Was that your Boner???

I've been staying home or spending time at other's homes. It's really just an excuse to watch The Jerk, drink alot, and spoon one another. Yes, my friends are a big bunch of spooners. My friend Miles suggests I pull a "reach-around", but I suppose I'm too shy.

Last night, a few of my friends stopped by for a would-be girls night/party planning session. Through some wacky misunderstandings, my new masculine friend ended up running into Helen, in-turn bumping into myself and my sexy personal trainer. She and I were clad in my dead grandmother's old furs, leotards, and Vans. We were purchasing Smirnoff Ice from the deli, and getting a slice of pizza. Yes, that WAS me putting my Vans on the counter to show the pizza guy. What else would one be doing on a Sunday night in Harlem?

We all came home, I ate my Sicilian, she ate her Veggie, Helen cooked lunch for the next day, and our man friend watched, wishing he had money. Before you start accusing me of being insensitive, I might say I treated him to a hearty lunch at White Castle earlier in the day. My trainer suggested we play "truth or dare". This was an idea that with greeted with mixed emotions. Helen quickly retired to her study to save the world, our man friend sort of just sat there, and I whole heartedly said YES!!!

"Truth or Dare" never really went well for me. At a sleepover when I was 14, I was dared to lay down on the street in my underwear. My mother didn't appreciate that. And of course the kissing of the female friends, met with giggles and whispers. By the time heavy duty "Truth or Dare" was in session, I had already been shipped off to my no-touching policy boarding school. I've never even played "seven minutes in heaven". But really, how much trouble can one get into in 7 minutes!

So we lit some tea lights and cranked up my Mates of State playlist on Pandora - you know, to set the mood of being ironically juvenile. Yes, good times were had by all. We all asked typical truth stuff, regarding loosing of virginity, who would you cheat on your partner with, what's the kinkiest thing you've ever done...I asked the hard hitting stuff, such as "Have you ever had a murderous thought?" What can I say, I'm special.

I've always preferred "Truth" to "Dare", because I'm quite the storyteller. Obviously. Yet, I'm painfully gun shy. I will never make the first move, and I'm ridiculously cautious. So you'd be as surprised as I was, when I found myself accepting the dare of dry humping one of our friends. Well, in all actuality, I was supposed to simulate what I look like when I'm about to have an orgasm. Honestly, I don't really know, what with me being chaste. And I'm pretty sure I accidentally touched his boner.

Dancing was had, legs entwined through one another took place, I got sort of turned on by a girl, and a delightful new sketch character was born on this night! Just you wait!!! If I can't almost have an orgy with my good friends, while creating comic gold, then what good are the for???

Goodbye, my lover.

Oh dear. My gentleman friend has found another. This was bound to happen, of course. That was the arrangement. If one of us finds someone they chose to be monogamous with, our relationship ends. I knew he'd find someone first. The Bronx isn't that big. It will be a loss, however.

We were coworkers, and it took me three months to introduce myself. I approached him in the lunch room of my nursing home and said hello, one day. Man, I was a DORK. He was my work crush. Now, the beauty of a work crush, is that is all it is. You would never date this person out of work, but seeing them makes a shitty day better. I'd get all smushy when I'd see him. So cute with his glasses and round tush! Ugh, sorry. Spending time with a senior, I'd go out of my way to be near him while talking to them. Remember when I said I was a dork?

When I quit, I told his best friend, the security guard, that I had a work crush on him. His response, "Really? That's funny, because he thinks your gorgeous." Awww, right? Well, that was 8 months ago.

No one has met him, not even Helen. I sort of like it that way. We're very different, and I like that as well. He's not a bull shit artist like so many people I know. He's direct and honest. The only Broadway show he's seen is Cats, prefers comic books to novels, he can't swim or drive, and takes care of his mother. We'll spend a good portion of the evening playing Nintendo, inbetween our trysts and General Tso's Chicken. No one know we're here.

The reason for my waxy poetry? I'll miss him. Our trysts weren't extraordinary. His kissing wasn't even that good. He'd never let me get to emotionally close - he'd speak about his personal life, but refuse to use names and exact locations. That being said, I felt safe and ok with him.

I think, with every person you encounter, whether it be a lover, an enemy, or a friend, there is something to learn from that person. Some small piece you can take along with you. I suppose the one thing I can take away from him, is the knowledge that I am actually ok. And that I don't need him, or anyone to reaffirm that. I will miss the General Tso's...

Island Hopping

After a neverending ride on the D train, and an all to brief Chess singalong with Mark, I am home. We went to check out the Judith Shakespeare Company's Shakespeareathon in Long Island City this evening. Now, I'm not that big into Shakespeare. I enjoy the comedies; I love A Mid Summer Night's Dream. But the idea of a weekend of pub songs and corsets and fortune telling is all to good to pass up! And the most important reason to be in attendance? To support our wonderful friend.

