No Shower Should Be Without One
You heard it here first, girls. Add it to your Hanukka/Christmas/Festivus lists pronto.
Posted by Vibramatrix at 02:27 PM
Last night Jen and I were talking about Michael Jackson’s recent antics, and out of genuine concern for him (and his children), we concocted a plan that would put his children out of harm’s way. Basically we decided he should go to celebrity prison, a land with no plastic surgeons and by god! -- no minors. While we were at it, we decided we should also remove a few other celebs from society, but not necessarily for the same reasons as Michael. Therefore we created several different security compounds to which we’d like to send a few people who may have spent a little too much time in the limelight. Here is our proposition.
People who should be removed from society:
(This is the maximum security compound, as these celebs are an endangerment not only to themselves but others. A few of them are highly unstable, so in order to get them to move to the prison, we will need to take an approach not unlike when you send an oddball relative to the mental hospital for a much needed respite. We need to make the impending outing sound like fun -- like Neverland Ranch, or an NRA amusement park; we then ship them off to celebrity prison, lock them up, and throw away the key.)
People we just need a break from:
(This is the minimum security prison. These inmates are allowed to make personal phone calls, finger paint, and some of them are even committee chairs.)
Jocylene Wildenstein, aka the Cat Lady
Liza Minnelli (and her gay husband)
Paige Davis from Trading Spaces (and her gay husband)
Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie
People who need a legal guardian:
(Well, it’s just one person. She’ll have her own cell decorated with animal print rugs and a big pink bed. And her own bathtub.)
Anne Nicole Smith
People who need solitary confinement for purposes of ego reversal:
(This category speaks for itself. A few months in solitary and maybe these people will realize they are not the center of the universe.)
Barry Williams (aka Greg Brady)
And finally, People who should stage their own death:
(This is merely to spare us from careers that should have been over a long time ago, if anybody with taste had a say in the matter.)
Have any celeb you’d like to banish? Please let us know, friend. Together we can make the world a better place.
Posted by GxxP at 12:53 PM
I recently received the following memo from the Human Resources Department at work:
Subject: No Flu Shots Today!
Ironically, the nurse scheduled to administer our flu shots this morning came down with the flu this weekend. Unfortunately, Vaccination Service of America could not accommodate us on such short notice. However, they are working on re-scheduling the flu shots for later this week. Please watch your email for details.
Our apologizes for any inconvenience, and stay well.
If I get sick this weekend, I'm holding my company responsible.
Posted by Jen at 03:15 PM
It all started one day sophomore year. We were playing basketball in gym and doing lay-ups. I turned to the person next to me and asked if I was in the right line. He got a panicked look on his face, turned around and didn’t say a word to me. He had a bowl haircut, his name was Terry and he used the word “Jr.” after his last name. He was quiet, shy and on the nerdy side.
Turns out he was a friend of a guy named Jay in my art class. He must have said something to Jay about liking me and next thing you know Jay was asking me all these questions. One day I got a phone call from Jay, even though I had never given him my number. He asked me what I thought about Terry, did I like the way he dressed, etc. I really never thought about it so I said I guess he dresses alright, blah, blah, blah. I found out later that Terry got my name, address and phone number while he was working as an aide in the records office at school. What I didn’t know was that Jay had three-way calling and Terry was listening in on the conversation.
Over the course of the next few weeks I saw Terry in the halls quite frequently. He had found out my schedule and made sure to be in the same hallways at the same time I was. One day he finally got up the nerve to speak to me. Unfortunately this happened to coincide with my having a horribly bad day. I was standing at my locker when out of the corner of my eye I saw him coming towards me. He started saying hi, how are you?, and I replied with one long sentence dripping with negativity, “I’mreallysorrybutI’mhavingaREALLYbaddayanditisNOTagoodtimetotalktome.” He said okay and skulked off.
