Casting a web

Well, it’s come to this. I made myself an online personals ad. Don’t think that this is an act of desperation. It is not. I was inspired by Amy Fisher, I recently read that she just married the father of her child, a man she met through match.com. Can you believe it? Through the magic of the internet ordinary people have the opportunity to unknowingly meet and eventually marry the likes of Amy Fisher.

It was Amy Fisher and the inevitable cagy feeling that follows a one night stand. I don’t mean that initial urge to make a break for the door. I don’t mean the day after either. The day after is usually a good one, sometimes even two days after I’m left with a triumphant glow, a combination of feeling like a suave conqueror and having done something that I will be keeping secret from my co-workers. The nervousness sinks in later.

Innocence is a funny thing. Until you are acquainted with an experience you don’t even realize what it means to go through such a thing, you assumed you had some idea, but you didn’t. When it happens you say to yourself here is something that I previously could not fathom. Oftentimes this feeling is a bad one, things one would be glad to have remained in the dark about.

Some months ago the term feminine itching gained new meaning for me, it was no longer lingo confined to ads featuring stiff ladies with TV anchor hair and bullet proof smiles. The standard horror of infection was made worse by the fact that this seemed to confirm by usual post-post one night stand fears of venereal disease. I’m dying I thought, or something worse…life long humiliation, forced celibacy, this is my bad karma for laughing every time the ad for herpes medication comes on TV.

Mom, if you happen to be reading this, rest assured it turned out to merely be the result of nylon underpants and a five hour bus ride. But this new experience left me knowing one more reason why it can suck to be a girl. This and other factors have led me to the conclusion that it is nearly impossible for straight girls to take on the role of conquistador. Besides, the novelty of making introductions from bed the following morning is starting to wear off. I’ve decided to go traditional.

From now on I want more than a few drinks and a game of pool, I want dinners, hand holding, and most of all a phone call. Such requests are difficult to make when you’re drunk and horny and you’re not looking forward to the hour train ride back to your apartment. I like the idea of screening boys before even saying hello. It’s delightfully passive aggressive.

Thus far I’ve been winked at by two total weirdoes. One was a guy who posed for his photo holding a stuffed animal and in his answers to almost all the questions refer to the future time with he and the reader might be having sex or at least kissing and that “Kiera Knightly is sexy, but the reader is (hopefully) sexier”. The great thing is there’s no pressure to pay him any mind. No need to awkwardly decline his advances. Best of all it makes me feel secure knowing that day and night I have the internet working for me. The computer me can be out there charming the world while I sit on my ass eating potato chips and laughing at herpes commercials.

The Passion--for a chocolate bunny

I'm back home for Easter. I just remembered that I was here the first time I wrote on my blog, that means my blog is six months old, it also means that I haven't been home for half a year. I went to Stop & Shop tonight and felt really disoriented because the aisles were so wide and the shelves so tall, it looked like an Amazon grocery store compared to my little Queens Key Foods.
My old cat is eighteen, her fur is looking all faded and mangy, her mama lived to be 22 though, so I'm not worried. Whenever I'm far away and I think of home I get this idealisic vision of my mom reading Vogue and drinking tea in our sunny little kitchen. She changed her subscription to Elle, but the kitchen is even sunnier than I remembered and the tea supply is vast.

As I was planning this trip home I had visions of the bountiful Easter basket that would await me, but today it occured to me that perhaps my mom might have forgotten that I'm even if I'm technically a grown-up I still need an easter basket. Lea called her for me, pretending we weren't together and casually asked about the basket situation. I was able to breath a sigh of relief because my mom confirmed that I am indeed getting one.

Recently I recalled the long past easter tradition of bonnets. Every year we'd go to Bradlees and I'd get a new straw bonnet for the holiday. I loved it because as a kid I had a fondness for anything that seemed to be of the olden days. I always wanted a pair of those Mary Poppins/Can-Can dancer boots that are black on the foot part and white on top with buttons going up the side, someone ought to bring those back, they'd sell big. Petti coats were also high on my list, but I now realize that, unless made of a moderate amount of very stiff tule, petti coats are straight up frumpy.

