Lucky Strikes. (That guy's been there since I was 9!)

Speaking of the differences between New Jersey and the South, I had my first "Damn Yankee!" moment while waiting to purchace my umpteenth cup of coffee and cinnamon roll. See, the last time I came to visit Levi I bought myself a University of New Orleans hoodie that's so comfy it's since become somewhat of a security blanket (I haven't been able to wear it since I arrived here on the surface of the sun, but we'll get to that some other time.) So I'm standing there waiting for my coffee when this man comments on my hoodie.

"You from New Orleans?" He asks.

"No."

"Oh, but you go to school there?"

"No, my boyfriend does... I'm from New Jersey."

Well, at least that's what I think I said. However, judging from the gentleman's sudden change in expression I think what actually came out of my mouth was I come from a place where we twist the heads off of kittens for fun! I mean, not only did he screw a crazy face, but he actually pulled his wife closer to his hip as though I may infect them both with New Jersey! Look, man, it's a state not Pig Flu.

I briefly cinsidered barking at them as they walked away, but I didn't want to get put off the train in.... In.... Where the Hell am I?!?!

I'm Melting! I'm Melting! What a World, What a World!

2009-04-16T13:44:00.000-05:00

Upon hearing the news of my impending move, nothing seems to make the people around me happier than telling me how hot it gets in Louisiana.

"Oh my God, it's so hot down there! It's like trying to breathe in a pot of boiling water!"

"You're gonna melt as soon as you walk out your door!"

"Do you have any idea how humid it gets in the South?!?!" (This one kinda worries me, because my hair does not do well in humidity.)

Last time I checked a map, New Orleans wasn't situated atop the surface of the sun, but to hear these people tell it-- most of whom have never been farther south than Maryland I might add-- any and all cases of Spontaneous Human Combustion have happened in Louisiana. I'm going to burst into flames walking to the mailbox. I'm going to straight up drop dead on the sidewalk, a charred barbeque version of my former self. The only good news I've heard about the supposed inhumane heat index of this place is that I'll probably drop 20 pounds in a month. That alone was enough to pack my bags and buy a ticket if I hadn't already.

But I digress...

As I was explaining all this to Levi-- who I'm now convinced is some kind of superhero for his ability to exist comfortably amongst the hot lava strees that apparently make up the state as a whole-- the subject of my wardrobe came up. Though he assures me that I will be able to breathe outdoors without the aid of a personal air conditioning unit wrapped around my neck, we agree that it is perhaps time to rethink a few of my wardrobe choices.

The problem I'm facing is, I was never much of a summer-clothes kind of gal. I only own one pair of something you may consider shorts. I wore them once and my mother spent so much time teasing me about how pale my legs are I tossed them in a bottom drawer never to be heard from again. Thanks, Mom! Also, the Earth would have to be actually rocketing into the sun before I went sleeveless... Seriously.

I've never made a secret of the fact that my distaste for summer attire has everything to do with body image issues. I don't like being in any situation that requires I show skin. I have to be about to literally die before I relent and dress season-appropriate. However, from what I'm told, I just might.

The moral of this story? If I want to spend more than half an hour alive by the side of my Best Beloved, it's time to face my fears and go shopping for *shudder* summer clothes.

Or... There's always this.

I'll let you know how it works out...

Oh my GAWD, Ya'll!

2009-04-13T13:47:00.000-05:00

According to Google Maps, New Orleans Louisiana is 1,282 miles from here.

That's the extent of my personal knowledge about this place. I mean, unless you count Anne Rice novels as legitimate history texts...

Hrm.. Perhaps I should pack a little differently.

Speaking of internet facts, according to my Firefox spell checker I have no idea how to actually spell Lousianna... Lousiana... Lousiananana... Lou.. Oh, Fuck it! It's printed on my ticket and I guess that's what matters.

Speaking of tickets... Mom's already calling me a pussy for this one... I'm refusing to fly again. Listen to me, Ladies and Gentlemen, I like trains. They're big and sturdy, and most importantly they stay on the ground. The train has nothing to prove by, you know, taking flight.

Also, nobody's hijacked a train since, what? 1843?

So, train it is.

For those of you who may have no idea what I'm talking about... I'm moving.

Yeah, again.

Three months shy of a year back in New Jersey and I'm packing up my tiny collection of possessions (I never did make it back to Philly for my bread maker...) and moving along.

What, you ask, would prompt me to do such a thing? Oh, kids! What else causes a starry eyed Jersey Girl to pull up her stakes and head South?

Love.

((Cue Love Boat theme and get me that barf bag I saved from my last trip.))

We'd been talking about the idea of my relocating for a while now, but it was leaving him at the airport yesterday (after the greatest 8 days I've ever spent with another human being) that pretty much sealed the deal. Tired of the back and forth to see eachother, sick of the million hours of accumulated phone and web conversations, I finally put on my big girl panties and made the decision. I went directly from the air port to work and gave them my notice. The calendar there boasts in red permanent marker on the square marked April 30th: "EMMA'S LAST DAY!"

The next day I'm bidding farewell to the East Coast entirely and starting a new life as a displaced Jersey Girl bumbling around down south... In a place I can't even spell.