The Average Princess and The Horny Toad: An Urban Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there lived a princess. A simple, average princess named Jones. She grew up in an average sized castle in an average kingdom not far from the greatest kingdom in all of the world, Big Appleshire. Now in her average kingdom Princess Jones lived an average life. She went to school, she played sports and was friends with many other princesses.

As the princess grew older she began to day dream about one day moving to the great kingdom not far away but she was scared. She saw many of her princess friends meet princes and they were happy. But being that Princess Jones was a modern princess, she knew how to dream big. She dreamed of breaking out of her average kingdom and getting a job working for a big magazine. But, all of the jobs at the magazines were in the greatest kingdom in the world. How could an average princess make it on her own in such a large place? She had many doubts, but her Fairy Godmother told her to head to the big city and study hard. Then she could make it at a big magazine that every princess in the world would read. Princess Jones was brave, and with the help of her mother, the Queen of Residence Park and a loan from the government of all the kingdoms, she moved into Big Appleshire in a small hamlet called Hell's Kitchinia.

Princess Jones immersed herself into her studies and on the completion of her hard work she was offered a job. She didn't work for a magazine that every princess read. No, this was a much more magical magazine that was targeted towards an even better audience, QUEENS!

Our princess was very happy and worked very hard to become more than just another average princess. She became very smart and learned to love her average self which she found out was more beautiful than she ever knew. But still, Princess Jones thought something was missing. All of her other pretty princess friends were in love with wonderful princes. One even became a Queen! Princess Jones began to dream of nothing but finding her own prince. She started to believe in fictional tales told to her by Julia Roberts, Sarah Jessica Parker and Meg Ryan. She even started to believe in an old fairy tale told about another princess, who kissed a frog who just so happened to be an enchanted prince.

Now, Princess Jones had a few other friends who were looking for their own Prince Charmings. One was Princess Carly, who lived in her own hamlet called Upper East Sidius. One stormy night, Princess Jones and Princess Carly (who was a modern princess herself) decided that they needed to be proactive. Afterall, the princess who kissed the frog prince ended up happily ever after.

Armed with nothing but the most fabulous little blue princess dress (and an enchanted bra that made her bosum look incredibly more ample than it actually was), Princess Jones and Princess Carly braved the storm to try and meet some princes. The two traveled to a magical tavern, known only to the people who weren't turned off by the giant fiber glass pig propped outside. The people at the tavern were wonderful and gave both princesses free popcorn and a delicious ale (which both princesses were drinking very quickly due to the wine they had drank earlier in the night).

Princess Jones like to dance when she drinks wine.

Once they decided that no princes, just wonderful common folk, were to be found at this tavern they chose to journey to another tavern not far away. The tavern was full of very handome knights in white pants that traveled in on large boats for a week in the large kingdom. But the knights were already with younger, sluttier princess. So Princess Jones walked around until a prince approached her. He was quite handsome, a little buck toothed but quite handsome, and was a high ranking knight. Princess Jones liked the prince, but he was boring. The prince introduced the princess to his friend. Who was a frog. With warts. A tall frog with warts. Princess Jones was frightened, but as she turned to be rescued, her prince had left, to woo Princess Carly.

Then, Princess Jones remebered her favorite fairy tale. Maybe she had found her prince who would return to his human form when she kissed him. But even Princess Jones couldn't stomach that sober, and the frog knew that, so he gave her some poison called Bud Light, knowing that it would impair her vision and overall judgement.

Princess Jones began to feel drunk, and she was amused by the frog, who it turned out, was from a far away land called Alabama. The frog kept moving closer to the princess and eventually she gave in, and kissed the frog in a tacky bar makeout that all princesses are advised against. Her prince even kissed like a frog with his creepy long tongue that would rival that of Sir Gene Simmons, a minstral in a band called KISS.

Princess Jones will do crazy things when poisoned with beer.

When Princess Jones opened her eyes her prince was still not a prince, but an even more horrifying frog, nay, a TOAD! He wasn't even a knight like his friend. Rather he was a recovering frat frog with very large beer gut. The princess used her clever getaway line but the toad could not be stopped. He begged and pleaded for the princesses phone number. What was she to do? Princess Jones was normally very honorable, and did not want to hurt the toad's feelings. But she gave him a fake number anyway, promising herself that this was an exception because the toad was horrifying.

The next morning, she awoke to a feeling of nausea and light sensitivity. In part because she had been given too much poison and in part because she had believed in a fairy tale. She
vowed never to do it again and to wait, like every other successful princess, for her perfect prince to find her. Even if it meant she had to makeout with some not-so-perfect princes along the way. And she knew she would one day live happily ever after.

The End.

Finally, some clarity! Maybe it's because I didn't drink this week....

So this past week I’ve had many moments of truly inspired thought leading to new and interesting revelations that I would like to share with you.

1. Revelation: I am officially too jaded and cynical to believe in something that never was. As I explained, I lost my iPod in a vodka induced trance last Friday. I didn’t mention that I lost a lot more than that. On Wednesday of last week I found out that my biggest crush of all time, the guy I swooned over for all four years of college was going to be in New York City. I haven’t spoken to him since 2002 and even then, I was choppy at best. We shared one awesome night (no sex, I swear) together in 1999. Yes, this is pre-new-millenial crushness. It never worked out but we had talked about that night and he agreed that it was something special and there was something there, even it was just a brief encounter, clouded with Parliament Lights and a haze of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. He was the guy that my friends forbid me of mentioning about halfway through our junior year because I refused to do anything about it. I had planned on stalking said crush, but chose not to, because it’s been 4 years and really, I like to remember him in the context of the ways things were in college. In a word: hopeful. Unfortunately, fate decided to spin her wheel and bring us back together, in an accidental meeting outside of an Upper East Side watering hole. I had no choice but to say hello (already the vodka had taken over). Again I was hopeful, but the look on his face suggested otherwise (I swear, it was like I was breaking a restraining order) so I left him alone all night, avoided any and all contact. My friends can rejoice: this crush is over. Fate let me know he’s not the one and I’m over it. Finally. Really. I swear.

2. Revelation: Divas are funny, especially Clay Aiken. American Idol. Two words that I haven’t really held value to since the first season, aka, the launch of my true idol, Kelly Clarkson. But this finale was perhaps the funniest thing I’ve seen on TV since watching Ashlee Simpson and her hoe-down idiocy on SNL last year. Tony Braxton drunk of her as trying to grind on Taylor = funny. Dionne Warwick looking like she may break hip = pretty damn hysterical. And the Gaiken comes out (unfortunately, not all the way out) and reveals to America that he is slowly morphing into Barry Manilow and/or a woman. Gives his Diva look to the sad sack trying to sing like him and then proceeds to serenade his look alike. Creepy? Sort of. Not as creepy as Kevin Covais singing “What’s New Pussycat?.” Comedy gold? Most Def.

The G in Gaiken stands for G-UNIT!

3. Revelation: I miss the Mastercard ads. Here is mine of the week. Losing my iPod and having to buy new one= $193.00. New makeup to impress Fleet Week seamen = $15.00. Getting gussied up and walking by a group of hot sailors and having brand new iPod randomly shuffle to Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” = Priceless.

4. Revelation: Ugly guys can be sexy. Not gonna lie. Was a little upset to find out Elliot Yamin had a girlfriend. Whatevs, I think I made out with him on a spring break somewhere.

Elliot Yamin's offspring will look like this:

Let’s hope this week (and especially the upcoming long weekend) is as full of clarity and insight as the last. And let’s hope I get to have fun with some seamen. What do you do with a drunken sailor? I can think of some things. [insert evil plotting laugh and envision Jonesy rubbing hands together maliciously here]

See you at the crossroads (crossroads)...so you won't be lonely.

Folks, I lost my iPod. My little blue pal who has given me my soundtrack since May 17th of last year. I did a post on it as soon as I received it. It was a happy day.


Friday was a happy day too. Because of the excessive amounts of vodka that made me happy. I know what you are thinking, "Jonesy, why do you drink vodka when you know the result will be loss or bodily injury to you and others?" My answer is it makes me forget and it's tast with some club soda. And I have short term memory loss so I usually forget what it does to me. Memory loss probably caused by the vodka.


So my iPod is gone. Either in a taxi of picked up by some ne'er do well on 9th Ave. RIP blue iPod and blue iPod sweater. I still have the headphones (haven't figured that out yet) but the iPod is indeed gone.

I will have a better post after I am finished sitting shiva (and when I've figured out how to work my brand new iPod nano, haha!)

Silly Rabbit...Trix are for kids. Oh wait, can I not have them anymore?

