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Sunday, March 29, 2009

Now I get it!



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Saturday, March 28, 2009

Married Gay People Who Are Sorry



Okay, I don't love Portia De Rossi, but this is pretty awesome:





Via Grrlplanet.com

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WORST PHONE CALL EVER




I answer the phone, screaming, "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" I can't control what a douchebag I can be to my parents—they are forced to love me for all eternity, so I don't have to be nice all of the time. My father knows that I hate when he calls me at work. I've already laid the ground rules for him. You can call me at work if: 1. Someone's dead. 2. Someone's dying. THAT'S IT. Otherwise, I will call you when I get out of work, like I do every damn day. The fifteen minute walk from the office to the subway is the perfect amount of time to talk.

He wanted to let me know that I won't be getting very much money back from my tax return.

Why?

BECAUSE HE CLAIMED ME AS A DEPENDENT.

I am irate. If I am still your dependent, why don't you pay my rent for me?, I ask. Apparently, that is not the way it works.

For someone who needs to freelance in order to pay her cable bill, this is the cherry on top of the shit sundae my life has been lately.

Is March over yet?

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Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Be My Roommate



After nearly one year of co-habitating with my current roommate, she is leaving me to move in with her boyfriend. I figured it was only a matter of time before they moved in together to save on rent and create a love nest, so now I'm in desperate need of a roommate starting May 1.

That said, I can comfort myself in knowing that I'm on the right end of the housing market. When delving into the reality of realty in New York City, you’re at a distinct advantage being in an apartment, looking for a roommate, than if you’re looking for an apartment to move into. What I'm up against was the prospect of conducting interviews for potential roommates.

My options:

A.) Men—No, too messy.
B.) Gay Men—No, too dramatic.
C.) Women—Yes, but probably crazy.
D.) Gay Women—Maybe, but definitely crazy.
E.) Someone I know—Preferred.

Posting an ad for a room for rent on Craig’s List seems like the appropriate thing to do, however, anyone who has read any of the “Missed Connections” on the very same website, knows that the people perusing Craig’s List range from normal people looking to buy or sell a couch, to deranged psychos who are convinced that the lady they saw on the subway is their soul mate and have built up an imaginary relationship with said lady in their head, so much so that they desperately need to find her, turning to the creepernet to foster their reunion.

Needless to say, I’d prefer to live with someone who I know doesn’t chop prostitutes up into tiny pieces for fun on weekends.
However, finding friends and acquaintances that want to move to Brooklyn and can afford to fork over a boatload of money in rent all on my specific timeline is proving to be difficult.

This means that I have to resort to posting an ad on Crazy Craig’s List and will be forced to personally weed out the whackjobs.

Here is the first draft of the ad I’m planning to post on Craig’s List:


Dear Potential Roommate,

From the description of the apartment (spacious, furnished two-bedroom apartment with a large living room, full bathroom, separate storage room, and office area in a beautiful Brooklyn brownstone, only a 10 minute walk from the subway, two blocks from Prospect Park, near all the amenities, from award-winning restaurants, lively bars, to Rite Aid, large grocery store, Laundromat, and dry cleaners), you either think I’m embellishing or full-out lying. This is a reasonable assumption, but let me assure you that I am not doing either of those things. This is an amazing apartment.

Because of how amazing it is, I would like to keep it amazing by not living with certain types of people. If you find yourself reading any of the following descriptions and thinking, “Hey, that’s me!,’ please look elsewhere. It’s nothing personal. Okay, it’s totally personal. Read on:

1. Drama Queen from Long Island: The majority of your wardrobe is covered in sequins, and most of your friends are obnoxious guys with nicknames such as “Beef Roast” or “Stacked” who wear gigantic diamond stud earrings and backwards baseball hats. Although you live in Brooklyn, you refuse to go out anywhere but nightclubs in Manhattan, where you are willing to pay $20 for a cover and $15 for a tiny mixed drink like a jackass. You have one volume (loud), and you never clean up after yourself or have any sense of personal responsibility because your rich parents have always done everything for you all of your life, thus rendering you a scary adult-child with real bills and rent to pay, yet no idea how to deal with it.

