I got to 1st base (or 2nd if you're in high school)

My boss is an awkward woman. She's not the most personable, and she's rather cold. From those I've spoken to, that's a typical boss. I've been spoiled in the boss department, always having ones that would totally let me take half a day if I had bad cramps or was balling my eyes out.

I attempt humour at work - a place where humour rarely exists. Most don't take to kindly to my "back-of-matchbook" humour.

I was joking aroundw/ my fabulous interns towards the end of day, when my boss came in to say her goodbyes. They're leaving tomorrow to go off to college and allow themselves to be corrupted by the man. She was giving hugs, and I jokingly held up my arms asking for my hug. As she attemped an awkward sideways hug, she accidentaly grabbed my left bbreat, full on. What is with people favoring that boob!!

My interns nearly died of laughter. It was a pretty priceless moment. The younger interns explained I got to 2nd base. I said it was totally 1st. I said we do things differently in New York. And for once I can honestly say, it was NOT the best action I've recieved in a while.

The meek shall inherit...

All of the children I work for, know me on a personal level. When I'm in a show, start a new job, take my Rabbit to vet, they all know. When I have roommate problems, the all know. And they put their two cents in.

A little girl I work with every other Friday, gave me some sage advice the other night. "If you have so many problems living with roommates, maybe you should live on your own." The child is 8.

And to brifely address her remark, I enjoy and prefer living with others. I've just been dealt a revolving roster of crappy roommates.

Giving the right impression

I don't run into people I know on the subway very often. When I do, it's usually someone I wish I hadn't seen. Occasionally I ride w/ "celebs". I think I've ridden w/ 70% of the current cast of SNL; Fred Armisen has an affinity for the "1" - I've seen him on three separate occasions.

Tonight's encounter wasn't someone of noteriety, or even of infamy. He wasn't famous, and he wasn't welcomed. It was this guy I dated when I first moved to the City.

He was a Math major at a fancy school, who gave up a useless major to do nothing w/ his life - stand-up comedy. He was ok - light years better than that other comic I dated. Our relationship was weird, to say the least. He broke up w/ me via text message. When that happened, I was so so angry I blogged the shit out of him, defaming him all over the net. When you googled his name, my old blog would be the first thing you saw. I got over that, however. Barely a memory; I can't even remember is name.

Last I heard, he was seriously dating some Freshman at NYU, probably trying to get her from behind. And his comedy was still adequite.

Anyway, I saw him on the 1/2/3 platform at 14th St. tonight. I ducked out of site, and he didn't see me. But I saw him. And he had gained weight. And I smiled. I think he might have shrunk too.

An open letter to my landlord.

Dear Ellis,

I'm really sorry I gave you the finger and told you to "fuck off". I had a terrible day, parallele parking is very nerve racking for me, and mammonth SUV's barreling past aren't very helpful. Also not helpful, using a fog horn to get my attention. I had no idea it was you, and when I'm agitated, offering to tell me how to park my car is not a good idea. Because then I get angry, and start crying. And nobody needs to see that.

I can see you're annoyed I wasn't receptive to your offering of assistance, being as how you quickly drove away whilst holding down your horn. Hopefully this doesn't change our relationship. You know the one where I ask you to get hot water into the apartment or spray for roaches and you don't.

And I ain't Baby.

Thank you,

The Smirking Valet

Burning bridges like it's the fall of Roam.

I recieved an attractive birthday card from my grandmother two days late this year. Which is an improvement upon the past 3 years, when I wasn't even speaking to her. When my mother got in an accident this past May, I had to call her. She immediatly blamed me, but we spoke every day for the first few weeks my mum was in the hospital. Then we got into an argument over something small It was always over something small. We didn't speak again. Then her miserable boyfriend had a stroke last month, and she started to tell my mother she wanted to go into a Nursing Home.

The card I recieved said this "It looks like you and I will never have a relationship. I just want you to know that I appreciate everything you have done for your motherm you have been wonderful and I do wish you the best. Grandmother." Who sends that sort of thing, via a birthday card!!!!!!!!!

And my father who I still don't speak to didn't even attempt to conctact me for my birthday. Last year he forgot, and "apologised for the oversight."

It's just me and my mother now. But that's all it really ever was anyway.

SEX!

Now that I have your attention, I'd like to bring it to a topic that's near and dear to my heart. The proper disposal of condoms, used and unused. For used, never never never flush it down the toilet. Just because drug dealers in Greenpoint do it doesn't mean you should. For unused, and I'm speaking of the expired ones, take them out of the package before throwing them away. If they're non-lubricated, put them on your hands and pretend you're a tadpol.

