Lassie Come Blog.

The Sleepiest of Bears

2010-04-08T17:08:00.001-04:00

You may think that this is the sleepiest of bears, but you'd be wrong. I am. It may be my jet setting life style or the side effects of Lexapro or the fact that I am so devastatingly bored at the day job I'm actively trying to lose....

But I'm the sleepiest. The sleepiest of bears.

I wonder

2010-03-28T02:13:00.004-04:00

Did they decide your heart is where you feel things because it actually hurts when you're sad?

Or does your heart seem to literally hurt when you're sad because we've been taught to associate feelings with the heart....

chicken? egg? beuller?

improv won tonight. Our Comedies - awesome show. Fire and Ice - BLEW my mind. No, Willoughby! - was awesome. I love Mary Cait and I hope I get to play with her so much more. And Aphasia - Jesus Christ. I am in awe of Brett Lyons and Jeff Griggs. They made my dad so happy.

My dad came to see my play and watch my improv.

and did i mention i wrote a play? i did and it's a success. tonight was supposed to be the last night but it got extended. that's really cool.

Jesus Christ my life right now.

It's so easy to exist sometimes and so much fun. And magical.

But also terrifying and precarious.

If I don't stop to think about things, and I stay in moments - it's heaven. But when I think about it all... I start to cry. I'm real real happy and then real real scared.... and then I feel like... maybe it's me.... or... I wish it were because at least I could control it....

And I feel it all in my stupid fucking heart.

Prom Dress Season

2010-03-02T14:30:00.004-05:00

Every year
When the snow starts melting
And the days start getting longer
And baby birds start hatching too soon and dying
I think of nothing
But young love
Frightening first sexual encounters
And tulle

Prom Season is upon us, yet again

While I'm no longer a teenager, Jezebel has kept me posted on the doings of teenagers and the release of Seventeen's Prom issue.

It's amazing.

Ah. To be young again.

To smile.

2010-02-26T11:11:00.004-05:00

This animal is Bingley. Bingley was the world's greatest dog. Bingley had three best friends during his 12 years on Earth. Elmo, who tried to lose him in the woods once; Oswald, who was his brother for life; and Mr. Bennett, who is looking for him everywhere and very sad that he's gone.

Bingley came home with us because Liz and I cried in the parking lot of a Pet Store. We cried our way into the ownership of a few animals, including Garth who died last year.

Garth was bigger than Bingley at first. Bingley thought he was a cat like Garth for a little while. Then Bingley got bigger than Garth - and Garth was furious.

I cried right away about Bingley. Usually I have to remind myself how to cry when actual things happen. I'm so sad I can barely right.

To make myself laugh, I've been watching old ads.

My brain hurts.

2010-02-24T10:12:00.002-05:00

I bought cheeseburger earmuffs

I guess I forgot that I'm not 15.

Sometimes my heart feels like explosions

And sometimes I get nervous

And maybe I'm not a grown up.

It is. It's perfect.

2010-02-03T05:19:00.001-05:00

Hyperballad

Scott McGarvey | MySpace Video

A human is a pretty fragile thing to be

2010-01-28T17:08:00.004-05:00

We get so tattered by other humans and by ourselves.

It's weird.

Sometimes I wish I were the same human I was when I was 5.

I was so brave and confident and funny.

This song is pretty. But it only exists because there's so much human on human emotional violence.

at this moment in my life

2010-01-25T19:05:00.002-05:00

I pretty much am living off

eggs
popcorn
and
total - by the handful not the bowlful

loves, lost

2010-01-24T14:58:00.004-05:00

My heart was first with Sayid.

Sayid Hassan Jarrah.

He was beautiful. Dark. Mysterious.

I didn't understand why anyone would fancy Jack or Sawyer...

But when Sayid fell for Shannon, I lost some respect for him. A lot, really.

I got over it quickly. It barely hurt.

Then I noticed Jack - the perfect combination of dreamy, flawed and brilliant. He was fragile enough to love in earnest. My heart krept into his and there it lived for quite a while.

I never loved Sawyer. I never even wanted to. I get his sex appeal. I guess. But I never loved him. Not once.

But then Desmond. Oh beautiful Desmond. Perfection thy name is Desmond. My heart is his forever.

Oh and also these humans aren't real humans.

I will love him always.

Apparently, I wrote this on 10/23/08 at 12:56 and called it "I'm dying" I have no recollection of it, though I guess it sounds like me?

2010-01-18T10:33:00.003-05:00

Eloise Dromberg sat in her dark living room with her cat Oswald. She sat on a plush chair that was once a bold crimson. Decades of cat hair, cigarette smoke and dust had turned the chair to a dingy rust. Eloise spent most of her waking hours on the chair with Oswald. A woman named Bonnie prepared Eloise's meals, did the cleaning and mailed the bills. She was paid well, though never saw or spoke to her employer. When the two had reason for correspondance, they exchanged letters. Eloise wrote in proper cursive on fine stationary. Bonnie scribbled responses on whatever she could find.

Dear Bonnie,
I would like a medium rare steak with new potatoes. No salt. I can't have salt. Last time you put salt on the potatoes and my ankles swelled. I couldn't wear my house slippers and my feet got cold. Poor Oswald had to sit on my feet and then he got cold. It was a horrid mess.
Thank you, dear.
-Ms. Dromberg

(on the gas bill)
Sorry, Mrs. Dromberg. No salt.

Dear Bonnie,
I left seven dollars on the dining room table. I would like two books of logic puzzles and two scratch-off lottery games. If there is money left for Chap Stick, I would like that, too.
Thank you, dear.
-Ms. Dromberg

(On a cereal box top) Here you go, Ms. Dromberg. Seven cents back.

Eloise Dromberg had become, much to her chagrin, the old lady in the neighborhood whom the children feared. They dared each other to touch her front door and camped out on her lawn on halloween, until fear took over and they'd flee to the safety of a backyard.

1/22 - from a bed that's not mine - edit
Eloise Dromberg sat in her dark living room with her cat Oswald. She sat on a plush chair that was once a bold crimson, but decades of cat hair, cigarette smoke and dust had turned the chair to a dingy rust. Eloise spent most of her waking hours on the chair with Oswald. A woman named Bonnie prepared Eloise's meals, did the cleaning and mailed the bills. She was paid well, though never saw or spoke to her employer. When the two had cause for correspondence, which was as often as one would think, they exchanged letters. Eloise elegantly, in cursive, on fine stationary. Bonnie scribbled responses on whatever she could find.

Dear Bonnie,
I would like a medium rare steak with new potatoes. No salt. I can't have salt. Last time you put salt on the potatoes and my ankles swelled. I couldn't wear my house slippers and my feet got cold. Poor Oswald had to sit on my feet and then he got cold. It was a horrid mess.
Thank you, dear.
-Ms. Dromberg

(on the gas bill)
Sorry, Mrs. Dromberg. No salt.

Dear Bonnie,
I left seven dollars on the dining room table. I would like two books of logic puzzles and two scratch-off lottery games. If there is money left for Chap Stick, I would like that, too.
Thank you, dear.
-Ms. Dromberg

(On a cereal box top) Here you go, Ms. Dromberg. Seven cents back.

Eloise Dromberg had become, much to her chagrin, the old lady in the neighborhood whom the children feared. They dared each other to touch her front door and camped out on her lawn on Halloween, until fear took over and they'd flee to the safety of a familiar backyard.

It was a Tuesday morning in April, rainy and colder than it should be, when Eloise Dromberg asked Oswald a simple question, “Is this broach busy?” As she waited for the reply that couldn’t possibly come - for the simple reason that cats have no eye for accessories and are also unable to speak - Eloise began to cry.

Eloise cried rarely. Generally, she required a sad book or movie to unlock the things that should easily have made her cry – the photograph of her mother as a girl which she’d lost on a train, the time beautiful Thomas with the hazel eyes and soft face told her, cruelly, that he hadn’t ever really loved her, the loss of Oswald’s mother, whose name was also Oswald.

It was startling to both Eloise and her cat that she should now be sobbing, quite uncontrollably without aid.

Ponds

2010-01-16T03:46:00.005-05:00

there is no smell

that makes me miss my mom

quite like ponds cold cream

she would dab it on her face after taking a shower... and then she would read. and then she would watch a movie. and then she would fall asleep.

and blue light would pour under the door as cary grant's muffled voice charmed starlets.

i bought a jar of ponds cold cream over a year ago - almost two now, maybe.

every time i use it, i am filled with thoughts of and love for my mom. i miss her.

i miss having the option of coming home late or coming down stairs after everyone else had gone to sleep, and sitting at the foot of her bed... and talking to her. there are times when she let's you cry or explode with happiness or anger or anything... and she listens, delighted by your existence... and smelling like ponds cold cream.

it's strange sometimes to be far away... i want to come home from kissing someone magical or getting my heart broken or breaking a heart or having a great show or just from a dumb day... and i want to hear TCM and smell ponds and talk to my mom.

Write my life, Vincent.

2010-01-12T19:28:00.003-05:00

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

Sometimes the way I think of the world is that it's a dreadful, smelly day in the bad part of summer.

You know that part of summer- lots of people die, especially old ones and babies, crime is up, and happiness seems impossible.

But there's a child blowing bubbles. Because that's all you can do on a day like that, for fear of sun stroke.

And those bubbles are the loveliest and perfectest. Inside, it's always 74 degrees and there are only clouds if you want them, and everything smells green - unless you want it to smell like fall, which it can because it's a bubble and bubbles by their nature are magic.

I feel like I've slipped into a bubble. And I hope it's one of those bubbles that doesn't pop right away, but floats way up high and out of sight and goes on an adventure.

I Google Imaged Evil Swamp Monster To See What Lives in My Uterus

2009-12-10T09:43:00.002-05:00

God willing there will never be this many children inside my uterus.

He lives in my heart - not my womb.

Yes. Yes, this looks right.

155 fucking under-roos stained....

2009-12-09T15:32:00.004-05:00

I am almost 24 hours into my 155th period.

It first happened at the house in Monmouth.

For months I'd been curious about these "periods" I'd learned about in school and on those ads with bright colors and gloomy women made cheerful by chocolate and tampax.

Fact: Periods don't look like Windex. Seriously. It was a shock to me too.

My mom had mentioned that there would be spotting, most likely, before I actually got my period. I figured that all periods were spots. I mean... have you seen a period?

.

it's a spot. just a little dot.

So I was searching for little red dots, even though the ads clearly showed gallons of clear blue liquid. And I searched hard. I even had this marbleizing painting kit, super 90s crafty toy... and I took the red paint and made tiny dots on a pair of underwear, and showed my mom, hoping I'd convince her it was my period. It was the same way I tried to fail my eye exams so I'd have to get glasses. She didn't fall for it.

