letter to my friend on the eve of her wedding

at the bachelorette party i recently attended the hostess had brought a sign-in book for everyone to share words of wisdom or pieces of advice for the bride.

knowing that i love to write, i am afraid my friend had high expectations of what i would put on my page. i had no idea of what to write so i mustered some odd sentences together and ended it with "R5 rules!", a personal joke that harkens back to our train ridership days. i needed time to dwell on what things i would say.

here's what i hope for your marriage:

that your relationship grows as comfortable and reliable as your favorite pair of underwear,

that your husband knows when to pretend he's sleeping and when to not let you cry alone in the dark,

that your in-laws are sweet, caring, people who remember their relationship with their own in-laws and respectfully treat you as they wanted to be treated,

that if your in-laws are not sweet, caring and respectful, i hope they live on the opposite coast,

that your good days together far outnumber your bad ones,

that you learn to communicate with a raised eyebrow, a wink, a look in a secret language only you two understand,

that you never go to bed angry --or if you do, you wake up to great, morning-make-up-sex.

x-rated living in a pg world

yesterday i attended a friend's bachelorette party.

in a skating rink. at 11:30 in the morning.

yup, i bitched mightily to other invitees. we were told a private room was rented at the facility for us. we knew the bride -- a teetotaller and activity junkie-- would never go to a club or a bar to celebrate. it was much easier to get her to think she was taking her soon-to-be nieces rollerskating for our ruse to be successful.

the bride is, by definition, the most free-spirited person i have ever met. maybe the roller skating idea wouldn't be that bad. because the bride is getting married on top of a mountain during a ski trip next week, a non-traditional bachelorette party for a non-traditional girl (oh, she is wearing a white ski jacket and pants for the occasion) would be just perfect. heck, the invite even said "gag gifts are welcome."

so friday night after work and dinner with the in-laws, i needed a drink. instead i went shopping for porn. normally i am okay with buying sex toys and the like but walking into adult world at 11:00pm at night that made me skittish.

the 11:00 o'clock hour in an all-night porn shop has got to be the loneliest hour. sure the parking lot was packed, but freakishly, there were no people inside the store. i was able to load up my basket with prerequisite penis sippy cup, flavored condoms and lube, vibrators, handcuffs and whips, (c'mon like you don't have one?) without prying eyes watching.

walking back to the car, my husband goes, "christ, how much stuff did you buy in there? i thought you got lost, you've been gone more than a half-hour."

"lost? is there some sort of blackhole in that place where people got stuck and can't get out?" i answered. it would make sense considering the empty store and packed parking lot. it should also be noted my husband stayed in the car during my shopping exploit.

i worked in a retail framing shop to put myself through school; i know there is no species on the planet as critical or judgemental as bored retail counter-dwellers. forget the supreme court justices -- put 7 retail counter-dwellers on the stand and see how quickly justice is served:

"i can't believe you are wearing those shoes with that outfit! you are sooo guilty."

"so you said you were where on the night of the crime? hmmm, yeah, there's no way that jacket could have been worn on that night. it was hot that evening and since i see no evidence of sweat stains or deoderant tracks on the evidence, i don't think you were really there. sorry, (in a sing-song voice) guilty!"

"uhm, can i help you with something? yeah, we don't decide those things, you'll need to check with the lower courts. case dismissed."

anyway, before the new court justices take over, i am not bringing anyone shopping with me for sex toys. counter-dwellers in such an establishment can probably say they have seen it all. what they don't admit is how they cackle after the customer leaves. i'd rather be seen as a desperate, sex-starved woman that have them start combining images of me and my shopping partner, whether or not it would be hot.

the next morning before the skating party, i artfully arrange the sex toys and paraphenalia in a basket as any martha wannabe would. after running out of ribbon to do a nice big bow on the gift basket, i decided deb and i would stop on the way there to pick some up.

one look at the basket, deb looks at me and says as we get into my car, "you're kidding, right? you're not going to wrap that thing?"

"what? i told you we needed to stop for ribbon on the way."