I bring this topic up because while cleaning my room this evening, I discovered my box of condoms. Most girls have them, I believe. Mine is pink, with a velveteen bow atop. Going through them, I discovered most were expireded within the month.

I told my roommate that's a clear indication I'm not having enough sex. He pointed out maybe I am, I'm just not using protection. Think on that!

*yes Mum, I'm using protection.

If we learned anything from West Side Story...

On Wed. whilst shopping at H&M, or Harlem & M as my roommates calls it I was accosted by a women. Like many who hit the pavements of 125th St., she was African American. She was shouting some pro-Obama protesting rants about the world, when I strolled past. She switched gears and said to her friends, "look at that pale-faced Cracker. It's people like that that are destroying Harlem!" I felt I didn't have a decent case to make against her, so I just walked by.

I will say, my neighborhood is one that is changing. South Harlem has given way to SoHa, little store fronts are now Starbucks and New York Sports Clubs, and everything being built now is with the intention to be chic. I'm all for bettering a neighborhood - build a playground, have a neighborhood watch. But even I am saddened by the copious amounts of white washing.

Smooth Move, Ex-Lax

I dropped a heavy table on the foot of a Super Sexy Power Table supporter today. And I opted to not go to our lame-ass company picnic, and rather nursed a hangover. Thank you Gargantuan Margaritas! Supposedly, I'm expected to support my coworkers and not drop heavy obkects on them. For a nursing home, this is as corporate as I've seen. Oliver Stone should make a movie about us. Christina Ricci would play me, of course. Our VP would be played by Julianne Moore, the bitchy coworker in my department would be played by S. Epatha Merkleson, and the old sassy black lady I throw laser punches too, would be played my Jimmy J.J. Walker in drag. Instead of "Dynomite!" he'd say "Peace, Hippie!" And...it would be A MUSICAL!

My coworkers seem surprised I don't take any drugs.

What Elton John meant...

I saved a life tonight! Well, sort of. I was walking home after an evening in Murray Hill w/ my Bridge & Tunnel crowd, when there was this guy on 116th & Lenox just laying there, in a puddle of vomit. Like most New Yorkers, I just glanced over, and walked away. Suddenly, I was struck with the notion that I can affect change and I shouldn't be so obsessed w/ my adequit life, when there's a douche, comotose in his own man-juice! I double backed, and asked him and his friends if he was ok. I used the "I work at a Nursing Home" line. Get's 'em every time. He was conscience, but could barely stand. His friends told me they just called an ambulance. Dude! I said, just put him in a cab and take him home. I also asked the million dollar question - "did you take anything." He said no. Bingo. I wished the douches good luck, and walked home. It was exhilarating, assisting a stranger. He totally had it coming, though.

Being professional is attractive.

Today I ate with at the "important" table at lunch. Starting with day one, I've hated eating in our employee cafeteria. Yes, it reminds me of Junior High. When I first walked in, I was taken back to that place, hoping to God someone would have a seat saved for me, while not judging a huge heap of Cheese Fries on my plate.

Not even bothering to put up with any chance of gossip mongering-co worker shanagans, I was shuttering myself in my office to eat whilst reading New York Magazine's Vulture Blog, then when my Mum came, I was eating lunch with her. She has a virus of sorts this week, so I decided to be sociable and eat with on of the few coworkers I enjoy being around.

I met her in the cafeteria, and she was sitting at the power table. Or the "Super Sexy Power Table." Gathered around said table was the Director of the facility, the director of nursing, the VP of something or another, and my coworker, and myself. When I wasn't eating my meatballs, I just listened. Not quite ready to stir that pot. The VP praised me, and introduced me to the important people. It wasn't so terrible. Apparently, this is what it was like for popular kids. And I didn't even have to carry someone's saxophone or buy them a necklace at Claire's. Does this mean those miserable years are gone? Of course not, I live in New York City - those people all came here! Either that, or had a kid out of wedlock. Which makes me smile.

Baruch much?

I'm attempting to go back to school. I've been putting it off for many years, but when I have kids, I don't want them to be at my college graduation. I aspire to many things, most of which is greatness. I was planning on attending Lehman for Recreation Therapy, but after much thought and bs at work, I've decided to pursue Marketing & Promotions. If that terrible bitch at Spring Awakening taught me one thing, it's all about making the product freakin amazing, even when it's shit. I think there's a future for me.