2. I Love My Boyfriend!! I Hate My Boyfriend!! We’re Back Together!! Girl: You have been dating the same guy for years but you have broken up and gotten back together about 700 times. You have talked about marriage extensively but you can barely get through a week without a big, blow out fight that involves tears, tantrums, and the throwing of your cell phone across the room. All of your friends are secretly sick of hearing about your little on-going soap opera and wish you would just break up already, but you are sooooo in love.

3. I’m Not Slutty, I’m Confident Girl: You are an independent woman, or so you keep saying. There is an endless parade of gentlemen callers streaming in and out of your bedroom each weekend. You make sure that every outfit you wear showcases your cleavage, you get blackout drunk and bring strangers home, but it’s only because you love sex, and what’s wrong with a lady enjoying sex? You call yourself a feminist even though the notion of actually respecting yourself and body has never occurred to you. Past roommates have considered installing a toll booth not unlike the ones at the entrance of the subway to help offset the costs of buying gallons bleach and Lysol to clean the bathroom because they’d prefer not to contract STDS from you and your assorted Romeos after you’ve used the toilet.

4. Irresponsible, Activist Hippie: There is no sense of urgency in anything you do, from showering to paying your bills. You stock the fridge with soymilk and tofu, leave socialist propaganda on the coffee table, and lecture anyone who eats meat about the atrocities committed by the cattle industry. When you are drunk, all of this goes out the window and you order a gigantic cheeseburger with bacon from the diner and then cry all day when you wake up and realize what you’ve done. You tell people who would like you to be on time for work or pay your bills before they’re past due to “relax.”

Ideally, I would like to live with someone who will take out the garbage occasionally, will enjoy passing conversations with me about how much we hate everyone/everything, not monopolize the living room constantly, pay the rent on time, not have raucous parties on week nights, has a job that requires them either to go to bed at a normal time, or at least make them retreat into their respective room for some quiet activities that will not disturb me.

In short, I’m looking to live with a very polite, courteous mute person. Although, I’m sure that my past roommates would have a less than wonderful description to give of me:

Obnoxious Narcissist: Everything that happens to you is the most important thing in the world and you need everyone around you to stop what they’re doing and listen if you need to talk. You will clean your dishes and take out the garbage, but you will never even think about doing maintenance cleaning, such as dusting, or sweeping, or cleaning the bathtub. You will make a suggestion about what we should do about anything from dinner to painting a room and say that you don’t have a preference, but really, you have a definite preference, and will do anything in your power to make sure that your preference is the one that is ultimately chosen.

This whole thing is doomed.

DOOMED.

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Sunday, March 22, 2009

Perpetually Distracted




I got free tickets through work to see Cynthia Nixon in Distracted, a new Broadway show.

It's hard to explain the premise in one succinct sentence, but essentially, the play is a satire on how we as a society are so distracted that we seek medication in order to focus.

It calls to mind an Ellen DeGeneres stand-up routine where she talks about commercials for depression medication:

Commercial Voiceover: Are you sad? Do you feel anxious? Do you have anxiety?
Ellen: Yes. Yes, I have all of those things. I'm alive.

The question is, how do we diagnose someone with anxiety disorders and an innate inability to focus when nearly every single person nowadays has the attention span of a hummingbird?

In the play, Cynthia Nixon plays a mother who is faced with the difficult decision on whether or not to medicate her nine year old son with ADD.
What ensues is a frenetic, funny, and poignant indictment on the way we live our lives and how we try to solve our problems (quickly, with a Xanax).

The first act closes with Nixon asking the painfully honest question, "will Ritalin be a better mother than I am?"


We follow Nixon through an onslaught of meetings with therapists, doctors, and psychologists with her husband who keeps yelling that "nothing is wrong" with their son, attributing the symptoms of ADD to normal child behavior.

Psychologist: I have time this afternoon, someone canceled their appointment.
Cynthia: Oh... did they get better?

Psychologist: (pause) Glad to see you've still got your sense of humor.

