resolutions

I hereby vow to expunge "okey dokey" and "alrighty" from my daily vocabulary.
I also vow to stop dating men who in any way resemble this:
http://www.crisell001.freeserve.co.uk/caps/images/dancer.swf

Separating the wheat from the chaff

The chaff being the person who dicked me/the relationship biting the dust and the wheat being the gifts they left behind, for example:

Matt (just call me "Hot Food Fatty")
A set of Henckels knives
Measuring cups and spoons
Palm pilot (used)
Archaic food processor (circa 1950)
Mediocre blender (doesn't crush ice, not suitable for margaritas. as if I blend anything else).
A copy of Farenheit whatdoyoucallit, I never got into it.

Donna (aka the Italian Adam Sandler)
One used travel mug
A Louis Vutton (fake I imagine) planner (his parents are involved in selling stolen fake goods)
A VHS tape of rapper Snow ("Informer. Likky boom boom bam.")
One drinking glass with instructions on how to mix Vodka with fruity beverages
One long-sleeved Skid Row t-shirt

Production douchebags
My one-woman show which in turn made a relationship with an agent who ultimately got me a commercial. Ha! Bitches. Dirty smelly Spanish prostitute whores. I wave my ass in your general direction and grab my left one.

Butterface

I just bought a couple things at Bowery Restaurant Supplies: a glass butterdish and a decanter of sorts that looks like a milk bottle from the 40s. Thought I'd put butter in the dish and flowers in the bottle. Cool thing about restaurant supply shops is that they're cheap and everything is basic, like you stole it from your favorite diner

A combination of Carol and Gabe consoled and advised me last night when I finally, for the last time, dismissed the Italian from my life. I know this loss is not much compared to others but to have someone practically propose marriage and then flake out on you is enough to make your head spin. Love, like loss, has no logic. And my heart hurts nonetheless.

My friend Barry the orthoJew and I often discuss God's plan for us. Clearly we haven't met the right ones yet because God knows we're not ready. I'd be happy just to date someone who had time for me, who didn't have an excess of back hair or a massive beergut coupled with manboobs. Who makes me laugh. Who will eat my attempts at raspberry tiramisu and other delights. Who will watch my Netflix flicks with me, eating too much popcorn and drinking too much wine/Corona/margaritas (depending upon season and weather). And who isn't married to countless other things: career, GTA, roommates ... someone who has all those interests and passions but knows how to balance it out and knows how to say no to people. Who not only already has room for a mate but will make more.

Somewhere he's out there. Looking (or not looking) . . . . for me.

In the meantime, Mr. Brown and his humppuppet will have to do.

The name of my blog is apt, no?

I haven't blogged in some time due to being busy at work and busy with Papa Weeyums. My father has pneumonia and someone needs to walk Mr. Brown and feed my dad. My dad is shocked that I can cook. At least one good thing has therefore come from his illness: he'll stop bugging me to cook for him.

As some of you may know, I was due to be involved in some rather shady business this weekend in a town called King of Prussia, PA. My father, unknowingly of course, has kept me from my first orgy. This seems only fitting.

I'm also due to go away next weekend for the first extended chunk of time with a boy I've been seeing sporadically for a few months (heretofore known as Adam Sandler or the Italian). How to leave town without raising suspicion from Ron. It's a mystery. Perhaps Mr. Brown would like to accompany Adam Sandler and I to Scranton, PA.

I've never been in a situation where I've had to take care of someone: wait on them, cook for them, etc. And now I've realized: I can. It never occurred to me to do otherwise with my dad. I downloaded a couple soup recipes, ran to the store and thirty minutes later, there was a meal. I felt like Hot Lips Houlihan in my surgical mask and gloves. When forced, I can be nurturing and unselfish. Yep, my dad's supersick and it all comes back to me. Wow, I'm self-absorbed.

A kernel of truth

My Friday nights have been my personal Netflix nights for some time. Which isn't to say others aren't welcome but that's the way it works out. And I've begun to find unpopped microwave popcorn kernels in the oddest places. Near my bed. In my bathroom. Just inside my front door. As though if one were to follow a trail of kernels, they could observe the pattern of my days. Onion and garlic bits remain on my kitchen floor, fluff from my wool rug scatters under glass tables and hairballs mingle stubbornly behind doors but kernels go everywhere.

