Some of them little people are pretty.

Kevin Kerr, a large African-American man who used to "work" in my office and punctuated everything he said with a bounce of his big belly ("Whew! I'm beat! I'll finish this tomorrow!"), once confessed to a weakness for midgets, er, little people. (sorry, midges everywhere!) I fear I may have to do the same.

I met a little person named Nick last night and he is, to put it bluntly, kinda hot. He's a comic and an actor and is currently in a national Verizon (well, some phone commercial where he plays the new elf in Santa's workshop) commercial. His standup is funny, his face is chiseled and attractive, his eyes are dreamy and he doesn't quite come up to my boobs. I could potentially grab him by the hair and force his face onto my snatchbox with minimal effort. The possibilities are endless. Well, that's not true. It's not like he could bend me over anything. His feet don't touch the floor when he sits in a chair. He drives, though. He has pedal extensions. I saw him without a shirt on. He has a kickin' torso.

Nick is also one of the reasons my last relationship ended. I saw his standup last summer and then insulted my ex, who had a midget joke he thought was one of his best. "I saw this midget last night who was soooooo funny. I mean, so many hack comics have midget jokes and this guy was hilarious! He made normal comics look so bad!" Mind you, this statement is offensive on multiple levels. Between that and the Asian incident in the elevator last week, I might as well not breathe in public places for fear I may voice yet another un-PC utterance.

Giving Tanks

It seems fitting, at the end of a rather stressful Thanksgiving holiday, that the Atlanta to New York, JFK leg of my flight found me sitting next to a rather friendly taxidermist. My dad was amused by Tim's suggestion that his poodle and companion Mr. Brown should be stuffed into a fashionable stole of sorts upon dying, thereby making him fit to participate in my wedding, regardless of age or impairment.

Oddly, my dad, usually the source of all holiday tension, behaved fabulously over Tgiving. My siblings and in-law? Not so much. My sister took it upon herself to invite her fiancee to every family event. As he will shortly be family, I thought this was fine. My brother and sister-in-law thought Big Ron might not be ready for so much future son-in-law and hoped to maintain my dad's good mood. They suggested maybe fiancee shouldn't come over to decorate the tree. My sister took great offense to this and a comparison of how much time one's spouse should spend with his/her future in-laws prior to wedding ensued. Ron was about to come over and teach the ladies how to make the family fudge and that, too, became a part of the fight:

Sister: "I don't see why he couldn't be here and watch us make fudge!"
Sis-in-law: "I'm just saying I think your dad just wanted to make fudge and watch the game with just the family!"
Sister: "My fiancee is family and I don't even want to make the fucking fudge!"
Sis-in-law:"Well, I don't particularly want to be with your dad in the kitchen and I'm lactose intolerant! So fuck you and your family fudge!"

My sister avoided all of us, even me, for the rest of the weekend. She looked like hell and cried a lot. She apologized to me but what could be done. My dad didn't cause a lick of tension directly yet we still went above and beyond to insure that nothing rocked the boat. And we're all adults. My sister-in-law doesn't understand why we bend to him so much and when we tell him "he's our only living parent," she clams up but still doesn't quite get it. Because as much as we hate him sometimes, we love him more. And he grows simultaneously more feeble and more oddly sagelike by the day: "Kad, dere's always another book to take off the shelf."

What the hell does that mean?

Turtle Poking Out

In lieu of taking the dump I desperately need to take, I will blog. Someone else is in the handicapped stall, aka "shitter" and I must ride it out for a bit. Hopefully the dump will not crawl back up my donut side.

At a splendid bar in ABC City (Doc Holliday's), a barely legal lesbian of the dykey variety hit on me last night in front of my semi-significant-other the Ohioan, hereafter to be referred to as Adam Sandler. Then, while at Lucky Cheng's where Adam Sandler and hot friend Texas Matt did an amazing rendition of Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive," I managed to somehow offend a trannie. I told her she had great boobs and that somehow made me an asshole. I always thought that, as a female, I could be friends with anyone: your gay women, your gay men, your trannies, poodles of all sizes . . in reality, not so much. Then I went to the bathroom and Adam Sandler said "my girlfriend thinks you're hot" and we got two free beers. Girlfriend. Huh. Hadn't counted on that one.

Tonight I meet a midget. Okay, that fart is gonna stink up the chair for a while.

Oh, Cecelia . . you're breaking my face

While on72nd and Broadway this morning, I fielded a phonecall from Tim and stopped at a coffee truck for coffee and a donut. God, I love donuts. And bacon. And boobs. I digress. The coffee guy looked at me funny, with a certain sort of knowing sympathy. He handed me my bag o coffee and donut and said "Please have a good day." He was so tender, so gentle, so worried.

It occurred to me as I was walking away: I had just had twenty-five minutes of electrolysis done on my face. After these sessions, my face swells up, turns red and I look like a beaten housewife for about an hour. Of course, that being said, why didn't I get my donut and cup of joe for free?