Don't fence me in, bitches!

I am a large child. I have refused to grow up for quite some time. I still play video games. I still read Seventeen (sometimes). I still watch cartoons (Spongebob anyone?) and I still eat Lucky Charms. I sleep in a twin bed. n fact, the shirt I am wearing right now was purchased in the kids department at Old Navy.

When I was in College, Carly and Little would always joke that I was like an overgrown child. Partly because of the food I ate (CoCo puffs and Kraft mac and cheese), partly because I would rock out to 'NSYNC, and partly because, well, I refused to grow up.

I realized yesterday that it was starting to happen. Sometime, somewhere, my Peter Pan thought it would be a good idea to exchange Neverland for the life of corporate drone, and forget about chasing his shadow so he can pay rent.

I am officially a coffee drinker (I hated it growing up). I listen to Lite FM at home sometimes. I just bought a classical music cd. Sometimes I stay at home on Friday nights because I'm tired. I am starting to save money--well not really, I'm starting to pay my debts. I like Sunday morning.

I've been trying to find the source, reasoning or any explanation to my recent changes in lifestyle. I can blame it on work, the fact that after a year and a half of grad school I'm back to the grind and therefore miserable because I'm lazy and I hate work in general. But that's not a good enough excuse because I actually sort of like my job and at least I'm in the right industry now.

I can blame my issues on my friend's recent breakup, like my friend Penny, (http://pennythinks.blogspot.com/) but I know that's not true. I'm just not close enough to the situation to do that.

I can blame it on my family, who l also blame for the three white hairs I picked out of scalp yesterday. Fully white. Thanks for the stress guys.

I can blame it on Lost and Grey's Anatomy for making me spend countless hours on the internet looking for clues and spoilers to their stupid shows.

I can blame it on my boss, my colleagues and my friends, who are now settling into married/almost married/dating life, while I stay behind praying for someone to go out boozing with me.

Translation: This baby rules!

I can blame it on the bossanova, but that would be downright idiocy.

And I do blame it on everyone. Everyone including myself. For the pressure, for making the world move to fast, for not letting me appreciate my childhood while I had it and for making me jealous of the little girl I saw yesterday, who was twirling in her Communion dress like there was not a care in the world.

So I am taking a stance. I am taking my life back and staring all over. I will eat my sugary cereals, fruit snacks and roll ups with glee. I will blast The Spice Girls. I will stop looking for a potential provider and start looking for a soul mate and best friend. I will continue to act like I’m 19 when I’m drunk. I will continue to drink like I’m 19. I will party like it’s 1999.

And I will throw temper tantrums like this one and have to suck it up and continue my drone-like existence. I will continue to grow up, grow old and let’s face it, grow out (I expect the moon to start orbiting my ass once I pop out a few kids).

Ok, I won't grow out that much.

But this I promise, I will never get a mom haircut (short and sort of messy). I will never stop wearing thongs. I will never stop eating Lucky Charms (even if I don’t let my kids have them). And I will never, ever, ever, ever, lose my sense of wonder. Because at this point, it’s sort of all I’ve got.

Maybe the Dingo Ate Your Benes

I'm here to address the bad hair movement of the moment. Ladies and gentlemen meet the Benes.

Before

After

Named after Seinfeld character Elaine Benes who made the 'do popular in the early seasons. After realizing her own stupidity, she changed her do to a much more refined look.


Now through some twisted form of fate colliding with extremely bad taste, young Hollywood has readopted the Benes. Taking a cue from the faux hawk (now known as the no-hawk) many a Hollywierd young-blood is rocking a Benes. The unfortunate hairdo is sweeping the country. From a younger, humbler, Jessica Simpson:


To one of the two Olsens (Ashley to be exact):


To everyone's favorite young hussie, Lindsay Lohan:



This offensive coiffure can be seen running rampant on the Manhattan club scene. Known offenders: 1. Girls who work in PR or Fashion with long straight hair (extensions) who cannot do anything with their hair but this so they do it often. These girls are most likely coke heads. THey probably did their hair when high on nose candy.

2. Anyone from Long Island or New Jersey.

3. One of my friends who will remain nameless, but I totally caught a picture of her Benes the other day.

Anyway, I am taking a stand against the Benes. And you Hillary Duff, for rocking it way too often. You look like an ass.












And that's what really grinds my gears.

A BILF, a Liar and a Crush: Glorious!

Yesterday was the kind of day that Bono writes about. The weather was absolutely perfect. Not too hot, tons of sunshine and little breeze. That’s right folks, it was drinking weather.

It didn’t surprise me when I received an email mid-afternoon from a friend saying she needed a cocktail STAT. I agreed. So we met up at a local bar, chosen only for it’s glorious outdoor roof deck which lets boozehounds alike drink and smoke under the glorious moonlight. It's glorious!

As we approached the makeshift bar they have set up outside, we both noticed him. A hot barkeep. A BILF if you will (not to be confused with the BILF who works in a bar in Amsterdam, appropriately called “Amsterdamned”). He was talkative and smiled a lot, in a cute, only mildly cocky way. My friend and I were immediately smitten. Drinking weather and a reason to keep ordering drinks. Perfection.

I was almost ready to have a crush. The crush I have been waiting to find for over a year. The one that lasts long term. Then I noticed he was too charming. He was charming everyone, even guys. Basically, he was charming his way into my wallet in hopes of big tips. Luckily I caught this early and only gave him the standard. Damn hustler.

So not crushworthy (I also spotted neck pimples…gross). He was like a mirage. Looked like something I really wanted but turned out to be nonexistent. So it got me thinking. Can I no longer crush because I’m too cynical? Too jaded by the ghosts of dramas past? Or am I picky? Could I have overlooked many a quality guy for stupid reasons? I know I can be quite, well, abrasive to men (only undesirable men) who approach me when I am drunk, but am I that awful?

I choose to think I’m not that evil and that any evilness that comes from me is only a result of an excessive intake of vodka. But I’m sure there are people that will argue with me on that one, including a ton of guys at Cheers London who had o deal with my wrath and the liar I met last night who swore he did promos for Showtime, and when I asked him about one he froze, mumbling something about things being “in development.” Tool.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this all day. And I may sort of have a crush. He’s all wrong, we’ll never EVER be together, and if we did get together it would be more of a disaster than Tom Cruise recent dancing on BET. But something is alluring about this person. I wish I could dish more, but I won’t for fear of incrushinating myself (Jonesy’s friends tend to have big mouths). And I don’t want my friends to find out (even though I think most of them already know). It’s not the die-hard, can’t eat, daydream believer kind of crush. Just an animalistic kind of thing. It’s not serious and I’m sure it will pass. But it’s nice to think that maybe, someday, in a perfect world, it could work out.

In the mean time, I will enjoy the sunshine, the flip-flops, and God Bless Mother Nature, perfect drinking weather. Happy Cinco De Mayo!



Cinco De Mayo = perfect crush weather!

Don't hate me because I work...

love me because I promise i will put up a new post sometime this week. If only Tom Cruise would stop unchain me from my desk and stop filling my head with tohoughts of Xenu.

Free Jonesy!

Paaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrty Crashers

Have you ever walked into a room and felt like you were in a completely alternate universe? Like you were in the weirdest place you've ever been in your whole life? Almost like you are the new fish on Prison Break being um, er, violated and threatened, because you stole an expensive baseball card? Maybe you have. Maybe you were at a certain bar on Saturday night and went through exactly what I did.

Let me preempt this story. This past weekend marked the visitation of one of my nearest and dearest. I'll refer to her as Katya. She likes cats and laughs when I do my wicked impression of a Russian accent. We became friends for three reasons: 1) We both tend to get ridiculously drunk on delicious English ciders. 2) We both tend to approach boys after imbibing a few pints of delicious English cider. 3) We lived on the same floor in our study abroad dorm and she didn't hate me after I ran screaming down the hallways that it was "Naked Night." (I was fully clothed. No one else participated either.)

I hadn't seen Katya in almost a year due to my travels in London, hectic grad school schedule, her hectic grad school schedule, her work, my work, and a hundred other reasons. Needless to say I was ready to suit up and relive old times. Not that we can ever remember old times. People would have to recap us on our nights out based on the stories we told when we came home. The first week of school we picked up a stick in the street and started hitting people. I don't remember saving it, but we found it the last week of the semester and brought it to the party. It was a hit...literally.

One night we left a bar at the same time as everyone we knew, which was essentially closing time. We didn't make it home until 1 and half hours later. When everyone wanted to know where we had been we had no answers. We can only assume that someone, somewhere, probably still has scars.