End of the school year. I was looking forward to spending 6 weeks with extended family in Britain. I had saved up all my paychecks from a horrific job at a school uniform store the summer before and the trip was just around the corner. Right before I left I got a letter from Terry. It was typed on a word processor and printed on a dot-matrix printer. These were the days before everyone had computers. It was 5 pages long. He started out by telling me his life story. Literally. What hospital he was born in (I think what he weighed at birth too), where he lived, what his dad did for a living (he even told me his dad had just bought a new air-conditioner), where his family was building a house, how he came from the typical American family with 2.5 kids and a white-picket fence, what his favorite color was…I could go on and on. He wrote sci-fi novels and since he’d seen my performance in the school play (which he gave me rave reviews for) he was changing the female lead’s name to mine. He imagined that one day his novels would be made into a screenplay and I could star in the movie. He asked me to please write back even if I didn’t know what to write, just write anyway. This was all very flattering (not to mention weird) but I was a shy 16-year-old about to take my first solo trip to Europe and I just wasn’t interested. I never wrote back. Since we weren’t friends I had no reason to tell him that I was going away for the summer. I soon got on the plane and forgot all about Terry and the letter.
When I returned home at the end of the summer I found two more letters, both just as long. The second was an extension of the first and asked why I hadn’t written. The third one, however, was ugly. He was no longer nice and tolerant, and was instead very angry that I hadn’t replied. He wrote that his friends suggested he send me a raw liver in the mail, and even if I wasn’t interested I could’ve at least written back. How he (and I quote) “must just be a dork. Definition dork: whale’s penis.” After pages and pages of nastiness, he ended with a venomous P.S. saying that he had changed the female lead in his novels back to what it was previously.
Well, I was the one that was pissed now. Who the hell was he to write me a letter like that! The nerve. He just assumed I never bothered writing when little did he know I was away all summer. I returned to school at the beginning of junior year with a new, darker wardrobe, Doc Marten-esque shoes (influenced by my British cousins), and a strong dislike for Terry _______, Jr. My chance to express my dislike arrived one day after school. We were all trying to pile on a bus home and I spotted Terry. I HAD to get my own back. I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Hey Mr. Whale’s Penis!” Nobody but my friends and he knew what this referred to but that was okay with me. The crowd to get on the bus was so thick I couldn’t see him or his reaction but I know he heard me. In my own little way I had gotten back at him. Two weeks later his family’s new house in another town was completed and he moved away. I never saw or heard from him again.
Boss’s voicemail: …. Please leave your name, phone number and your message so I can return your call at my earliest. (beep)
Me: (morning voice) Hi. Umm. I am really feeling under the weather. It’s Jerry. I am really feeling under the weather. I have my laptop here at home. I am going to, err… Can I work from home today? I am really feeling under the weather. I will inform everyone that I will be working from home….and let them know that I can be reached via, email, my cell, or IM. It will not be a sick day, just going to do my work from home today. Shouldn’t be an issue. I hope it’s not an issue. Well, I am really feeling under the weather. Okay, call or email me if you need anything. Thanks….(Cough).?
My head: No fucking way. Not doing it. I mean I can’t do it. Can I? Hmmm.
My head: Damn…I can’t do it. I don’t want to. Not today. I really can’t. It’s cold out. Looks like it might rain. I am soo not doing it today. At least not the gym- not this morning. Maybe I can do the gym after work.
My head: I am not sitting in that fucking cubicle for the whole day. I can’t. I am not going to get on that jam-packed subway and stand there attempting to balance my coffee and read the paper while some fat person is taking up 3 seats passed out, snoring. I am not going to stand through yet another “sick passenger” two trains in front. I am not going to….
My head: “Express train” my ass! I am not interested in doing this today. I can’t. If I got up now… I could shower and possibly get in the mood. (Turn on TV).
My head: Nope. I can’t do it! I can see it now. After battling the commute, I will walk in (not yet to my desk) and SHE will begin with 15 questions about the accounts. I won’t even get to my seat much less turn my Walkman off. “Wanna smoke? Did you get my email I sent last night at 11pm? I was thinking that if we used …”. I can hear it already. That nagging, over-enthusiastic-yet-medicated voice. I’ll turn her down, but when I get to my cubicle there will be a stack of print-outs consisting of at least 4 spreadsheets and 3 emails, all of which I will later find are already in my Inbox. This waste of paper and time will prove to be just that- WASTE. The print-out will mean nothing. They will not show a change, a new idea, a response…NOTHING! I won’t dare read or even look through these, for if I dare, it would just bring my desire down even more. They will be just a statement or a version of something that has already been discussed, possibly disputed and then confirmed, most likely days ago. She says this is her way of staying “on top” of things. But when something DOES happen, something needs to be changed, needs to be discussed…where is she? Buried!… Buried under all those FUCKING papers! Nope- can’t do it- not today.