She was scheduled to perform last evening, and I missed it. Even with a date book and my iCal, sometimes I just can't get it together. Tonight she was running around, doing ticket raffles, singing songs, making sure everything was where is it was supposed to be. She's good at that sort of thing. I love having her in my life for many reasons, a big one being that when I'm on the verge of a meltdown, she swoops in and with the flick of a wrist, all is right with the world again.

It was a fun time; I'm glad I got off the big island just for a bit. As you know, I don't make a habit out of going to Brooklyn or Queens, but I guess once a year won't kill me.

Home Decor Day!

I'm very excited! Like most women, I love shopping. But I prefer a very specific form of shopping - home decor!!! Oh, I adore home decor! And I hate shoe shopping. I can spend hours upon HOURS in Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Ikea is truly an all day event. I've always been into ultra modern furnishings and deco. I freaken love deco.

Anyway, the cause of my excitement! My lovely friend Allison and I are hitting up our favorite decor shops today. I love my friend Allison. Not only is she a fabulous listener and all around kick ass chick, she loves home design almost as much as I do. She's hard core about things - she makes lists! Of course I have a typed up inventory of every cosmetic I own. And I keep it updated. So we're both a little hard core.

We'll check out CB2 first - a hip outpost of Crate and Barrel. I wait eagerly every month for the arrival of my CB2 catalog. My dresser is from CB2 and it's just...ugh I can't even explain it. Then we'll head up a few blocks to Crate and Barrel, the wedding registry dream land. Contemporary furniture, dinner ware, stem ware...Allison is moving into a nice new place with her boyfriend, so she's eager to out fit the place.

After our stint in Soho, and a quick stop to Kid Robot to check out the new Labbits (ah, I love Labbits!) and Jonathan Adler to dream about one day affording any pottery from his Muse collection, we'll head up to Chelsea.

West Elm, Allison's favorite place, is what she dreams about. If she sees a piece, she can tell you what page in the catalog you can find it. West Elm is a bit to cookie cutter for my taste, but I do love their lacquer furniture, end tables, and home accessories. My little ceramic rabbit is from West Elm. I'm just along for the ride.

We finish our day with The Container Store. Who knew storage could be so amazing! Like AMAZING! Storage for socks. Storage for mugs. Storage for dog food. Storage for mouthwash. I need to pick up some little storage containers to keep in my bathroom - I'm slowly trying to get organized. I feel with that organization, I'll clean my room. Because honestly, I'm getting tried of climbing over clothes to get into bed at night.

And you know what a clean room means??? Slumber party!!! No boys allowed!

What's so great about the Staten Island Ferry, anyway?

Remember when you were in junior high and you were in a group of people who thought similarly to you? A clique, if you will. Remember the band geeks and the theatre freaks? I was in both! Remember the jocks, and how you'd stay after school to watch Jeremy Bennett wrestle in tights? Remember the burnouts and the goths who thought Hot Topics was the mecca for punk and angst? Remember the obviously bitchy girls invite you to a pool party, and ignore you the whole time? What about the mean girls that give off the appearance of being sweet but in the end, turn out to be vicious, spiteful girls?

I thought junior high, high school was over. The truth is, it'll never be over. As long as the world keeps spinning, people will continue to knock others down in an attempt to make themselves feel better. Knowing that you have the ability to make someone cry is an amazingly powerful thing. We, as a people, take the ability of taking control and having power over another, for granted. Consequently, often times we don't see someone slowly beginning to have control and exert power over us. And that is what we need to focus on - taking back the power.

Your mother and father were right; bullies are bullies because of insecurities, broken homes, factors that are beyond their control. They choose to bully, in an effort to take that control back. Life is a big, bitchy power struggle.

I am writing this, not so much to be informative to my readers, but as a lesson plan for myself. I need to stop letting the control others have placed upon me, break me. I need to remember that whatever happened in the past, isn't relevant now. This is me, taking back my power.

so, fuck it. I took back my power, and I promise to never be so generous with it again.

Choo Choo! It's the Vibrator Train!

My friends have been telling me for months to take some time for myself, whatever that entails. People keep suggesting I go to the Park, and just sit. Honestly, I'm not someone that easily finds serenity, and a patch of green full of sun bathers and happy couples ain't gonna cut the mustard. I'm not a fan of yoga, because I have a thing about bare feet. And it takes alot of effort to hop on the subway to visit a museum; plus I always feel guilty paying just one dollar...it does say "suggested donation!" And a house of worship? Very unlikely. To most of you, these places are sanctuaries for being one with your thoughts and just being present and content. Personally, I'd rather read Nylon Magazine and go to Sephora.