Then one evening, I peed. I peaked at my undies and started asking myself when I'd pooed and why hadn't I noticed... Then I felt something new and different and I looked bowlward.

A smeer of deep red oozed out of a hole I didn't know existed.

This was it. I knew it in a heartbeat. No longer were maxipads going to be stuck onto my snoopy doll. No... they'd be stuck to snoopy underwear instead. I wasn't a girl. Not yet a woman. If only I'd had Britney to help me understand what I was.

I came running out of the bathroom, full of a joy that would later be filled with a monthly dose of anger and resentment. "DAD! DAD!" I yelled for my dad because he did the shopping and I didn't buy into gendered concerns even at the tender age of 11. "I NEED YOU TO GO OUT AND BUY SOME ALWAYS ULTRA THIN MAXIS WITH WINGS!!" I'd studied the ads well. I knew that they were thin so it wouldn't feel like wearing a diaper and diapers are for babies and old people. I was neither. And even though they were thin they held three times as much clear blue liquid as other leading brands. And the wings would keep them in place so that they wouldn't slide around... the slide might cause leaks. And leaks mean having to tie an unstylish sarong around your waist.

"What? What?" My dad sounded angry not because I was presenting him with lady issues but with a complex demand. He had me write it down. I obliged, eagerly.

Over the next few years I came to realize that these periods? Not so fun. And now, as I sit here, at a job I hate, my insides soaking into a tiny piece of cotton I had to take from a stranger, my back hurting almost as much as my breasts, my stomach wrenching in pain and hunger all at once, my emotions raw and my fuse short -- I look back on that young, stupid 11 year old, 155 periods ago, so blind in that moment of misplaced joy. If she'd known that those smiling happy menstruating ladies, dancing in their pads at the beach were really just models, lying to their fellow woman to make a buck, maybe I wouldn't have pushed my uterus so hard to start expelling itself.

A lot of kids wish for adulthood - the intangible idea of adulthood. I craved the biological version desperately. And I was just as moronic as those kids who traded their toys and make believe for drugs and each others' genitals.

What I wouldn't give to go back to a time when I didn't have to worry about the bloody lining of my uterus ruining a night... or a day... or seven of them... in a row.

155 periods eating my life up
155 fucking under-roos stained
155 periods grossing out others
155 intense abdominal pains
The tampons
The thick pads
The Pamprin and tons of chocolate
The bloating
The cramping, gastrointestinal strife
155 horrid men-stru-al cycles,
Do you even realize you've ruined my life.

watch that dream boat sail away

2009-11-18T13:59:00.001-05:00

Fact: French fries are best with barbeque sauce.
Fiction: Mixing tomato ketchup and a packet of Fit Brand Sweet & Sour sauce will create an effective barbeque sauce substitute.
Fact: Mixing tomato ketchup and a packet of Fit Brand Sweet & Sour sauce will make you throw up in your mouth a little bit and you may start to cry.
Fiction: Throwing up in your mouth a little bit and starting to cry is becoming of an adult in a professional environment.
Fact: I hate my job.

This just in

2009-11-12T15:00:00.001-05:00

Your world breaks my heart.

I wish I were in it.

They're all so clean and dressed so nicely.

On Shopping at Aldi

2009-08-20T21:25:00.000-04:00

You have visions of your post-graduate life, in your hip studio apartment, emptying out your reusable wholefoods bags and stocking your fridge with fresh veggies, faux-meat and bottles of wine. You don't picture your messy two-bedroom, your no-time-to-write and your notices from Northwestern Medical Center telling you it's about damn time you paid for your E.R. trip that resulted in a diagnosis of "maybe you're farty."

Maybe if I'd worked harder, or at all, I would have a different life in Chicago. One that involved boutiques, organic food and self esteem...

But alas, my slackerdom and its repercussions have followed me into my almost-adulthood.

When you shop at the Uptown Aldi, you learn to appreciate the unexpected. Will the man in the alley call me a bitch or a devil today? Will anything crawl out of the nectarine pile and bite me?

At Aldi, the surprises are what keep you coming back.

In the past week, I got some unexpected gifts in my Aldi purchases: one solitary hunk of pineapple in a jar of spaghetti sauce, two shreds of mozzarella and one french cut green bean in an Asian inspired frozen entree, and an unpoppable bag of microwave popcorn.

We don't just need a public option for healthcare, John Mackey. We need a public option for grocery shopping.

Are You There God? It's Me, America

2009-07-01T12:25:00.005-04:00

America. Oh sweet, adolescent America. We love you, but it's hard. Sometimes you're a bitch. Sometimes you run upstairs and slam your door and listen to shitty music. Sometimes you pick fights and when you realize you're wrong, you just can't say you're sorry.

Sometimes you can't help but believe what your parents believed, even though you hate your parents and can't wait til you're 18!!

You're struggling with your weight and no one wants to sit by you at lunch.

If you survive your youth, I promise you'll be cool. Middle school is the hardest part of life.

Caution

2009-05-20T08:59:00.002-04:00

Use caution when removing from microwave as product may be hot.

MAY be hot....

It had damn well better be!

Saint Boniface

2009-05-17T10:57:00.002-04:00

When you move to an apartment that overlooks a cemetery, you think about the morbidity. You maybe joke about having to hold your breath in the living room.... You think it's cool.

But when you look out the window on a Sunday morning, when the air still holds a bit of a chill.... and you see an old man walking slowly to a stone beneath a tree, it really changes things. And you think about the stories behind each of the stones....

My mind can't help but wonder who gets the most visits, who gets none at all. I wonder what the drive over is like for the visitors. I wonder what the moment they decided to come was like. There are scads of people I'm related to, buried in some form or another, all over the country. I wonder who visits them?

I guess it's not nearly as creepy as it is someone's melancholy morning.

Vei is mir

2008-12-29T14:31:00.003-05:00

The Jews didn't kill Jesus. They were like the little girl in the Shake'n'Bake ad. She didn't REALLY help. Her mom made the chicken.

And even if the Jews had put Jesus in the bag all by themselves, shaken him up and baked him for 20 minutes in a 400 degree oven... wasn't that the point?

He had to die to save us from our sins...

So if it weren't for the Jews, mom would have to make chicken the old-fashioned way.

Wait... what were we talking about?

The Waiting Room

2008-12-01T14:51:00.008-05:00

Mary was protesting outside her local planned parenthood one Thursday morning. There she met Josh, a handsome evangelical with golden hair and piercing blue eyes. "This must be what Christ looked like!" Mary exclaimed inside her head as he shook her hand, winked and complimented her saved soul and tight sweater. That night they made sweet, unprotected love. He hasn't called. She hopes God and the doctor don't mind that she used an assumed name when she checked in.

When Amy learned that Anchi's Indian Restaurant and Grocery delivered, she ordered the "Pork Vindaloo 4 two," extra naan and a samosa. She gorged herself while watching Jane Fonda's Workout Presents Fun House Fitness: The Fun House Funk. 20 minutes after eating, she began to purge into her freshly cleaned toilet. When a red chili coated in 2000 Flushes splattered into her eye, she lost vision immediately. She can't read the 3 month old Cosmo before her and it's really making her angry. And hungry.

Susan is a very clumsy woman married to a very sweet man. She frequently walks into doors, hits herself in the face while opening cabinets and falls down the stairs. No one ever believes her when she explains her bruises. This morning, Susan tripped on a roller skate and fell 3 flights, breaking an arm busting a lip and blacking both eyes. Her very sweet husband was taken into custody shortly after she arrived.

A Generation of Douchebags

2008-11-14T14:25:00.002-05:00

I have on occasion watched PBS during the day. This is when we see "educational" programming for kids.

Sure some of these shows may help kids learn to read, but by and large we're teaching our children to be lame.

One show in particular is about this annoying little kindergaterner named Betsy. She boasts that she likes weekends fine, but she likes school best. What a loser. She's always telling her peers to "be quiet" and "listen." She does what her mother tells her all the time. She has stupid hair and a whiny voice. I hate her.

There's also a show called Super Readers in which they change the endings to classic fairytales to make them more P.C. In the end people learn to "get along" and "be themselves." Gag me.

What happened to the dirty disobeying kids that we grew up watching? My generation is the most accepting, creative funny generation in recent history, and we grew up with Pete and Pete and You Can't Do That On Television.

Also, we're eliminating entertainment and imaginative play from our children's lives... All television and toys for children seem to be "educational" these days. Kids are supposed to play!! Let the children play!!!

I am so fearful about what will become of this poor generation of superficially educated, insincerely nice, "cooperative" children. It's going to be like the worst parts of the baby boomers without the protesting and good music.

I hope my kids lie about skipping class every now and then, and bullshit their way through at least a few papers... and get sassy with their teachers.

If i have a kid like Betsy, I'm sending her back.

Ask the Expert: Weight Loss

2008-10-16T10:20:00.005-04:00

Grace: Our next question comes from Tina, 27, from Knoxgrove, Iowa. Tina writes:

Dear Marjorie,
I keep trying diets, but I just get so hungry and I can't do it. What suggestions do you have?
Tina

Marjorie, what advice can you give Tina. And I know I could use some advice, too.

Marjorie: Well all woman know how hard it can be to diet, but I offer my clients a few simple solutions. Every time you get a craving or find that your lunch of one melba round, half a celery stick and three green tea pills just isn't quite enough, get up and go to the nearest mirror instead of the fridge. Look at yourself and say, "You're fat. You're fat and ugly. Of course he doesn't love you. Because you're hideous." Now start squeezing your problem areas and describe exactly why they're unattractive. If shame hasn't trumped your hunger at this point, I'd say binge on anything and everything you've been craving. Then go into the bathroom and alternate between the mirror dialogue I mentioned before, and throwing up. Remind yourself how you've failed between purges. Afterwards, try running 7 miles and/or going to a cardio-kickboxing class. When you get home, do some pilates, take a few Xanax and go have casual sex with anyone who'll have you. When you wake up in the morning you'll feel a stunning combination of validation, shame and fear that you've contracted AIDS. Need I remind you that AIDS is a built in weight loss system? But even if you don't have AIDS, your fraught emotional state should be enough to keep you on your diet for a good long time. Thanks for a great question, Tina.

Grace: Uh...

....

Marjorie: Next question?

...

Emily Scott

2008-08-23T15:21:00.001-04:00

wakes up at 6 AM to run 2 miles and jog a third.

Her diet consists of multi-vitamins, grape Gatorade and vodka tonics, made with diet lime flavored tonic water.

She craves hot dogs daily. When she gets one of her hot dog cravings, she brushes her teeth then watches PETA video propaganda.

Once she tried to add rhinestones to her Blackberry, but got bored. It looked bad so she bought a new Blackberry.

Emily Scott loves only her Blackberry, her step-cousin Penelope and her goldfish Gisele.