Auspicious April

Tonight I discovered that the Olsen Twins are selling fragrances. One for the each of them. Ashley smells like piss, but Mary-Kate I'd buy. It's like jacked up lilacs. I love that Eckard is opened 24 hours, when it's warm out, like now, it makes my night to stumble over there twice in a row for emergency candy and make-up yearnings. It's so easy to spend upwards of $20 on such items as lotion, ice cream, chocolate, and nail polish.

Today I decided that I'm head over heels in love with my boss. She bought us all daffodils today. April will be a magical month when we get raises and we all going on a road trip to meet sales reps. We get lunch too! It sounds like fucking heaven compared to sitting in my dark little cubicle. I was thinking today about how long it's going to take me to get my own office with window. Amazingly a year has already passed. I can't really see it happening anytime soon. The end of next year? I wonder if I'll get lonely in there when the day does come.

Tonight I watched the show Playing it Straight, where a group of guys, some straight some gay compete to get a girl fall in love with them. If the girl falls in love with a gay he gets $1 million for being a skilled tricker, if he's straight he gets $1/2 million. It was pretty off the wall, mostly because it took place at a dude ranch. I think the show would be way better if it was a gay guy guessing which guy was gay and the guys would get $1million if they tricked him into thinking they were straight. The guys would all act macho and standoffish to the extreme, it would be very amusing.

Hey Ladies

I had the greatest weekend, so great that my phone is still recovering from the battery loss. Saturday night I was channeling the spirit of my fantasy lady companions and it was fucking amazing. I tell you they are having more fun than anyone and I’ve come to realize that above all else it is a state of mind.
Fantasy Ladies are all about
1. Craziness
2. Powerfulness
3. Hotness
All of these elements are best summed up by their penchant for
Gold Accessories.

It was like having the cool girls let you into their clique; in fact I have the slight fear that I might get tricked into murdering someone in the near future--and it might just be worth it.

It was Sarah’s birthday and I met the girls at a very crowded bar on the LES. There were others there, but they all melted into the background while I was in the presence of The Ladies. The three of them welcomed me into their arms with much gushing and enthusiasm. There were repeated shouts of “Look at you, you're hot! Lady, You Are So Fucking Hot!” as they hugged me tightly and kissed my cheeks. I have to admit, it was kind of a turn on.

There was Nichole with her trademark lightening bolt-gold hair, a heart-shaped locket shining out from her tan cleavage and, best of all, cowboy boots. Amber had on an awesome shirt with puffy sleeves, a high collar, and peek-a-boo stripes of tulle running across it. It was very Miss Lily Bart from The House of Mirth. This was paired with gold hoops and an awesome handbag that featured a fancy hinged closure. Sarah, the birthday girl, was wearing a turquoise Greek goddess shirt that matched her eyes and was made of something billowy and silky.

I had just rolled out of bed and devoted most of my preening time to getting the pillow marks out of my face. Luckily I came to realize that the groggy, just woke up look is very fantasy lady. I didn’t take time to accessorize though and I was coveting the other girl’s gold ornamentation. I was wearing a sparkly blue shirt with raggy edges that I made myself, blush (my new fav. cosmetic, because it automatically ups the whoreishness of your look everytime), lots of black eyeliner, and Big Hair.

I drank vodka tonics while being let in on many fantastical secrets. We lounged back on the couches while the boys swarmed around, and then huddled into the bathroom together. I was sorry to break with the comradey, but I’m pee shy so I had to make everyone leave while I went.
Around 2:00 Nichole hissed in my ear, “what’s your plan tonight?” I of course had no other plans.
“You’re coming with me then, ok?” Entranced, I nodded yes. We gathered forces and shoved our way through the crowd.