In short, Distracted is excellent, witty, and thoughtful. Nixon (who I quite frankly found shrill and annoying as Miranda in Sex in the City) was fantastic.

You should see this play.

Yes, you.

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Saturday, March 21, 2009

Sushi Extravaganza!




I've been on a big sushi kick lately, eating enough to probably qualify for mercury poisoning like
Jeremy Piven. Not only is this burning a hole in my wallet (damnnnnn that raw fish is expensive), it may very well be burning a hole in my stomach. Whatever.

The issue here is: when you are working from 9am to 9pm, you are not going to cook when you get home. Thus,
JPAN is on speed dial. Usually, I keep it close to the vest when it comes to ordering sushi (spicy tuna rolls are my standby), but when Tim came up for dinner and drinks on Friday, I decided to get more adventurous—the Fantastic roll, the Philadelphia roll, and the highly recommended Volcano roll. My editor over at Fucked in Park Slope raved about them and I couldn't agree more—so fucking good. Too bad they're $13 a roll. Ouch.

I need to stop eating all of this raw fish or I'm going to end up sprouting gills. Mmmmm—attractiveeeeeeeee.

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Thursday, March 19, 2009

A Softer World




[Asofterworld.com]

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Monday, March 16, 2009

Eating My Way Through Park Slope; Pissing Everyone Off




I've mentioned that I've started writing for Fucked in Park Slope, and I've been doing what I do best (ie: stating my opinions abrasively and making people want to punch me in the face.

For example, I wrote about a restaurant in my neighborhood in the entry, Eff You, Moutarde about how I went there with my father, had lackluster food and terrible service, tipped accordingly, and then got a credit card statement back where the waitress had upped our tip by an extra 10%. 23 comments later, I had been called a "judgmental, rude asshole," among other things. Who knew people cared so much about a restaurant? I love it.

Next, I compared a new Japanese restaurant to my reigning favorite in Sushi Smackdown and end up waxing poetic as to why Asian restaurants put their loudest, craziest person on phone duty.

Just let them dispense the sake, will you?

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Saturday, March 14, 2009

Parents: Calm the Fuck Down



After watching an episode of True Life: I'm a High School Freshman (give me a BREAK), I needed to rant about a few things.


1. First, we follow a girl who joined the cheerleading team. She is excited because she probably watched the same movies we all did that bolster cheerleading as a one-way ticket to popularity. Apparently, our heroine didn't realize how long a football game is, and that she wouldn't be able to eat nachos during the game, because she was, um, supposed to be cheering.

"Omigod, I hate this," she said. "It's so frustrating."


Ah, remember the days when nothing was wrong in your life so you had to create drama for yourself? How cute/insufferable. Hopefully, you grow into an adult and get some perspective: not being able to eat for a few hours during a high school football game is not as big of a deal when weighed up against having to pay your bills or getting yelled at by your boss. Some people, unfortunately, never get that perspective and still act like every little thing that happens to them is the end of the fucking world.


For example, an acquaintance from high school friended me on Facebook. He's 25 still
living at home and has no job. His status one day was "I wish I could wake up one morning and not have to deal with drama." That's weird, because I wake up every morning without any drama. It's called hanging out with friends, not frenemies, and responding to situations like an adult. It's not hard to not be swimming in drama if you don't want to be (read: GROW THE FUCK UP).

2. A big emphasis in the show was put on the kids' report cards. It made sense to touch on this, because when your whole life is school and education, grades are important. HOWEVER, I wanted to smack these uptight parents when they announced "A 94 in English? Good. A 92 in Social Studies? Good. AN 82 IN SPANISH? WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT??!" Then they go into a shreiky tirade about how anything less than an A is unacceptable and blah, blah, blah.

Listen up, parents and students: YOUR GRADES DO NOT FUCKING MATTER. If you're pulling in A's and B's, you'll be able to get into a good college, drink your face off for four years, and get a job when you graduate.

I thank God that my parents could see the bigger picture and never pressured me in terms of grades. If I pulled in everything higher than a B, it didn't matter. I acted like a jackass in high school, drank like a fish in college and barely put forth any effort in my classes, had a job lined up before I graduated, and got promoted in less than a year of being on the job.