No one loves Emily Scott except for Andy Belmont who sat behind her in 8th grade English.

She still thinks his name is Alex.

There is nothing fun about a foot full of glass

2008-08-22T10:22:00.002-04:00

Dear Shard,

Funny, I don't remember inviting you into the ball beneath my big toe. Still, I've allowed you to stay these past two hours in the spirit of neighborly kindness. Imagine my shock and disappointment when you refused to leave upon polite request.

I will ask you again to leave. Then I will be forced to resort to more drastic measures.

Regards,
Julia

Shard,

You have two minutes to kindly dislodge yourself from my right foot. Failure to do so will result in an act of force.

Thank you in advance,
Julia

Shard: Your refusal to be removed via tweezers is unacceptable. I'm getting a steak knife. I'll tell your wife you loved her.

-Julia

P.S. I lied about telling your wife you loved her. In fact, I'm letting her know about that broken vase from Venice. There's nothing you can do to stop me.

R.I.P. Glass Shard
Husband, Father, Nuisance.

Margery Forrester died today at the age of 92

2008-07-19T11:10:00.003-04:00

Daughter to Lee-Wittle Candies Candy Corporation co-founder, Stephen Q. Forrester, Margery grew up in the lappest lap of luxury. She received a pony for each birthday until 1973. Each pony was unusually small or "lee wittle" as the Forresters liked to say.

What wasn't lee wittle, was Margery Forrester's heart. Ms. Forrester used her fortune, which was also neither lee or wittle, to spread hope and love throughout the world. During the philanthropic boom of 1987, Margery Forrester organized a stunning 437 charities from her upper east side home, including her most successful group: Shower to the People. Shower to the People motivated the homeless to set their lives right by allowing them to shower during off hours at the YMCA. They were also given lessons on eye brow and nose hair grooming, nail clipping vs. nail biting, cuticle tending, teeth brushing and more. Her most popular lecture was "Don't quaff, coif!" which she presented in over 7 different languages in 12 different countries.

Margery passed away early this morning of hip failure. She is survived by three chinchillas, two standard poodles, a parrot named James Kensington and some Fandango puppets she crafted from brown paper lunch bags late last year.

Services for Margery will be held at The Lee-Wittle Candies Candy Corporation Corporate Chapel at 2 PM this Thursday. In lieu of flowers, the family has asked that donations be made to Pony Express!, the last charity Margery founded before her death. Pony Express! strives to eliminate our dependence on foreign oil and reduce our carbon footprint by encouraging the resurgence of pony travel.

Are you going to be ill?

2008-07-16T23:13:00.003-04:00

Oh no. I'm sorry. I just love you is all.

Oh.

Now I think I'm going to be ill.

Ew.

Sorry about your shoes.

...

Hello, Jim

2008-07-15T10:10:00.002-04:00

It's me. Martha. Remember me? You spoke to me at a cocktail party three years ago. When Frank retired? Remember? You said "the shrimp balls were better at Donna's thing." And I giggled and said "Yeah."

Remember? No?

Later that night I came up to you to ask you to dance. Oh no, I didn't actually ask you... I just came up TO ask you. But then I got nervous and grabbed a shrimp ball. And I realized that the shrimp balls at Donna's were better because they were actually crab cakes and everyone knows crab cakes are better than shrimp balls. Crab is just a higher quality shellfish. Fancier, with a richer more sophisticated flavor. That's not to say that shrimp doesn't have its place, too. I have been known to put away my fair share of coconut shrimp or garlic lime shrimp, even your standard shrimp cocktail. But give me a good crab cake or leg or rangoon and I'm happy has a clam. Which I actually can't stand. I hate clams. It's a texture thing.

What I'm trying to say, Jim, is that I'm in love with you and I would like very much to go out for food and then back to your place where I'll kiss you but do nothing else to keep the mystery alive and then on the third date I'll let you touch me over my clothes. I would like to meet your parents and have a long conversation in the car about how you have your father's eyes and your mother's temper. I'd like to marry you and raise three children. I want to have a trampoline and a swimming pool in the back yard to ensure the children's popularity.

Why are you walking away, Jim? Jim! Our first fight isn't scheduled until week 6 of our courtship. You will tell me you don't like my broach and I'll get upset. I'll cry in my room with the door closed until you tell me I'm beautiful.

Jim. Jim, I have a handgun. Please don't leave. Jim, if you leave right now the whole thing is off: the big house, the holidays at your parents', the Sunday morning pre-church coupon clipping...

Jim, the gun is loaded. Jim!

Goddamn it, JAMES!

*Shot*

Question to reader: Who died?

Dig that hypotenuse...

2008-07-10T17:29:00.000-04:00

I've always celebrated triangles as the foundation of the universe.

Everything is made of triangles.

Every polygon* can be broken down into triangles.

I've always fancied a good triangle, but I think I've finally found the exception to my "triangles rule!" rule.

And I really am fine...

I think I've just learned to appreciate a good line segment.

Someday I'll have an infinitely more satisfying geometry life. In the mean time, I'm content to Pythagoreanly correlate

*My favorite is the rhombus. Julia + Rhombus = xxtrue.lovexx

Hearts were made to break. Like kitchen appliances, furnaces and breakaway pants.

2008-07-06T11:00:00.006-04:00

I finally checked her into the hospital at 10:03.

It was clear she'd been hurt for a while, but she was trying to be strong.

An x-ray showed that the fracture was substantial, but could easily be healed over time with the proper care. The doctor pieced her back together and prescribed stiff upper lip, public smile and self-preservation.

Having suffered previous breaks, the odds of future difficulties are greater. She'll probably feel sadder on cloudy days and keep herself hidden from strangers.

She's recovering now: avoiding certain songs, listening to her mother, keeping her phone away from her alcohol.

I do wish she'd hurry, though, with this recovery. For selfish reasons. I'm tired of the butterflies and tight chest and flashes of heat every time I'm forced to confront that I- that WE- were so foolish, so duped and so let down.

We didn't deserve this. But we should have seen it coming. We should have taken better care of each other.

I walked down Belmont when I was a kid

2008-07-05T11:42:00.002-04:00

I dropped 20 pounds of "I totally saw this coming" on my heart. Broke it to pieces.

Silly me.

Every time I leave my house

2008-06-29T10:29:00.000-04:00

I desperately hope that I will meet a nice stranger with a sweet dog

I found me again... I was behind the couch.

2008-06-29T01:27:00.005-04:00

I also found 73 cents, a peanut M & M and two Starburst... one was unwrapped, though so I didn't eat it. Too bad, too. It was red. Red is my favorite artificial flavor.

Tonight was made of magic.

Thursday night was made of magic.

My life right now is made of magic.

I don't know if it's [you] or this moment of my life....

I'm seeing a cute, exciting boy.

I have dear, lovely old friends.

I have dear, lovely new friends.

I'm starting level 2 at iO tomorrow.

I have the world's cutest kitten cat.

I just ate toast... IN BED (because I'm a grown up and grown ups can do whatever they want... [in bed] hehhehehehe)

I saw an awesome band perform awesomely at an awesome street fest in the awesome city in which I oh so awesomely live.

Take a picture, folks... I'm smiling... and I mean it.

(edit: 2009, days later the world ended)

This is how it really went down.

2008-06-27T11:27:00.002-04:00

-Hi, I'm a butcher.

--How funny! I'm a baker!

-Hahaha! We can totally make sandwiches!

--Awesome!

--- I'm a candlestick maker....

*cricket*

The Talk.

2008-06-05T13:44:00.005-04:00

Hello, Bird.

Oh. Hello.

I'm Bee. I'm a bee.

Yes. I see that. How do you do?

Very well, thank you. And you?

Oh quite well, thank you. Considering.

Considering?

Just the weather. Hard to keep up.

How can it be hard to keep up when you have such nice wings?

Oh, Bee. You are a charmer!

Oh, Bird. One can't help but be charming when one is charmed.

Hehe. Buy me a drink?

Done.

============ Later That Night =================

Oh, Bee. I've never-- Not on a first--- Oh Bee.

Don't speak, Bird. Just let things--

Bee!

Bird!

Oh, Bee!

========================================

Cigarette?

========================================

When I was 9, my mother stung a man. He was trying to swat me.

You poor thing.

I watched her as she passed. I still blame myself.

Wow, Bee. You've never opened up like this before.

I guess I..

You guess you what.

I guess I trust you or something.

Oh?

Yeah.

Bee?

Yeah?

I love you.

Aw. Goodnight.

=========================================

Lay off, Bird. I was working late.

What's her name.

Jesus Christ! Can't a man work late?

Does she have a stinger? Am I fat?

Bird, I'm not seeing someone else.

Then why did I find pollen in the Honda?

You searched my Honda?

Don't change the subject!

God, I can't even trust you!

Don't twist this!

Snoop!

Cheat!

Vulture!

Drone!

Her name is Mandy. She works in HR.

Oh my God.

She's a wasp from Pittsburgh. And yeah... maybe you could stand to be a little less early, Bird.

Get out.

I'm gone.

Good! Go! I hate you!
======================================================

Bird? Bird is that you?

Oh my God! Bee! How are you?! It's uh... It's been....

A while!

Haha. Yeah. A while.

You look... just... great.

Thanks! You, too. You, too. So... what's uh... what's new?

Not much. Getting married in June...

Wow! Congratulations. That's just... that's great.

Yeah. She's a great girl.... Good family.

That's wonderful...

What about you? Got anybody?

I've been seeing a Crow on and off. I'm meeting the murder later this week... for the uh... the holidays.

Wow yeah. Good. Great.

Hey, I gotta... I gotta run. Let's get... coffee or something sometime

Sounds great. Sounds good. Yeah... let's... let's make it happen.

Yeah.

It was good running into you, Bird.

You, too, Bee. You, too.

I'm a playwright.

2008-05-19T21:38:00.004-04:00

My name is Julia Weiss.

My work has been produced in Chicago.

I am old enough to go camping without asking my parents' permission.

I take classes at iO.

I drink beer with dinner sometimes.

Kids say that being a grown up is cool because you can stay up all night and eat candy any time you want... and adults scoff at that... because naturally kids grow up and stop wanting all nighters and pixie sticks.

Bull.

Shit.

Being a grown up kicks ass because you can refuse sleep and eat nothing but sour gummi worms.

I'm not wearing pants right now... because I'm a grown up. And I pay rent. And I can refuse pants.

I'm going to go eat a s'more.

BECAUSE I EFFING CAN!

This is great!

Death Omens Explained

2008-04-07T22:44:00.002-04:00

My computer was named after my dog Oswald who passed away in April, the year I purchased my MacBook.

I found out today, that Oswald, my computer... died.

Weird, right?

I'm going to die

2008-04-03T01:04:00.003-04:00

Maybe not today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

Today, I went to Trader Joe's. I do this most days.

