Sunday, September 30, 2007

Venus in Furs, Live

Found this via boingboing: the Velvet Underground playing Venus in Furs at The Factory.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Deep Thoughts, by Jack Handy

Last night, a friend called for advice. Her cat's butt was particularly smelly. I had no advice for her other than seeing the vet, and when she showed up at my house later, she admitted to trying to solve the problem with Febreze.

Later that night, in my drunken state, when considering just how ridiculous her solution was, I was reminded of a similarly ridiculous little story that my sister Jo and I used to laugh about for hours. It was in a collection of "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy," and Jo and I discovered it when visiting my aunt in Atlanta ten years ago. She kept the book in the guest room and we opened it up one night in bed and read this particular story and could not stop laughing:
If you want to sue somebody, just get a little plastic skeleton and lay it in their yard. Then tell them their ants ate your baby.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Lay, Lady, Lay

I am not a pretty sleeper. I know this. In fact, one Halloween, when I'd passed out on the couch, my then-boyfriend decided it would be funny to take a series of pictures of me asleep, dressed up like a mouse, with my little mouse nose in its final stages of being smudged off, looking like one of Jerry's Kids. It was funny. Then.

Those things are funny when you're in love. And when the person laughing at you has already decided that s/he wants to be with you even if you're a retarded, drooling sleeper with frequent gas and a tendency to cry at episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

That is comfort, I guess. And after my break-up, I wanted comfort more than anything. I was so used to sleeping next to someone big and warm, that whether it was my best girlfriend (who was not big) or a rebound (who was not big, either), I just needed to fall asleep next to a warm body. I asked my friend Liz to stay the night probably far too often--so often that the one time (that I know of) that a giant cockroach made a pilgrimage across my bed, Liz's face was there to serve as a buffer between la cuca rocha and me. She was there. And I was grateful. Not only was I grateful that the cockroach had crawled on her face and not mine, but I was grateful that she was there in spite of whatever noises or fluids may have been coming out of my body at the time. I slept better with someone else in my bed. Period.

Fast forward a few months and I'm back to my old, pre-relationship ways. I love my bed. And I love that if the corner of the sheet is coming off of the mattress, that I did it, and I'm responsible for putting it back. I want to drool and snore alone, and, for the most part, I want my bed to myself. Sharing a bed makes me conscious of the fact that I'm an ugly sleeper, and who wants their last thought of the day to be "I'm falling into ugly?"

Maybe this is what getting over something is--getting re-acquainted and comfortable with old habits... while getting comfortable with new ones, like cooking dinner for oneself and Running for Fat People.

Monday, September 10, 2007

The Things We Learn by Accident

The older I get, the more I learn, by accident. I'm sure this is something my parents knew all along, and I'm just beginning to figure it out. Anyway, turns out if I run at noon when it's overcast and rainy, as opposed to running at noon when it's 80ยบ in the blazing sun, I don't feel like I'm going to die so much. In fact, I can extend Running for Fat People for ten minutes and still not feel like I'm going to die. I knew I wanted fall to come for a reason, I just couldn't figure out the reason.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Old Lady Hips

One thing I didn't mention about camp is that, surprisingly, I gained about ten pounds while I was there (or so I'm guessing it was ten pounds, I don't believe in scales). Because there were 100 people fighting for the food, my survival instincts would kick in at meal time. Fearful that I'd be hungry by the next meal (because I always was) or that some eleven-year-old would take the last piece of French toast, I binged, or hoarded, as it were. It's fair to say that I ate as much at every meal as I generally do in a day in Brooklyn.

Upon returning to the city and trying to regain some semblance of Greenpoint chic (skinny jeans, etc.), I realized that my clothes no longer fit. And by no longer fit, I mean that every pair of pants I have to suck in to zip up gives me a giant muffin top when I breathe out. If you don't know what a a muffin top is, think about it. Still don't know? Picture me in a pair of jeans that's too tight at the waist and think about it again.

Add to this the fact that I am now making at least eight casseroles a week.

So I did what any somewhat shallow 25-year-old would do and began a running program. It's not just any running program. In fact, I call it "Running for Fat People," and it might as well be called that because it's really called "From Couch to 5K." It's simple. Really simple. This is not to say that I didn't feel like I was going to die when I was done yesterday, because I did, a little. But in the spirit of wanting to burn the fat as quickly as possible, yesterday I decided that I would run again today, even though "Running for Fat People" advised me not to. I believed for the past 24 hours that I would be running right now. And then I woke up a while ago to find that my hips hurt. My hips! Of all the places on my body that shouldn't hurt me until I'm 65, my fucking hips hurt.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

The Only Reality Show I Ever Need to Go On. Ever. (Except Maybe "The Next Pussycat Doll")

And no, it's not The Next Food Network Star.

Anyone who has spent any significant amount of time with me knows that I often spontaneously break into song. And I don't stop after just one line; I keep going, and going, and going, and going, and going.

On NBC's The Singing Bee, contestants are fed the beginning of pop songs by karaoke-grade singers and must fill in the lyrics when the singer suddenly stops. So far, I'm nailing this show (Love is a Battlefield, Like a Virgin, Son of a Preacher Man, I'll be There, Stand by Your Man).

Thank you, NBC for teaching me two things:
1. I am not, as I once believed, too good for reality TV, and
2. My ex-boyfriend looks just like Joey Fatone. The resemblance is scary, and not in a good way.

P.S. The grand prize is $50,000. In the bag.