On Friday, I promptly picked up Katya from Grand Central Station, or she picked me up really, by coming out of a different exit and scaring the bejeezus out of me. London joined us for dinner and a cocktail and then we started the boozefest. I was proud of Katya. Even though she has since sold out on the single life and gotten her self a cute boytoy, has taken a job teaching, and a result stopped drinking for sport, she hung in for a long night.

Since the weather wasn't on our side Saturday, we decided to go to a museum and gets some culture outside of a bar. The museums weren't on our side either with their ridiculous suggested donations. $14...Good Lord that's a lotta money.

We couldn't come up with any solid game plan on Saturday night. We were cold from walking in the rain, but used two beers from a leftover six- pack to warm our bodies (including our stomachs--hair of the dog!). I know of a little bar that sells our cider of choice, in fact, I think it's the only bar in all of Manhattan that has it. It was a hike in the rain but we went anyway. To our surprise, some friends of mine happened to be there. After pounding two (or was it three or four?) pints we left with them to go to another bar which is separated into rooms and levels. We always hang out in the back room, there's a nice little alley way that you can take cigarette breaks in. Which in NYC is a rare gem.

But for some reason, when we walked into our little sanctuary, we felt, well, kind of like one of that kid on Sesame Street that was doing his own thing. It seemed that most of the people around us were dressed up. Like pirates. I swear, pirates.

It must have been a theme party gone wrong (since there were also a handful of people who missed out on that part of the invite, one idiot was dressed like a sailor). Everyone was looking at us like we were crashers. I felt like a chick Vince Vaughn. So we started dancing around and drinking beers. We ate some of their cupcakes. I flirted with one of their men (who may have been gay, but at least he wanted me as his beard).

And then I realized how funny the whole situation was. They were dressed like pirates, but we were stealing all of their booty (in more ways then one).

So I will tip my glass, and my bandana, pierced ear, pegleg and parrot to Katya, who made last weekend one for the books,

**Note: This post may not be as accurate as others, as some events have been retold to me by others and may be embellished.

It's a Scientologist!

Why do I have the feeling that the first photo of Suri (a.k.a. TomKitten) will look like this:






Because we all know she wasn't preggers. FREE KATIE 2006!

Apparently My New Nickname is Puma

http://www.nypost.com/entertainment/62609.htm

Debbie Does Dallas, Abby Does Advice, Jonesy Does Everything

Dear Jonesy: I need your advice! Love, One of your friends who are considered one of the members of your inner sanctum


I’ve noticed that many members of my innermost circle have been coming to me for advice lately. I don’t mind it at all. I actually enjoy doling out a tome of wisdom via email or an astute oration through the magic my cell phone.

What boggles me about this new phenomenon is the why. WHY are these people coming to me, lil’ ol’ Jonesy, for guidance that plenty of other people are qualified to give? Why not a therapist? Or a minister perhaps? WHY me, the girl who once received a pair of socks that said “Boozey Floozey” on them and took it as a compliment? WHY me, the woman who has been known to canoodle with highly unattractive men for free drinks while on vacation? WHY me, the person who has to check that she has spelled the word weird right every times she types it? WHY??

To be honest, I really think it has nothing to do with me. I think it is part of innate human (or at least female) nature to poll all of your resources when making a big decision. For example, I have a friend who is graduating from law school this year. I will dub her Angel, as she was the maniacal brain behind a very elaborate prank involving an angel costume and techno music our senior of college that I will never forget as I still think that poor boy is scarred for life. Angel is deciding whether to move back to the NY area or stay in the city where she has attended law school. There are more factors at play here, but for the sake of her privacy all of you are on a need to know basis. Today she asked me for advice and I know she has gone to other friends as well. Which is smart. She is utilizing her research skills that were no doubt taught to her in law school considering our college had a small library that gave you to constant feeling that you were about to be raped at any moment and on Saturdays and Sundays, smelled like a whiskey factory. And yes, I know what a whiskey factory smells like. I’ve been to one that actually had a Disney-type ride inside. They gave me a certificate and told me I was officially whiski-fied.

I tend to turn to others for advice. In part because I am a Libra and can’t make decisions for myself and in part because I have no idea what the hell I am doing 99 percent of the time (which again brings us back to WHY me?) Most of the time I listen to what my friends have to say. But that’s because I take a very specialized approach to guidance seeking. For all things that are relationship and fashion oriented I turn to my married friend Spanish and a friend I’ll call Got-it-together who is in a serious relationship. They both work in fashion and they are both good at holding onto good men for extended periods of time. Bitches.

For advice on career moves I ask another college friend, who I will call Carly, because when I think of her going to work I think of the Carly Simon song from the film Working Girl. Leeeeeeeeeeeet the river ruuuuuuun…anyway, she’s a success.

If I have a problem thinking of a show tune I ask London or Tiny Dancer. They live and breathe for those things. Oddly enough, this happens more than you would think.

Angel and a friend I call Little get called in for the big guns. The ultra-embarrassing problems that I probably wouldn’t tell anyone but I know that they will keep a secret, especially for the stuff that is buried deep in my college past. Usually they make me laugh about it in the end, but there will be no funny references here.

Mary-Kate (I am the Ashley of this friendship) gets calls for every problem as she is my best friend since I was three and she has to listen to me blabber by default. She’s stuck with me for life. I feel bad for her but my stories tend to amuse her.

None of these people hold the secret to life or any type of degree that would qualify them to give me any sort of advice. But they do know me, with all of my quirks and intricacies. They know the real me. So based on that knowledge they can at least help me make a decision that is right for me.

Going to one of my posse members for advice is like a badge of honor. It’s me saying, “You know me enough to tell me what you think good for me.” And not too many people get that honor besides my momma.

So thank you Angel, for letting me know that you trust me and that you value my opinion. I value yours too. And even if you totally ignore my advice I appreciate you asking even if the subject was way off my radar. But next time you have a beer and/or vodka related question let me know, I pretty much have that covered.

Finally, I field I am an expert in!

Is this going to be on the test?

Is JJ Abrams a mathematical genius? Or just a satanic Hollywood type trying to suck hours of my life away.

I don't want to offend any sci-fi geeks out there, but after losing yet another hour of my life to the television show Lost that I will never get back I've come to my own conclusion about this show. It's just like math.

Let me preempt myself here. I suck at math. I hate math. Ever since my junior high teacher with the Irish brogue shook her dandruff on my notebook I've been a mathphobic. The only reason I passed her class was because she gave 10 extra credit point for spelling perpendicular correctly.

My 9th grade math teacher laughed at me when I would answer questions incorrectly. My trigonometry teacher caught me sleeping in class constantly. I took precalculus just to have it on my record in applying to colleges. That teacher told me she didn't need her job and that if we didn't care she didn't either, which is probably why she passed me.

In college I squeaked through my math requirement with a D+ (it was my first D since penmanship in the 7th grade) because I went to the class 8 times the entire semester, pretty much for tests and quizzes only. We had to hand in homework and I never got more than 50 percent right. But hey, I can spell perpendicular. That should count for something, right?

So while watching Bernard and Rose's pointless back story tonight it came to me. Why is my relationship with Lost just like math? I mean, I liked it when I started it. But eventually I just started hating it and had to keep watching and learning or else I would never get the answers. So when did Lost shake it's dandruff into my notebook? Episode 5 of this season. It's when I stopped caring. It's when Jack started being an ass. It's right about when Tiny Dancer pointed out to me that Ana Lucia has had the same jeans on since she crashed. Which means they got wet in the salt water. Any girl who has ever worn wet denim knows how much this sucks. I would have taken them off and rocked a bamboo mini but that's me. Anyway, shouldn't they have stretched by now. Every time I wear my jeans more than twice they never fit the same way as right after a good spin cycle.

Numbers are important on Lost. Any avid viewer knows 4, 18, 15, 16, 23, 42. I feel like Hurley and I hear them in my sleep. But since JJ Abrams and Damon Lindeloff haven't given me the slightest clue as to what they mean I won't try to make any sense of them. But here are some things I do know.

Let's start easy. The number 1. Seems harmless right? Not on Lost. As far as we know there are one of each of these on the "island":

A polar bear - which has attacked Walt and may be something he created from his mind out of an Asian comic book he picked up. Seems crazy? Yea, I know.

"Monster" and or "Safety Precaution" - I initially thought it was an invisible cheetah. Turns out it's a cloud of smoke with invisible claws that may or may not read your thoughts. Yep, this show won a Golden Globe.