I purchased flowers in honor of a girl I used to know who used to be alive. Today would have been her birthday.

On my way home, I noticed one of the flowers was wilted. I threw it on the ground beneath the brown line by Addison.

As I crossed Lincoln, I looked down to see a dead pigeon on the sewer grate.

Close to my house, the second of what would become three black cats crossed my path.

Something is coming.

I can feel my patience and my hope start to dwindle.

Stress has invited a number of thick, pale hairs to hang out with the fine, dark ones atop my head.

I cut myself shaving 6 times today.

The blood that seemed never-ending was the same deep red as the polish chipping from my fingernails.

The signs are all there.

It's going to happen soon.

I'm going to die.

I used to hate a sunny day

2008-03-29T11:09:00.002-04:00

Well... I didn't hate sunny days...

But I've always been partial to artificial light.

A good yellow-lit rainy day always made me smile a little bigger than your standard bright and cloudless.

But this winter has been brutal.

Suddenly, I'm welcoming the stark, white beams that strike me as I wake up...

They seem to be promising me relief from the mini ice age that has been my first Chicago winter.

The idea of riding my as yet unnamed bright blue schwinn to the Lake in the sun... wearing a sun dress.... listening to sunny day music on my as yet totally named red iPod, Mallory.

I have a feeling summer and I will be closer friends than ever this year.

We will hang out with our good friends Mr. Guacamole and Mrs. Soy & Flax Seed Tortilla Chips.

We will read books and listen to music and write, sitting on cool rocks... listening to the water.

The world is made of triangles!

2008-03-26T11:30:00.003-04:00

The world outside your apartment is beautiful.

You should go look at it.

And you'll see that it's made of triangles, too.

Everything is triangles!

Grocery stores in the morning are amazing.

Everything is lined up perfectly, labels facing out...

There's a hush and a slow pace and you can smell the produce better.

That's not to say that I don't enjoy the rush and disorder of a grocery store in the late afternoon...

but every now and then, the quiet is nice.

Strangers are heavenly.

Dear Shiraz,

2008-03-24T19:25:00.001-04:00

You're always there for me when I need you... and sometimes when I don't.

I think that's what being a friend is all about.

Love,
Julia

P.S. SMOOCHES

Shiraz:
Fuck you.
-Julia's liver

P.S. SMOOCHES!
P.P.S. NOT!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-03-24T17:17:00.002-04:00

In that moment

[the one in which you realize you weren't being paranoid
and that your attempts to find the strings of silver were as silly as you feared]

[the one in which the fault, which is no one's, seems to be all yours
even though you weren't the mean one. Just the scared one]

[the one in which you become so flushed with humiliation
that the semi-sweet chocolate chips you're carrying begin to melt through the bag]

[the one in which the familiarity of the hurt you feel makes it all worse
and you don't want to make a cake anymore at all]

[the one which you brought on my ignoring your instincts
and bowing to fear]

you want to curl up into a ball
and roll away
roll backwards
up and down and far away
and back to before
what made you

I love

2008-03-23T11:41:00.001-04:00

Smelling good
Music playing under me
Bracelets
Warm bodies
Audiences
Romance in Shakespeare
The written word
Laughs
Smiles
Lilies
Daisies
Warm sun
The wind in my hair
The sound of a brush on canvas
The promise of leaves
Knowing that the buds on the trees will turn into piles of orange, yellow and red that I will crunch as I walk in the fall.
Cycles
Newness
New-to-me-ness
Strangers
Softness
Puppies
Surprise
Excitement

I think it’s kind of funny that I’m bitching out of making bread because I don’t want to wait for the dough to rise... and it’s Easter...

On Being Made Nervous

2008-03-19T14:07:00.002-04:00

Nerves are not becoming. I'm not talking pre-show jitter nerves, or the energy that keeps your wit sharp and your jokes fresh around strangers.

I'm talking about the kind of nerves that leave you so completely disarmed that your discourse becomes dull and rusty and your jokes fall flatter than an Olsen twin hugging Kansas.

I hate being made nervous. I hate who I become when my sense of humor, my sass and my sexiness all jump ship... leaving behind that awkward 12 year old stow-away who didn't get the memo re: the desertion of my being.

And she stands there... huddled and afraid... trying to figure out how to be, how to behave... She tries to act like the other components of my me-ness, but she fails. Oh how she fails. Eventually, the others return... but it's almost always too late.

I hate being made the person I am when I am made nervous, because usually the person doing the nervous-making is someone who I want to see me at my best. Who I want to dazzle.

Over the last couple of months my nervous self has chased quite a few people away, much to my chagrin. And that bitch shows no signs of stopping.

I would like very much to jack my nervous self in the face.

I wish they'd all remember who I was during those first 3 hours of acquaintance.... and trust that the person they met is the person I am.... and the clumsy bundle of nerves before them.... the giant ball of can't do anything right... the sweaty palmed, slow-tongued basket of terrified.... is only temporary...

I'm like those firecrackers that fizzle before they pop. If you turn away when you think it's a dud, you miss out on something really kind of spectacular.

Ooooh girl that ain't no banana cream

2008-03-14T10:32:00.003-04:00

Happy Pi day, everyone!

Oh what a day!

All I want to do is make a pizza and watch this, but alas.... I will not be celebrating Pi day this year.

As a woman, I find Lean Cuisine commercials offensive.

2008-03-11T09:20:00.003-04:00

I took a cab yesterday morning.

My cabby was awkward, old, foreign. Yesterday was his first day on the job.

His road rage was unlike other cabby road rage I've seen. It was angrier, less necessary, but also more polite, endingeach statement with "young man."

As the French say, "Le hot dog."

2008-03-04T14:23:00.002-05:00

I frequently get intense, almost painful, food cravings.

Sushi, cheese (in any way, shape or form), crab rangoon and fresh berries are big ones...

But no craving has ever been so crippling as my 3 year hot dog craving.

It started my freshman year of high school. I was in French class with Mme. Virgil. We were learning the French words for popular food items. Sandwich au jambon. Pamplemousse. L'omelette. Le hot dog.

Something happened as I said "Le hot dog" aloud, in the strained French accent of an awkward, shy 14 year old. "Le hot dog." I stared at the picture. Beautiful.

That's when the craving began. Over the next few years, my craving grew and intensified. My friend Sarah would, on occasion, draw me pictures of hot dogs to help get me through.

I ate hot dogs constantly. During my brief vegetarian phase, I ate veggie dogs constantly. It was never enough.

By my senior year, the cravings has subsided. But every now and then, when the conditions are right, I experience intense bouts of hot dog craving.

I don't know if it's the faint smell of spring fighting its way through the cold, too-long-winter air or if it's my renewed confidence and sense of spirit... but somehow the craving as returned.

I can feel myself taking that first bite. Oh GOD! This must be the same pain Beethoven felt when he lost his sense of hearing... To have the memory of music, the faint mind's ear experience of melody.... but no true satisfaction...

I need a hot dog... more than I've ever needed anything in my life.

uh MAZE ing

2008-03-04T11:22:00.001-05:00

The greatest gift I've ever been given.

beauty

2008-03-04T00:37:00.001-05:00

On my mind

2008-03-03T14:16:00.004-05:00

Organic animal crackers, though tasty, don't look like animals so much as... not... animals...

When I was little, my mom had a beautiful, huge garden. I have the most vivid memories of picking raspberries in the summer with my mom and siblings. I also remember the lilac tree, the lemon balm and the mint.

The sound of a baby crying is the worst sound ever.

Britney Spears' hit song "Lucky" makes a great lullaby.

I miss the sound of birds and crickets.

I think that "cricket" is a perfect word. It's almost onomatopoetic. It's whimsical and lovely.

I want spring more than I want anything else in the world.

I can't not watch Maury if I have the chance.

I wish these damn animal crackers looked more like animals. Is that wrong?

I youtubed my mood. This came up first.

2008-03-03T10:44:00.003-05:00

By the by, I love my generation's love of verbs. We verb everything now. Go Gen-Y!!

Why isn't Journey on this list, yet?

2008-02-29T10:11:00.002-05:00

People keep telling me to read this.

So I did.

I wanted to hate it. And sometimes I do. Yawn Sauce.

But it has its charm.

Because that's another thing white people like.

Being charmed by minorities.

Mostly I hate the commenters. Seriously... read a comment and I probably hate the person who wrote it.

That's another thing white people like: E-hate.

White people also like The Man, Journey, Graphic Tees, and lawns.

Best Moment of the Day

2008-02-28T17:02:00.002-05:00

Some men rescued some people from a burning building.

ABC News Chicago interviewed them.

One of the men is named Rodney Lumpkin.

He was identified simply as "Good Samaritan."

Martha Makes Mistakes.... Like.... A Lot

2008-02-28T13:32:00.003-05:00

I take care of a baby each weekday from 8-5.

This means I watch Martha.

Martha: The world's most notorious "that-mom." Perfectionist extraordinaire. The woman who made millions of homemakers want to participate in prison Christmas decoration contests...

The woman who can do no wrong.

Right?

Well, let me tell you. I've been watching her. And bitch messes up every day.

I first noticed this when she was funneling beads into a vase. The celebrity guest missed an important step and the beads went everywhere. Martha showed an anger I'd never seen in such close proximity to crafts. The thing is, it was Martha's fault! At first I thought she'd set the celeb up to fail because she's passive aggressive, as perfectionists are like to be.

I've now come to believe it was on purpose.

Yesterday, Martha was making soup with that actress whose name I always forget from News Radio, ER, and Liar Liar. Martha forgot to add the CREAM to the NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER!!

Careless!

And today! TODAY Martha was waxing flowers with Penelope star Christina Ricci. She kept talking about how waxing the flower improves the longevity of your floral display. Christina innocently asked how long the flowers would last. MARTHA DIDN'T KNOW! Martha remembered to scold Christina for not immediately blowing the dust off the little flower pot, though.

From now on, I'm keeping track of Martha's mistakes.

The problem

2008-02-28T01:17:00.001-05:00

I am:

I need to be:

Harlow's monkeys, Cool Tools, and Macktion

2008-02-28T00:51:00.004-05:00

This has haunted me for years.

It's always somewhere in my mind. Lately I've been having dreams in which I am the monkey and instead of surrogate mothers there are two boys. It's strange. But hey, it's more macktion* than I've gotten in a while... even if the surrogates are motionless and made of wire...

I think of all of these on a semi-regular basis: Harlow's Monkeys, the Stanford prison experiment, Gregor Mendel , Punnett Squares , Venn Diagrams ....

Is that weird?

Another essential part of my mental make-up is this:

I think about Cool Tools constantly.

This is who I am. And if this why the boys don't call, then so be it.

I will leave you with a laugh...

*Macktion is a word I just made up... I like to make up words.