"no," she continues, "you can't walk into the skating rink with all THAT (shaking her wrist in the air) out in the open."

"why not? it wasn't my silly idea to have it at a skating rink at 11:30 in the morning."

after more browbeating than i'd like to admit, we stopped at a grocery store to grab a gift bag to conceal my loaded weapons. deb rewrapped my tower of condoms and lube in the gift bag as i continued driving.

arriving a few minutes behind schedule, we hoped we wouldn't run into the bride on our way in. walking quickly through the front door, i was suddenly glad i had deb to be my voice of reason. one big whiff of stale, sweaty, kid-stink was enough to remind me that, yes, we were entering into their territory and not vice versa.

small ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones. kids were freakin' everywhere. deb is pushing me from behind, guiding me to the what appeared to be a doorway with tables set-up. aaaahhh! our private party room. sacred adult woman space.

'except the private party room had 5 other parties also booked for that day. birthday parties for hunter, timmy, susie, ashley and some other tweak turning 8 that day.

i was gonna need a flask. as the adult women huddled in the center of the room, we were very unsure of ourselves. (of course our table couldn't be hidden in a corner somewhere for the perverts to pull out sex toys and talk smack.) only the insane party organizer saw nothing wrong with this. we felt dirty. we wanted to drink.

we contemplated who among us would leave to pick up a bottle to put in a gift bag to sneak in for us. hell, we all walked through the front doors carrying enough battery-powered toys to power the lights and sound in this joint in a gift bag.

hell, some of what we carried in could even be used as light wands in a pinch.

i'd like to say we had a good time, eating cake, skating in circles and giggling again. the bride arrived stunned and speechless over what we were able to pull off for her. she opened presents *carefully* as the gifter would announce whether she could take it out for all to see or if the bag or box got passed around for private viewing.

for the bachelorette party's most unlikely location, the party organizer did manage to replicate one portion of the evening all of us girls had hoped we would avoid by going skating -- the "groping factor."

unsteady little kids in skates see nothing wrong with grabbing whatever body part is closest in order to steady themselves and keep from falling. our asses got grabbed as much as if we were at a club on delaware avenue.

somethings are simply unavoidable.

politic (re)hashings

okay, yes, i am been noticably silent regarding recent political follies of dead-eye dick (cheney) and his unlovable buffoon sidekick, w.

dammit i am in grad school and a full-time working stiff, time is precious. so finally, some observations about these incidents:

on dead-eye dick:
first picture that i came across had his typical smirk. y'know the one. he looks like joker in a bad live-action batman imitation. all he needed is the long cigarette and PREST-O! POW! SPLASH! KER-PLUNK! you could hear the sounds of his rating approval dip into the toilet.

my hubby's first mumblings (he was half-asleep) on the monday morning when it was leaked to the press: "he shot dan quayle?"

my response to his mumblings (i was wide awake): "no dear, he was shooting fowl. and his companion probably mentioned something about halliburton just before he got clipped."

later that day as more pieces of the story were known (damn the muddling free press for digging into an obviously personal event. do you want everyone to know when you've shot someone?) and it was mentioned that cheney's personal medical staff treated the victim at the scene.

what the fcuk -- why does the vp have his own personal medical staff accompanying him everywhere he goes? is he that special? poor people can't get healthcare but this bastard travels with his own hospital? and tax-payers are footing this bill? if he's that close to death, why haven't people just let him gooo already and spare us the joker? what kind of deal with the devil did halliburton and this guy make?

on w.:
after his drum-beating protectionist propaganda has been fed to us since 9/11, he's now upset that his frothy, anti-foreigner diatribes have taken hold? aaaah, can't have it both ways, gw, either you are for us or you are against us.

lastly, why is anyone shocked that the white house had a side-deal worked out behind the scenes and that w had no clue as to what was going on?

from mcdreamy to mcsteamy...

oh god, i love watching grey's anatomy. it's so good that i forgo watching desperate housewives just so that i get that free one-hour to indulge in mere and the gang at seattle grace. it's like er without the grunginess. and coffee-house cool music. and with hotter people.