Outside Amber said goodbye to the fireman she will soon be fucking. Nichole gave me one of her Lucky Strikes which I promptly dropped in a puddle, she tsked-tsked and handed me a fresh one. We stumbled down the street screaming about how hot it was that Amber was going to be getting with a fireman. We saw two seconds of a band at another bar, then charged into the Margaritas to-go place.

It was under the bright lights of this establishment that I noticed Amber’s French manicure. Turns out that ever since she got back from Viet Nam she’s been getting manicures to keep up her Vietnamese. I immediately made her promise to bring me next time she goes. I have wanted a French manicure ever since I was 8 when they showed that Lee Press-On’s commercial every five minutes.

We ended up gathering the boys and going to another bar. It happened to be the very same bar where I had the final and most annoying night with the coke-head freak. I am happy to report that this Saturday the place was purged of all bad associations: Drinks were bought for me, I made out (on the same benches where I decided never to speak to the coke-head freak again), and promptly left to have sex. I admit, if he hadn’t lived around the block I wouldn’t have done it (it was 5am after all) but it was all very worth it. On my way out the door I was lauded with cheers from my ladies. “Woooo, you go girl! Go get laid, aw yeah!” They yelled after me as I was whisked off into the night. It was absolutely golden.

Steak Diana

Last night I ate my first steak since high school. It was called Steak Diana. It was an inch and a half thick and took up it's own plate. It was the polar opposite to every meal I've eaten in the past eight years. From the first bite is was like being reaquainted with an old friend. I hadn't forgotten the taste and I devoured it. Not that I was a huge meat eater before, it's just that steak was the one type of meat I missed when I first went veg. I still have no interest in pork. The very thought of that pink fatty meat grosses me out. I think I could see myself enjoying a steak once in a blue moon.

The dinner was a celebration for Asher McShoe. Janine and I dressed to the nines. I wore my off-white lace dress with rhinestones dotting the edge of the collar, I piled all my hair on top of my head in a big beehive, put on pearls and my sparkly gold heels. Janine barrowed my candy apple-red dress with the full skirt, plunging neckline and gigantic rhinestone belt (I love rhinestones, they’re a girl’s second best friend), she wore red patent leather heels and a red bow that perfectly offset her black hair. We drank tons of red wine, gigantic ice cream pie desserts, and chocolate mousse for Janine. I was sure to offend all the other diners with lots of flash photography, because I live to stomp on the tranquility of others.

Afterwards Asher and I went to her friend Connie’s house where they gave us Danish liquor made of rye seeds. Connie and her roommate put on fancy dresses like mine and then Connie pulled out a white satin dress with silver embroidery for me to try on. It fit like a glove and she said, “it’s yours.” Eventually Asher and I caught a cab back to my apartment. We sat in the living room and chatted until 2:30 am, when I remembered that I had work in the morning. It was the greatest night.

Asher McShoe just left to go back to the windy city and I have to admit I’m crying inside. It’s weird how missing someone can make you act boring and uninterested when they’re still around. Tonight we were all tired and quiet. Asher made a storyboard like review of the trip on flashcards. I think it’s a great idea. Suddenly all the funny little moments were captured, as if someone had taken snapshots of all the best parts. The nice thing about it is that it isn’t too daunting of a task for a weary traveler and it makes the memories last a lifetime.

Risky Business

Watching the O.C. on Wednesday I was feeling my usual distain for Marissa. Once again she'd gotten herself into a ridiculously threating situation and Ryan had to run in at the last moment and rescue her. This time she was being courted by a psycho coke-head named Oliver. "When will that girl ever learn?" I thought to myself.

Really I had to laugh last night when I found that I was living my own version of the show. I couldn't help sypathizing with Marissa. What is it about psycho coke-heads that is so damn sexy? They really are practically irresistible, especially when high--all that mindless chit-chat and enthusiasm. It really seems like they are just plain thrilled to be talking to you and if they're cute it's not like it really matters what their saying anyway.