Lest we forget

2008-02-26T19:01:00.002-05:00

"Smitten" is the past participle of "smite."

In which I realize I have the same hang-ups as this, the longest-ever, winter.

2008-02-26T12:48:00.006-05:00

Remember that first snow? It almost felt warm outside. It was magic.

I ran out of Nicole's apartment without my coat on and made a snow angel and glided across the street. New Chicago friends passed by and we played in the snow together.

All down Lincoln, twenty-somethings with jobs and drug problems and 401-Ks were having snowball fights.

It was one of the most perfect nights of my adult life.

But here's the thing, winter.... We had some really beautiful times. Really! We've had a lot of fun and.... that time I went down to the lake and you made the water be full of ice and the sky was that soft grey with the babiest little hint of heather? Amazing! It's just that... you're still beautiful and this last snow was pretty and all but....

We all want you to leave.

There. I said it. I mean.. do you watch the news? There was a story on the NEWS about how everyone in Chicago wants you to leave. You've overstayed your welcome, sir.

Don't. Don't cry. Please! Please don't cry! The scary old man at Dunkin Donuts just shoveled!

Look. I'm not saying this is a forever thing. I just need a break! You knew this when you arrived. I need a variety. I want to see other seasons! And you'll still be my December/January/Beginning of February thing. That will never change. And I know that.... with this time apart.... I will love you again...

Let's face it.

It's not cute anymore. And... not to be mean... but you're coming across as a little, well, desperate. I'm not going to forget about you if you just give me some space.

Excuse me?

Did you just say "takes one to know one?" That's not even the right... words! If you're going to be insulting, you can at least use the structurally appropriate comeback for your sentiment. "You're one to talk!" That would have worked. Or even a good ol' fashioned "pot calling the kettle black."

You know what? I don't have to take this. Fuck you, winter. No one likes you.

And all the cool girls just taped tampons to your locker... with double-sided tape so that when you try to get them off, they'll just stick to your fingers!

Winter winter tampon fingers!!!!! That's what we'll all call you! Have fun eating lunch alone in the bathroom!

Dick.

Dunkin Donuts

2008-02-25T23:50:00.002-05:00

I remember the first time I went to a Dunkin Donuts. My family was lost somewhere in Chicago. I was a child. My parents still drove the Volvo 240.

I will tell you about the last time I went to a Dunkin Donuts.

It was 20 minutes ago.

I entered the D.D. with my friend Daniel. Mere blocks from my apartment, it seemed like a welcome detour.

The place was empty except for a little old man in dirty work clothes. He stared at the floor.

He seemed sad.

He looked at me. 'Oh goodie!' I thought, 'I get to talk to a stranger!'

"I have to go shovel the sidewalks," he said.

I responded with a combination of an "oh," an "aw," a shy smile and an awkward laugh.

He began to grumble... but not a charming, Walter Matthau, old man grumble.... but a nasty, scary, I'll kill you with my snow shovel, pulverize your body with my ice pick and feed your mangled remains to my rottweiler, Adolf, grumble.

"Shovel... sidewalks... for... WOMEN.... lazy.... rich... WOMEN," he said with with a devastating glare. As he walked by me, he seemed to grow 12 feet. I'm 137% certain that his eyes glowed red.

He hates me. Like... HATE hates me. He watched as we left. He stood outside and lit two cigarettes. One for him and one for his rottweiler Adolf... who is waiting for him out back. I hope they didn't follow me home.

But my Dunkin Donuts Boston Kreme was the tastiest of my life... Hands down.

Dear Readers,

2008-02-25T20:45:00.004-05:00

I know my parents, grandma, aunt, uncle, sister and a hand full of friends read this, but it has recently come to my attention that some strangers read it.

Thank you! I want to know who you are, and why you stick by me despite my sad tendency to typo. I like you already. I like you as much as I like my ugly Christmas sweater. I'm wearing it right now even though it's February. Here it is!

Also, don't you love spring? I can't wait.

Please respond!

Love,
Julia

On Stanley

2008-02-25T09:52:00.002-05:00

Stanley is a Siamese cat with a tendency to stare.

Stanley is cautious. Aloof. He hides. He watches. He does not trust.

Today, Stanley decided that he loves me.

I've never been more pleased to win a heart.

No, seriously, Patrick... It's not funny anymore

2008-02-24T11:06:00.002-05:00

Did you take an Ambien, Patrick Duffy? Is that why this is my life?

Seriously.

I respect that you have a sleep disorder and you need prescription sleep aids, but this has gotten ridiculous. You really need to wake up now.

Patrick Duffy is going to wake up to realize it was all a dream

2008-02-21T01:05:00.004-05:00

My life is not real...

I take care of a baby and watch Regis and Kelly.

I don't just watch Regis and Kelly. I like Regis and Kelly. I think they're cute. They make me giggle. And that Yeti Trivia A-Sno-Go? Amazing!

I've seen two day-time talk show interviews with Dennis Quaid. Two. And I cried at Maury today.

And the wee baby? I love her. I love a baby. I love a baby and I take care of that baby. It's weird. It's weird to be a grown up who loves and takes care of a baby. It's so weird.

And I ask the baby stupid questions like "Do you see the kitten?" "Does Ruby see the kitten?" "See the kitten?" "Does the kitten have stripes?" If she could talk, she's probably say, "Yes. Thank you. I see the damn kitten. Now will you please go back to the elephant? I like the details on the trunk."

And I say things like "Uh oh... did we poop?" "Oooooh I think we pooped." No... WE didn't poop. YOU pooped. Because you're a baby. I know you can't control your bowels and I totally respect that... and I know it's not your fault that I speak like an idiot when those bowels act out.

This is not my life. I love my job, don't get me wrong... But it is bizarre to go through the motions of a housewife... Especially at the age of 22. I'm 22...

This is so weird.

This isn't real.

There's no way.

Patrick? You can wake up now.

ABC just did the sweetest segment about the moon

2008-02-21T00:00:00.003-05:00

Isn't the moon just the loveliest idea ever? It's so sweet and pretty and nice...

I like the moon.

When I was little, I talked to the moon. Just like Dorothy Jane Torkelson...

I want a beach and a sun dress.... and I want there to be leaves on the trees. And I want to sit outside and look at the moon.

Aw. They said "Goodnight, moon." again. How sweet!

In which Julia comments on on her own adulthood... again

2008-02-19T21:28:00.005-05:00

I don't mean to keep mentioning the fact that I'm a grown up... but....

COME ON!

I take baths that smell like lavender and light candles and listen to NPR... and my cat sits on the side of the tub... and she's my cat..... and it's not like I'm just calling her "my cat" because when she was born in a box in my parents house I decided she was the cutest... no... I BOUGHT her... she was rescued from a barn in Jasper, Indiana... and I knew when I saw her that she needed me... It must be the same feeling Angelina gets when she sees... well... anything small, ethnic and relatively parentless. I BOUGHT her with MONEY.

AND I go to grocery stores... with money that I earned.... and I don't have to ask my dad if I can get a candy bar... because last time he told me that THIS time I could.... Now I when I don't get candy bars it isn't because my dad said no... it's because I have body dysmorphic disorder and a low-paying job. Neither my pockets nor waist band can afford the splurge.

But I do buy wine. I buy wine... And I drink it.... Sure it's Riesling and it just tastes like fruit... and it's cold and possible... non-threatening... but still!!!!!! It's wine! And I drink it to forget my problems! Just like a real grown up!

And I read the news! And I CARE! And I say things like "I have to stop by the bank on my way home!" And I only SOMETIMES get upset that they don't give me gum or and Andies Mint when I go there.

And I go to bars occasionally... and I vaguely know the rules of bar games... And I don't have to call my mom to ask if I can go places!

It's SO WEIRD to be an adult....

I live in the "real world."

And really... it's not too different than the life skills unit in Mr. Bradford's fifth grade class....

there's just more booze...

and fewer prospects...

Jim the Pimp

2008-02-18T02:13:00.003-05:00

The day after I wrote my last blog, I met someone.

I met him on the 50 bus, southbound. I got on at Lawrence. It was raining on Super Tuesday. I didn't know how super until--

"Hey, beautiful." I looked up and paused Mallory, my iPod nano.

"Hey, beautiful." He was a vaguely old, vaguely ethnic, clearly intoxicated man.

"Hey, baby, how you doin'?" I found his unidentifiable accent charming. The liquor on his breath cut through the stale air on the bus. 'Finally... something different," I thought.

"You Polish?" He asked. "You Polish?"

"Uhh... my dad is... part Polish." I always get awkward around cute guys.

"What's that mean?"

Worried that I'd upset him, I turned my iPod back on.

"Hey you Polish?" He was still interested! I was so excited.

I turned my iPod back off just in time to hear another voice.

"You look real nithe today," said Caleb, a large African American man with a lisp and a Bible.

"Thank you," I said, shyly.

"You talkin' to my woman?"

"I didn't know she wath your woman?"

"Why you talkin' to my woman?"

"Shit, I got five women at home, cuuth." By "cuuth," Caleb meant, "Coz." They were fighting over me. I knew Caleb's name, he wore it on a tag. But who was this other man?

"They call me Jim the Pimp, and this my woman."

He called me his woman!! I thought my heart would fly out of my chest.

Caleb laughed. I asked him for a pen. I told him I'm a writer.

"Really? I'm a writer, too. What you write. I wrote 13 lineth fo my woman fo Valentine'th Day." He started looking for a pen.

"Why you reading the Bible," Jim demanded.

"God Bleth you."

"Why you readin' the Bible!"

"I love the Lord. He loveth you. God bleth you."

"I read the Bible 5 times a day."

Jim can read, too. He's a dream.

Caleb couldn't find a pen. He asked the young man sitting across from him, who was also African American.

"Is that your cousin Bebo? Is that your cousin Bebo?" Jim the Pimp asked with an intensity that started to scare me. Why is he getting so possessive? I've seen the made-for-TV film Every 9 Seconds. I know where these relationships lead.

Caleb and "Bebo" seemed offended by Jim's question. I wonder why? Especially given Caleb's seeming openness in regard to calling others his cousin... or "coz."

Jim the Pimp became crazy with jealousy. He hates it when other men talk to me.

"You Polish? I got alotta Polish friends. Why you readin' the Bible. Hey beautiful. SEE YA WOULDN'T WANT TO BE YA! SEE YA WOULDN'T WANT TO BEEEE YAAA! Jim the Pimp loves Jesus. Jim the Pimp loves pussy. Is that your cousin Bebo?!"

Jim couldn't control himself. I was learning so much about him, his love for the messiah and felines, his apparent racism and his profession as a "pimp." But still, his eyes were frightening. Jim was losing it.

"This your stop," the bus driver ordered.

Jim the Pimp got off at Addison.