A crazy French Lady - her name is Danielle. She had a child named Alex, who, may or may not be alive and helped Claire, was kidnapped when she was pregnant by crazy Ethan so they could inject something into her amniotic sac and make her baby Aaron (who I bet will turn into some kind of Damien) sick, not sick, we don't know. Like a lot of things, we just don't know.

A wrecked pirate ship with no pirates. Oh, and this show won an Emmy too.

A hot Korean man named Jin - I just had to mention him because he's one of the reasons I keep watching.

Ok, So while the number one is everywhere on Lost (as it is in life), I've also established here the like in algebra, Lost has a lot of unknowns. You could easily say that x=1. But not so fast. Let's look at the number two.

There are:

Two surviving married couples.

Two children if we say that Walt being alive is a given.

Two dead siblings (I still curse the day they killed Boone).

Two people who have "recovered" from their illnesses on the island.

Two little hangy things from Eko's beard (although he cut them off).

Two crashed planes one large, one small Nigerian prop plane.


The number two is usually bad on the island. When people venture out in twos someone usually ends up dead. Locke and Boone. Sayid and Shannon. So you might want to say that x=2. Nope. People who go off on their own die or end up kidnapped. The guy in the ocean. Claire. Sayid. Sun. Kate. So maybe x=1 + 2. Let's look at three.

Love triangles like this island. You have Jin, Sun and Michael. The obvious: Kate, Sawyer, Jack triad of sexual tension. The not so obvious: Claire, Charlie, Locke weirdo relationship. And don't forget the incestual Boone, Shannon, Sayid. Three makes this island an interesting place to hang out (for more on the number three check out Penny's blog post on threes http://pennythinks.blogspot.com/).

I could probably stay up and explain more of the unknowns on the island and try to find a solution for the "x" factor that keeps sucking me in. But I'm putting my foot down. It's 11:30 pm and I'm tired. Tired of math and tired of Lost. Tired of Walt being on like NO episodes this season. Tired of the fact that no one mentioned Michael (a.k.a. Mercutio) for months which in Lost world is only days and it's not like you can forget someone that fast and then be shocked when you find him. Tired of the fact that no one seems to give a crap that some dude named Desmond is running around. Tired of the fact that "Henry Gale" is a scary mofo. I'm over it.

But, there's always a but. I can't let Lost go down like another Reunion. I have to find some answers. So I'm a slave for the show and it's messed up mysteries and nonsensical conclusions and flashbacks. And after showing you all of my work (and spending way too much time on spoiler and fan sites) I have come up with the proof. I'm sucked in and can't get out. So, X = the answers to the mysteries of this enigmatic TV program. And without the x, I'll be sitting in front of my TV asking y?

"A plague on your Island JJ Abrams!"

"Benjamin, I am *not* trying to seduce you. "

I've realized I have a problem. With younger men. Not that I'm old. Not at all. Quite the contrary. (I have a half-birthday approaching and a lot of friends getting married, I need to reminf myself sometimes that I don't need to rush and that in New York City, I'm still a spring chick).

As a gal in my early almost mid-twenties I have to ask myself? Why have I recently become obsessed with younger men. I used to hate younger guys. They grossed me out. They need coddling and tips in basic hygiene (I swear look in the ears of any guy younger than 20 and you will find enough wax to put Yankee candle out of business).

Women my age who even thought a guy under the age of 23 was cute would bother me. I thought they were pervy.

Prime example: I went to see the midnight premiere of Harry Potter 4 with Tiny Dancer, and her boyfriend, Spike (as he will be named so for his Spiky hair) and his twin brother. I don't want to bust out a spoiler, but there is one moment when HP almost gives the audience a sneaky peak of his behind. He's 15 in the film. The audience ROARED (both the women and their gay companions). I was disturbed. Do we really need to see the shiny bottom of the young Daniel Radcliffe? Is that supposed to be sexy?



Then it got me thinking. Didn't I think that little blond boy from School of Rock was a little cutie? I mean, not to date, but I looked at him and thought, "Wow, that fourth grader will be hot someday." And when I started watching Laguna Beach, did I not lust after Stephen incessently? Sure he was 18 (and it turns out that 4th grader from School of Rock is about to be, thank you very much) but still, he was a hottie.

A little over a month ago, I mentioned that I had met a guy who said he was 24, who it turned out (after a little covert myspace stalking) was only 21. This past weekend, I had another enounter witth a young one (a twin no less!) who was 21 as well. Both are still college students. I outdegree them twofold. It almost seems like it should be illegal. I mean, even Mrs. Robinson went for a guy with his Bachelor's. Coo-Coo-Coo-Chu.

But I enjoy their company thoroughly. Both guys were lots of fun and had an energy I don't see in guys my age anymore. It's like the first few years of working has sucked thelife out them. They are tired and fussy, many have put on more than a few extra pounds (especially those with longtime girlfriends)* and they are BORING. Nothing new happens to them. They go to work and go to bed. They have lost their creative sides. They only go out one night a week. All they want to do is save money.

Younger guys are alive! They live to have fun and don't fear for the future. They treat work as work, not a lifestyle. They want to travel and have adventures and cause all sorts of ruckus. They're optimistic. They make me feel more alive. They make me feel younger. They make me feel reckless. There's the rub.

Before I become part of the next Demi and Ashton I should really reconsider all of this. Younger guys aren't serious enough. They aren't experienced enough. They don't know who they are or what they want. And in most cases, they're broke. They don't want the part of me that wants to get married and have babies. They want to part of me that prays she could go back in time and spend the rest of life as a college student. Sure they are alive, but they avoid life and its grownup responsibilities. Which I have recently decided completely suck ass.

So I bet you're wondering what my conclusion is. Will I still pursue (sidebar: I did not pursue any of the younger men spoken about above, it was all them. Fine I flirted a little. Or in one case a lot, whatever, they liked me first) younger men? Do I think the man of my dreams will be younger than I?

I know myself. Right now. That's all. And from where I am standing, a younger guy can show me a good time today, but I'm not betting that he'll be there tomorrow. And since I am living on this weird quarter-life bridge between being a party girl and a real adult, I can't say that younger guys will be unappealing again. I could feel this way for the rest of my life and hire a sexy pool boy named Esteban. Or I could meet "the one" in a minute and decide to put my old life behind me.

But given my track record these past 3 months, I would put my money on Esteban.


*This comment is not meant towards any of my immediate close friends. It is just an observation I have made and not meant to offend anyone.

It's Sunday at 10 pm, Do you know where your Ms. Jones is? Now you will.

Anyone who reads my blog knows that I love Grey's Anatomy. Like, I LOVE Grey's Anatomy. You will never need a GPS tracker to know where I am on a Sunday evening. I'm in bed, watching Meredith exchange semi-witty repartee with McDreamy, Christina act overly competitive and abrasive and George's bumbling endearing sweetness. It's just what I do.

Every. Sunday (even sometimes during repeats). The same you used to be able to find me glued to my couch on Wednesday nights at 8 pm (besides that one miserable semester of Senior year of college when I had a must attend class and the night of formal) tuned into the wonderful world of Capeside (and later Boston) Mass. where my friends Joey, Dawson, Pacey, Jen and Jack would be waiting to get into some adolescent inspired scenario where they would use overly big words to explain what was going on. Which in most cases was something having to do with sex. I think. Like I said, they used unnecessarily large words, I may have misinterpreted some sort of innuendo along the way.

The Creek was my favorite show. Still is. I practice Dawsonism. Something goes wrong, I turn to my DVD's and find my answer. Romance troubles? Ask Joey - she's had 'em all. Feeling rejected? Call Dawson- He's been rejected by chicks and Hollywood dicks. Feeling like a screw up? Chat with Pacey - He's got it worse. Need a witty come back? Ask Jen - She always held her own in a discussion turned argument. Questioning you sexuality? Talk to Jack- He's so been there already. And if you are feeling like you may have a mental break you can try to get in touch with Andie but after season 4 she might be hard to find.

The Creek is there. It's like your friend who gives you her hair elastic when you need to boot after too much drinking. It's also the friend that buys you the drink when you are ready to rally. It was one of a kind, never to be replaced. It shocked and awed you. Loyal fans could start to feel where the show was going before it even came close. Like me. I soooooo knew that Deputy Doug was going to end up gay. And that Dawson would get his own show. Didn’t see Jen dying though. Didn’t see that coming at all.