My head: I still have time. If I am going to go in, I need to get moving. The bed is so comfy right now though. I made a good decision on getting this feather bed. I mean, the pillow top mattress is awesome, but adding the feather bed brings so much more. It’s great for just cuddling and snuggling with your covers and sleeping! Not good for sex though. Can’t get to those hard to reach spots…too cushiony. What time is it?
My head: There is NO way in hell, heaven or Brooklyn that I am going to go through this today. I just can’t! That VOICE. I won’t deal with that voice today. Those one-liners she throws out there all day long. No one else seems to hear them- or at least no one seems affected by them besides me. “Anyone want to go to the library?”, “Does anyone want a pickle?” Where does all this come from? Am I the only one that hears her high screeching monotone and I must say again MEDICATED voice? I don’t think medicated is the word…What would the word be for someone who WAS highly medicated—“cracked out”, went for help and now attends weekly self-help sessions…and now uses that former addiction to annoy everyone around her enough to start abusing substances themselves?? UGGGG!!! I am so not doing it today. I need to call in and let them know. I should do that before anyone gets there so I don’t have to talk to anyone. What time is it? Shit…what should I say. I could say I am sick…wait, no… I have my laptop…I can work from home- yeah. Good idea. Why do I need to work at home? I’ll just say that I am feeling under the weather—yeah that sounds good. Under the weather. I can’t really say the truth now can I?
Posted by Cockstar at 05:32 PM
This is my last week in New York City. In a few short days I will begin to make my way across this fair country of ours to sunny Los Angeles, California. Tomorrow morning at 8am the movers will be at my door to pack up all my earthly belongings. It's incredibly hard for me to believe that after weeks of manic preparation, this move is actually coming to fruition. I've been so consumed with planning the move for so long, that when I took a moment to breathe as I left my apartment this morning, I realized that it was the last time I'd be leaving for work from the neighborhood that I've lived in for 3 years. As I walked to the subway for my last morning commute, I cherished every moment of my quiet walk down the tree-lined Washington Avenue. As I passed the woman who gives out religious paraphernalia to passers-by every morning, I nodded and smiled insted of running past her without a glance as I usually do. Call me cheesy and sentimental if you'd like, but I've spent the whole day taking in all the "lasts."
I've also spent the morning taking inventory of some of the "lasts" that I overlooked as I frantically ran around these past few weeks. Sure, there were the last things that I won't miss....i.e. The last time I almost step on a dead rat on the sidewalk in front of the Kum Kau restaurant by my apartment, the last time someone squeezes me out of my seat on the subway, and the last time I get pushed down on the street by an angry man (although, knowing my luck, this isn't unique to NYC, and I'll get pushed down just as much in Los Angeles). Mostly though they are the lasts that I will remember fondly, and miss terribly. The last time I step out of my shower and see the Empire State Building framed neatly in my bathroom window. The last time I go run through through Sheep's Meadow in Central Park on my lunch hour, marveling at the vast expanse of the city that pokes up over the trees. The last time the coffee cart guy calls me by name and has my coffee (skim milk, one Sweet and Low) waiting for me when I walk up to him. The last time I cut through Rockefeller Center and see the tourists ice skating at the rink. The last time I look down Broadway at night and marvel at the lights so bright it looks like daytime around 42nd street. And of course there are all the last wonderful times I've spent with my friends over the past couple of weeks, but those are so plentiful that I cannot even begin to count. Plus, those last times with are most certainly not the last of anything.
So...my goal is to spend the next few days before my departure soaking up all the New York "lasts" that I can. I plan to enjoy this unseasonably warm weather by walking around the city, and just take it all in. Hell, I may even visit the Statue of Liberty or something. Soon enough though, the "lasts" will be over, as I will be faced instead with a whole bunch of firsts, too many to even ponder at this point. Although I do know that the one "first" I'm looking most forward to will be be my first trip back to visit. I suppose then I can revisit all these New York City "lasts" that I know I'll miss so much.
Posted by Jen at 12:13 PM
Wurd of the Day
Hand-sitter: One who uses extreme measures to prevent themselves from emailing a boy when they're trying to play it cool.