Now I shall broach a topic of greater import: the I-might-be-getting-laid apartment readying. In recent months, I have gone over to a boy's apartment to find it immaculate. Bed made, shiny floors, tasteful decor, artwork framed and hanging perfectly (something I can't master, even with a level. Thanks for nothing, five years at the Bombay Company!), etc. Although I am a neat and tidy woman, there's the ever-present pile of books, the lint in my new rug, the occasional toothpaste splatter on the bathroom mirror,the dishwasher that needs to be emptied. Now, men, if you're just looking to get laid, I know these things don't matter . . but if you like a girl, will you hold it against her if you get to her door for the first time and says "give me exactly three minutes" while she hides the vibrator, the self-help books, tampons, porn, collage that she made a la the Artists Way to visualize her goals, happy pills, sleeping pills, anti-anxiety pills and the five or six outfits that she thought about wearing to meet you but instead ended up on her bed?

Before you break up, you see The Ring

It has recently occurred to me that my last two relationships have ended within 7 days of seeing the film "The Ring." I hardly think this is a coincidence.

Also of little to no import except as a fun fact: when not dating anyone seriously, I have a tendency to date men in twos. In September, I dated two Vincents. Then there were two Shannons. Most recently, two Marks. And somewhere in the middle, just one Brian. Weird.

Happy effin holidays

Season's Greetings, readers. As we rapidly approach the holidays (Candy Canes are already in Rite Aid . . . why not bust out the Cadbury Creme Eggs while we're at it? They are creamy and delicious, like a nice Hispanic girl. If manjuice tasted like a Creme Egg, there'd be no babies), my father has taken it upon himself to disown my sister. Mind you, this time last year, he'd disowned me due to what I'll refer to as the "Loehmann's Incident." Occasionally I don't wear underwear and my dad, who was assisting me in coatshopping, watched me bend over to pick something up and apparently saw more than plenty. He didn't speak to me for a week and then accused me of prostituting myself on the streets of New York City. Happy Thanksgiving! This year, my sister told Ron that she was going to move in with her fiancee and live with him in the six months prior to their wedding. Ron told my sister that she clearly had lost all respect for herself and said a few other choice things as well along the lines of "you're a whore." Mind you, my sister is 34, financially independent of my father, and dare I suggest it, AN ADULT. Again, Happy Fucking Holidays!

Some of you have been inquiring if I'll be having a threesome. My immediate answer: no. I'm leaving for Virginia in a few hours to watch a married friend run the Richmond Marathon. I deflowered him about 10 years ago and he was rather nervous. Ever since he's been asking if he can have a threesome with him and his wife. I know he's kidding, though. As I sit here, my friend Gabe asked me if he smelled like ass and put his crotch near my face. Then, his ass. You know, he is a friend and yes, I used to put my face near his boyparts but somewhere, you got to draw the line.

Doing my (middle) part as an American citizen

In a passionate revolt against our recent election results, I have taken it upon myself to begin dating a native of Ohio. In a passionate revolt against my last boyfriend . . . okay, so it wasn't intentional, the Ohioan also happens to be a standup comic. And an actor. And a painter. In a passionate . . oh fuck it, he's 23, okay? And I'm 28. I'm just hoping I don't look like his aunt or godparent or similar. Although it would seem I'm going through a blue-eyed, brown-haired thing.

Apparently, people have a lot of threesomes in Ohio (Ohioans, please feel free to weigh in on this). The Ohioan has had four, two of each variety, and some were repeat offenders! Me? None. He says threesome sex is very easy to come by and more people have had it than not. I found this shocking. With the exception of the time Tim and I were picked up by less-than-attractive swingers, half of the couple being reluctant, I've gotten nowhere near a threesome. And if I'm going to have one, it better be soon. Otherwise I'm gonna be in Shady Pines forty years from now eyeing Bernice's wrinkled one; however, the Ohioan says he really likes me and thus won't share. And frankly, I'm a little selfish. He says threesomes are kinda awkward and sloppy. Sometimes you're left out, for example, and looking for a way back in. My argument was: "yeah, but you've got four boobs in the air!"

Some standup comic who I haven't dated said he refused to be in a threesome because then he'd be disappointing two women.

There are also apparently a lot of midget orgies, according to the Ohioan's midget roommate.

I just got fucked.

The guy I thought I was seeing, Brian, just left an event he invited me to . . .with a very, very cute blonde named Nicole. I promptly called my friend John. Then I called Brian and told him he's a pussy. He said "I'm just going home." And I said, "No, you're getting laid."
Fucking actors. Never again.

Cute? Yes. Couth? Not so much.

I had a callback for a Time Warner audition today. In it, my husband shows me the wirefree, messfree wonders of our new HD installation. I'm pissed because as the runner of the household and the breadwinner, I had rearranged the living room to accomodate lots of technological accoutrement (sp?). So I do the scene in front of four ad execs and the casting director with a very funny guy named Scott. At the end of the scene, I turned my head and muttered "jackass." Everyone in the room laughed a bit. We received direction. Did it again. This time, Scott and I just went with it. I muttered "Fucking douchebag. Fucking cable box. This marriage is so over" and he responded in turn. And again, laughter. Perhaps what was weirdest is that I had a look at all the other women in the audition and they were cookie cutter images of each other. Late 20s, straight, shiny hair to their shoulders, perky breasts ensconced in solid V-neck sweaters, perfectly-fitted jeans . . a generic, hip, casualness flitted about them. In the meantime, I'm hoping I don't have an afro or lipstick on my teeth.

Halloween weekend was quiet but good. Next year my friends and I are going as the cast of Will and Grace. It's gonna be awesome.

I watched "Made" over the weekend. I am now officially in love with Vince Vaughn. He and I and Kelly Ripa are going to make beautiful babies together somehow.