Caleb and Bebo shared a glance. They apologized to me... I nodded politely.

My life got off at Addison, he took my heart and soul with him.

I go to sleep tonight, dreaming of him.

He's just my Jim.

I'm taller than I was at 13, but that's pretty much the only difference

2008-02-04T13:32:00.001-05:00

It's not that boys don't like. They do like me. Well, Gay boys like me. My nephew thinks I'm flipping awesome. And the guys who give you shopping carts at Wal*Mart just can't get enough.

Middle aged drunks, prematurely married 20-somethings, married 50-somethings, unmarried 50-somethings, WWII vets, teenagers with downs syndrome, fat gamers, awkward wannabe-actor bartenders with business cards, push-overs, condescending "alpha" males who think my witticisms are "cute," stagnant artists, vegans with mommy issues, 15 year old Latin gang members, men with Alzheimer's, closet cases, morons, gas station attendants.... How is this my league?

I may be awkward, shy and clumsy, but that in no way should negate the fact that I have a killer rack and soft hair.

My roommate advised me to make a list of what I want. It's sort of an "if you build it, he will come" sort of a thing. It sharpens your awareness. I like my roommate. She is wise and spiritual. If she were a spice, she'd be sage*.

My list thus far is this. I hope you don't mind the non-parallel structure.
Male
Tall
Dreamy
Non-religious
Between the ages of 23 and 26
Hilarious
Thinks I'm hilarious
Brave
Saucy
Good with animals and children
Thinks farting is funny
Loves food
Cooks
Likes my cooking
Gets excited about things
Likes that I get excited about things
Finds my initial awkward shyness endearing
Compassionate
Considerate
Ambitious
Can hold his own in discussions, debates and arguments
Brilliant
Speaks and writes well
At least moderately nerdy

* "Sage" is the common name for the plant genus "Salvia." A bad case of dyslexia and a lack of common sense could make for a pretty hideous Thanksgiving blunder.

Is that your heart on your sleeve or are you just pissed that I'm talking to you

2008-02-01T01:05:00.002-05:00

I'm just pissed that you're talking to me.

Tonight, Jesus or the UN or J.J. Abrams or someone handed me a big basket full of confused. In this basket are two things I want. One thing I want a little more, but because J.C., UN or J.J. have shit timing, I can't have it.

I want to consider it though. I wanted to think about it. And because I had to park next to a bar, I decided that would be a good place to think.

It wasn't.

I had barely taken a sip of my V.T. when a man starts talking to me. Like a man man. Like a man who was already a man when I was pretending to be the fucking pink ranger in Curt's backyard.

He was trying to be cool. And his lame friend left, like a good wingman, thinking his pal would be getting laid.

His pal wouldn't be getting laid.

He wanted to be the insightful, older man. He asked stupid questions and gave stupider advice. He was stupid. He did this thing that I hate. I hate it when anyone does it, but especially men. Because they're doing it because they think it will get them into... well... me.

It won't.

He tried to show me how much he knew about me by telling me what I care about, what I'm hung up on, etc. His big line was "you're so young." Later on when I said something was my "fave" (those who know me, know that this phrase was used to channel contempt) he said, "did you just say fave?" I said "I'm young." He looked at me. There was a pause. I think there was a pause because a terrible screenwriter, I think his name is Randy, had to write the line that this man handed me.

Are you ready?

Are you?

You're not, but I'll tell you anyway.

This man said, "You're not so young."

Are you done laughing? I'm not.

And he asked me "why" a lot. Like a 7 year old, only not charming.

"Where do your parents live"

"Indiana"

"Why"

I wish I could post a transcript of our conversation, or that my mind was calm enough right now to recall it in a complete and effective way... But I will leave you with this.

This is where J.J. comes in.

I fancy someone. It's just a fancy. It's not a big deal by any means, but it's something that's been on my mind. Let's say this boy is named Marvin. Obviously he's not named Marvin. No offense to any Marvins reading this, but I could never love a man named Marvin. No one loves anyone named Marvin.

In the part of my mind that is inhabited by 12 year old me, I hope I will bump into Marvin everywhere I go. This includes the bar I stopped by tonight.

After about 20 minutes of "conversation," creepy man introduced himself as Marvin.

As I mentioned before... the basket of confused is such due to terrible timing. I referenced this bad timing in my facebook status which I update far too frequently.

As I was putting on my coat and my hat, which Marvin informed me is "tall," he told me that "Timing is everything. Stick with the babysitting."

Weird, right?

He kept telling me to "stick with the babysitting" because of the economy and job security. I didn't have the heart to tell him to shut the hell up.

I'm going to watch Stella.

hmmmm

2008-01-31T16:05:00.000-05:00

I smell fantastic. Like truly amazing. I'm the best smelling anything in the world right now.

Not to brag.

But there's the thing.....

My elbow really hurts. Like a lot. And my lips are chapped.

I don't know how to feel.

Babies love Bob Marley

2008-01-28T14:24:00.000-05:00

When she first makes a little peep, I start warming her bottle.

The second peep means it's time to set up the pillows.

The third peep tells me the bottle should be warm enough.

I wake her up and I feed her. She holds my pinky finger.

Then we play. I show her books and pictures and soft things and things with bells.

I sing to her.

Her favorite songs are "Taylor the Latte Boy" and "Three Little Birds."

She likes Bob Marley, Elizabeth Mitchell and Renee and Jeremy when she's sad or angry.

She likes Lisa Loeb when she's playing.

And when she goes back to sleep, she likes me to sing a song I wrote. It's called "Ruby Wan Kenoobi, Jedi Baby."

It's about her. And how she's a Jedi.

I hope that when she's a grown up she remembers me. Or at least remembers to use the force.

It has happened

2008-01-27T22:03:00.000-05:00

When I was little, I worried that the day would come when I would be unable to lay all the way down in the bathtub. That my legs would be to long.... I used to lay under the water, knees slightly bent.... daring myself to open my eyes. I would feel my hair and pretend that I was a mermaid.

Little girls in the 90s all wanted to be mermaids. We all wanted to be Ariel. It was because of the thing-a-ma-bobs and the adventures, though, not the romance. We wouldn't fall in love with Prince Eric until we were much older.

I still do that. The thing with the hair. I still want to be a mermaid. It's mostly because of the thing-a-ma-bobs and the adventures... but puberty made sure that sex would find itself a variable the equation. Specifically sex with Prince Eric... maybe sex with Tom Hanks from Splash. He's charming. Don't you think he's charming?

My legs don't fit in the tub anymore.

Toys from cereal boxes and Happy Meals have been replaced with aroma therapy beads. There are no more Barbies with matted hair. No more dinosaurs. My legs are no longer volcanic islands. No one slides down my shins into lagoons.

I bought a box of Mr. Bubble my sophomore year of college. I wanted to reclaim my youth. But instead of pretending the tub was an arctic tundra, I lit candles, shaved my legs and exfoliated.

I listen to Ira Glass while I soak in the tub. I blog.

And I knew all this would happen. Well... not the Ira Glass part... or the sex part... and I don't think "blogs" existed... but the being too long? The lack of toys? I knew that would happen just as I knew that one day my parents would live in a different place than I, my summers would be spent indoors and I would do more than eat biscuits and gravy on election days.

I have my own cat

2008-01-20T18:26:00.000-05:00

Between the tile wall and the Bed, Bath and Beyond shower curtains, I can feel the train rumble. And through glass brick I can see the Sears Tower winking at me, as if to say, "Hey, J-Dubs! Glad you're here! We should totes hangsies!"

I can tell my mom that I drink beer and I get hit on by guys who have voted in more than one presidential election and I have my own cat.

And sometimes I go to Starbucks. And sometimes... when I go there... I get real coffee.

I eat things like Sushi and sometimes I drink rice milk and I don't have to ask anyone if I can go out at night. And sometimes I do go out at night! And sometimes I smile at boys and I don't even know them!

I know what Globalization is... and I talk about college in the past tense.

And I give my name and number when I take my cat, the cat that I own, to the vet.

I have my own cat and life is bliss.

Man of War

2008-01-14T08:05:00.001-05:00

Man of Wars

Men of War

Mans of War

Man of War Fish.

You are a stick in the mud.

Bob and Sheila are stick in the muds.

Bob and Shelia are Mans of War?

Bob and Sheila are Mens of Wars?

Bob and Sheila are Man of War fish. What stick in the muds.

I have nothing to say but...

2008-01-09T11:35:00.000-05:00

I hope Obama wins the nomination. He'd change the entire attitude of the nation. He'd change the way we talk to each other. He'd make America better.

America wants to be good.

When can I open the door for you and your killer laugh again?

2007-12-20T10:08:00.000-05:00

I think chivalry is weird... Nowadays chivalry. For better or for worse, those manners just aren't part of our culture anymore. They're not part of the framework for social interaction, so modern acts of traditional chivalry frequently raise flags for me. I recognize genuine and sincere respect and kindness. I also recognize douche-baggery. While there are some men who are simply raised to stand when a woman enters the room or offer his seat to a lady on the bus or open doors; By and large, chivalry has become the tool of the ass hat.

I read a list of tips for men in the Lifestyle section of MSN and I found it ridiculous and mildly offensive. It's teaching guys how to trick women into liking them by being pseudo nice craptards and using the adjective "killer."

Exp A: (Under the section: Have a Plan)“Hey, I know this great place around the corner where we can go for some killer carrot cake. What do you think?”

Exp B: (Under the section: Call Her the Day Afterwards)"Last night’s pad thai was killer... and so are your eyes. When I can feast on both again?"

Before I continue, let me just say this: No one says "killer." No one SHOULD say "killer" unless it's preceded by the word "cold-blooded."

Moving on.

I think what offended me most about the article can be summed up under the section on flattery.

Try a new form of flattery
It’s well known that warm words of praise defrost the iciest of personalities. But the type of compliment you concoct can make a big difference. While nice to hear, predictable compliments (“Your hair looks nice”) lead nowhere (“Thanks. I just went to the salon”). Instead, try something less superficial, like a perceptive bon mot about her wicked sense of humor, distinctive voice, or contagious laugh. This proves to her you’re interested in more than just her arm-candy potential and paints you as a deep, intriguing sort she’ll definitely want to get to know better.

Really? Trick her into thinking you're deep and sincere and she'll TOTALLY like you. Like... LIKE like you. Like that. That's the thing. This isn't chivalry because you like to be nice to people and this is how you know how to be nice... this is chivalry because you're clearly such a waste of human that you can't get girls to like who you REALLY are so you had to go to MSN and read about how to COME ACROSS as a gentleman! Gag me with the spoon I'm a about to use to cook up some junk because this world has gone to hell. It didn't even bring the hand basket. It just left. It took a bullet train. Hard drugs seem like the only way out.