So, parents:
If your kid is failing his classes, get worried. If your kid is getting A's and B's, back the fuck off and let them do their thing.

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Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Actually, It's Gonna Be a Long Month




Lately, the only straws you're grasping onto
are the ones going into your gin and tonics.

—Jason Logan, If We Ever Break Up, This is My Book

It's Gonna Be a Long Week




Work has been especially stressful lately, but even on my worst day I love my job and love what I'm doing. I know that's extremely rare for any recent college grad
—especially in this economy—so I try not to lose sight of the bigger picture.

After yet another late night at the office, I was waiting at the crosswalk and looked up at a billboard for
Charles Schwab right across the street from my office that I pass at least twice a day. I guess I'm always just too distracted to actually process it.

It says in huge, illuminated letters "I don't want to work forever."

I laughed out loud as I crossed the street. Someone get me a drink. Or ten.

It's gonna be a long week.

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Sunday, March 08, 2009

Fucked in Park Slope has a New D-Bag in Town




After all of the rants and raves I've written here about my little neighborhood of Park Slope, Brooklyn, I stumbled across a blog dedicated to snarky commentary exclusively on my nabe titled Fucked in Park Slope.

It was fun reading about places I frequent, and you better believe that I relish the fact that everyone else hates the perpetually crowded Rite Aid as much as I do.

Long story short: I'm blogging for them starting immediately. They even did a very nice
blogger introduction for me which makes me like like a mysterious sexy lady, which is really not the case at all.

I'm mega-excited, and I promise not try not to neglect this blog too much, either, since I can't bitch about my personal lyfe all up in a public blog that's actually read by people who aren't my friends, or my sworn enemies who read this just to hate on me.

My first official post on Fucked in Park Slope is "Suck it Chet," which is about Chet, from The Real World: Brooklyn:

"If I see one more Real World: Brooklyn cast member wearing a Brooklyn t-shirt, sweatshirt, or zip-up hoodie, I am going to lose my shit.

Example? Chet (my arch-nemesis), wearing that F train subway t-shirt in last week’s episode (even though he and the cast members drive everywhere in a brand-new SUV)? Can we say P-O-S-E-R?"

Read the rest
here.

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Spring?



Everyone's
Facebook statuses yesterday all talked about the warm weather that unexpectedly showed up right on the heels of a crazy fucking snowstorm.

As I walked around my neighborhood, it was obvious that everyone had come out of their hibernation. The stroller mafia was out in full force and the outdoor patios of every restaurant were filled.

It reminded me of the first nice day after a long winter at college: everyone out on the green, the sluts were sunbathing, douchey guys were throwing footballs while wearing backwards baseball caps, and the like.

Sometimes nothing but your location changes.

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Wednesday, March 04, 2009

Honestly



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Monday, March 02, 2009

The Story of My Life



My boss was
offered free tickets to see "The Story of My Life," a new show that recently debuted on Broadway. As always, when she isn't interested in seeing something, she gives me the tickets. My theory is that I will go to most things if they're free, especially if they're on Broadway. I mean, obviously, in true New York homo fashion—I adore most Broadway shows. So, after doing some quick research on "The Story of My Life," I gathered that it was a musical about two friends—and they tell their life stories via their life-long friendships with each other.

What I wasn't prepared for was that the show was about one friend's SUICIDE, and how the other friend is trying to write his EULOGY by reminiscing about the good old days.

Also—did I mention that it was a MUSICAL?

Oh yeah, it's the feel-good show of the year!

All of that sounds like it has the makings of a thoroughly awful show, but on the contrary, it was pretty good. It's getting some really harsh reviews, but I genuinely liked it.

I cried like a baby and felt like someone had punched me in the heart throughout the entire show. But then again, my favorite movies are downers (Schindler's List, anyone?), so maybe I shouldn't be the one to recommend this.

Anyway, it's really touching, sweet, and makes you think about the terrible things we do to the people we love without even thinking about it.

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Sunday, March 01, 2009

My Two Best Friends are Liza Minnelli and a Tomato



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