Since I'm a stubborn pain in the ass, and rarely listen to others, I finally gave in and took some time for myself. I went to the Lower East Side and bought a vibrator. People are surprised to learn I don't own one. That probably has to do with the fact that I've always lived with others, from my parents, to families I nannied for, to a plethora of roommates. It's just respectful. You wouldn't want your roommate's boyfriend to ejaculate all over your sofa/love seat combo - no matter how much you deserve it.

The location of my purchase was super female-friendly Babeland. They're extremely friendly and ridiculously well informed. It's bright, fancy, and pretty. Women like pretty things! Their mindset is to put the customer as ease, because sex toys are fun and choosing one shouldn't be an arduous task. A refreshing approach to sexual empowerment. In the past, I've been terribly timid to even browse in such a place. Yes, I do have one or two conservative bones in my body - though I think I broke them having sex. :rimshot:

My best friend and I would take her bumper sticker-fied Jetta to South Street in Philadelphia. Sort of like the West Village and Williamsburg, only smaller, cheaper, and drunker. We'd giggle at the bongs and piercing parlors. I will go on record stating that I was thisclose to getting my tongue pierced at Warrior Piercing. Near Warrior if you follow the sidewalk, you'll begin to see little cartoon spermies, leading you to Condom Kingdom - the be all end all giggle inducing sex shop. There were spermies on the sidewalk!!! If anyone can verify that these spermies are still around, please post!!!

We'd NJ Transit ourselves up to Christopher Street to check out the ironic lesbian t-shirts. But these sex shops were disgusting, and I remember actually feeling like I was going to throw up in one store. I couldn't get over all of the video (wow, that dates me) covers full of women with their legs spread open. And butt plugs. Butt what??? These big knobs that resemble cartoon arrowheads. You put them where??? I couldn't even fathom how that could work. I mean, after my mother purchased me the "Getting to know your body book for girls", it took me several months to wrap my mind around the whole "penis in vagina" thing. And it took the guy who was playing Chief Bromden in Cuckoo's Nest several days to explain anal sex to me. After professing my love to him, he told me he was gay - hmm, it all made sense now. And I clearly remember having a heated debate with Rachel Jankowski's little brother, protesting that you cannot have sex via the ear canal! Sex in the cusp of sexual awakening age is a scary, freaky, crying in the fetal position time.

My best friend and I once swiped her dad's porn "Double Penetration 6", and I was shocked. You can put your mouth there? GROSSSSSSSS!!!!! She was not fazed, as her grandmother owns a stripclub on route 309 that bears her name. I was definitely the sheltered one in the friendship. Now she's a nurse and lives happily with her girlfriend of many years in New Jersey. It's her birthday today :) Happy Birthday Coo!!!

Anyway, getting back to the point of this yarn. I was very pleased with my purchase, peeking into the bag on the subway. I'm very proud of myself for doing something that will bring me peace, and help me remain centered. Because never pausing just to breathe for a moment, is one of my downfalls. So I thank my wonderful friends for prodding and the many texts I've been receiving today, wondering how the "new friend" is doing. I think it'll be great - I've been looking for a good milkshake maker for awhile now.

10 years later

It seems as though most of my musings have been related to past experiences, as of late. Rest assured, when I am once again gainfully employed, I'll pepper this space with the random wtf moments you have come to know and love. In the meantime...

I had lunch with an high school friend earlier today. For those that aren't aware, I went to a boarding school because public school couldn't handle all "this." Yes, yours truly, was once a pistol-packin mama minus the pistol. I spent more time in the nurse's office feigning illness than attending class. And throwing desks at teachers was also a natural response. Needless to say, my fellow boarding schoolers were of that elite mentally disturbed state.

My lunch date today was an old high school crush. When you're ill, you really aren't able to gauge other's illnesses. So this is one of those secret shame crushes. He was from Miami, worshiped Anna Kournikova claiming they dated, and he had that cute pin straight bowl cut parted in the center that was all the rage in the mid-90's. His parents would love nothing more than to see as married; apparently they think of me as a stable Jewish girl. They've got the girl part right.

In my high school, our version of "prom" consisted of dimming the lights in the gym, dragging in the tables from the cafeteria, and booking a DJ. Needless to say, your prom, even if you didn't attend, was 100 times better than mine was.

My mother took me to Fashion Bug to purchase a dress. When your family is poor and you weigh 250lbs, dress options are limited. I am no Molly Ringwald. I ended up with this maroon tent with sparkly flowers all over it. It was $3.00. I was terribly proud of it. I required a tiara as well; $5.00 at Claires. Oh I was splendid!

I remember hanging out my friends, dancing to Smashmouth and Lou Bega. I remember Dustin and his mohawk and Christina, who apparently was murdered several years ago. And Karen trying to take off her dress. And my crush, with his pin straight hair rocking out with his best buddy, a Neo-Nazi from Long Island. I finally asked/begged him to dance.