Taking into consideration my own experience I re-assessed Marissa's. Now, the angle the show took was that innocent Marrissa had no clue that there was anything wrong with Oliver, "he's just friendly! He's so nice!" she insisted. I beg to differ. I think Marissa knew all along that there was something not quite right about her little friend, I think that she was also perfectly aware that all he really wanted was to get in her pants, but she of course couldn't tell this to Ryan. She was forced to play dumb, hoping that he might hold off on shooting himself at least until after they got to make out for a little while.

It's that element of risk, I tell you, such a turn on.

But can you trust him?

Sometimes talking about Democratic canidates is like talking about love. All we can do is complain and say, "I'm not sure, he's giving me mixed messages," or "I just want there to find the one ideal guy, the perfect canidate, why is that so hard?"

I've decided that if we're going to win this thing we need a Ross Perot style third party nutcase to come in and confuse all the republicans. They'll make the same mistake we did with Nader and it will be in the bag. Plenty of crazy vigilantes in the mountains are all set to bolster some total crackpot conservative and get everyone all mixed up. It will be just like with George Bush senior. oooh, I'd love to see their faces.

Ps. Bennett knows kids in D.C. who have smoked pot with the Bush girls.

Honky Tonk Lovin'

Jeez, I haven't written anything in ages. My total hits just hit the 1000 mark and meanwhile I've been competely neglecting my public. I know I've said it before, but I promise to be a better blogger from now on.

Last night I went to a honky tonk bar on 9th and A. It was nearly closing, so there was only enough time for one beer. I soaked in as much atmosphere as I could in that little stretch of time, I want to go back. In my favorite book Sex Tips For Single Girls the author Cynthia Heimel says that honky tonk bars are the best place to flirt. Actually she says Texas is the best place to flirt, but in a cinch a honky tonk bar will do.

The author is big fan of cowboys, becuase she says they aren't intimidated by those newfangled "career" women. They're kind of the perfect combination of gentlemanlyness and ruggedness. I think she might be right. She also claims that New York City is the worst place to flirt, because all the guys are arrogant and the women out number them three hundred to one. Apparently the only way to get guys in New York interested is to pretend you hate them. I don't know about New York, but this sounds a lot like Sarah Lawrence to me. She says that if you're in New York you should make a point of it to go exclusively to honky tonk bars. I think I might. I didn't see any cowboys last night, but it couldn't hurt hanging around in case one should happen by.

Super chill

All of you sissies who didn't come to freeze tag on Sunday because of the cold really missed out. There were about 13 people and it was rad. Afterwards we went to Chinatown and ate big bowls of hot soup. Later that evening it was pointed out to me that I would most likely be one of the only people to get laid as a direct result of freeze tag. How could I resist when faced with such a possibility?

Stars in your eyes

I’m obsessed with Astroabby horoscopes. They are incredibly specific and either completely wrong or eerily correct. This week it tells me that my love meter is on 9, but it also suggests that I look into an online dating service. What is Astroabby trying to do to me?! Isn’t it bad enough already that I’m reading online horoscopes? Truthfully this isn’t the first time that the notion of online personals has been raised, but as of yet I have not been willing to cross that line. I refuse to become Nora the feminist club girl! I have to be honest though, whenever Astroabby suggests something I am compelled to think that I might miss my destiny by not complying with her wishes immediately. Astroabby has sent my out in snow storms for nothing, but I keep coming back. At this very moment I’m on the verge of contacting “loveninja” or “punk taoist” before collapsing my bed in miserable loneliness.

How do you spell brussel sprouts?

I finally hooked my computer up to the internet! I’m so proud of myself for finally figuring it out. The thing seemed just useless without it, although it is still a bit useless. It moves terribly slowly and lets out long low moans like a hassled old man. It makes me feel rustic-- like I’m writing on a faulty old typewriter, tapping along just barely with the intermittent interruption. They give one time to think anyway.

The night before I returned from London I freaked out a bit. I think it was all that Jasmine tea, I was wired. When we got back to the hotel I changed back into my jeans, took my notebook and went into the bathroom. I sat in there scribbling away furiously. I just felt so cut off from everything; I thought maybe I’d changed, gone jaded or something. That night I couldn’t sleep at all. I lay in bed frantically analyzing everything. I always loose my mind some when I go away, it’s necessary because if I don’t travel I get bored and start hating everything.