My psychiatrist said this morning that if you don't respect yourself, your mate won't respect you either. Your mate must treat you with kindness, consideration, love and respect. If he/she doesn't, get the hell out. Somehow hearing him utter these truths without a trace of cliche belted me with a resounding smack of whatthefuck right across my face. (It doesn't hurt that he's a beautiful man with a beautiful wife and beautiful children. Clearly he's got something right. )
It's all about you. Not about getting inside someone else's head and wondering what they think of you. And the moment you start belittling yourself in a relationship, it's over. How am I 28 and still not internalizing the things?

And, as always, I think of my mother. And the questions I wish I could ask her.

I gotta believe . . .

that not all men are liars. That when they say I love you, we have a future together -- they mean it and aren't speaking out of whimsy or some vague drunken revelation. But it seems yet again I looked into a pair of seemingly kind eyes and saw something that simply wasn't there.

I know there's the firing luncheon ( a la Jerry Maguire). There should also be the breakup dinner. Cuz guess whose chicken club leftovers I'm eating this afternoon?

Not again . . .

With the exception of daily phonecalls (which I realize are kinda a big deal in Boyland), my boyfriend has taken to treating me more like someone he fucks when he has the time than someone he supposedly loves and sees a future with. Because I can tell he's not a bad guy, I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. The comics of New York have formed a union and as both a NY booker and comic, he's in an uncomfortable position. This stress, he says, has been taken out on me. And us. So we're due to have dinner tonight. We'll see if it actually happens. He un-invited me from his Super Bowl Party yesterday for reasons I still don't understand. Something about twenty guys and no women . . .

As I walked up the stairs from the A/C/E at 14th Street this morning, I saw a guy, still walking forward, crane his neck around to stare at a fat woman's ass. I don't know how these guys don't run into people. He did this for a full 10 feet. My question is: if you like that ass so much, why are you walking away from it?

I guess logic doesn't come into play when one is entranced by ass.
I guess

Director's Commentary at UCB

This was easily the funniest thing I've seen in months. At UCB last night, they showed an afterschool special called "Francesca Baby" from 1976 featuring an alcoholic mother, a distant father and a daughter who's left to take care of the household. Three UCB guys on mics provided DVD-like commentary: one guy was the grown-up Francesca actress (and did not put on a female voice), one guy was the writer, one guy was the director. I nearly pissed on myself. They had that quiet-I'm-on-mic-doing-DVD-commentary voice down pat.

Funniest line ever:
"Having an alcoholic mother is like having a retarded little brother. They're always embarrassing you."

That alone was well worth the $5 admission fee.

Big Hair = Smart

I knew Manning Marable and Cornell West were smart. Malcolm Gladwell needs to be added to this list of big-haired scholars whose work I admire. Heard him speak at the Learning Annex last night in a seminar mistakenly called: "How to Flood Any Business with Customers."

The seminar was actually about his latest book, Blink. Of his main points one is: taking us out of situations where we might potentially make bad snap judgments. Public school kids should wear uniforms (lessen the effects of judgments based on appearance). Cops shouldn't travel in pairs or groups (lessen the probability of poor actions based on bravado or stupid group mentality, i.e. Amadou Diallo). High-speed chases should be banned (Rodney King's beating was actually about stress, cortisol and adrenalin, not racism). All auditions for orchestras should take place behind screens (to lessen bias against women and the notion that only men can play classical music).

Fascinating stuff, to be sure. My question for him was: aren't these notions relieving humanity of the onus of evolution? Sure, if you never have to deal with your bias or prejudice, it'll never manifest itself. Hm. How convenient. And tidy. And not really . . . human.

He also said we should listen to our instincts when they have a foundation of years of experience. Giving structure to our spontaneity. The highest percentage of driving fatalities occur with men under the ages of 22. They make poor snap judgments because they haven't been driving long. I could make a snap judgment about what stock to buy without my dad's help but it'd be a mistake. In other word, intuition is the fruit of experience.

My brain's reeling. Comments welcome. Cool article on Slate in relation to this topic:
http://slate.com/id/2111894#ContinueArticle

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Cocktail

If you've never cooked a mozzarella and spinach stuffed turkey meatloaf while watching the special features on a DVD after sucking down two free gin and tonics in paper cups through a straw just before popping half an Ambien and passing out, I highly recommend it.