Posted by GxxP at 11:29 AM
Learning the Rules of Relationships, With Help From The Shriner Who Dumped Me
I’ve told you the tale of my high school boyfriend, my very fist love whom I met in PE class. What I haven’t told you is that I’d found romance in the gym a year before I met Chris. My sophomore year, I fell for Ralph, the prototype for all my future love interests that I now realize were nerds.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a nerd myself, sometimes preferring the companionship of a crossword and a Led Zeppelin album to more social and fashionable endeavors. I collected stamps in elementary school and wrote fan mail to the kid who played Wyatt in the movie Weird Science when I was 13. But I met Ralph in high school, when I was a little less forthright about my propensity towards geekness. Like any other high school in America, mine had a clear caste system – there were those who were cool, and those who were not. As someone who has spent a lifetime fluttering back and forth between being regarded as cool and not – and everything in between – I can now look back on those moments when my cool coefficient was a little low without feeling quite the same shame I did at the time.
Ralph and I started exchanging flirtations in gym class right around the time I returned from a ski trip in Iowa. Yes, it sounds impossible, but we really did ski in Iowa, although I’m not sure we were on real snow (and I’m definitely sure we weren’t on a real mountain.) I was a piss-poor skier (I was raised in Peoria, where was I going to practice?) and I did more falling than actual skiing during that trip. I returned to school with a souvenir scab from one of my wipeouts on my chin. Mortified, I expertly covered the goatee of dried blood with makeup, but anytime somebody would make me laugh the damn thing would crack and I’d start bleeding again. It was not a pleasant week, but it’s a testament to Ralph’s kindness that he flirted with me anyway. Well, either that or it’s a testament to his desire to find a prom date.
Ralph was sweet – the type of boy who would ask permission before he kissed me. I was looking for a little more action than that, but even though Ralph was a year my senior, he took things slowly. He was an old-fashioned boy, as witnessed by some of his favorite activities. He was the bass in a barbershop quartet, and he and his friend Eric would practice their songs during gym. I struggled to find it sexy that Ralph sounded like the Oakridge Boy who does the “Oom-papa-mama” part in Elvira, and was constantly balancing on the precipice between pride and embarrassment during his gym class performances. But what Ralph had going for him more than anything was that he was hot, so his nerdy nuances were easily overlooked. At least they were by me, and we started to see each other.
Ralph was a genuinely nice boy. He went to church with his parents and didn’t drink, smoke, or do anything bad. He was the school mascot for a stint and was even a Shriner. In case you’re not familiar with the Shrinerhood, perhaps this will help – they’re those old dudes wearing fezzes that usually throw candy to children at hometown parades. Actually, it seems like Ralph was awfully young to have been a real Shriner, but he had the bumper sticker on his car, so he was at least in the training class for the Future Shriners of America. The MO of the Shriner organization is decent enough – in addition to their quest for brotherly love they also raise money for children’s hospitals. Fine for a sixty year old man, but perhaps a bit premature for a sixteen year old. I didn’t tell my friends about it.
Ralph and I started dating in the spring, just in time for him to ask me to the prom. As a sophomore I was psyched to be going to the dance reserved for upper classman, and got myself a fluffy pink dress, satin pink shoes, and matching pink gloves for the occasion. Sure I was hanging out with the barbershop quartet crew and the cast of the upcoming spring musical instead of the jocks, but I enjoyed myself at the dance, and was really starting to like Ralph by the end of it.
A few weeks later our high school spring musical debuted, of which Ralph was a cast member. The production was South Pacific, and Ralph played a sailor. Any of my friends who had questioned Ralph’s cool factor were silenced as soon as the first notes of "Bally Ha’i" were sung – Ralph, shirtless in his sailor pants, with a fake tattoo on his chest, looked more like a rock star than a bow-tied barbershop bass. After the performance, while Ralph accepted congratulations from audience members, I too was receiving congratulations from my friends. “He’s cuuuute,” was the most common remark I recall. “Are you guys boyfriend and girlfriend or what?”
Although I was beginning to think we were, I was soon corrected. As I was leaving the school on the final night of the performance, Ralph asked to speak to me alone. In the moonlit night outside of the high school doors, I looked up into Ralph’s stage makeup-caked face and was delivered the news that he didn’t want to go out with me anymore. I’m struggling to remember exactly how he chose his words.