That night I came to pinpoint the exact climax of the trip. The whole reason that I was unhappy was that it had occurred on the second day and everything after was just a let down. It was in The National Gallery. We got there at 2:30 and the museum closed at 6:00. I had demanded that we buy sandwiches in the tube and eat them while on the train, because I knew that I would want to see everything and we just didn’t have enough time. My dad had bought some French cheese at the Notting Hill market earlier that day and I could smell the thick stench of it right through his backpack. I couldn’t stand to be next to him for another second. In the museum I steered us toward the 15-16th century wing and made it my duty to loose him. I wasn’t hard and soon I was in Renaissance heaven.

I can’t really enjoy looking at art unless there are many paintings in a room by one artist, or maybe if the room is empty except for one fantastic painting (although the only time I can think of like this was with a Pontormo in a tiny church). On this day it was perfect: the slow warm up, a few random somewhat mediocre paintings, and then a Michelangelo. It was an unfinished one, called The Entombment. Most of it appeared to be complete and then a hand or an arm or bits of the background were left completely untouched, a gaping hole in the middle of the canvas. I’m convinced he just did it to show off, no one can paint like that! I walked onward.

There was a nice build up with the Botticelli’s and then I hit the Titian and Veronese room. The very highlight of the trip occurred when I saw the huge Veronese painting. I can’t even really remember it now, just that it was huge and had Mary in it. There was a flash of light with disembodied winged angel heads flying down it. There were many figures. It was one of those paintings that made you want to see the whole thing at once, but it was so big and complicated that it was impossible. Your eye got caught on all the details and whizzed around the whole canvas, looking everywhere at once. I stood way back and tried to see it all and then walked in close and concentrated on everyone’s faces.

When the museum closed I walked out the front entrance. Trafalgar Square was all lit up and there was a huge Christmas tree out front. We went to a pub up the street and I sat with a beer, listening to the beatles and writing a post card. It was perfect.

Usually upon leaving on a trip I feel the worst sort of loneliness—an anxious far away feeling down in my lungs, my breathing goes shallow, and there is a distant ache in my chest. It’s the most awful sort of fear, but eventually it subsides. This time I didn’t feel anything as I was going. Even sitting on the plane it seemed I was hardly aware that I was heading any place, I just felt listless and a little exasperated. My seatmates were a dopey British couple and they didn’t say a word to me the whole six hour ride.

The night before we went home I began to wonder if I’d changed. I thought that maybe I’d traveled so much I’d become jaded by it. Or perhaps it was because it wasn’t really my trip, I didn’t plan it or pay for it. It was my dad’s trip and I was merely a witness. I worried that maybe I drink too much, that beer had killed off all sensory stimulation in my brain, I’d turned into a strange blob. Distant. Emotionless. Then I realized that no one had really spoken to me all week. Conversation didn’t go beyond the formalities, my questions answered, it was all felt very superficial. I guess the Brits like to keep to themselves, and then again so do I.

The most intimate I felt was the few words exchanged with the French waiter at a café down the street. It was the only thing opened on Christmas, so we went there twice that day. He was long and lean, with dark hair, and an unshaven face. His left eyebrow seemed to be perpetually cocked giving him a wry, teasing expression. On first look he wasn’t terribly attractive, a bit too skinny and his face was somehow rough and weathered. There was something about him, though.

When he spoke to you he drew you right in—his voice at just the right level so you felt as if there were something between you, some sort of private joke or secret knowledge that you shared. It was like he had a particular interest in talking to you, and feeding you, and making sure you were satisfied by what he gave you. He showed me all of the dishes they had and carefully explained each one. When he called the brussell sprouts bean sprouts and my father corrected him he leaned into my ear and asked, “what do you call them?”
“bussel sprouts” I murmured nearly melting into the floor.
“brussel sprouts?”
“Yes, brussel sprouts.