We danced to Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" which is a TERRIBLE song to slow dance to. And an even worse song to give hope to new beginnings. I have pictures of him looking absolutely miserable, dancing with me. We graduated, a class of 10, and we went on our respective paths. His involved becoming a sports agent. Mine, well I'm still working on that. But at least I look good.

Through the powers of Facebook, he found me, and we've kept in contact over the past few years. We've lost touch with most everyone we graduated with. Apparently one girl became a nun. She doesn't have a Facebook.

We finally met after 10 years, last spring, for dinner with his parents at Fiorello's. So terribly awkward, but they acted as if I was their pride and joy. He's in town for the US Open, and wanted to meet for lunch today.

He doesn't know the city at all, yet he walks a good 10ft ahead of me, in his awkward style. Rest assured, dear reader, any attraction I harboured for him, has long gone. We ate at one of my favorite dinners, the Westway on 44th and 9th. Check it out. I once got drunk and made out with a guy on the corner of 44th and 9th. Ah, memories.

He seemed to think I was nervous, since I spilled my soda all over the table. Twice. I'm never clumsy like that. I wasn't nervous, just eager to finish this painful lunch, in which he constantly bragged about this and that, trying hard to impress me. He paid the bill, and insisted I walk him back to his ugly hotel in Times Square. We said our goodbyes, promising to see one another again, sooner than later. And I sashayed my ass out the revolving doors, and trotted away from the misery that is Times Square.

All in all, I suppose it was good to see the guy. Compared to many of our classmates, he's done incredibly well for himself, and I do wish him the best. He's like a bath; I'll see him once a year, whether I need to or not. After all, he's one of the only memories I have left of a painful high school experience. And as I've learned, using the pain for good, only makes you stronger. Loosing 100lbs and wearing a low-cut black dress and heels while embracing the pain does a world of good as well!

Where are you?

I was watching a documentary on Caligula tonight, and got to thinking about people from my past and what they might be doing now. Like my ex-boyfriend Matthew's, best friend Josh.

Josh was 9 yrs older than Matthew and I. He was an out of work pianist, and Matthew's roommate. He smoked pot as much as he wrote music, which was always. He was dark and brooding, with a wide array of flannel shirts. He was a tragic, tortured person who found his brother, after he hung himself. His brother's girlfriend stole the ashes, and Josh never got to say goodbye.

Compared to Matthew, who was an out of work Jew, with a tennis arm, and Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Josh was clearly the catch in that situation.

Matthew and I moved in together, very quickly. Looking back, I see it as playing house. I was making $22,000 a year at a nursing home, and he was making more, living off his parents. While I was putting gas in my Jetta, he was diving into dumpsters to furnish our apartment.

He would rather stay home on the computer or listen to Eminem, so Josh and I would just drive into the night. We'd park across from a now-closed insane asylum in Northeast Philly, and look at the assuming gates. We'd talk about climbing the gates, and never coming back, because it's safer then the real world. Josh would regale me with tales of electro shock therapy, sitting on the train tracks until right before, and lost weekends. After, we'd drive for awhile, with the sun roof open, listening to Soundgarden. Then we'd end these evenings, with a trip to the Eagle dinner for curly fries.

Matthew would usually be asleep, the Klonopine having since kicked in. Is it wrong that I desired the best friend of my boyfriend? Was this a terrible mistake? What the hell was I smoking, to have found either of these men desirable? That's besides the point.

Josh and I would spend more time together, and Matthew would listen to the 8-Mile soundtrack all the time. Rap music made him angry, and he'd berate me and manipulate me. So, I'd go over to Josh's to hear music. Matthew found me one night when I didn't come home, and hit me. For a brief moment in time, I had two men fighting over me, and in my crazy little head, it felt amazing. Yes, the triangle of the woman, her boyfriend, and his bestfriend was the talk of the apartment complex.

Josh and I ultimately deemed it necessary to commit Matthew to a psychiatric treatment center. His parents supported the decision but insisted I handle things. Committing your boyfriend to a psych ward with the help of his best friend is a rather disturbing thing to do.

Josh never spoke to me again. Once Matthew was discharged, I moved out, stealing his Calvin Klein wife beater and some ephedra - this was right before they took it off the market!

I occasionally wonder about Josh. He'd be almost 40 now, and probably still brooding, working at Target. I love Target. I hope wherever he is, he's content.

The weekend of what?

My day was of the extremely hectic nature. Hoofing around the city in my Nine Wests, w/ blisters aplenty. It was one of those rare days, in which I buy a hot dog from a street vendor. For those of you that aren't aware, I hate hot dogs. But, like anal sex, sometimes you just need it. Anyway, I arrived home, and took a wonderful nap on the napping couch. The Helen came home and alerted me to the fact that I had another interview in 30min. Have I mentioned, I love Helen?