He could have said, “I’m sorry Gina, but it’s almost summer and with all of our upcoming barbershop gigs, I don’t have time for a relationship.” He also could have said, “Hey Gina, you’re a great girl and prom was fun and all, but I don’t want a girlfriend right now. See you in gym!” Truth is I can’t remember what he said, and as the adoring fans awaited him back inside the school doors, it didn’t matter what he said. What I heard was, “Things are different now that I’m a popular, shirtless star. This relationship stuff is really going to hold me back. I’m sure you understand.”
But I didn’t understand, and was confounded by the fact that my first nerd-pseudo-boyfriend had dumped me. I had risked any semblance of coolness I had by dating a Shriner, and now he was dumping me? Of course upon my return to school that week I responded to all inquiries about Ralph (“Hey, how are things with Ralph? He sure looked good in the musical,”) with a tale of mutual separation in which both parties agreed to take a break from each other as our busy summer schedules approached. Everyone bought it, even if I didn’t.
Since high school I’ve dumped and been dumped by several men, and I know now what I didn’t know then. You might never know why somebody dumps you. But when you’re in a relationship with someone and they stop liking you, there’s not a lot you can do about it. Fortunately for me there were only a few weeks left in the school year when Ralph delivered his parting words. Soon gym class was over and I no longer had to endure my prom-date-who-dumped-me jogging around the track while singing Camptown Ladies in a Barry White voice. Ralph was soon out of my mind, and apparently I was out of his, at least until a couple of years later when he called me out of the blue. I agreed to go to a movie with him, and was surprised to see that he was no longer into asking permission before making a move. In fact, I got the feeling that Ralph was looking for more than a prom date that time around. Not wanting to oblige what I believed to be a quest to get laid, or something close to it, I gradually stopped returning his calls.
His chances had been much better on the final night of South Pacific. Another thing I’ve learned since high school is that timing is everything.
Posted by GxxP at 09:47 AM
Months ago, I initiated a little game with Jen, Jerry, and Stevie that we coined the Google Game. It all began with an innocent search for photos of a recent date who had, along with his sister, been a prize-winning figure skater in the 80’s. To my dismay, I did not find any links to his career on the ice, but I did find multiple listings on Google that linked to financial articles he had written for work.
Realizing that was a lot less interesting than photos of my date in tights, I moved on to a search for a recent fling, hoping I would find something fun.
All that yielded was his high school lacrosse record.
Not one to give up easily, I Googled a crush of mine, and discovered that he was in a band I hadn’t known about (complete with ultra sexy photos), was trained as a classical pianist, and had submitted a review of his trip to Thailand on a travel site. Satisfied, I stopped there, but decided to create a new rule for myself.
All of the men I become romantically involved with should be Googlable.
Google has risen from the hodgepodge of search engines as a clear leader. Its simplicity of form and cute little name have made it the go-to place for useful (and useless) facts among techies and laymen alike. If your name shows up on Google, whether for a report you penned for your job or a song your college boyfriend dedicated to you, you have, in some way, made it.
As I played the Google Game that day in May, I voiced a wish to my friends. Not only did I want my men to be Googlable, but I too, wanted to be Googlable someday.
Six months later I am pleased to say that thanks to this site, I have joined the ranks of my lacrosse-playing, rock’n’rolling, financial-report-writing brethren. I. Am. Googlable.
And thanks to an article published yesterday by Reuters journalist Eric Auchard, the trend will likely continue. A special thanks to Eric for giving Bitch-Sessions, and the art of weblogging, some air time.
Many happy search results.
Posted by GxxP at 11:00 AM
Not Your Average Gun Movie
Bowling For Columbine
See it. Tell everyone you know to see it. Talk about it. Do not be afraid.
Click here for local listings.
Posted by GxxP at 10:02 AM
Crying on My Own Dime - With a Little Help From the White Rapper
Disclaimer: I am not a film critic, nor do I play one on tv. I don’t know all the fancy tricks to keep a movie’s secrets intact while writing about it. So if you don’t want to know anything about 8 Mile, stop reading now. Bookmark the page and return after you’ve seen it too.