The novelty of a Laser Punch

This is the first summer, of my life in New York, in which I'm not at the mercy of a miserable family requiring me to trek out to the Hamptons or up to Bedford, to care for their kids while they tan. I'm quite excited I can do the fun things, "normal" things New Yorkers do in the summer. Like leave New York.

Since I have a car for a bit, I'm planning on going to the beach this weekend w/ some friends. I always loved the idea of needing to take the subway to the beach. Living in suburban Philly, loading up the car and heading to the shore was an event unto itself. Once you got out of the car, you needed to lug all of the chirs, towels, and various beach paraphanilia several blocks because parking is an issue. I can't imagine hopping on the "A" and with nary a beach bag, and getting off at the beach. And one of the best parts of driving to the beach, was falling asleep on the way home. As a passenger, of course. Have you ever fallen asleep on a subway? Those plastic bucket seats aren't condusive to a sound sleep.

Heart Murmur the musical.

I think "Heart Murmur" is a kick-ass name for a band. I also enjoy having access to a car in the City, and am taking full advantage of it. I don't use it for short-distance trips, but I've gone from Harlem to the EV, Jersey, and Riverdale, of course. Al Gore, please don't smite me for screwing up your plans for total world domiation via global warming. This will all be over in few months. And Al, I get it. Really.

Ladies!!!

I'm back, from a hell of a few months. I moved out of the old, rotten apartment of horrors in Harlem, to a fabulous 2brm/2bath in Harlem. The kids call it "SoHa" i.e. "South Harlem" I just call it a fabulous change. I found it without a broker, and although I nearly lost my job over the extreme time consumption, it was well worth it. We have our own roof, and I have a deck! It's a duplex! Squee!

I also left my job in Jersey, for an equally crappy commute, but better paying gig in Riverdale, NY. The Bronx. I'm struggling a bit, adjusting to everything. I'm one fo the youngest people, and there are high expectations surrounding me. It's a struggle I'll overcome.

My mother was visiting me last month, and was hit by a car. She'll be fine - luckily she's at my facility, so she needn't go to far to get on my nerves.

Still looking love in all the wrong places, my Rabbit is fine, and I got a Facebook. My roommate encouraged me; but be warned - I'm supposed to act professional on Facebook. No farty party messages or nothing.

That Meat Kitchen Guy

At my nursing facility, it is a "Glaat Kosher" facility. Meaning, no cheeseburgers, shrimp cocktail, or BLT's. The kitchen is divided into two sections: Meat & Dairy. Some guy started working in the Meat Kitchen around the same time I became employed. A cute guy, with big ole' eyes and a nasty cocain habit. Actually, the cocain thing is pure speculation, but numerous gossipy coworkers verify symtoms of a coke-head.

He is the most chauvenistic person I've met. His idea of a fun evening is hanging out with Hooters Girls in Hoboken, then taking the PATH to Chelsea to hoping to get a table at Spice Market. He's a typical Jersey guy, with close-minded views on the world.

He's in love with one of my Jersey Girls, whose completely unaware of it. His self-obsessed confidant demeanor melts away around her, and turns him into a teenage boy. I, of course think he's cute and have often joked of locking the two of us in the meat locker.

Those who work amongst him say he constantly scratches his crotch. We all belive he's got a party going on down there.

Look, he's the only semi-attractive guy at work whose not married or an Ortho. We need to keep ourselves occupied and amused somehow. I believe I have just proven that women are catty, gossip mongers with nothing better to do.

Apologies for setting the women's movement back a few days.

Where the boys are.

My delicious friend Miles, says one should not go out for an evening, and have expectations. I always have expectations - it's what sees me through the day. Expectations rarely become what you had hoped for. I went out with a lovely "theatre person"for dinner & drinks. She wanted to set me up with some guy. "Oh, not just any guy - he does Improv!" Well, here we go again.

I don't date improvisors. Anymore. It is my thought, that Improvisors, particularlly of the male persuasion, are sick, self-centered individuals. These are the boys that got picked on in High School, while playing D & D, collecting Spawn action figures, jacking off to Cameron Diaz in the Mask...they move to New York, wanting to prove a point, showing all the basketball-playing douchebags of the world, that they overcame the mistreatment and are so much cooler than you and I. They find a world that accepts them, and allows them to foster their nerditude and all around geekery. It makes them braver, stronger, confidant - they are the Peter Parker's of this world.

The acceptance goes straight to their penis, and they are infalliable. They move to Brooklyn & Queens, because when you're a "real performer" you can't possibly afford to live in Manhattan. Unless, your income is being subsidized my Mummy & Daddy. Then they decide to live in Brooklyn & Queens because it gives the appearance of having character and convictions. They are ironic; they wear hightops - not because they're back in style, but because they are still a child, desperatly clinging to 1986. They meet stupid fan girls, and even dumber performers, all looking for acceptance in their own right. I am a dumb performer.