I hopped in a cab, meeting at a Starbucks on the Upper West Side. Interviews with nannies in locations like Starbucks are de riguer for the first meeting. The details of said interview are non essential to this plot.

Helen was already asleep when I arrived home - remember, when you're a Scientist you need your rest, otherwise the world will never be saved. So I rewatched season 1 of The Kids in the Hall, reminding myself how much I love absurdist comedy and my ever lasting love for Mark McKinney. "He's sick of the Swiss!" Ending my Friday evening w/ some General Tso's and a phone call from an old high school friend, I sit to write about my upcoming weekend.

I'm working w/ a family all weekend. Fun times are bound to happen. We'll try and rush West Side Story again, I've been meaning to take the kids to get some soul food, I'm eager to drag them to Coney Island, and maybe convince them to see Julie & Julia. Then I'm to attend a going away soiree for an old roommate that has chosen to move home, out west. A post dedicated to her and her ballet shoes is forthcoming.

I'm most excited, one of my favorite bands, Jukebo the Ghost is playing in Brooklyn, and I never miss their shows. So, off on the L to Hell. Brooklyn doesn't happen often so don't get excited.

Sunday is a lovely friend's bday on the Lower East Side. I'm not a Lower East Side sort of girl, but who knows - maybe I'll get lucky and some dude will spike my drink. Rape kit aside, it'll make for an interesting entry.

On going home.

As the title suggests, I'm going home tomorrow/today. Taking good ole' New Jersey Transit to see my Mommy. It's not really what I call home anymore, and it's certainly not a vacation. It's just a way to get out of the city for a few hours, get a free meal, and stock up on Schick razors which are $10 bucks cheaper than in New York. Oh and I get to see my Mom.

I can only take so much of my Mom. I love her, of course - she's the only blood relative I have now. But when you've had your mother bunking with you for 6 months, cleaning up her "accidents", and watching her lying in the street after being hit by an SUV, ultimately you can only take her in small doses.

It is good to see her. Even though we speak, daily, it's fun to show her what I've been up to on Facebook. She's relived to see I'm not on a downward spiral and I continue to be functional. There was much debate between my parents in the 90's as to whether I'd live to see 25. Proved them wrong, didn't I??? And she takes me to Pier 1 Imports so I can give her decorating advice, and Sephora, so I can pick out the best shades of cosmetics. Then she takes me to Perkins, near my old high school, and I squeal with delight, on the off chance a former classmate of mine is our waiter.

When I'm out in Philly with my mother, she starts conversations with strangers, and always seems to work into the conversation that her daughter came down from Manhattan for the day, and used to work in Jon Stewarts building. She's terribly proud that her only child is making a life for herself in New York. Coming from my background, this is no small feat. Most people went to Temple University or Penn State, and ended back at home, working at Ruby Tuesdays or Weichert Reality. Yes, it makes me terribly pleased to know that as average as my life here is, at least I'm far enough away from an air force base or batting cages, which makes my "average" a townie's wet dream. I'm not saying I'm better than the people that never left home, but they surely can.

Looking for work???

Nannies get gigs in various ways. Networking is my preffered method, but Craigslist and various online sites are helpful as well. But more often than not, Nannies get placed via agencies. As I'm looking for a position, I'm working with several agencies. One in particular has asked me to put out the word that they're looking for several line-in nannies. There are many benefits of being a live-in; I was once a live-in and I freaken loved it. So, if you're interested in being a live-in Nanny, even a part-time one, and want to make a solid income, let me know and I will pass along your info.

Better yet, take matters into your own hands. Check out The Right Staff and ask to speak to my faves, Caitlin and Karolina - tell 'em I sent you!!!

See you at the playground!

A Special Place of my own.

When in the company of friends, you can expect several things from me. I will entertain you with my stories full of WTF moments, I'll refuse to share dessert (get your own), high-quality but good natured gossip, and the guarantee that I won't get drunk.

I really didn't start drinking socially until I moved to the East Village when I was 26. I didn't care for the taste. And as my friends know, I'm terribly quirky and "out there" without adding inebriation to the mix. On the off chance I do drink, I'm a cheap date. Two glasses of Merlot and I'm done. Same goes from Jack & Coke.

And since I'm not really a social drinker, I typically prefer to hang out with my friends at restaurants, shows/concerts, and especially at home. I love playing hostess! But there's always been a part of me that wanted a hang out of my own, a bar where everyone knows my name. A bartender I can spill my problems to, that won't cost me $150/hr. A jukebox filled with music from the 70's.

My friend in Astoria talks about a wonderful little dive she and her boyfriend frequent. She convinced me to make the above-ground subway trek one evening, and it was a splendid affair. The bartender and the patrons knew them, they drank for free - they were boss. I was a little envious of this little dive bar.