Let me be clear: I'm not bothered by acts of kindness, even chivalrous ones, when the intent is simply to be a good human. When you offer me a seat because you'd offer anyone a seat. Or you buy me dinner because you love me. But there are definite "types" of chivalrous men, who make up the majority of YOUNG chivalrous men, and they are, quite frankly, pieces of shit.

Chivalrous Piece of Shit #1: The Slime Ball

Most likely a musician, poet or simply a small time loser, he uses chivalry to increase his own sense of depth and importance. He likes it when you challenge him, but he likes it for the wrong reasons. He thinks it's "cute." He will try to prove that he's more stubborn, more intelligent and more emotionally in-tune than you are. He's annoying. He's infuriating. He's probably not well endowed. He will make you mix CDs, play them for you, and sing along. There is a risk that he will be come a stalker, fat or C.P.O.S. #3. I dated him in high school. He drove a truck.

Turn Ons: Obscure music, teaching you about obscure music, poetry, "romance"
Turn Offs: Sense of reality

Chivalrous Piece of Shit #2: The Ulterior Motive

You're not opening the door for me because you're a nice person doing a nice thing for somebody. You're opening the door for me because you're hoping that I'll open something else for you later. Yeah, you'll open doors and pick up checks, but will you call me after a satisfying-for-you romp in the sack? Unlikely.
Biggest turn ons: Tri Delts, high school seniors.
Biggest turn offs: Books.

Chivalrous Piece of Shit #3: The Jr. Misogynist in Training
Sometimes chivalry isn't a sign of respect for women, but a symptom of a lack thereof. This C.P.O.S. is inconsistent, aloof, arrogant and at times cruel. He won't call. He'll probably stand you up. But he'll be damned if you shovel a sidewalk, offer to drive or order your own food at a restaurant. This type says things like "I love women" and calls your vagina a "flower." He will grow up to be a type 4 or 5, if he grows up to be anything.
Biggest turn ons: Low self esteem, eagerness to please.
Biggest turn offs: Positive male role models, independence

Chivalrous Piece of Shit #4: Sr. Vice Misogynist.
He will whisk you away on spur of the moment vacations, buy you expensive gifts, bring you breakfast in bed, find the best therapist for his wife and children to see to conquer their abandonment issues, and spit on the hookers he's brutally beaten and left for dead. C.P.O.S. #4 is the Jekyll and Hyde of woman haters. Frequently a CEO, surgeon, or high profile attorney, he is the inspiration for most Lifetime movies and has probably raped and/or murdered a lady or seven.
Biggest turn ons: Eating disorders, daddy issues, materialism
Biggest turn offs: Personality

Chivalrous Piece of Shit #5: Drew Peterson
Similar to #4, though less prestigious.
Biggest turn ons: Youth
Biggest turn offs: Attachment to the outside world

Types that didn't make the list: the weasel, the yes-man and Napoleon.

Chivalry for chivalry's sake, chivalry as a disguise, and chivalry born out of contempt are seemingly more common place than chivalry for kindness' sake, chivalry as a favor or chivalry born out of breeding. I think this is because the majority of men, which includes the majority of nice, normal men, simply haven't been raised to be chivalrous. And I don't think that matters as long as they're still raised to be kind.

Hilary is a mean girl.

2007-12-19T09:56:00.000-05:00

Seriously... she's Regina George without the flawless skin, amazing bod, and change of heart.

Does no body else find it odd that her camp keeps saying all of these nasty things about Obama, that she later denounces as being unauthorized or silly?

And she can't condemn the comment without repeating 50 times so that everybody remembers it because she wants everyone to remember it because that IS how she campaigns.

It's like... "Oh the comment about Mr. Obama's drug use as a teenager? His use of drugs? Of mind-altering substances? In high school? No. My campaign is NOT going to focus on Mr. Obama's school yard joint rolling, coke snorting, pill popping days. It is not in my character to highlight the fact that Senator Barack Obama was shooting up while good kids like Bill and I were shooting hoops. That is not a game we play. Besides, the poor kid didn't have a choice. I mean... what black teenager doesn't use drugs?"

She probably set that poor guy up to say it and then made him resign. I'm pretty sure there's a maggot infested elephant stool where her heart was supposed to be.

And I'm also pretty sure that when she's elected, she's going to find out that I wrote this and have me killed.

You're a mean girl, Hilary. You're a bitch.

And I want my pink skirt suit back.

Really?

2007-12-14T15:27:00.000-05:00

I have always heard my friends talk about being "hit on" by strangers on Facebook. This usually involved being "poked" or perhaps receiving a creepy message coupled with a friend request.

Until today, I'd never been a privy to a random Facebook stranger come-on.

His name is Michael. He's a 42 year old Roman Catholic from Chicago whose one listed interest is "Da Bulls."

His favorite quote is, "What does it take to get a rebound? Want it More." The words are his own.

He also wrote the only post on his own facebook "wall." It reads:

"People who take Jesus' name in vain really annoy me."

Really? Really God?

All I have to say is Jesus Henrietta Christ. Is this really my life?

As was promised

2007-12-13T10:18:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I had the most bizarre weekend of my, or anyone else's, life.

It all started with a craving for a salad. All I wanted was a salad. Preferably one inspired by east Asia, with no almonds and extra crispy noodles. I love crispy noodles. If you're going to love me, you need to know that I will always love crisy noodles and Asian salads with sesame chicken and ginger dressing, and that you simply cannot be jealous because this love is bigger than both of us.

My craving for an Asian chicken salad was cast aside, and I ended up in a restaurant more German than Weimar or the Black Forest... or... Hansel and Gretel. There was a one man polka band which consisted of an old German man, his accordion, and an elecrtic keyboard. He played all the old favorites, I think. I felt incredibly out of place. Maybe it was guilt over a little incident involving my ancestors and the death of one, Mr. Christ. Maybe it was my sense that Hungarian Jews simply do spetzle better. Maybe it was because the only salad on the menu consists of three types of sausage, two thick slabs of bacon, and chopped beets served over a bed of sour kraut.

There was a table of 27 sitting near us. It was a German family. Two of the younger family members, a boy and a girl, got up to dance while the rest of the family sang an old standby (I'm guessing), accompanied by the one-man band. The patriarch of the family, a large man made of circles, watched as the younger generation carried on the traditions of German Kultur, clapping and mouthing the steps of the folk dance.

I was surrounded by people speaking German, eating sausage, and quite possibly hating my father's people.

I had roasted pork and spetzle. "I ordered pork," I thought to myself, "They'll never suspect me."

But I was wrong. As I left, 1-M.B. played "If I Were a Rich Man" from the musical Fiddler on the Roof.

All the while it was snowing, a strange early icy snow that was not good for snow balls so much as car accidents. I saw cars slide gracfully into other cars, then away again without leaving a note.

This was the night of a theatre benefit for which I arrived late. I was greeted by a tiny African American woman with exactly 16 teeth who informed me that she was the treasurer and that she was found on Craig's List. I have always operated under the assumption that most of the people who Craig lists are serial killers. This does not bode well for the company.

The night ended with vicious love quadrilaterals, fights and a chance 3 AM meeting with the object of a dear friend's affection. He went with me to fill the gas tank of another dear friend's car. It was incredibly odd that I ran into him, but fitting given the randomness of the night. He ended up in my apartment, using my rest room and apparently losing a glove. I have not found the glove.

The next day at work, this happened:

Two reasonably well dressed older men came in. They were self-seaters but something told me not to argue. They switched tables 3 times before deciding on one that suited them. One man used a light up magnifying glass to read the menu, the other- a candle. It was clear from the hooks in their noses that they were either Italian or Jewish. I would soon know for certain.

The younger, relatively speaking, gentleman called me over. "Which pizza is your favorite. We like sausage." * "Um... you'd probably like the Capone. It's my favorite pizza here." "Yeah. We were looking at that." "--Trying to," the older man interjected. "You see... we don't like the name. It's derogatory to a very -- great -- group of people." "Oh," I giggled.

They weren't Jewish.

Later, as I walked by (which I did frequently, hoping to pick up mob secrets) the man pulled me over again, the relatively younger one. "We liked the pizza." "Oh good," I giggled again. Mafia men are really scary, yet oddly attractive even when they're clearly older than my father. "You should really do something about the lights."

Something has been done about the lights.

As they left, the younger man (relatively) asked for a carry out menu. I abliged. I forgot to mention that our menu changes frequently. I'm worried about what might become of me and my family.

I'd be lying, though, if I said that I didn't spend the nights fantasizing about being set up with the Mafioso's son...

It snowed a magical snow last week. A magical, amazing, wonderous snow. The time of snow you dream about when you're ten. I looked out the window at my friends' apartment and ran downstairs, without a coat, and proceded to glide around on icy streets, bidding good evening to passersby, making snow angels, etc. Before long, my friends joined me in a greatest snowball fight of all time, complete with Weiss-style mid-game rules. I come from a clever lot.

Later that evening, I walked to a bar with my totes Bestie. All along Lincoln, grown ups, 20 and 30 somethings were having snow ball fights, making snow angels, playing like little kids.

It reminded me of how much faith I have in the future because my generation is amazing. We embrace youthfulness and fun. We play. We support Obama. We're better than Boomers.

I should have written about all of this sooner. I've forgotten so much...

*Had I been a few blocks east, this would have meant something very different.

Coming Soon:

2007-12-04T13:56:00.000-05:00

My Life, The Ridiculous.

* Kultur alive and well in Chicago, IL

* The Mob comes to my 'hood

* Grown Ups acting like children

* Love in the shape of triangles.

I love the white tips of candy corn

2007-11-16T09:50:00.000-05:00

and asian-style salads.

I like long drives, silly songs, and dogs.

I want to dedicate my life to enriching the world through theatre.

I also want to save Pit Bulls, education, the environment and the homeless. In that order.

I love Crosswords, even though I frequently cheat.

I love Scrabble. I don't need to cheat.

I want to cook for you. Right now. It will probably be really good.

All I need to be happy is good cheese, good jokes, good dogs and love.

Also: cute shoes, nice pants, ironic tees, and fun sweaters.

I wish I wore glasses.

I want to own all things Apple.

I love apples.

I love apple sauce.

I love latkes.

I love you.

traded the bus for a train, though.

2007-11-15T12:04:00.000-05:00

Remember debate? When you would dress up like a grown up and talk about things that grown ups talk about while being judged by grown ups?

Everyday when I go to work, I feel exactly the way I did in high school.

I look like an idiot in my grown up costume. I sound like an idiot when I talk about faxes and Donna in HR. I am surrounded by idiots who make lots of money and judge me for being a temp because they assume I'm a temp because I'm an idiot.

I'm a temp because I'm an actor. And that joke practically makes itself, so don't feel proud of yourself if you made it, too.

I look like a child pretending to be an adult.