which leads me to mcdreamy versus mcsteamy, the newest character added to the cast in last night's episode. yummy! as if i wasn't enjoying the new found hunkiness of "mcdreamy" (who could stand to gain a few pounds), the writers bring in his nemesis, nicknamed by the girls on the show "mcsteamy". argghh. i am having sex on a regular basis and he made me all warm inside. mmmmm.

mcsteamy was brought on to provide some tension (he brought tension alright) as the lover who slept with addison, mcdreamy's wife, which led mcdreamy to bolt for seattle and hook up with poor-underfed intern meredith. (if only they would eat, they would be the perfect couple!)

"so we're the dirty mistresses," mere says to mcsteamy after he tells her he has heard of her as the lusty intern back in ny. now before you think bodice-ripping soft-core porn, grey's anatomy is chock-full of one-liners and omg-did-she-just-say-that moments. medical drama is thrown in simply to justify all the brainiacs being overstressed, thus requiring a prescribed treatment of sex which leads to overdose and being oversexed.

let me now say, not that i mind one bit. not one single solitary "mc" moment. uh-uh. i thought i was melting when they had a close-up of mcsteamy and mcdreamy in one camera pan. mmmm, makes me want to visit the golden arches.

from mcdreamy to mcsteamy, thank goddess for sweeps month!

crunchy lasagna

a whole day spent chopping and baking for a veggie lasagna crunchier than a tortilla chip.

:: how to make a crunchy lasagna ::

the girls had some knowledge of my cooking disasters like shiny meatloaf. this was their first time eating my mistakes.

i’m sure they were a bit worried. i was worried enough to take a day off from work to cook. me cooking wasn’t natural... it was like asking mother teresa to visit a strip club for world peace.

:: we don't need no stinkin' directions ::

finally, after much chopping, praying, and cursing (do you know what a béchamel sauce is?), my masterpiece went into the oven.
precooked lasagna noodles made the whole process move pretty quickly after all the vegetables were ready. in the meantime, meg showed up first without so much of a whiff of a pre-meal big mac on her breath. (the pre-meal is just in case
a hazmat team was outside when she arrived.) she helped me with the last minute details of my insalata caprese.

she was even kind enough to help me pick the glass out of the salad when the pliers i was using to twist open the bottle of balsamic vinegar splintered in my hands like i was supergirl... and i don’t think lisa and liz ever heard that story until now.

:: friendship is spelled "t-u-m-s" ::

liz and lisa showed up next and shortly after their arrival the crunchiest pasta noodle ever was brought to the table. all three quietly picked up their steak knives to saw through their pasta.i was certain that someone would get hurt from swallowing either a shard of glass or freaking noodle.

their utterly blind stupid trust that my cooking would not kill them (before they could get to the hospital) kept me from taking a lasagna noodle to my wrist. my friends crunched their way into a place in my heart forever that night.

snowstorm survival kit

as mother nature prepares to coat the mid-atlantic region with up to 12 inches of snow, a little preparation is in order. a trip to the ack-a-mee and other fine establishments to stock on some essentials if you will.

a proper snowstorm falls on a weekend. much to the chagrin of school students and teachers alike, but you know what? tough titties. you get the whole fcuking summer off, give the rest of us "cubicle dwellers" a break.

see by having the snow day fall on a weekend, no one has to go anywhere, or sit in hours of traffic to travel a few miles. normal drivers lose all sensibility when it snows and businesses certainly don't shut down for snowstorms unless 3 feet of it dumps on us. medical workers and other emergency service peeps need to report to work regardless of the conditions. the world doesn't stop for white stuff.

so now as the flakes fall, my essential snowstorm survival kit:

  sweatshirt, fleecy pants (preferably with an elastic waistband), cozy socks and slippers;

  one or more good bottles of wine;

  loaf of crusty bread, cheese and anything chocolate (for sustenance);

  books! lots of books. a preferable ratio is 1 book per 1 bottle of wine but that's just me;

  a cozy chair with my faux-fur throw and roaring fireplace.