Smoothly transitioning into the reason for this blog entry, my roommate convinced me to got out last night. I really am an old lady. I viewed some stand-up in midtown, and rode the A home, eager to catch up with my DVR and my nightgown. While applying her makeup, my roommate suggested we just check out some of the local bars. Looking terribly cute earlier in the evening, I flung on my Mizrahi tea dress, and off we went. This was my attempt in finding our special place.

Harlem has really changed since your parents told you to stay away. I mean, there are crappy parts, but there are crappy parts in Murray Hill. Yuck, Murray Hill. So with these changes, comes super sweet, stylized lounges.

Our first stop was MOCA, the most popular lounge in the area. It was packed with the fabulous people, and the bouncer searched our purses. I later learned of a fella getting pat down. Drama. We pressed on, in a search of this unmarked lounge, 17 Below.

This is the place NY Magazine wrote about, emphasizing the many noise complaints after 3am. If you didn't know it was there, you would've walked right past. My first roommate once took me to an unmarked bar in the East Village - it was so dark inside, I thought at any moment a woman would shriek "Oh, my pearls!" The staff at 17 Below was very welcoming, and escorted us into this teeny lounge decorated in black and white leather and studs. When I close my eyes, this is what my living room will look like one day. It was amazingly sexy, and I suddenly felt the need to make out with someone. You know what that's like. Unfortunately, the bass on the Kanye West was off the chain - remember I'm an old lady - so we peaced out. We did decide, however, that this would be a lovly spot for "Girls Night".

Our final destination was Cub Mojo. Terrible name, I'm aware. It was pretty empty, aside from these gorgeous women from Throgs Neck. The decor was Mid-Eastern, full of romantic reds and purples. Again, the need to make out, arose. Our bartender, Jason was wonderful. He mixed these strange drinks for us, made of rye and ginger. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.

Jason was concerned about my problems. The manager, Chris made sure we were comfortable. And I was excited to learn, the chef would be willing to teach me to fry pasta nests! Finally! A special place. We didn't leave until 4am, our wonderful conversations with Jason lasting all evening. He even offered to lend me his air pump, for our baby pool. That seals the deal in this being Our Special Place!

So my advice to you, is to take the A train to Harlem, and grab a drink with me! Not to many though - you wouldn't want me to accidentally make out with.

An open letter to my One Night Stand...

Dear One Night Stand,

It's been several days since you put your penis inside of me. How have you been? I hear you've been busy. Well I'm assuming you've been busy. Normal behavior dictates several things, involving intercourse and intimate contact between two consenting adults.

Firstly, a thank you or a fun text by midday, the following day thanking the other for the fun times is in order. Sideways winky face is optional. Of course, people aren't always expected to thank someone whenever pleasantries are exchanged in a day-to-day situation. But a simple "thanks for lending me that book" or "had a great time at your party, the other night" is always appropriate. But in this particular instance, there was no book lending and there certainly wasn't a party.

Secondly, complete avoidance after a sexual encounter is inevitable, but unacceptable. Yes, there will be times in a person's life when they meet an attractive person at a bar/concert/Starbucks/street corner and the meeting becomes sexual. Hopefully, both know this is a one shot deal. Occasionally one person promises to call another person, and chooses not to out of embarrassment or a sudden move to another state or a death in the family. These things happen. Unfortunately, when said person continues to ask the other out in a public forum such as Facebook or Friendster, and when the two people have many mutual friends, the intelligent thing to do would not be to avoid contact with that person once they have inserted a penis into a vagina. Because then the person with the vagina will write her feelings down in a witty way, on another public forum like the internet.

Finally, quirks are common place where intercourse is concerned. We all have facets of our sexual life that are best to be kept private between two partners. For instance, I enjoy having my ear nibbled on - that is a quirk. And I hate feet - yet another quirk. It's always a surprise to learn about a partners quirks, the first time a sexual encounter takes place. A penchant for soft biting and hair tugging are a few I've encountered. But a partner who shakes and trembles violently as if they're having convulsions is a new one. I suppose these convulsions are a distraction, to keep you from ejaculating to soon. Consideration for another is always appreciated. And when you are finally at the point of ejaculation, a loud, girlish scream is rather odd. If I acted in that manner, you'd become fearful I was cumming rusty needles and rubbing alcohol.

And an added note regarding sexual quirks - bruising will happen. But bruising that resembles getting pummeled by a 300lb mime is just not acceptable - I work with children after all.

Hopefully this was helpful to you. One of my strongest suits is my willingness to go out of my way for others and make them feel comfortable. Such as when I cooked you breakfast the following morning - I always take care of my guests. Think of this letter as my way of assisting you in the proper way to fuck and run.