Apparently I am like that with Grey's now too. Anyone who watched last nights show saw that Izzie pointed out what I pointed out long before new curvy doctor showed up to woo George. One girls George is another’s McDreamy. Or maybe the writer’s read my blog and stole the whole idea. Of course they didn’t. But I am now so in tune with Grey’s that I can pick up on major themes long before they are beamed into my boudoir on Sundays. So as my problems, my ego and my body mature I can look to a different show for answers. I can ask McDreamy about why certain people won’t “pick me.” I can talk to Meredith about my parental issues and to Christina about my rampant fear of commitment. Izzie can school me on how to look hot without really trying. And George, well, I have a crush on him, so if this were real life I probably wouldn’t talk to him at all and just pray that he started to talk to me (but it’s not real life, I know that!)

But if it was real life, in all likelihood we would end up just friends. In that case I would just taunt him relentlessly about getting the syph.


So I guess I have a new favorite show. One I can grow with. One I can instinctually love and nuture. One that loves me back. One that let's me laugh and cry. One that has grownups on it.

One that probably won't get cancelled any time soon (RIP Four Kings).

And although nothing will ever take the place of The Creek, Grey's is a new relationship I am ready to forge with a tv show (especially now that my dear Katie Holmes has forsaken all of her Creek roots). Kind of like a second marriage. And to my Grey's...I say "I do."

Tell K-Fed I won't call him Daddy

It’s Monday. Mondays are sort of a day of reckoning in corporate America. Even though legally “The Man” provides you with 2 days off per week, he still wants a full account of your whereabouts come Monday, when it is time to get back to work. Here is how my Monday mornings usually go down:

Me: “Good Morning Boss Man, Boss Ladies and Various Others in Office.”

Them: “How was your weekend?”

Me: “It was good. How was yours?” (they always ignore my questions. Like they are secretly in the FBI on weekends.)

Them: “Just good?”

Me: “Huh?” (as I am still pretty asleep as I most likely just woke up oh, about 25 minutes before this conversation)

Them: “Your weekend. It was just ‘good’?”

Me: “Oh. No. I mean I guess…it was fine.”

Them: “What did you do?”

Me: (automatically go into crisis mode. I don’t need them to know about my alter ego that comes out after a few cocktails/beers/shots. I don’t need them to know that all the stuff I talked about doing that weekend never happened because I was bed ridden with a hangover on Saturday.) “Oh, not much. Hung out with some friends, walked around the park, ran some errands…(here is where I trail off hoping that’s enough)”

Them: “Some weather Saturday, huh?”

Me: “Yea…”(having no clue what they are referring to as I made sure all blinds were closed because any direct sunlight may have killed me on Saturday. Usually I start to walk away slowly at this point.)

Them: “Well ok then…Thanks.” (They always say “Thanks” even if all I did was stand there.)

There was a lot more I could have told them. I could have told them that I had an inappropriate dream about Kevin Federline on Thursday night (I know, I know, revolting isn’t it?). A dream that in turn ruined my entire weekend. A dream that made me nauseated at my roommates birthday dinner. A dream that I used to induce vomit on Saturday so I would feel better. A dream that warrants no explanation. A dream that will never, EVER, be mentioned again after today. (Pause as I throw up in my mouth a little).

I also could have told them about the lesbian that hit on me Friday night. She was old, unattractive, and grabbed my hand as I exited the ladies room. She kissed my hand. I was flattered. I think she might have said “Thanks” as I walked away.

I could have told them how I rocked a game of darts on Friday night. And I mean rocked. Q and I must have gotten a hold of something magic, because we beat this guy (who said he knew how to play, I think he lied). Well, we sort of won. We never got to finish the game, but all we needed was one more bulls eye. I think I might start dart hustling in my spare time, like those guys who hustle at pool halls. But instead of naming my darts Lucille, I would name mine after The Chipmunks: Alvin, Simon, and Theodore.

I also could have told them about the young man who propositioned me (it was just plain gross) at 7 am Saturday morning as I trekked home from a late night post bar sing along and an acquaintances apartment (for no other reason as to give him and a friend little privacy, and for the fact that I was done drinking). A well-dressed man approached me like he needed help. I thought he needed directions. After what felt like five minutes of him getting up the nerve to ask me his question, it turned out he did want directions. Into my pants. I’ve never said the word “No” louder in my life. He’s lucky. I was very close to swatting him with my purse, but I was too aware that my beer consumption had affected my swing.

So you might be wondering why I keep up all of my vices if come Monday, I hide from them and act like a completely mature adult? Because I actually like my vices. Indulging in them keeps me sane. All adults have vices. Whether it be smoking (which they still don’t know I do here considering we talk about health here a lot), drinking, gambling, working too much, slacking too much, talking to much, not talking enough, gossiping, having sex too much, loving too little, being overly critically, being less than truthful, cheating, stealing, eating in excess, buying unaffordable things, taking credit for other people’s work, having elicit dreams about a famous pop stars less than attractive WT husband, etc. The list could go on forever. Everyone has vices. And mine aren’t hurting anyone but myself. I’ve spent so many years developing them I am actually comforted by my vices from time to time. I embrace them. They make me human. So no one needs to know about them but me (and everyone I choose to tell i.e. you, which is usually plenty of people).

Urban Antropology 101: What you see is not always what you get.

Against my better judgement and all of my will power, I joined a gym. I didn't want to do it. I knew I wouldn't go and just waste tons of money. But when my sister came to me with the cheapest gym membership I had ever heard of with one of the countries biggest chains, I couldn't say no. I located one two blocks from my apartment. It has a pool and sauna. The biggest selling point for me? The retail store inside.

So I joined up in February, early February to be more exact. After a month and a half of putting it off and the biggest display of excuse making I think I've ever seen myself perform (I need my membership to come in, I'm sick, I'm tired, My foot hurts, I'm hungry, I have no sport bras) I went. To the gym. For the first time since 2003.

Of course, when I initially went to get my card I received no tour since I had already paid my membership. I quickly figured out where the locker room was and started to get ready for my big work out. I put my new gym bag in my locker with all my gym type stuff and locked it with my brand new gym lock (nothing like a new experience to make you go shopping!) and grabbed my iPod and water. Now what? I stared at the girls around me in the locker room. I had expected to see the types of girls that I see around me everyday. The ones with the perfect bodies and teeth. But I was surprised. Most were bigger than me (which made me happy, I hate working out next to skinny bitches who obviously don't need to be at the gym), some were smaller, and some were just plain, um, er, trailer trash.

Who knew? In the middle (and I mean middle, you could throw up at my gym and it land on Times Square) of the greatest and biggest city in the world there it was. A hot yellow 1980s muscle man tank top, unmistakable died blorange frizzy hair pulled back in a black scrunchie, jams and scrunchie socks inside sneakers that looked suspiciously liked LA Gears (but they didn't light up, I was dissapointed). Trailer Trash in the gym. I figured she was a tourist working out on vacation.

I felt like an urban anthropologist. Where did this species come from? I waited for her to speak, but she didn't. She looked like she knew her surroundings. So I followed her. Out of the locker room and into the main part of the gym. She led me to the Precor machines (which I was happy about since that was what I was trying to find anyway). There wasn't one open next to her but there was one behind her. So I watched this trashosapian, who I decided to name Laverne for the next 30 minutes ( I outlasted her by 15, score: me=1, Laverne=0). When she got off the machine she turned to speak to the person who was going to use it next. I put my iPod on pause immediately to catch a snippet of her dialect. I waited to hear a Southern twang, a midwestern drawl, even a West Coast "dude".

And then I heard it. Laverne was no sranger to the urban jungle. She spoke loudly, with a booming outerborough accent. She probably doesn't live in a trailer. Probably a two- or three-bedroom house in Flushing. She had on a wedding ring. Laverne was probably married to a guy named Bobby or Tommy or Johnny. She probably had kids. She probably watched all of their baseball and basketball games growing up and now that they are older, she is working on getting herself in shape so she can stay healthy. Laverne smiled a lot. Laverne was a happy scrunchie wearing lady.

Then I got jealous of Laverne. She had everything I want. The husband the kids, and most likely a decent job (my gym is in the basement of a HUGE office building). She cared about herself, not what pther people thought. She wasn't at the gym working out so she could look good for other people (watch out Nicole Richie, I'm gonna be sooooo skinnier than you). She didn't care what she was wearing at the gym (I bought my gym fashions they day before). She wasn't there for anyone but herself. Score: me=1, Laverne=happiness.

I've decided that if I see Laverne again I won't approach her (or gym stalk her). I want to leave her in my mind the way I think she lives. That she goes home after the gym to make dinner for Bobby or Tommy or Johnny, that she gets in a fight with her teenage son who eventually forgives her because she's mom and she watches her shows on tv and goes to sleep happy with her life and the choices she's made.