if anyone needs me, you know where to find me.

my lips (and lunch) are sealed

dammit, i hate when they mess with my lunch.

as a chubby chick, i have bounced from one diet to another. the latest is jenny craig. part of jenny's shtick is you gotta eat their food, which ain't half bad if you consider eating half of what you'd normally consume appealing. that's why the other part of it is you consume buckets of "free foods" all fibrous fruits and veggies meant to fill you. hah! instead you fart like a lactose-intolerant wild animal after eating a meal of baked beans and cheesecake.

really, you could blow yourself around the room with the amount of farting that occurs. of course, being a vegetarian, i am doubly curse as most items contains beans. bean-o can't save me.

for lunch today i brought one of my "jenny" meals to scarf down "pasta fagioli". pasta and you guessed it -- beans.

which is fine. except they changed the glue formula on the package. so after microwaving (my kind of cooking) until hot, i'm left trying to pull the plastic cover that is now fused to the container to eat my lunch.

let's examine how many ways this could go wrong:

i could continue to poke at the tiny tear in the corner until it splashes me in the face or eyes -- which with my luck -- will definitely cause blindness.

i could violently attempt to rip off a corner and most certainly scald my hand in the process.

i could violently attempt to rip off a corner of the package and instead of scalding my hand, flip the entire fcuking package over covering my desk, me and whatever outfit i've got on that day in tomato sauce.

i could wait for it too cool before attempting removal of the cover, but then again, that defeats the purpose of heating your food in the first place.

i could whip out my handy dandy hacksaw that i keep in my desk draw for occasions just like this. what, you mean you don't have one?

perhaps jenny's new shtick isn't about making better choices or portion control but if you can't get access to your food, you can't eat it.

butt out of it, part I

as i leaned over the bathroom sink watching the brown mucus i had just coughed up swirl down the drain, i knew i had enough.

i was going to quit smoking. and the world around me shuddered.

even on my best days as a smoker, i was bitchy. those closest to me were quite relieved and excited that i finally had decided to quit smoking but deep inside, i knew they were also concerned for their own safety. they loved me but they also loved their life, too.

we were entering into uncharted territory. they had seen the anger in me when i spent a year on steriods fighting my blood disorder. my husband was a bit panicky over what monster he would be living with when i gave up my nicotine. he knew some of my darkest moments on the prednisone -- shaking "the club" at another driver who cut me off in traffic with my window rolled down, cursing and shouting i was going to get out to kick his ass -- he was afraid. very afraid.

he also knew the edginess i felt when a nicotine fit brewed inside me. my addiction snarled until the demon could be satifisfied.

what was i doing? smoking in some perverse way was meaningful to me in ways that only other smokers can understand. it was part of me, my identity, my pleasure and my frustration. cigarettes stood by me when all others failed. when i needed it -- no matter day or time -- it was there.

how would i ever drink coffee or alcohol again? like chocolate and peanut butter, each tastes fine on its own; but paired together? yummy! my decision required more than simply cutting back on my trips to wawa.

ugh! i needed major changes in my life. never again would i light up as soon as i got in the car. no more coffee and cigarette in the morning to psyche myself up for the coming day. no more deep conversations over coffee and cigarettes with one of my best gal pals. no cloak of lighting a cigarette at the bar to mask my insecurities of the moment, to make me tough, to make me strong.

good goddess, this wasn't going to be easy.

o captain, my captain!

when you are poor owning a reliable means of transportation can often mean the difference between having a paycheck and not. relying on public transportation (re: septa) doesn't cut it in an age of reverse commuting as office parks gravitate farther and farther away from cities and their (decaying) modes of transportation.

when you are poor owning a reliable means of transportation is often beyond reach of that stretched paycheck. so...you learn to make do with what ya got.

like with the tugboat.

the tugboat, as my brother and i referred to it, was a 80-something chevy celebrity our mother bought from an aging relative. really the vehicle was in good shape, albeit, screamed old-lady-mobile.