Very truly yours,

The Smirking Valet

PS - the eggs I prepared for breakfast that day, were apparently several weeks old. Hopefully salmonella isn't as serious as it sounds. Kisses!

When reality's rockin, don't come knockin!

I've never been into reality television. I only watched the Real World when it was in NY for the second time, because the first inception was during my parent's "MTV and The Simpsons will rot your brain" phase. I liked dating shows with gimmicks. For Love or Money was always fun because you knew they'd always choose the moneyand it proved what other countries already knew - we are money-hungry douchebags. I liked Mr. Personality too - but i have thing for intimacy where the fella's face is covered with a mask. Just something I'm into.

I've recently become addicted to Daisy of Love, starring Hot Mess du jour, Daisy De La Hoya - who may or may not be related to another hot mess, Oscar de La Hoya. In it, she meets 16 different men in her quest to find one that isn't infected with Chlamydia. The finale was Sunday night, and not to spoil it, but she chose London.

Yes, our heroine desires what we all want - random sex with men of questionable morals, mass quantities of liquor, and a hot tub. There were some amazing men on that program. There was the abused cage fighter, the guy with the 6-gauge Prince Albert (Hellooooo, Nurse!), the truck driver with the heart of gold, the fella that wore the man thong, the guy that looked like Cher and Trent Reznor's love child, and London - every dumb girl's dream.

London was an attractive man, with a mohawk. Now I'm not into the whole "mohawk look" , because I have a thing about balding men. I don't like 'em. Sorry Mr. Clean, but it could never work. He was all angsty like Morrisey but tried to be a bad ass, like Sid Vicious. I dig.

Women want to date a rock star. I see it. Why wouldn't you? We want a man that rocks out, screaming about social injustice then serenading us about how they would die for our love. This shows they're multi-facetted and dedicated to a cause. We want a man that dresses well. Rock stars wear tight pants and leather! Women love leather! It's soft and reminds us of sex. Rock stars play instruments, and we like instruments. It means they're good with their hands, so they can fix that leaky pipe or hang a painting. And when it snows, they can shovel the walk. And if they're a drummer, that means they can finger bang. And women tend to like finger banging.

Whether London is good at finger banging or changing a light bulb or writing a sonnet, remains to be seen. Hopefully he treats Daisy with the love and respect she deserves. Nothing says "im deserving of love and acceptance" like posing with a guitar between your legs.

Television has the power to move, to heal, to change the way we think. If you're not into that, watch Daisy of Love.

And a final thought: Like so many of us, even people made out of plastic need love. Sometimes love can come in the form of plastic. Think about that!

My brain feeds off of the History Channel.

Since I've been out of work, I suppose I've been in the doldrums. The upside is I get to video chat w/ my wonderful friend, Mark and my MBA friend in Rome, I've rediscovered the wonder of midday naps, I'm spending more quality time with my Rabbit, I can meet some of my other out of work friends for lunch, and I've become addicted to the Rachael Ray Show and the Discovery Channel.

Some say I remind them of Rachael Ray. She's so perky and spunky and does things her own way. And she does strange things with food like making Red Velvet Whoopie Pies and coating Fried Chicken in curry! That proves it is entirely possible to fry pasta-nests. I've been DVR'ing her show, and making a list of meals I want to prepare, once I have money to go to Fairway.

The Discovery Channel is a surprise addiction. I've always been a history buff. Just try and beat me at Jeopardy. Bitch. I'm learning all these wonderful facts, such as the 7 possible ways the world will end (plague! massive volcanos! rise of the machines!), each of the 13 colonies had their own bill of rights however Rhode Island and South Carolina we're all like "bitch, please. That's not how we roll in the Palmetto State/Smallest state in the nation!", and most importantly James Buchanan was gay! Wow, right?? I always thought he had an incestuous affair with his niece, Harriet Lane. In reality he was schtuping Franklin Pierce's VP! Franklin Pierce paid no mind, since he was still grieving over the death of his son. He was decapitated before President Pierce's eyes!!! Sucks, right!

Now I'm no Franklin Pierce or William Henry Harrison, which is good because Harrison only served three months of his presidency, after succumbing to pneumonia after giving the longest inaugural address in US history. Three hours! Bring a book! Anyway, cutting to the chase, I may be out of work and lolligaging my days away, but at least I'm continuing my education. As we all know, men dig smart chicks who watch the History Channel!

Mondays mean only one thing...job search!

I do one of three things, every 6-10 months. I move, I look for a job, and I come up with a hair brained scheme. I move so often because I have had the worst luck with roommates. By far. My one positive situation was in the East Village, but the other roommates, as amazing as they were, had predilections for drug use, casual sex, and Brooklyn. Other then casual sex, the other two were deal breakers. Of course, I have the most wonderful roommate now, so let's not dwell on that subject any longer.

