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!