We flirt, drink, and screw. It makes things delightfully awkward. We do scenes together, with so much sexual tension, we need the Cutlery Barn on speed-dial. That is it. We might date, but stupid Improv boys are busy chasing rainbows, kissing ass to teachers. You call it "networking". I call it "mutuus penis combibo" or mutual blow jobs of the mind. You're so self-absorbed, us stupid girls grow tired of these games. We settle for a drunk invesment banker, or a coked-out NYU student - granted we have nothing in common, but they can fuck for hours.

Personally, I have distanced myself from the Improv world. I don't want to be a dumb performer. I know where I want to go, and I feel Improv isn't that place. It is not my Xanadu. I cannot perform, or enjoy an evening of Improv anymore, knowing so and so is there, and he may try and speak to me. It is an evening consisting of walking on eggshells. If he speaks to me, he'll remind me how good he's doing in his little universe, how happy he is with his amazing group of friends. And I hate him for that. And then we make out a little. And then I come home, and write about it.

In five or ten years, where will I be? I know where I'd like to be, and it involves an apartment in the 60's and Lexington, and a degree. Where will the Improv boys be? Probably still at Triple Crown, drinking Stella. Boys, prove me wrong - just don't call me.

And to address the issue of last night, I think it was there was a mutual level of disinterest. Although pleasing to the eyes, I just don't want to open that can of PBR again. And he probably couldn't handle my rapid mood swings and my insatiable appetite for dick. It's been know to happen.

Thank you, theatre friend, for trying. I love you for it. Let's pick someone from another medium next time, like pantomime.

Of which we complain...

I would like to move now. I hate my apartment. I abhore Harlem. If Louis Armstrong and the Sugar Hill Gang dug Harlem so much, why didn’t they stay? Why does a short Jewish girl from suburban Philly need to stay?

I’ve lived in crap holes, with crap hole roommates – hello Bovine Monster of 92nd St. But things were tolerable. I can barely sleep at night, because I hear mice under my bed. I see them climbing on my bookshelf, crapping on my 2nd edition of Lolita, chewing the spines of my chick lit. They climb on my poor Rabbit’s cage, and squeak, taunting Jemima with their sweet freedom. “We can get in, you can’t out!!! Bitch” That’s what some say. Other’s probably treat Jemima as a Yoda figure, coming to her in the night, attempting to find answers to life’s mysteries. They go back to their home, under my radiator, with tales heralding great bravery in propelling themselves off my bureau.

Point is, I see three or four at a time. My roommate and I call the landlord, and he gives us the runaround. I have an incredibly difficult time with dead animals. If I find a dead mouse, I have a panic attack. My roommate insists on using glue traps to kill them. I hear them squeaking in agony, and it kills me. Two days later, they’re still alive, accepting their fate. Glue traps are psychological touture. For some reason, my roommate keeps them around, until completely dead. If they still alive after several days, she pours boiling water on them. Hitler smiles on her for this.
We’ve killed more mice in this apartment, then Ted Bundy “officially” murdered.

Coming at ya Live! From Harlem!

I've been gone far too long. I stopped blogging in mid-July, due to craziness taking over my life. Here's a recap:



August - I was fired from my post as a personal bitch to the marketing director of Spring Awakening. Failed in becoming bff's w/ Johnny Gallagher. Became Assistant Director of an "off-Broadway workshop". Whatever that means. Got fired from that too. No hard feelings, but lost a good friend. Gained an even better one!



September - Accepted a position as a Recreation Therapist in Jersey, knowing wholheartedly that a reverse commute & major paycut makes as much sence as female circumcision.



October - my roommate, and best friend of almost a year moved out, taking with here an abusive relationship that I never want to revisit. I found out I was being evicted. Meet the "Turk".



November - move in w/ my friend, in Harlem, the dumpster of Manhattan. Depression sets in. My parent's divorce is official.



Demember - travel to Florida for work. Come back, and almost loose my mind with my roommate's boyfriend constantly up my butt. Spend New Year's Eve watching Hairspray, and cheering up my roommate since she broke up w/ the boyfriend.

January - roommate back w/ asshole boyfriend. Never hear from the "Turk" again. Meet the guy w/ Asbergers, casually date. Mice take over apartment in Harlem. Plot to move in w/ fabulous gay friend sometime soon...

Here we are. All caught up!