As for the hair-brained schemes? Well they typically consist of delusions of grandeur i.e. traveling to Iceland and the Shetland Islands, eating one meal per day for 2 months, becoming an internet sensation, booking a suite at the Pierre Hotel, and walking into Cartier and purchasing a Love Bracelet. There's a reason we call these things hair-brained, yes?

Now speaking of le job, well that's the story of my life, isn't it. I've always been a Nanny. I consider it a profession, and one that has it's own level of prestige. Our portrayals have typically been on Pointe. Yes, we live to serve, the children can sometimes be terrors until we come in and change their lives. Yes, the parents are the most miserable shit heads on the planet, wondering why their children love us so much. It is the latter of these reasons that my job search is one of a frequent nature.

If I wasn't so tired I would go into specifics regarding the torment and abuse I have witnessed. But hear I am, jobless - by choice, mind you - in search of another position. I've been told I'm a "downtown, Upper West Side Nanny" because downtown families appreciate my "quirky nature" and UWS families appreciate my liberal approach to child rearing. Whatever the stereotypical case may be, I'm just searching for a family that pays amazingly, treats me with respect, understands my role and doesn't misuse it, and let's me be me.

I have an interview tomorrow morning, and it's a big one. This is the sort of interview that you purchase new shoes and pluck your eyebrows for. A formal household looking for an amazing nanny. Hopefully the "rock and roll Nanny" will impress and kick some 5th ave ass.

Have you celebrated your Helen today??

Today is "Helen Day". For those that don't know, this is a very special day, indeed. The routes of "Helen Day" can be traced all the way back to March 27 th, 2009, the day that my roommate Helen and I signed out lease. "Helen Day" consists of catching up with your roommate after several days of running around, shaking your money maker. In this case, my few no-show days consisted of entertaining my beloved Miles on Mon, a booze date on Tues, and a friend date on Wed. My presence was requested downtown, but I said "How preposterous, indeed! Today is Helen Day! Now kiss me, you fool!"

In the past, the celebration of "Helen Day" has consisted of me buying us Chinese Food, insisting we use chopsticks, "because real New Yorker's eat with chopsticks!" And then we watch DVR'd episodes of Jeopardy or Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. Sometimes I buy her condensed milk at Fairway, so she can make us fudge. Fudge makes a great gift, you know.

Because she's a scientist, she comes home very tired. Saving the world from the arms of destruction is a tough job, and I'm glad to know she can do it. She helps me through every crisis I throw her way i.e. "Does he "like me" like me, like I like him?" or "Can you sew the button that fell off my jeans." And if all else fails, I go into one of my anal sex stories, sure to make her laugh.

Since I am without work, and nursing a splendid cold, I spent the majority of the day on the napping couch - so called the "napping couch" because it is the perfect place to take a nap. I napped in my nightgown, alternating between reruns of Maury and reruns of Full House and whatever I DVR'd from the History Channel. On days like this, it is of most importance not to ruin "Helen Day" by appearing to not have accomplished anything. So I have a plan.

I can hear her coming up the hall, either on her phone or the jingling of her keys. I run into my room and throw on some yoga pants and my Lolita t-shirt, and greet her with a look of extreme accomplishment. Of course, she is aware of my sudden wardrobe change, because she is Dr. Helen, and she knows all.

So we will celebrate "Helen Day" over a Dominos Pizza, because I have a coupon, a little Gnome Poison, and hopefully some fudge.

A special thanks to my friend date from last evening, who inspired to blog today.

Hmmm, an update???

Why the hell not, right? It's only been 5 months. Well, I'm in school now, bettering myself with hopes of attaining one million somoleons before I hit 40. Then I won't need ridiculous roommates that leave dirty dishes out for weeks at a time and turn the furniture over when they don't want me sitting on it. I'll be able to own my little place on 63rd & Lex.

After 6 moves in three years, Ive decided I will most likely move out soon. Get my own sweet pad in Harlem. Oh, didn't you hear? Mama's making the big bucks now.

Yes yes, back to the rock and roll nanny trade. Amazing kids. I love this kids more then I can say. And they're SOOOOOOOO chunky! I've taught the 2yr old boy to pump his fist in the air and shout "HUZZAH!" Your welcome, nerds.

Today I'm in Philly visiting my mother, who learned to walk real nifty since being hit by an SUV 6 months ago. Yay mom. I'm still not convinced it wasn't an assination attempt.

I'm dating this deightful hooligan in the Bronx with an equally deightful back tattoo. The G.E.D. certificate on the wall, screams stability. And the scary fact is, he's one of the most stable men I've met in years.

I'm attributing this random update to the fact I've drunk three cans of Coke in the past two hours and it's almost 4 in the morning. Maybe this will be the day I start up the frequent entries again. Maybe.

Happy Day After Valentine's Day Half Priced Candy Day!