Not your standard issue late twenty-something's blog.

Friday, June 25, 2004

Pepperidge Farm Cookies!

I owe my friend an apology. We had it out the other night and he unearthed some pretty ugly truths about yours truly. I'm going to speak of this matter further when I'm not hungover.

Katharine Hepburn had the shakes. I also have the shakes. I'm just that hungover. Mr. Brown, my dad's poodle, also shakes. My friend Tim was delighted to see that Mr. Brown's boyparts were intact: "Let me see your little testicles," he said. Mr. Brown was patient while his dog balls were scrutinized by Tim but then he promptly ran and hid under the bed.

Tim and I got picked up and intoxicated by a couple of swingers last night. At my dad's building's bar. I vomited in his recycling bin.
At least I didn't have sex with strangers. And of the five times that i drunk dialed my babydaddy at 1:36am, I only left one message, telling him I love him.

I have to nap now. So much more to come.

Friday, June 11, 2004

The OrthoJew speaks

So, I'm having a bad day. Although I've successfully managed to avoid the ex, there's been some tension. Some potential miscommunication in other areas of my life. My boyfriend comes home in three days but I need lovin' badly and the titties are huge cuz Captain Bloodsnatch is visiting.

My friend Barry, my sole Orthodox Jewish friend, calls. We talk about this, that and the other and then we get into marriage. Being in his thirties and living with his grandmother, Barry is nowhere near getting married. Apparently this is almost frowned upon in his community as though somewhere the elderly are speaking in hushed whispers: "why isn't he married already?". This phenomenon was fascinating to me. In my Christian world, women definitely feel a certain amount of pressure to get married and pump out some babies but it's not so much a Christian thing. There are tons of Christians. We're not going to die out any time soon. But that wasn't even where Barry was coming from: "I love the idea of marriage. I love the thought of sharing my life with someone. I was ready to get married ten years ago." When do you ever hear a man say that?

I, too, want to get married, Barry. I've wrestled with the concept more times than I can count and what I keep coming back to is that I want to wake up to someone every morning. I want to come home to someone every night. I want that companionship and that friendship. I do want that. And I do want it under the auspices of marriage. One of the reasons I broke up with my ex is because he doesn't believe in marriage. And when I was struggling with a boyfriend just after college, my brother said to me "Is this guy the one? Cuz if he's not, get out. Don't waste your time."

I don't know what the one is. I know I've thought I've had the one and I've been wrong. A friend once told me that you don't necessarily marry the love of your life. You just marry the person you love when you're ready to get married. At the time, that made me really sad. And then I look at so many of my friends who got married all around the same time and I look at the proposals some of my guy friends got forced into making . . . I know I'm not ready now. I have so many goals that I need to fulfill before I can fully share my life with someone. But I do want that.

Monday, June 07, 2004

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

I originally started this blog in winter 2003. Remember that wicked snow storm? Back then I was online dating with a vengeance and sleeping with most of New York. I removed those old posts recently because my ex and I became friends and I feared he would find my blog and realize how much I'd missed him and what a pathetic, desperate sap our breakup had made me. 

Today was like any other Monday. Slow, sleepy, sluggish. There I was, sitting at a desk that I really couldn't call my own, staring at scraps of paper from the sixties and seventies that had been handled several hundreds of times by my asbestos litigation temp predecessors. . . when I went insane. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud and let out a nice, juicy fart brewing from the salad I'd just consumed. The air conditioning had me freezing, my nipples erect and the hair on my arms sticking straight up. I suddenly began to fantacize about running through the office, composed of 45 men and 5 women, of which I am one, brandishing only a pair of scissors and shrieking some sort of unintelligible warcry ending with "you fucking douchebags!"

This incident marked my first desire to do physical harm to people I actually know. Usually these tempests are reserved solely for the short, squat, elderly Asian women that crowd me as I attempt to get off the 7 train at Grand Central most mornings. I try to make my body as big as possible as I leave the train, fully taking as much space my body will allow. Them bitches are small,though. Small and quick. And they fill me with fury. I long to line them up in a row and, wielding my messenger bag and the strength of twelve men, knock them over like Dominoes. Nothing would make me happier.

Maybe I need a vacation. My handsome boyfriend is in Georgia right now. I
should be with him but temps don't get vacation time. He called me last night from a Tiki bar on a beach and then played poker till 3:30 a.m. I bought groceries and made a recipe from Shape magazine, producing food that was shockingly bland, the leftovers from which I took to work today, this insane Monday when I fantacized about my co-workers with the scissors in the tray on the desk that I can't quite call mine. Perhaps the remarkably flavorless food inspired my homicidal tendencies.