And after I leave the gym, I will go home, Make dinner for myself, get in a fight with my mom over the phone but forgive her because she's my mom, watch my shows and go to sleep hoping that one day I'll be as happy as Laverne, but with a MUCH better wardrobe.

Laverne hearts, Bobby, Johnny or Tommy.

It's not Festivus, but I figure I'd air my grievances anyway

It started awhile ago. Bored at my old job as an administrative assistant at a marketing company (which means I did a whole lot of nothing), I looked through all of my old emails. My sister had forwarded me an email froma guy friend of hers that was list of things he generally didn't like. Then I got to thinking. This is a pretty decent idea. Send out your personal preferences and dislikes and perhaps, just perhaps you can get them out of your life. So I started to write. And the list was long. So long in fact, that I am not including the entire list in just this one post.

Today, I am verbalizing my grievances. I am sending out my list of things I don't trust, like or things I generally find in bad taste. But only 25 of them. I don't want to bombard the world all at once and or offend to many people on one day (It is St. Patrick's Day Eve after all).

So enjoy and if you find yourself on this list, please leave me alone or change completely. I obviously don't like you very much.

1. Cuba Gooding Jr. - For two reasons. 1. Introducing "Show Me The Money" into the lexicon and for the fact that he went from a total career high to low in about 2 seconds. Even Jon Voight took longer than that.

2. People who carry umbrellas all the time - they're just plain pessimists.

3. Guys who still wear Drakkar Noir - no explanation needed.

4. Anyone who has dated Kate Moss - Because of her million nude photo shoots in W, I've seen her nekkid and I don't need that kind of comparison.

5. Anyone who thinks Leelee Sobieski is attractive or who think her name has a nice ring to it. It's verbal poo to me.

6. Chloe Sevigny. I just seriously dislike her. Period.

7. Greenpeace workers. The stalk people by land, sea and telephone.

8. Adults who play with toy trains (this means you Bobby Baccala), unless they are really cool like the trolly on Mr. Rogers or carry beer.

9. Bob Saget - went from dirty comic to clean cut dad to dirty comic to invisible clean-cut dad. Who are you schizo?

10. The Gap - Have you seen their prices? Do they think they are Express? And does Express think their Saks or something? Bitch please.

11. People whose natural smell (meaning like, not sweaty or anything, just unperfumed) is nasty. And people who stink in general.

12. Anyone over 23 that doesn't get hangovers after a night of drinking. Or maybe I'm just jealous of them.

13. People who hold the elevator for other people when they are just coming through the front door and are checking their mail. Who has that kind of time?

14. Lyndsey Lohan – Is it just me or does that freckle on her lip come and go as she pleases? It’s witchery.

15. People who drink Michelob Ultra as a weight loss method. It’s still beer. Put down the donuts and stop annoying me with your low-carb beverages.

16. Flavor Flav - although fun to watch his omnipresence on TV is just plain frightening.

17. Anyone who wears grillz (see above).

18. People who don’t even have basic cable.

19. Cat people.

20. Anyone who has worked at something called a “dairy.”

21. Anyone who willingly goes on an MTV dating show…NEXT!

22. The French. I truly believe they just sit and laugh and plot against us. I’m gonna do the “I told ya so” dance when a giant crepe is launched in our direction.

23. People who don’t include photos on their myspace, friendster or any of those types of sites. I’m guessing they are hiding the fact they look like a foot.

24. Gaiken. He needs to put his hand on the door knob and turn to get out of that closet.

25. And Finally, people who refer to money as anything other than money, dollars or cash (unless you are in a foreign country and you have to). I think the word "moula" went of style in 1985.

Shout out.....

Here's a shout out to another fellow blogger. Check out her site, but don't forget about me!

http://pennythinks.blogspot.com/

Happy Anniversary!

Any of you out there who actually read this? Probably not, but I wanted to celebrate my blog's one year anniversary by reminiscing about some things (including the good, the bad, and the just plain ol' ugly) that have happened since March 1, 2005 a la Helen Fielding.

March 2005

Spent my spring break interning here in Manhattan. Was a little annoyed I couldn't just party all week, I did score some cool stuff at the beauty giveaway (that means stuff to make me pretty for free, always a plus!)

Met a cute doctor. Spoke to him once on the phone to no avail. Kind like a reaaly hot dork. He worked 60 hours a week. I always wondered what happened to him.

Was home by midnight on St. Patrick's day. Was pissed (both drunk and angry).

April 2005

My sister's wedding shower. It was lovely. I wished it was me getting married. Now I just kind of wish I could go to a wedding as a guest...just once.

Did some crazy blitz reporting for a school assignment. Hung around chenthusiatic artistic drama children for a whole weekend. Led me to be dilligent in remembering my birth control.

Partied at Mercury Bar on a rediculously warm day for April. Ended up reconnecting with an old flame by accident.

May 2005

Finished semester 2 of grad school and my internship. Spent the month of May doing pretty much nothing. Like really, nothing. It was fantastic.

Fleet Week: the only relatively decent sailor I saw was Canadian. And he was making out with an ugly girl. And I had just enough beers to tell him so.

June 2005

Spent the entire much in preparation for the London trip. Arrived at Heathrow with 2 huge suitcases and a duffle. I don't know how to use a luggage cart and the airport wasn't air conditioned. Needless to say, when I arrived at my destination (which would not have happened without the help of some really nice British strangers) I did not look my best for the cute guy with dreds who showed me to my room.

July 2005

Probably the most eventful month of my year. Lived through the terrorist attcks on London, although both were quite nearby. Leanred to drink Strongbow like a champ again. Made out with a younger man. Made out with an older man. Made out with an ugly man. Learned to sleep without air conditioning. Partied with old friends and partied with new. Learned to let go, even if it was just a ittle, of my my past. Learned when to quit even if you don't want to. Learned that it is ALWAYS necessary to pee afterwards.

August 2005

Came home to run on interviews for internships. Was offered a job but then it was rescinded while I waited to hear back from somewhere else. Had to apply for more internships. Finally landed one that gave me the opportunity to write!

My sister got married. Awesome party and beautiful celebration. The next day, (which reached 103 degrees with like 100 percent humidity) was officially asked to be maid of honor in my best friend's wedding. Partied away the rest of the month preparing for the final semester of grad school.

Lerned that there is no equivalent to TopShop in the US of A.

September 2005

Met Mr. Brightside a week after I started school. Really liked him at first. Played normal dating rituals out by week 2.

Started at the internship and slowly realized it was going to be an easy semester.


October 2005

Had a dreadful birthday party. Got a phone call that took me by surprise and made my year. Cut Mr. Brightside loose by refusing to return his calls. Felt sad about it but declared it his fault for being lazy in several arenas.

Attended best Halloween party ever in an overtly slutty costume. Relished every minute of every guy staring at my boobs (which looks great in gold).


November 2005

Very Uneventful. EXCEPT for the fact that I met the cutest guy I could hold a conversation with since the doctor. I totally thought something was there but I wasn't sure if he was just being nice because he's a nice guy. Found out he lived in Manhattan. Then had to leave conversation for uncontrollable circumstances. Haven't seen him since....would LOVE to see him again.

December 2005

Finished Grad school! After 1. 5 years of hard and really annoying work, I finished my last semester with a 3.8 and tons of published articles. Finally felt like I was really going somewhere. Contacted editor I was previosuly put in touch with who then forwarded my resume to a colleague who then gave me the scariest interview of my life and then hired me, just a few days after I finished classes.

Celebrated the Holidays with my family and had a terrible New Years Eve but was loving life because I was officially employed.

January 2006

Got into my groove at work and met a lot fo really great people. Enjoyed Martin Luther King Day shopping downtown. Went to the opening of a bar and then Back to balltimore the next weekend for my college reunion (see post on this). Nothing too exciting happened, which makes sense since I worked my butt off.

February 2006

REALLY FUN MONTH! Ran into Mr. Brightside to a really frustrating outcome. He acted like a child in response to my childish blowoff but he was really pushing it. Almost lost my cool but pretended to flirt with someone to make him jealous. It worked. Victory went to me. I won the bar.

College friends came to visit. Met the 21-year-old McSteamy. He became my toy. Too bad he lied and had told me was 24. Made myself official Mrs. Robinson and all the spoils that go with it, including relentless teasing by anyone who heard the story.

Also had a fab party attended by mostly everyone who really matters to me. A few friends couldn't make it but after my early evening soiree, I headed out and ran into college friends. Made the night that much better.