I almost never go to the movies, maybe because of how I feel right now after seeing 8 Mile. Of course I knew before the film began that there would be a rap showdown and that Em’s character Rabbit would triumph, but that didn’t make it any less wonderful when it happened. Formulaic? Maybe. Worth spending $10 and 2 hours of your life on? Absolutely.
What I liked about the film. For starters, Eminem is hot. I’m a fan but I don’t watch much television, so I never get to see Eminem in interviews. More to the point, I never get to see him just being a person – cracking jokes, feeling sad, being himself. And after all, this movie is all about Marshall Mathers being himself. His brooding silences, his raw talent, his tenderness – this is what makes him hot, much more so than a shirtless photo on the cover of Spin.
I was impressed by every character in this film. The supporting cast did a fantastic job, from the inspiring yet straying love interest Alex, to the wayward mother, her deadbeat boyfriend, Rabbit’s motley posse, and his best friend Fortune. When Fortune and Rabbit fought I felt genuine sadness, the sadness I’ve felt when I’ve misunderstood or hurt my own friends, or when they’ve done the same to me, no matter how good our intentions were at the time. In the end, Fortune was a true and forgiving friend, and the beauty and purity of unconditional friendship moved me.
I really liked that Alex was going to leave Detroit in the end, that Rabbit wore a tattered shirt and went back to work in the factory after the rap-off. I like that no one walked off into the sunset, because that’s the way life is, that’s REAL.
Which brings me to what I didn’t like about the film. I didn’t like that for the majority of the film I felt the hopelessness, the angst, the ennui of Rabbit’s life. Of course this only means that the film was doing its job, because those ugly moments are reality; it just happens to be the reality I don’t often think about. Those are the moments and the feelings that I tend to put aside – I mostly write about the funny nuances of life, because that’s the side of life I prefer to think about, the world I strive to live in. Humor is what gets me through watching loved ones suffer from cancer, friends dying, unavoidable wars brewing, the men I love not loving me back. Without humor, reality would tear me apart, and I’d be crying all the time like I was when I finally got home and was able to show my true reaction to the film. Maybe that’s why I don’t go to the movies very often – because there’s so much sadness in the world that it seems unnecessary to pay $10 to feel more of it.
Perhaps this film hit me at just the right time. Sure, it was just a movie, and a somewhat predictable one, yet I enjoyed – and didn’t enjoy – it nonetheless. Life is about all the things 8 Mile exposed – oppressive, suffocating sadness, and unadulterated, exalting happiness. One almost cannot exist without the other. The film made me want to write for a living, to send my essays to journals, websites, anybody who will give me a chance to speak. Rabbit's decision to pursue his rap career, and to do it on his own, is the artist’s way. And deep down we’re all artists, we just don’t always let that part of us out. This film reminded me how important it is to let the artists inside us shine. To be expressive, thoughtful human beings, not just in our songwriting or painting or writing or rapping, but in every aspect of our lives – even during those hours when we’re sitting in a cubicle and doing the last thing we feel passionate about, so that we can have homes to dwell in, food in our bellies, and experiences that become the fodder for our art.
That’s why I created this site, that’s why I carry a purple notebook with me everywhere I go. Even if what I write doesn’t seem like art to anyone else, it sure seems like art to me.
If Eminem can make me cry, what can I do to affect someone else, even if for a brief moment? And more importantly, what can you do? Just as Rabbit discovered, it’s best we go find out, rather than sit around talking about it. So take off those pen caps, check those mikes, and show me, don’t tell me, baby. Wurd.
Posted by GxxP at 01:02 AM
I woke up bright and early this morning with the full intention of getting to work early. I went through my normal routine; I hit the snooze button three or four times, stumbled into my bathrobe, took a shower, and headed to my closet to pick out an outfit to wear. It was here that I found my normal routine to end, as I could not, for some reason, manage to get my closet door open. I turned the knob with all my might, but was unsuccessful in unsticking the lock. I looked around my apartment and realized with horror that the only items of clothing available for me to wear to work were pink fuzzy slippers, a pair of ratty jeans, the t-shirt that I wore to bed, and a tank top emblazoned with the word "Hu$tler" that was actually part of my Halloween costume. I called my Super and left him a frantic S.O.S message, and then picked up the phone and had the following conversation with my boss:
Jen: Um. Hi. I can't believe I'm even going to say this, but I'm going to be late to work because I can't get the door to my closet open.