I'm pretty sure that business men aren't real people.

I love the photographer who kept coming to get more candy. He's dear.

I figured out why I don't like CVS

2007-11-05T11:46:00.001-05:00

It's because "CVS" reminds me of "CREVICE" which is the third most revolting word in the english language.

In other news, I lost a button and have a run in my hose.

Dear Dale From Season 3 of Bravo's Hit Reality Series Top Chef,

2007-11-04T12:20:00.000-05:00

I am sorry about last night. I shouldn't have made you hug me. I shouldn't have told you I wanted the girl to win. You're shorter than I thought you'd be.

I know where you live.

Haha.

Wow.

Love,
Julia

the vet put me on hold

2007-11-03T11:43:00.000-04:00

They are playing the Jackson 5's "Santa Claus is coming to town."

Dear Nora Ephron,

2007-11-02T23:08:00.000-04:00

I appreciate the fact that you've taken the time to write my life. I really do. I just wish you could have left out the scene in which the awkward but loveable romantic lead is caught blogging, creepily, about a coworker... by the coworker about whom she has blogged... creepily. This had better end up with a charming confession of infatuation during a rainstorm to be followed by hot chocolate and a changing of the seasons montage documenting the first year of our relationship.

Seriously.

LYLAS,
Jules

Jesus hates me this I know...

2007-10-30T10:09:00.000-04:00

I cry a lot. 70% of the time, those tears are joined by gales of uproarious laughter. My life is so tragically and hilariously absurd.

What requires no story nor explanation is my current state of heartbreak and sense of failure, doom, and guaranteed forever loneliness. That it is the cracked bathtub foundation of the shanty called my week.

Finally I find a creative, fun environment with friendly, interesting, occasionally attractive people with a variety of talents and senses of humor, dogs, they have dogs here, and Macs instead of PCs... and I have to leave in 3 days... I don't doubt that I'll be back in some dank loop office with no windows sitting next to serial rapists and drug abusing divorcees doing data entry. My only solace will be courtesy of Panda Express, resulting in gross weight gain and offensive gas.

Today waking up was awful. The clothes I grabbed in a mad dash to get out on time... still awful... Traffic was awful. The news on NPR was awful. Bursting into tears when "Not While I'm Around" came on the mix in the CD player... was awful. And embarrassing.

Then, while I was awkwardly putting dishes away in an awkward ensemble which I have to awkwardly wear to a wake... my bra broke. My bra. Broke. 30 minutes from home. No school nurse to rush to. No mom to call to bring me a new one.

My bra. Broke.

I rushed to a co-worker who (random sauce) used to teach me Shakespeare when I was younger and even more awkward.

"Hey Julia, How are you?"

"Uh. My bra broke."

We laughed. I explained that no it wasn't the strap, it was the little middle part. She made a joke about binder clips, which was funny and she's great, and then left to model shop to find a solution.

The solution she returned with was a needle, thread and a promise to watch the phones.

Sitting on a toilet, in my stupid mistake of an outfit, trying desperately to remember what a whip stitch is and if that's even the type of stitch I should be using, while "Space Cowboy" played softly over the loud speaker, I started to cry. I also started to laugh. I also started to sew. Poorly.

Now it looks like Victoria's secret is that she's actually Helen Keller or an armless Sudanese orphan.

Life is funny when it's being undermined by God Himself, who apparently hasn't gotten over that afternoon when I put "I <3 Jesus" air fresheners on the tampon dispensers at the County Seat Cinema. I was 14! JESUS! Get OVER it! Actually... Jesus, GET OVER IT!

I think I'm going to go eat some yogurt and play scrabble and makes jokes with Leo. That's what I do for 12 bucks an hour. I love this job.

Scrabulous

2007-10-29T10:56:00.000-04:00

First the robot spelled fatty, which seemed pointed.

Then, after I accidentally left a double word score open next to "maze," he spelled "dolt."

Thanks.

And I have all vowels.

When it rains...

2007-10-29T03:28:00.000-04:00

Tonight a man tried to unjustly remove me from a bar.

He was 7 feet tall and weighed 600 pounds.

He had a molestache and a soul patch.

I think I made him cry.

My co workers and bosses had to hold me back when I didn't stop snapping my fingers in a z-pattern, piking, and yelling. I came close to saying "is this because I'm Jewish?" (Edit: I know that this is silly. It was meant to be silly.)

I shook for an hour afterwards.

Every person I've ever been afraid to stand up to was living inside that bouncer. That's why he was so huge.

Fuck Mindy for calling me a "flert" in 5th grade just because Nick Heiser liked to talk to me.

Fuck Jeff and Collin for humiliating me in 7th and 8th grade.

Fuck IU and Gold Coast and high taxes and rude people.

I yelled at everyone.

Then I got jacked by fate and karma's catty love child.

And I came home to a house full of "remember how you're alone and poor and you lost the love of your life tonight?"

I wish I could yell at that man again, though.

Now Frasca knows I have a terrifying temper and oodles of street-cred.

Catablogging.

2007-10-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

Dear Harry London,

I find it humorous that you are considered Fannie May's sister company. Still, your creamy peanut butter and milk chocolate Buckeyes are the perfect combination of sweet and salty. And my thoughts are of nothing but your Eggnog Creams and Peppermint Bark.

I will wait for you.

Love,
Julia

Dear Harry and David,
Don't worry. My fondness for Mr. London's decadent towers of fine confections is nothing compared to how I feel about your pears, berries, and assorted meats and cheeses. I may have one sweet tooth, but the other 31 belong only to you.

Thank you for supporting me right now. I promise what Mr. London and I have is nothing. It's a tryst. It's fun. What we have, you and me, that's forever.

With undying love and devotion,
Julia

An exchange

2007-10-18T15:25:00.000-04:00

Tiny red-headed boy with camouflage cargo pants: Mom! I want ice cream!!!

Mom: Well then stop putting your hand in your mouth!

I'm a single white female. I own a cat. I'm too close to my mother.

2007-10-16T13:25:00.000-04:00

For years, MSN has been telling me my secret crush can be a good thing, but to watch out for an emotional affair.

This seemed relevant.

Not because I had a bevy of secret crushes, but because I had a boyfriend. And while I frequently found what MSN had to say on couples issues exceptionally offensive, I still felt as though I was part of a group... two groups, really: the group of me + boy and the group of me + all people in relationships reading about relationships while checking their hotmail or msn account.

Now my secret crush isn't a good thing. It's a road block. That is to say, my secret crush WOULD be a road block if I had a secret crush, or any crush, which I don't because I have impossibly high standards, a hole in my heart (the proverbial one not the birth defect), and a dairy sensitivity that keeps me from getting to close to anyone, really, but especially men.

Perhaps MSN could help me snag a man with its suggestions on how to make the first move, or fun first dates, or moving on after someone has, unable to make it to the restroom in time, taken an incredibly unpleasant shit in your soul.

My shows

2007-10-16T03:44:00.001-04:00

1. Pushing Daisies
2. Cavemen
3. Desperate Housewives
4. America's Next Top Model
5. Dexter
6. Weeds

Soon Project Runway will be added to the list.

Seriously 1. and 2. are amazing. 1. moreso than 2. Watch them both. Please.

Umm... ABC = America's Best Channel.

There's something funny

2007-10-16T02:28:00.001-04:00

about being completely and utterly heartbroken and alone.

Well... not funny... but... charming.

Not charming, really... but.... romantic...

No... not that either...

It's really kind of hideous, huh.

Life is like a hastily constructed wire shelving unit from Target

2007-10-11T02:07:00.000-04:00

As soon as you get one area working, another comes apart.

You fix that but it's no use because the connector for the left side comes apart. Just at the bottom not the top.

Every time you pop one part into place, another comes loose.

But it isn't until all of your books, photos, kitch and clutter are perfectly arranged that the entire structure comes tumbling down and your cat starts climbing over your Bakers Illustrated and sniffing your Riverside like a litter box.

Dear Watch Dog Groups,

2007-10-08T17:35:00.000-04:00

It is your job to get offended. That's like... what you do. Like... for your life. You are like... looking for things to make you mad.

I'm not a life coach or serenity guide professionally, but I do dabble, and I think that you're making some poor life choices that will significantly damage the harmony of your chi.

You guys should seriously just chill and learn to laugh a little.

Peace out, ~~watch~~ dog ~~groups~~

LYLAS,

Jules

2007-10-05T13:54:00.000-04:00

Dear The Philippines,
I am so sorry I made fun of your medical schools. If I'd known you actually had them, I never would have said anything. Please know that I truly respect you and value your friendship so much. I'm so so sorry.

Love,
Desperate Housewives

P.S. So.... Lost and I were talking. And we couldn't figure out like... are you guys like... Asian? or Mexican.... Or what....

In movies....

2007-10-05T00:10:00.001-04:00

... people are good.

Well, not the bad guys... but you know who they are and the get their comeuppance.

And the good guys?

They end up okay. And they meet other good guys. And the good guys fall in love with each other.

It's okay to fall in love in eight days. And everyone smiles and holds their blankets up to their faces and says how lovely it is. No one thinks it's creepy.

Even being alone and sad is okay... because it's a movie... And even if the character doesn't know it.... she's being rooted for.

Or he.

In movie world, tomorrow's visit from a whirlwind would resolve nicely and neatly and everything would be... okay...

In movie world... It is okay that I'm blogging... in fleece pants, watching chick flicks the night before my last day at a crappy job.... It's okay that I ate nothing but sat fats on refined carbs today... and that my only exercise was walking through Whole Foods taking free samples, trying to pretend that I was interested in the products. It's okay that I'm not yet happy or successful or well to do. Because I will be. And the audience needs to see this. It will make them root for me. It will make my good guy pay off all the better.

Because I'm a good guy, right? I'm not the villain. I cry at things. Villains don't cry.

I don't want any comeuppance.

I've never cared for uppance... of any kind.

I just like touching music at perfect moments... and Jude Law's lisp.

Kate Winslet

2007-10-04T22:32:00.000-04:00

First let me say that I think she's a wonderful actress, but that's not what this is about.

I think Kate Winslet is so beautiful.

I think she's SO beautiful.

She's stunningly beautiful and while I can only ever dream of having one one thousandth of the physical attractiveness that she has when she wakes up with a horrible stomach ache and pink eye.... somehow her beauty seems possible.

It seems real.

She seems real.

Yeah...

I'm watching The Holiday.

At one point...

2007-09-30T10:45:00.000-04:00

...as Joe Pesci stood in front of me, standing a bald head or two beneath me, he played with and bit his tongue ring.

"Wow. You're biting your tongue ring," I said.

He smiled and nodded and looked up at me and batted his eye lashes. He batted his clearly mascaraed eye lashes. At me.

Joe Pesci thinks I'm an incredibly successful post-op tranny.