March 2006

Ahh, only a few days in and not much to report, but hey, the weekend is just starting. Stay tuned for another year with me and my crazy antics and crazy friends. You never know where I'll end up or who I'll end up with (hint hint I do like to stalk famous people, Watch out T.R. Knight).

Ice isn't like snow. Ice turns into silver when you piss all over it.

Sasha Cohen and the Story of my life

Sasha Cohen, choke artist extraordinaire. She and Bode Miller should have babies. They could name their kid Letdown and send him to the Olympics.

It’s not that Sasha was awful, she obviously pulled something through her sore groin but really, what happened to the glory days of the U.S. of A. when we would go and stomp the world’s ass at the Olympics? Gone are the days of the Yamaguchi’s (who I admit, fell in competition) and the Boitano’s. The mid-nineties brought us the semi-great Wylie’s and Kerrigan’s. The Kwan gave us hope and then a wide grinning, gape mouthed 15 year-old attention whore named Lipinski grabbed it away. The Kwan gave us more hope with her unprecedented World and National Titles, only to be ripped away by another wide-grinning, gape-mouthed teen with a Liza Minnelli/Dorothy Hamill haircut and a Russian with vascular disease.

I was a full supporter of the Kwan going into Torino '06 and I will be no matter where her ice skates take her. (VANCOUVER 2010…VIVA LA KWAN) but I decided to swing my support to Sasha, if only because she needs an ear operation and a new stylist.

I believed she would rock it out, land her jumps, and not pull another choke. I was disappointed again (your 1st 2 jumps? Really Sash?). I full on screamed YOU BLEW IT! In Billy Madison mode (side note: Why does Scott Hamilton have an orgasm every time someone goes into a jump and falls, I think he secretly loves it, or he just poops his pants. Either way, Dick Buttons must scoot over every time he does that) as she crashed her skinny ass on the ice. But hey, here’s a little 925 for trying. You were close, but no where near a cigar.

Arakawa deserved her gold. Even if she is a Yuka Sato and Midori Ito wannabe.

With Sasha’s falls on to cool hard reality I found a piece of my own (without a toe pick no less). Life is full of disappointments. It’s hard to live up to your own hype (ask Bode Miller as his new ad Bode on Losing should be filmed right about now).

Like the time I swore I could still do a heel stretch 5 years after leaving cheerleading. I almost came down with the Kwan/Cohen groin injury in the attempt. Or the time I swore to myself a guy was into me. He tried to get me to set him up with my friend. Or the time I picked up a glass of water and it turned out to be Sprite. Or the time I drank a beer that had been turned into an ashtray. Or the time I lost the thong contest….need I go on?

But here’s the rub. In the wake of the Brad/Jennifer breakup, the Mets almost 20 year slump and the sad performance of Sasha and Johnny Weir, I’ve learned we cannot accept other’s failures as our own. No matter how bad I am feeling right now, Sasha probably feels worse, and the Kwan is probably feeling even worse than here considering her skating career is over and she has to learn how to have a life now.

I didn’t fall and crush the hearts of little girls everywhere. I didn’t leave my wife for a big-lipped reformed lesbian. I haven’t sucked at a game for an entire 20 years. But sometimes, it feels like it. I think it’s more out of jealousy than anything. Because no matter how bad the failure is for them, it’s probably better than any high I will ever have. The world will never know my name. The world will never watch me on TV. The world will never care if I hurt my groin. No one will ever care if I get divorced (or married at this rate). No one will watch me try to climb back to glory praying for another Bill Buckner moment. And that’s disappointing. Just like Sasha Cohen.

Life and Love Lessons Learned from Grey's

After an extra long weekend that included extra debauchery, I had an epiphany while emptying a floater beer can into my sink (I have no idea whose it was, or for how many days it had been on my window sill, but that's neither here nor there).

I have decided that most (I refuse to say all because I'm a journalist and I have to cover my ass somehow) heterosexual (I only say this as I have no dating and or romantic experience with gay men) men (minus just the blatant assholes or as I refer to them now as a Karev, they are summed up in that one word alone) can be categorized into three basic categories and that Grey's Anatomy has officially introduced us to them all (and has also brought some fab new descriptions into the lexicon).

I will start with the McSteamy, not because he's my least favorite or the least attractive by any means but because he is the most vague. He is an enigma and a paradox and any other word that sounds vague and magical. In fact, he's the most attractive type of man (sans professional models and most major actors since I regard them as super-people and not part of the human race). He's the guy who walks past you on the street and you just have to stare. He's the guy that asks to bum a cigarette and you hand it over without saying a word, because in all honesty, you have no idea what to say to that kind of hotness. Or you say something really witty but wonder if it sounded completely dorky because people that hot don't need wit to get by.

He's the guy you would hook up with in a second, just because he's hot, but would make you so self-conscious the whole time you were together. He's to his friends especially when he wants something, but if they stand in the way of what he wants he'll betray them in a heartbeat. Sex and women come first. He's as charming as all hell, and will say almost anything to break any resistance you might have to his charms. At times he can seem sleazy, but he can flash a smile to make up for it. Every relatively attractive girl is the right girl.

He is vain. Appearances are more important than honesty. He would sleep with your sister. He'll cheat but he'll be really sorry about it. He’s always up for a one-night stand. You can never really KNOW him.

I met a McSteamy this weekend. He told me he was getting his Master’s and I think I remember him saying he was my age. Some myspace investigation revealed that he is 21. I was McSteamed.

Famous McSteamies:

Don Juan
Casanova
Mr. Big (pre-S&TC finale)
Vince Vaughn
Hugh Grant in half of his movies

Onto the McDreamy, which is quite similar to the McSteamy with varying degrees of hotness. The major difference, McDreamies actually fall in love. They have honor and try to be good, but their undeniable sex appeal and sweetness attract way too many women for them to turn away. They are the kind of man that you think you would be lucky to marry. They’re smart. They look good holding babies and walking dogs. They look good wearing just about anything. They want to be the best they can for you but inevitably they have to fall short.

He’s the man you would tell your mom you met. He’s the man you would tell your co-workers you met. He could devastate you if he pulled a McSteamy. He has soulful eyes. He needs to be with the right girl but usually never is. Being with him makes you want to be better. He gets jealous. He is the one-night stand that calls you.

He would be perfect if he didn’t seem so conflicted all of time. He is most likely to have an identity crisis. You will only really KNOW him if you are the one.

I still have a crush on my own personal McSteamy. To me he will probably always be perfect except for the fact that he chose the wrong girl.


Famous McDreamies:
Dylan McKay
Lucas Scott
Charlie Todd
Aidan
Hugh Grant in the other half of his movies


And then there is my personal favorite the George, which you can call whatever you want, The Baxter, The Jim, The Ted, The Mouth (you can really name him by inserting the name of the “nice” guy on your favorite TV, my favorite of these happens to be George. Georges aren’t ugly, they are just, well, average. Not to be confused with the absolute rejects on that reality show (which would have been more appropriately titles, “Ugly Joes”).

Georges are your friends. They are the guys you always hang out with, your boys. They are the ones you make plans to hang out with, not to date. They are the ones you try to set up your friends with (and here is where things get tricky because one girl’s George can be another’s McDreamy and in the rare case, vice versa). They are the ones you might get a fleeting crush on in between McSteamies and McDreamies. They are the ones to deserve to get the girl but a lot of times they won’t. They are the one’s you should marry.

They fall in love hard and fast. They promise not to hurt you and it’s true. They make you comfortable. Georges make you love yourself for who you are, not what you think a McDreamy wants. You would never feel fat around a George. Georges tend to get more self-conscious around you. George is smart like McDreamy, but he’s also funny and he laughs at your jokes.

Georges hesitate. They have horrific timing. They tend to have their hearts broken. They are intimidated easily, but in rare moments of grandeur, they show the inner McDreaminess, and can become the perfect man. Everyone KNOWS who a George is, no secrets here.

Famous Georges:
All of the aforementioned
Lloyd Dobler
Dawson Leary
Steve


Honestly, I’m looking for my George today. I had one at some point but like I said, Georges have horrific timing. It always makes me wonder what could have been.


In writing all of this I am well aware that there are spin-offs if you will of each type. Like I already said we have the Karev (who may turn into the reformed asshole), the Burke (who is pretty much a George shining through his inner McDreaminess) and lest we forget the Chief (who seems to at one point been a Karev, but they are variations within themselves of the three major types. Who thought you could learn this much from prime time TV, on ABC no less?

Mr. Brightside

So if any of you actually DO read my blog regularly (and thanks if you do, much appreciated for anyone who reads), you will know that last weekend I cam down with a caseof the ex-er-well nonboyfriend. So, as much as I ignored him and openly flirted with a gay companion to make him jealous (which probably did since he has NO gaydar) apprently I am officially a succubus.

