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!