for all of its unpleasant accoutrements (the radio only ever seemed to get in am stations), the tugboat was a reliable vehicle with low mileage. perfect for the poor.

my mother drove that vehicle for many years until in the natural order of things, it was time to hand it down to one of us. i was already driving my own piece crap, an aging, transmission-eating ford suck-o-saurus, so the honor instead went to my brother.

good thing, too. the tugboat was a heavy car. when someone would pull up in the driveway with the tugboat, we knew it before they arrive. the oceans wouldn't part but the heavy knocking and whirring of its engine would alert us to its coming. even after the engine was turned off the thing continued to knock and ping until it caught its breath.

the tugboat really got its name from the sound of its rusty doors creaking open and then slamming shut - wham! - with a dull metallic sound that can only be described as watching an old war movie as the ship dropped anchor:

chink, chink, chink, chink, chink, chink, THUD! a-chinka chink, a-chinka chink, chink, chink.

as with other older cars and their idiosyncracies, tugboat was no exception. after years of making right turns, ol' tug decided it didn't want to do that anymore. nope, it had enough of 'em.

my brother -- with all of his raw strength and size behind him -- barely made that steering wheel budge to the right. the man can benchpress me but ask him to turn right? impossible.

one day my brother was actually sideswiped by another car, an suv, that decided to change lanes without notice. when both drivers stopped, the other guy said, "i thought you were turning right?" to which my brother replied, "nope. i can't turn right. you turned right." before the abbott & costello routine and back and forth about tug's inability to slide to the right, they noticed a funny thing.

the other guy's bumper had some scraping but for whatever reason was adament that insurance companies weren't brought into the mix. my brother only agreed to it for one reason - tug, for all its unsightliness, for all its heavy, metallic, creaky joints and aches and pains - didn't have a mark on it.

that's when we realized the beauty of tug -- the strength of our captain would never put us in danger.

get your rocks off

it's no secret i am a doglover. it's also no secret that i generally prefer the company of animals to people. (you get bit less often.) but the news story i just read makes me want to go freakin' postal on this idiot.

this link will take you to the story reported in newsday, a small long island, ny newspaper. in the story, you'll hear about cali, a 4-year-old rottweiler reduced to eating rocks in her backyard to ward off the hunger pains in her belly, and now crippled with arthritis due to the starvation and neglect she suffered at the hands of her owner. when found by animal emergency services last week, she weighed 40 lbs and according to one office was just "skin and bones". for those unaware, an adult female rottweiler usually weighs 85 - 110 lbs, more than double cali's weight when picked up by the officers.

unfortunately for cali's sister, the officers arrived too late. she died of malnourishment a few days later.

the story was forwarded by of one of the rescue groups whom i adopted my sadie from last year. rescue groups typically are a band of like-minded people dedicated to finding homes for unwanted, abandoned -- and more often than we'd like -- abused animals. most specialize in a specific breed, others do not. most of the dogs taken in to find homes for come from shelters where not much background information is available. not that it matters, owners who surrender often give bullshit answers anyway.

+ we're moving.

+ we can't give it (not he or she, or the animal's name, "it") the time or attention it deserves.

+ we had a baby. the kids are too much for the dog.

a million and one excuses to tell one story -- "it" is disposable.

rescues have heard all the stories, one more time, gritting their teeth while holding the big lug that doesn't know why "it" is disposable. or understand why that's not his home or his family anymore.

grin and bear it. just as well, because as a rescue, we'll find others like us to do right by him. they're out there. in the meantime we will wait and try to facilitate kismet.

but if you ask anyone, all of those excuses are welcomed, as long as you do it for the animal's sake. any rescue would rather take in an unwanted pet than hear about the suffering caused by cowards unwilling to do anything for the animal's sake except to let them die. rescuers know then they have a long-recovery period to nursery a sick, wounded animal back to not only health but teach him or her to trust again because not all people are sick bastards out to hurt them.

to those bastards, i say karma will bite you in the ass. hard.

and i pray she is a rottweiler.