He called. Again. After seeing me and not saying hi he called. And he wasn't drunk. He wasn't at a bar, he wasn't slurring. Some how the idea that he should call me popped up in his stone cold sober mind. Honestly, not meaning to offend anyone here, but is he retarded or something? Like, I don't like you. I never really did when you think about it, I liked your best friend, and I stopped accepting your phone calls in OCTOBER. I am so temtped to tell him to forget he ever met me, but I don't want to be harsh. Thank God he moved out of my neighborhood. I wonder what might have happened if he still lived aropund the corner. (Pause as I internally shiver and feel my bones get cold.)

Oh so the best part...the message. Saying hi and that he's been out of town like in case I needed to reach him or something. (Which I'll admit, made me wonder if I had at some point called him drunk when I got home, but then a flash of the roommate telling me not to flips into my head) Is he saying he's been out of town so i think I saw his evil twin last weekend? And does anyone not take their phone with them out of town? Told you, this kid's a genious.


So he's really annoying. IF he calls again I just might answer, and yell. But I would rather ignore, just in case I ever want to go back to that bar again.

I know what you did last weekend

This weekend was so WEIRD!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday, I get in to modd to go out, I'm exhausted, no nap, but I'm amped after watched the results of Dancing With the Stars...screw you Tia. So I drink a bottle of Chardonnay by myself. What I can say? It was good wine! I start feeling a little tipsy and sexy because I am totally wearing s shirt that didn't quite fit when I bought it and I know it's an attention grabbing shirt in a flirty not completely slutty way.

I finally get the call to leave the house and I rock out on my iPod for 7 blocks and sit down to a a table with pitchers of beer. Cheap beer. Awesome. After a lot of catch up and girl talk and beer I'm feeling phenomenal. Like probably how Vince Vaughn feels everyday. And then I spot someone I prayed I wouldn't see.

So what if he hung out at the bar all the time, so what if that is where we met and hung out all the time. He wasn't my boyfrined, it wasn't a divorce, i shouldn't have to feel like I can't go there. I was the one who ended it, in the fashion of a timid high schooler yes, but I ended it, so why are his friends staring and looking and talking? Because he's as immature as I am, because I won't talk to him (which I would have if he would have done something when we were together). Because I have to take cover when heading to the ladies or going to smoke outside. Because as he gets in a cab at 2:30 and stares at me, just letting me know what he thinks about the girl with the flirty fitted shirt. I should have given him the finger to let him know what I think about his attitude. And then you have obnoxious peole syaing things like "Well he wasn't THAT cute." WTF does that mean. Is it supposeed to make me feel good that you think I dated an unnattractive guy? Well take a look in the mirror because you haven't been bringing any prizes.


DAMN! And now I'm left wondering if I made a mistake, because he didn't do anything to hurt me (and he never would) and he was a nice guy. But that was just it . He wouldn't do anything. And that was fine but then I realized that that was who he was. A guy who did nothing. But not in a cute Office Space way. In like a scary "do you have future?" way. People just make me mad. I didn't like you that much, so deal.

I didn't even want to stay at that place once he came in. But I shoudn't have too. SO we played a game of Survivor and I out played, outwitted and outlasted his ass. Seriously, don't play games with me because I hate to lose.

So after the debacle of the evening and an unfortunate closing of a placl establishment that led to darts not being played, I went home and to bed. Which was good, because nothing can get rid of a bad night like some sleep.

On Saturday I was so fed up with, people, my dirty apartment, my life, I headed home to my mom. (yea I know, I'm a big baby). Lucky for me I came home for a reallys pecial occasion. My sister got engaged to a great guy who I welcome with open arms into my family. He really is the best thing that has ever happened to her and I've never seen her this happy! I'm so excited to be involved in her big day! No date yet, they are going to enjoy for a little while and go on vacay (which I wish I could go on!).


Sunday, I came back to the dirty apartment with intentions of cleaning, but since I am not a maid, I wanted to wait for the roomies to come home. Then I fell alseep having crazy dreams about donuts, root beer floats and being sick with a 103 degree fever. Weird. Then watched commercial for 4 hours and Grey's Anatomy which is by far my favorite show on TV.

Recap City

So last weekend I went back to the good ol days of college by taking a hike back down to Baltimore for tha annual Bull And Oyster Roast.

As I fled from work on Friday to catch the 5:39 Amtrak from Penn I started getting really excited to see my friends (who I haven't seen for the better part of a year). Of course, that led to my train being delayed.

When I finally arrived I got psyched got dressed and the gals and I headed to Mother's for a night that was really fun but uneventful. The only thing that stands out my mind was me bitching out some ugly guy for yelling at me and Kar for dancing to Kelly Clarkson. Suck on this Idol hater.


Saturday was a fun-filled day of jewelry shopping and on-campus drive-bys (which is soooooooooooo depressing when you realize you haven't gone to the school for 3 years). We went to Strapazza for dinner which was phenomenal, even if I did have to limit my garlic bread intake.

We decided to skip the actual on-campus event because, well, everyone else did. Enter: Margaritas and vodka. Seriously, I have issues mixing. I had beers, a Margarita and kept switching up my vodkas. I was doomed. Which is why I'm not surprised that I have a big bruise on my left butt cheek, a cut on my knee, and still can't straighten my foot all the way. Oh, and I have a boot missing a heel. Like a full heel. And I don't have it. Boots I just got fixed. Boots that now have to be thrown out.

All of those signs point to: I probably had the best night of my life, but I will never remember it. Just my luck!


I have some suggestions for a new title for this Loyola Alum weekend, Bull and Oyster Roast just doeasn't do it justice.

"Look at How fat she Got" Roast
"He still really looks good" Roast
"I can't believe I ever hooked up with him" Roast
"I still really like him" Roast
"Let's act like we're 18 again" Roast

And my favorite:

"Don't pretend you were ever my friend" Roast

So vodka and I are legally seperated but I still wear my ring, so don't worry, there' s still a chance we could reconcile. It just won't be this weekend. I have a date with beer.

Until next year B'more. Here's staying crabby for ya.

Since I've been gone

I know I'm slow and I don't have as much time as I used to to keep up the blog work. Maybe it's because I got a job! A great one at that. I'm really excited to be back in the real world after grad school but I must say, it's hard to think that this is what I'll be doing for the next 40 or so years. Anyone else wake up in the morning to that?

It's a pretty miserable thought when you think about it. That you have to work. That you have to wake up every morning and spend such a large amount of your time at one place, doing that same things, month in and month out. And the idea that my generation will never be as successful as our parents is frightening.

But I like where I am. I like what I do (so far, it's only been 3 weeks). Hopefully that won't change.

Bastards....

Fox cancelled Reunion. And they aren't telling us who the killer is. So now I have to live my life wondering who killed Sam.

And in a further genius move they forgot to leave time in the spring schedule for Prison Break. So now I have to wait until MAY 2006 for the last nine episodes. You would think they would be smart enough to put those in Reunion's vacant spot but no, Fox is to vindictive and mean.

I hate Fox. They will be punished for this.

Sunday boring Sunday

I love Sundays and I hate 'em at the same time. Sunday mornings are for coffee and the NYT (specifically the Job Listings and Book sections). Sunday nights = bunk (which is my new word so get used to it even if you hate it). TV is crap after GA and then what am I to do?

So I decided to DVR a movie. I heard Muriel's wedding was funny. Um, you all are lying bastards. I thought it was sad. P.S. Don't read on if you don't want the plot spoiled. Her one friend who had any semblance of a fun life gets spinal cancer. It was like a punishment for having sex with two hot sailors. And Muriel...what the hell is wrong with her? She's socially special and leaves the one guy who shows any interest. And he's hot too. To be single? I hope not. Maybe Muriel, excuse me Mariel as she changes her name like 9 times in the movie, doesn't have the same issues in Sydney that we single girls face in New York. Not that I'm complaining. I'm just asking for one, just one, normal person to approach me when I'm out. But apparently that's just to much to ask. Those chicks on Sex and the City made it look easy. They lied.

On another note, Arsenio Hall is making a personal appearence in my hood this week. At McDonald's. I'm serious. Even weirder, the Wayon brothers were at my Blockbuster this spring. Wow, people really hold onto that last thread of fame. Sad really. I wish other former famouses would do that. Like Budnick from Camp Anawanna AKA Salute Your Shorts. I would turn out for that. Or maybe Ian Ziering will be at Applebee's next week. Man that would be awesome.