Boss: Come again?
Jen: I know it sounds utterly preposterous, but the doorknob to my closet is stuck and unless you want me showing up at the office in pink fuzzy slippers and jeans, I need to wait for my landlord to get here to help me out.
Boss: Ok...well..Can you take the door off the hinges?
Jen: I don't even know what that means.
Boss: (What follows here is a lengthy description (ala Bob Vila) about how to unhinge a door.)
Jen: Yeah..Okay. I don't think I'm going to try that. It sounds dangerous.
Boss: (Suspiciously) Well, just get here when you can.
I then proceeded to locate a screwdriver (that I had previously used only to open bottles of beer), and attempted to unscrew the doorknob from the door. This did not work, and the only thing I managed to accomplish was breaking my doorknob completely, leaving it hanging loosely from my closet door (which not surprisingly still left me unable to gain access to my closet). I defeatedly sat down on my couch for a while, did some dishes, and popped a Sex in the City video into the VCR to help me pass the time while waiting for my landlord to show. While watching the video I couldn't help but stare at the very door that prevented me from gaining access to my wardrobe. It seemed silly. It wasn't a vault after all. It was a flimsy plywood door. I should be able to break it down. Every few minutes I would run to the door to my closet and fight wildly with the doorknob to let me in. I was continually unsuccessful, and would kick the door with my slipper-clad foot, screaming obscenities at no one in particular. The door being stuck was just the nail in the coffin as far as I was concerned. From the moment I moved in, the place had been nothing but trouble.
This apartment, though cute, large, and inexpensive, has yielded many problems since I've begun inhabiting the residence. When I moved in, I spent about two months painting, re-flooring, refinishing, and flat out re-doing the entire place. It was a mess, but I saw its potential and thought it was worth the effort. Unfortunately I was unaware of all of the potential problems. Since the remodeling, my toilet has exploded (flooding my bathroom and kitchen), the gas has been inadvertently turned off due to a construction mishap on the main floor, my heat has been broken several times in the short month that it has actually been cold, and the ceiling has cracked and landed on my head. Just last week, the landlord replaced the front door and neglected to tell me that I needed a new key in order to gain entrance to the building. I was left outside in the cold at 3 o'clock in the morning trying to locate someone to let me in. Then, just this past weekend, on the morning that I returned from an exhausting trip, I was shocked to find that my cats had killed a medium sized mouse that had somehow managed to infiltrate my home. Upon informing my landlord that my cats had killed a rodent, he giggled and said, "Good thing you have cats, otherwise it'd still be alive!" Ha.
So it might seem that this morning's events should not have been a surprise to me. I was beginning to give up all hope, but just as I was cursing the closet door for the last time, it randomly decided to just pop open. I gained entrance and dressed rapidly, feeling stupid for having engaged myself in a three-hour battle with a wooden door. Flashes of the movie "The Money Pit" kept popping into my head. With all the trouble that had occurred, I felt as if my experiences were akin to those that were depicted by Shelly Long and Tom Hanks in the movie. Similar to Shelly, I pictured myself sitting in a bubble bath in my claw-footed tub, only to hear the floor break and find myself falling into the apartment below me. I would be naked and embarrassed, and likely in quite a bit of pain.
My only saving grace right now is that I know that in less than a month I will be living in a clean, rodent-free apartment in Hermosa Beach, California. Hopefully the closet doors will open without incident.
Posted by Jen at 03:55 PM
Inspired by the Hughes brothers' documentary American Pimp, Beth, Jen and I masqueraded as pimps this Halloween. While we drew inspiration from such pimp legends as Fillmore Slim and Bishop Don Magic Juan, our rather last-minute outfits ended up being more of an extension of ourselves. Take note of Jen's frilly pink-pimpdom, juxtaposed by Beth's ethnic, hippie-pimpness (a few fellow revelers mistook her for Janis Joplin, but they were drunk.)
Both of my fellow pimps agreed that the gold tooth made me the Pimp Master. Although, by the end of the night, I was happy to relinquish my accoutrements to Dan (notice how Truman-Capote-esque they look on him.) It was a wonderful night, but in the immortal words of Big Daddy Kane, pimpin' ain't easy.
Posted by GxxP at 06:38 PM